#have a playlist for it and everything too

[alygator77]

ᰔᩚ motherhood and matrimony I ch 9 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 » 【note, this chapter contains possessiveness, naoya is yandere and not in a hot way, lol. suggestive content and fluff.

ꨄ words: 14.3k

ꨄ a/n. hello darlings, i know it's only been a week but happy early valentines day, here is my gift to you, hehe. it's time to say hi to naoya. this chapter gives you a few different perspectives, but most of it is satoru's! see you at the bottom ♡ (art by @/dmsco1803 on X )

ꨄ taglist: closed (ao3)

♬ playlist

series masterlist ꨄ︎ previous chapter ꨄ︎ next chapter → pending

ch 9 // blood and betrayal

"We have a couple of hours before they come back," Remi murmurs, her manicured nails pressing into the polished wood as she eases the door open, just enough for a figure to slip inside.

And Naoya steps over the threshold without hesitation, the faintest smirk playing on his lips.

Gojo’s estate.

It’s even more extravagant than he imagined—pristine marble stretching out beneath his feet, ceilings so high they seem to loom over him, the decor screaming wealth in a way that makes his teeth clench. Everything here is polished, excessive, a testament to the kind of power Satoru Gojo wields without even trying.

Naoya’s fingers flex at his sides, hidden beneath the sleeves of his jacket.

Tch. Flashy bastard.

Adjusting the brim of his cap, sunglasses shield the sharp glint of his gaze as he sweeps the space. He moves with caution, but not fear.

"Where’s the brat?" he mutters.

“Playing,” Remi replies, flicking a dismissive hand before slinking closer, nails skimming along his arm like she’s entitled to touch him.

Those brown eyes of hers glow with a desperate hunger—wide, hopeful, pathetic. Pressing in, her lips are just shy of Naoya’s ear.

“She won’t bother us…” she murmurs.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he resists the urge to shove her off.

Lapdog.

She’s eager, too eager—always hanging off him like she’s something more than just a convenient distraction. He indulges her, when it suits him. And when it doesn’t? She’s still useful.

With a slight turn of his head, he allows his lips to almost graze the shell of her ear as he murmurs flatly, “The office.”

Remi shivers, mistaking his cold disinterest for something else.

“Right this way,” she hums, syrupy sweet, pleased with herself. “I’ll keep the kid busy, don’t want her recognizing you.”

Naoya doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look at her as he steps past. Why would he waste breath on something insignificant? No. His mind is elsewhere, locked on a singular purpose.

Leverage. Dirt. Anything he can sink his teeth into.

When he enters the office, it’s eerily still—clean, untouched. It’s clear that Gojo’s staff keep it impeccably tidy. His gaze sweeps over the space and he catalogues every detail—rich mahogany bookshelves, a sleek black leather chair, floor-to-ceiling windows. The space feels open, exposed. Naoya’s lips curl slightly.

Tch. Everything about this room screams control. No paranoia. No signs of disarray. Just an effortless sense of power. Cocky bastard.

As he moves further inside, his eyes zero in on a single framed photograph, placed at the center of Satoru’s desk. With slow, measured steps, he rounds the desk, fingers trailing lightly over its surface before he lifts the frame into his hands. Immediately, his smirk vanishes.

You. Holding that little brat in your arms, smiling like you belong here. Like this life fits you. Like you’re—

Happy.

You should be his.

His jaw tightens as his fingers curl around the frame, the glass creaking under pressure. For a split second, an ugly thought slithers into his mind—he should shatter it. He should put his fist straight through the grinning faces staring back at him.

But instead, he exhales sharply through his nose and flips the frame face down, watching as it lands with a muted thud against the desk.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Moving on, his fingers trail along the desk’s edges before he crouches slightly, pulling open the first drawer without resistance.

Folders. Contracts. Documents marked with Gojo Corp’s insignia.

Naoya’s smirk twitches.

Idiot.

His phone is out in an instant, the soft click of the camera breaking the thick silence of the office.

Click. Click. Click.

He doesn’t bother reading them. No need. He just snaps photos of anything that might be useful—financial records, legal paperwork, contract renewals. Everything is neatly labeled, categorized, almost too easy to find.

Fucking cocky bastard.

And Naoya moves with purpose, each movement fluid, efficient. This isn’t his first time going through someone’s private affairs—but it is the first time he’s had to do it himself. Normally, this would be a job for someone else. A grunt. Someone disposable.

But things have changed.

With Toji rotting in prison, the damn Yakuza have begun distancing themselves ever since he got released, treating the Zenin like liabilities rather than assets. Their once-limitless resources are dwindling, and with every door that closes in his face, Naoya only feels his hatred grow.

His fingers tighten around the handle of another drawer, yanking it open. He can’t wait to bring Satoru Gojo down. But when he reaches for the last drawer, the one at the bottom—his grip stills. It doesn’t budge.

Locked.

His smirk sharpens.

What are you hiding, Satoru Gojo?

Kneeling slightly, his fingers brush along the handle as he pulls a small, thin tool from his pocket. The lock isn’t complicated—nothing particularly advanced, and it takes seconds. The soft click of the latch releasing is almost satisfying, and as he pulls it open, his smirk widens. But the moment its contents are revealed, he immediately looks down to find—

Nothing.

His eyes narrow as his amusement flickers.

Hm... a distraction? Which means whatever matters isn’t here.

Rolling his shoulders, Naoya exhales sharply before straightening to his full height. He’s wasting time. If Gojo was smart enough not to keep anything incriminating here, then whatever he is keeping must be somewhere more personal.

Upstairs.

His gaze drops to his Rolex watch, then to the door. He still has time. He’ll just have to go deeper.

The house remains unnervingly silent as he ascends the staircase, the kind of quiet that isn’t natural. Most of Gojo’s staff have been paid off for their silence, their loyalty nothing more than a transaction.

Money makes everything easier, doesn’t it?

His fingers trail the smooth banister, and once he reaches the top, he pauses—scanning the hallway. Up here, something feels different… strangely satisfying. Because downstairs had been designed to impress—Gojo’s domain, pristine and curated—a place meant to be seen.

But up here? Up here, the walls breathe. This is where you live.

As his gaze sweeps over the doors lining the hall, he can’t help but notice how everything is perfectly symmetrical—expensive, identical. No labels, no indications, no clues. Just a row of polished wood, concealing whatever lies behind them.

Which one is Gojo’s?

Naoya moves methodically, ghosting through the hallway, and each door he opens only fuels his irritation. A guestroom. A bathroom. A library. He exhales sharply through his nose.

This place is a fucking maze.

His hand falls on the next doorknob, twisting it without hesitation, but the moment it swings open, something inside him stills. Because this isn’t Gojo’s room.

It’s yours.

His fingers flex at his sides.

Fuck…

He shouldn’t waste time. Remi said he only has a few hours. He should keep moving, should focus—but something ugly and possessive coils tight in his chest, sinking its claws into something raw and unsatisfied. And suddenly, his feet are moving on their own.

The door clicks shut behind him, and he immediately can tell that this space is different from the others. Warm. Soft. Laced with something distinctly you—a scent he remembers too well, woven into the very air, clinging to the fabrics, the furniture, the walls.

It doesn’t belong in a house like this.

The rest of the estate drowns in wealth, in cold opulence, in a luxury that doesn’t need to announce itself. And this room is expensive too, of course. Everything about your life is different now. But this—

This is yours.

A sweater draped lazily over a chair. A vanity lined with delicate bottles of perfume, small trinkets carefully arranged as if placed by habit rather than thought. Jewelry. Makeup. Some of it familiar. Things that once belonged in his world. Things that were once his to admire. His jaw clenches as he is reminded yet again.

You’re settled here. Comfortable—

Happy.

Pushing a breath through his nose, his eyes drift toward the far end of the room. An open walk-in closet. Of fucking-course Gojo would give you a closet this big. And so, he moves towards it without thinking, but the moment he steps inside, his fingers flex at his sides.

Fucking hell.

Expensive gowns hang neatly along the racks, luxurious fabrics brushing against his fingertips as he trails them over silk, satin, designer labels—clothes that he knows you wouldn’t have worn before. Not when you were with him. But now, it’s not his money dressing you in these delicate, expensive things. It’s Gojo’s.

Gojo has spoiled you.

Lavishing you in luxuries you never had before—never needed. With Naoya, nothing was ever simply given. No matter how much money he had, you were never entitled to it, and you knew better than to ask.

No—with Naoya, you had to earn things. Had to prove you were worthy of them. Had to be grateful for whatever he decided you deserved. And he let you believe in the illusion of security while ensuring you always needed him.

And you did. You always did.

Or at least… you were supposed to.

The realization curdles something deep in his stomach, a slow, simmering heat that coils tight and bitter in his chest. As his fingers linger over a dress, smooth satin, he can envision you in it and his grip tightens.

Money-hungry bitch.

The thought snaps through his mind like a whip, sharp and instinctive, and he exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his fingers to relax before he rips the damn thing. And so, with measured restraint, he releases the fabric and turns away.

But he’s not done.

His gaze flickers toward your dresser now—a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

What else has Gojo given you?

As he trails his fingers across the glossy surface, tracing idle patterns into the polished wood, he realizes just how untouched it is—pristine, perfectly maintained—like everything in this house. Like you now, perfectly packaged, living in a world of expensive indulgence. A world you should have never been given.

When he reaches for the first drawer, it glides open with ease, and his breath slows. Lace. Satin. Sheer mesh. You always had good taste. His fingers slip between the layers, sinking into the delicate garments—the fragile trim of lace panties, the silken slide of fabric that was made to be touched.

Made to be stripped off you.

He lingers, debating something darker, but he exhales sharply, and with little ceremony, he tosses the garment back, sliding the drawer shut. Still, the fixation doesn’t fade. If anything, it sharpens.

His gaze drifts to your vanity—a curated shrine of excess. Delicate trinkets, expensive perfumes, meticulously placed cosmetics. A testament to the life you’ve built here. A life you have no right to.

God… he barely recognizes you anymore.

Seeing you at that first charity gala, poised and polished as if you had always belonged in this world, had made his stomach churn. Everything about you had been refined, reshaped, rebranded—until you fit. Until you looked the part of someone who belonged here.

And the worst part?

It suited you. Too well. You looked fucking gorgeous.

Something catches his eye on the vanity—a single tube of lipstick. It stands upright among the rest, and without hesitation, he reaches for it, rolling the cool metal between his fingers, feeling its weight settle in his palm. His breath slows as he uncaps it, twisting the base with careful precision.

The stick rises—smooth, untouched.

Deep red.

The kind of red he’s seen on you before, painted over your lips, smudged at the corners, slick and ruined. The kind of red that stains. You had always left your mark.

He wonders if you still do…

Something bitter simmers in his chest, boiling hot, because the thought of you—fucking Satoru Gojo? Oh, he sees red—the same deep red of that pretty little lipstick.

Jaw tightening, he inhales sharply through his nose, forcing himself to shake it off, to think. His gaze shifts, flickering toward your bed, and the tension in his chest loosens just slightly, amusement creeping in.

Separate beds.

His teeth graze his bottom lip as he exhales, slow and controlled. Maybe Toji was fucking with him. Because there was no way you were actually sleeping with Gojo. No. You wouldn’t.

With a quiet click, he shuts the lipstick, placing it back with calculated precision, exactly where he found it. But just as he moves to step away, a subtle glint of silver against the vanity’s surface catches his line of sight.

A heart-shaped locket.

His brow twitches as he reaches for it, fingers brushing over the delicate chain before lifting it into his palm. It’s light. Fragile. But he knows better. Sentimental things like this always carry more weight than they should.

His thumb presses against the tiny clasp, prying it open with careful precision. But the moment it clicks apart, everything inside him stills.

Your smiling face stares back at him—bright, radiant—pressed against Gojo’s side. His lips graze your cheek, your fingers curled around his sleeve, clinging to him.

Something snaps.

A fire ignites in his chest, hot and consuming, scorching every last thread of restraint he has left. His breath pushes through his nose in slow, seething exhales as something bitter coils tight in his throat.

How dare you.

How fucking dare you.

That should be his.

His life.

His claim.

His fingers clench into a fist at his side, nails biting deep into his palm, but the pain barely registers. His grip only tightens—tighter, tighter—until something warm, something wet, slips between his fingers.

He blinks, a dull ache spreading through his palm. Then, the color registers.

Blood.

His own nails have carved into his skin, deep and unrelenting, the slow trickle slipping down his wrist, speckling the plush carpet, staining the floor beneath him.

Tch. Sloppy.

“Fuck…” The curse is low, sharp—a quiet snarl as he forces himself to inhale, prying his fingers open. The sting of torn flesh burns now, but he barely feels it. He wants to shatter the locket. Wants to crush it beneath his boot, grind it into the floor, leave it in ruins.

But no. That would look suspicious.

With measured care, he sets it back onto the vanity, his fingers steady despite the tension locking his jaw. Exhaling through his nose, he shakes his head and steps back, scanning the room—calculating his next move.

Bathroom.

Without another thought, he turns on his heel, striding toward the en-suite. As soon as he enters, he pulls open the nearest cabinet, snatching a neatly folded hand towel. The white cloth darkens instantly, soaking through with red as he wraps it tightly around his injured hand—twisting the fabric to apply pressure. It’ll hold for now.

His gaze shifts toward the opposite end of the bathroom—to the second door—the one leading to Gojo’s room.

Finally.

With quiet, measured steps, he crosses the room, fingers curling around the handle. The door gives with ease, swinging open into a space that grates against his nerves the moment he steps inside.

Everything about this room pisses him off.

It’s too open, too spacious—like Gojo needs the entire goddamn house to accommodate his oversized ego. High ceilings, sprawling windows, furniture arranged with an effortless elegance that speaks of obscene wealth, yet complete indifference toward it.

Naoya moves with purpose, tearing through Gojo’s things with sharp, practiced efficiency. Drawers snap open, their contents rifled through and discarded without care. Watches, expensive cufflinks—all useless.

…Digimon cards? The fuck is this?

He exhales sharply, irritation mounting. None of it matters. He’s looking for something else. Something he can use. Something—

The next drawer slides open—his breath slows.

Fabric. Soft, delicate. Not Gojo’s.

Your panties.

Here.

In his drawer.

As his fingers brush against the lace, his breath sharpens—fully registering what he’s holding. The material is familiar—the color, unmistakable. His favorite pair.

Realization seeps in, cold and ugly. He grips them tighter, lifting them slightly, rubbing the fabric between his fingers again, slower this time. The answer is instant, undeniable.

They’re used.

Recently.

His stomach twists, a sharp, curdling heat spreading through his ribs as he raises them to his face without thinking—closing his eyes to inhale.

The scent is instant.

The reaction is immediate. His head buzzes with static, a roaring white noise as something vile slithers through him, coiling, sinking deep. It spreads through his chest like rot, like poison, acidic and suffocating.

You’re fucking him.

This isn’t speculation. This isn’t a lie he can tell himself, a suspicion he can twist to suit his own reality. This is proof. Right here. In another man’s drawer. Taunting him. Mocking him. Stained with the remnants of whatever the fuck you did this morning.

“Whore,” he spits the word out through clenched teeth as he shoves the lace deep into his pocket.

His fingers twitch, his whole body vibrating with the urge to destroy, to ruin, to rip every trace of Gojo out of your life until you have no choice but to remember who you belong to. He should burn this entire fucking house to the ground. Should leave nothing behind but ash.

But not here.

Not now.

Not yet.

Grinding his molars, he rips his phone from his pocket, pulling up your contact with a punishing force. His vision blurs at the edges, rage surging through him like a live wire as his thumb flies across the screen.

At first, he doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate. The words spill out, venomous, ugly, a raw, unfiltered snarl of possession and rage.

You little fucking whore. Did you spread your legs for him? You’re nothing without me. I swear to god I’m going to teach you a fucking lesson.

His chest rises and falls with sharp, seething breaths as he stares at the message. His anger, his unraveling, right there in damning black and white. The message hovers, unsent, his thumb poised—

No.

A sharp exhale flares through his nose, and he begins to tap delete. One by one, the words vanish, swallowed by the empty space they leave behind.

He may be seeing red, but he’s not stupid. No. He’s better than this. Smarter than this. Leaving proof would be careless, would be something Gojo could use against him.

Instead, he reels himself in, inhales through his nose, forces himself to recalibrate. He types again, but this time, it’s different. This time, it’s careful. A reminder—a whisper of something softer.

Something that he knows will send you spiraling.

We need to talk. When can I see you? Just... be good for me.

The second it’s sent, he exhales, forcing his shoulders to roll back, his body still vibrating with barely restrained fury. His eyes track the screen, watching the small confirmation appear.

Delivered.

Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he rolls his neck, stretching out the tension coiled tight in his muscles. He knows you won’t respond right away—you never do. You’ll hesitate, you’ll overthink. But in the end, you always come back. You always give in.

For now, he still has work to do.

His gaze flicks back to the room, scanning once more, searching. Then he sees it.

A safe.

Tucked neatly into the corner of the closet, hidden but not invisible. The kind of thing most people wouldn’t think twice about, but Naoya’s trained eye spots it instantly. A smirk tugs at his lips as he steps forward, crouching slightly. His fingers skim over the dial, testing the resistance. Locked.

Of course it is.

No matter. He’s cracked safes before. It just takes time. He presses his ear close, ready to test the first turn—

But then, a sharp buzz vibrates in his pocket.

His head snaps down, irritation flickering in his expression as he pulls his phone out. And the second he sees the screen, his breath stills for half a second.

Your name. Your response. Faster than he expected.

Okay. You want to talk, so let’s talk. Tomorrow. Noon. Shirogane Park.

His lips press into a thin line. For a split second, he lingers on it, surprised at the speed. At the fact that you agreed so easily. But before he can sit on the thought for too long, his gaze flicks to the time displayed on his phone—

“Shit...”

The safe will have to wait. He doesn’t have time to crack it now.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, Naoya pushes off his knees and moves, retracing his steps down the hall. He’s wasted time—too much fucking time. He should be gone by now, should have what he came for—whatever’s inside that safe—but instead, he’s leaving empty-handed, bleeding, and pissed the fuck off.

By the time he reaches the foyer, Remi is already waiting near the entrance, shifting from foot to foot. The moment she sees him, her eyes widen, flickering down to his wrapped hand.

"Naoya, what—?" Her hands reach out instinctively, fingers barely grazing his arm before he shrugs her off, stepping past her without a glance.

She hurries after him, undeterred. "You're hurt," she presses, her voice laced with something too close to genuine concern. "What happened?"

"Not your fucking business." His tone is clipped, dismissive. When she flinches, he barely suppresses an irritated sigh.

Her hands hover near his injured one again, hesitant but persistent. “You’re bleeding all over—let me—”

"Who's that?"

Naoya freezes.

A chill spreads through Naoya’s limbs, stiffening his spine as he turns his head, slow and deliberate, toward the source of the voice.

A little girl. His little girl.

Haru stands just beyond the doorway, small fingers curled into the hem of her dress, wide, curious eyes flicking between them.

His stomach knots, breath hitching before he catches himself. His disguise holds—cap pulled low, sunglasses shielding his face—but for a split second, something ugly and panicked churns in his gut.

Does she recognize him? Can she?

His fingers twitch.

Remi recovers first, voice high-pitched, too eager to smooth over the tension. "Oh, sweetheart, he's just my friend," she coos, stepping forward quickly, placing a gentle hand on Haru’s shoulder. "But he’s leaving now.”

Haru tilts her head slightly, staring at him a moment longer. Naoya doesn’t breathe. Then, to his surprise, she nods.

"Okay."

His shoulders relax—just slightly, relief fleeting—until—

“Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?”

He barely has time to process the question before she follows it up with something far worse.

"I like 'toru’s sunglasses more."

A slow, seething heat spreads through his chest, curling around his ribs, tightening like a vice.

Remi laughs, nervous and rushed. "Oh, honey, you’re so silly!" She reaches out, smoothing a hand over Haru’s hair, a little too eager to redirect. "Why don’t you go play, baby? I’ll be right there, okay?"

Haru looks at Naoya once more—just a glance, just long enough to make something curdle inside him—before nodding and skipping back down the hall.

The second she’s out of sight, Naoya rounds on Remi.

"You let the fucking kid see me?" His voice is sharp, cutting, barely above a whisper but full of venom.

Remi flinches. "I—I didn’t know she was still up—"

"Sloppy," he spits, stepping closer, heat radiating off him in waves. "You’re fucking sloppy, Remi. I told you to keep an eye on her. That’s your only fucking job."

"I know, I—"

"You’re fucking useless."

Her lips part, breath hitching as her face crumples, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Pathetic. Annoying.

He exhales sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders, forcing himself to cool down. "Just… be good for me, yeah?" His voice dips lower, smoother, but the bite is still there, lethal beneath the softness. "Go upstairs and clean up the blood before they come back."

Remi swallows, nodding quickly before turning on her heel and hurrying up the stairs, her movements rushed, frantic.

Naoya watches her go, jaw tight, fingers flexing at his sides.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he’ll remind you exactly who you belong to.

ꨄ

The limo glides to a stop, the soft hum of the engine fading as Ichiji shifts into park. You exhale, rolling your shoulders, trying to shake off the weight of the day. The golden hues of the setting sun spill across the Gojo estate, stretching long shadows over the driveway. But even the familiar sight of home does little to ease the tightness in your chest.

Beside you, Satoru lets out a slow sigh, shifting the thick folder of paperwork in his lap. His long legs stretch out in front of him, casual, unbothered—like the weight of today hasn’t been pressing into him, too. His sunglasses still rest on the bridge of his nose, but you can feel his gaze settle on you.

“You okay?”

You nod, reaching for the door handle just as Ichiji steps out to open it for you. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

It’s not a lie—the day has been long, mentally draining in ways you haven’t fully processed yet. Between the looming custody battle, the exhausting legal back-and-forth with Suguru, and the ever-present weight of Naoya’s shadow curling around your mind, your body feels like it’s made of lead.

Satoru hums, shifting the folder under his arm. “Suguru said to bring your documents next time,” he reminds you. “Both for the child support and the ones Naoya served you.”

You nod, stepping out onto the driveway. “Yeah… they should still be in my nightstand.”

Satoru follows after you, stretching his arms above his head before tilting his head with an exaggerated hum. “Your nightstand, huh?” a slow smirk curls on his lips. “Hope I don’t find anything scandalous.”

Rolling your eyes, you nudge him lightly with your elbow as you pass. “Shut up.”

His laughter follows you as you step through the entrance, but before you can say anything else, the sound of little feet pattering against the hardwood echoes from down the hall.

“Mama!”

Haru’s voice rings bright, lifting the heaviness from your chest in an instant. Before you can react, she’s already barreling toward you, small arms wrapping tight around your legs.

Your heart softens, exhaustion momentarily forgotten as you crouch to her level, brushing a hand through her hair. “Hey, baby,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Did you have fun today?”

She nods enthusiastically, rocking on her heels. “We watched a movie! I drew a picture—oh! Come look Mama!”

You smile, smoothing back a stray strand of hair. “I’d love to see it.”

Satoru steps past you, shifting the folder under his arm. “I’ll grab your papers,” he says, already making his way toward the stairs.

You nod absentmindedly, barely registering his words as Haru tugs at your hand, leading you eagerly toward the living room.

Taking the stairs at an easy pace, Satoru moves with unhurried strides, letting the faint hum of conversation from downstairs settle in the background. The house is quiet, undisturbed—yet as he nears your room, something feels… off.

A figure kneels in front of your vanity, back turned to him, her posture hunched, the rhythmic sound of fabric scrubbing against the carpet breaking the silence. Satoru slows—steps light, gaze sharpening.

Remi?

She doesn’t notice him at first, too focused on whatever the hell she’s doing, her shoulders rigid as she drags a damp rag over the floor in slow, deliberate strokes. The sharp scent of cleaner lingers in the air, but it does little to mask what she’s trying to erase.

Red.

Satoru leans against the doorframe, arms folding over his chest. “What’s that?”

Remi jolts, her body going stiff before she turns halfway, eyes widening like a cornered animal. But she recovers quickly, straightening as she tucks the rag into a small plastic bucket beside her.

“Oh—just cleaning up,” she says too lightly, too quickly. “I—I spilled something earlier. Cut myself while wiping it up. Nothing serious.”

Satoru quirks a brow, his gaze dropping to her hands.

No cuts. No bandages. No blood on her fingers.

His eyes shift back to the stain, lingering just a second too long. The silence stretches between them.

Then, he exhales through his nose, pushing off the doorframe. “Be more careful next time,” he mutters, brushing past her as he steps inside your room.

She nods quickly, relief flickering across her face as she turns back to her scrubbing.

He should press further. Should ask why the hell there’s blood on your carpet. Should question why she looks like she’s barely holding herself together under his gaze. But he doesn’t

Because he’s exhausted.

Because today has drained him in ways he doesn’t have the energy to unpack.

Because he’s trying—really fucking trying—to make sure you’re at ease.

Safe.

You need to feel safe. That much is non-negotiable.

The way you reacted to Naoya’s text? He’s never seen you like that before. That single message sent you spiraling, and he saw it all—the way the color drained from your face, how your breathing turned uneven, how you couldn’t even look at the screen without your hands shaking.

That wasn’t just fear. That was something deeper. Something lived in. And that pisses him off more than he knows how to put into words.

His jaw clenches as he moves toward your nightstand, pulling the drawer open with ease. Just as expected, the crisp stack of legal documents sits exactly where you left them. His fingers curl around the papers, grip tightening just a little too much.

Naoya… fucking prick.

Satoru already had enough reasons to hate the bastard, but now? Now it’s different. Because this isn’t about old grudges or petty feuds—this is about you.

Shaking off the slow burn simmering under his skin, he takes the papers, shuts the drawer with a quiet thud, and heads back downstairs.

His steps remain unhurried, just as they were before, but his mind isn’t. Irritation lingers at the edges of his composure, gnawing at him, but he shoves it down, forcing it into that familiar compartment where he locks away everything that threatens to throw him off balance.

By the time he reaches the first floor, the hum of conversation between you and Haru filters in from the living room, grounding him just enough. Without a word, he moves past the foyer, pivoting toward his office with the folder tucked securely under his arm.

The door clicks shut behind him, sealing him into the quiet. Everything is just as he left it—pristine, precise. Unlike his office at Gojo Corp, which is more of a curated disaster, this space is controlled. Every document stacked neatly, every file aligned with sharp precision, not a single thing out of order.

And yet… something doesn’t sit right.

His fingers drum against the polished wood of his desk as his gaze sweeps over the room. Nothing is visibly out of place, but there’s a nagging itch at the back of his mind, something subtle but persistent, like an off note in an otherwise perfect melody.

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s nothing.

Satoru has never needed much sleep. Four hours is a luxury, three is the standard, and anything less? Just another part of his reality. He’s learned to function on exhaustion, to push through it with the same effortless charm that convinces everyone he’s untouchable, unbothered—unaffected by the weight pressing down on him.

It’s just another mask. One he wears so well, even he forgets it’s there sometimes.

And now, ever since he took over Gojo Corp, the days have stretched longer, the nights shorter. The weight of responsibility never really eases. But with Naoya clawing his way back into your life, with the custody battle looming like a goddamn storm cloud, sleep is even more of an afterthought. Especially since he’s been working on something for you.

His jaw tightens slightly as he exhales, rolling his shoulders.

He hasn’t told you yet—not because he’s hiding it, but because he wants it to be a surprise. A fully staffed, fully equipped on-site daycare at Gojo Corp. Something designed with you in mind. Because he never wants any of his employees to go through the same bullshit you did before you married him. He remembers it too well—how you had to balance everything alone, how the world made it so damn difficult for a single mother to simply exist without constantly fighting for scraps.

He never wants you to worry about that again. And if he can make sure no one else has to deal with it either? Then it’s worth every sleepless night.

Still.

His gaze flickers to the folders on his desk. They look untouched—stacked neatly where he left them. But something nags at him. As he slides one open, flipping through the pages, everything is in order. No missing documents. No sign that anything’s been moved.

So why does it feel like they have?

He’s about to dismiss the feeling entirely, chalk it up to exhaustion, but then his eyes land on something else. His photo—one of you and Haru—lying face down on his desk.

His breath stills for half a second. Did he leave it like that?

Frowning, he reaches out, flipping it over with careful precision. His thumb drags along the edge of the frame, his jaw tightening as something uncoils low in his gut—but he pushes it away.

Nah… It’s fine.

It has to be fine.

He’s too fucking tired to dwell on it. Too drained to pick apart another thread when everything else is already unraveling at once. He needs to reset. A shower, maybe? Wash off the weight of the day, let the hot water unknot the tension clinging to his body.

Or maybe… something else. A different kind of relief.

Your panties.

Still tucked away in his dresser, untouched since his last indulgence in you. The thought alone sends a slow, simmering heat curling low in his stomach, exhaustion momentarily pushed aside by something darker, something hungrier.

Yeah. A ‘shower’ sounds good.

Rolling his shoulders, he stands, dragging a hand over his jaw as he steps out of his office. The sound of your voice drifts through the house, light and warm, blending with Haru’s bright giggles. It stops him for a fraction of a second, just long enough to take it in.

That sound—it’s starting to feel like something he craves.

When he steps into the living room, you don’t notice him right away, too focused on Haru as she excitedly waves her latest drawing in front of you. He lingers in the doorway, watching the two of you—so soft, so at ease, so different from how you’d looked earlier when Naoya’s text ripped through you like a slow, suffocating vice.

Good. You should be at ease.

Closing the distance, he leans down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek. You glance up, blinking in mild surprise, but he only smirks.

“Gonna get cleaned up,” he murmurs.

You nod, already distracted again as Haru tugs on your sleeve, eager to keep your focus.

Satoru watches you for a beat longer before turning on his heel, heading upstairs—already anticipating what waits for him in his nightstand—eager to rub one out.

At this point, it’s almost routine—indulging in thoughts of you when the weight of everything gets too fucking heavy. Ever since that first time outside the bathroom, you’ve been stuck in his head, impossible to shake.

His hand is already on the drawer handle the moment he steps into his room, fingers curling around the wood as he pulls it open—

Gone.

Satoru stills.

For a second, he just stares at the empty space where they should be. Blinking once, then twice, before rifling through the contents. Pushing things aside. Checking beneath them.

Nothing.

What the fuck?

He knows he put them here. He’s messy, sure, but he’s not careless. There’s a method to his madness, an order to the chaos. And his memory? Razor-sharp. Too sharp for something like this to slip past him.

So where the fuck are they? Did someone move them?

Then, from the next room, he hears it—the slow, rhythmic drag of fabric against carpet.

Scrubbing.

His gaze flicks toward the en-suite, the door leading to your room cracked open just enough for the scent of cleaner to seep through.

Remi.

Exhaling slowly, he schools his expression, steps forward, and slips through the bathroom. When he leans against the doorway, she’s still kneeling, still scrubbing the same goddamn spot she was working on earlier. Her movements are slow, methodical.

Satoru tilts his head. “You wouldn’t have, by chance, gone through my nightstand, would you?”

Remi freezes. It’s subtle, a small pause, barely a second, but he catches it. Then, she forces a laugh, shaking her head as she resumes scrubbing.

“What? No, of course not.”

Satoru hums, tapping his fingers against the doorframe. But he doesn’t press, doesn’t push—just watches.

Something about Remi is… off. The way she keeps her head ducked, the way her shoulders stay unnaturally stiff as she scrubs. Like if she just focuses hard enough, she can will him away.

Suspicious.

But why the hell would she take your panties? Of all things—that’s a weird fucking thing to steal.

His mind shifts, gears turning, peeling the situation apart and assessing it from a different angle. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe… it was you.

His lips twitch.

Now that seems more likely.

Pushing off the doorframe, he exhales slowly through his nose, rolling his shoulders as he turns on his heel. Fine. If it was you, he’ll just confirm it himself.

Descending the stairs, the low hum of conversation meets him before he even steps into the living room. Haru sits on the floor, brow furrowed in focus as she drags a colored pencil across a page. Meanwhile, you’re curled up on the couch, one knee tucked under the other, a throw blanket over you, watching her with a soft, easy smile.

Satoru moves behind you, slow and deliberate, dipping down just enough to thread his fingers through your hair, letting them linger.

“Hey.”

You glance up at him, brow arching at that look on his face. “Hmm?”

He studies you for a moment, letting the silence stretch just enough to make you suspicious. Then, voice smooth, he asks, “Did you take them?”

Your expression scrunches in confusion. “Take what?”

“My souvenir,” a slow smirk tugs at his lips.

Your brows knit. “Souvenir?”

“From this morning.”

You stare at him, unimpressed. “Satoru... what the fuck are you talking about?”

He sighs, dramatic and put-upon, as if this should be obvious. “Your panties.”

And there it is.

He watches, thoroughly entertained, as the realization creeps over your features. Your lips part, then press together, heat crawling up your neck, blooming across your cheeks.

“What—my panties?”

He nods, dead serious. “Gone. Missing. Vanished into thin air. They were in my nightstand.”

You scoff, pulling the throw blanket higher over you, half as a shield, half as an excuse to do something with your hands. “I… didn’t even know you had them.”

Satoru tuts, shaking his head like he’s deeply disappointed. Then, without missing a beat, he dips lower, his lips brushing against the soft curve of your neck before murmuring, “Guess I’ll just have to take a new pair… maybe right off you.”

Your breath hitches—just a fraction, barely noticeable, but he catches it. The way your shoulders stiffen, the flicker of heat that rises to your cheeks before you shove at his chest.

“Go away.”

He chuckles, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender, soaking in the way you glare at him, the way you try—and fail—to play it off. He enjoys this too much, watching you squirm, seeing how easily he can fluster you.

But even as he smirks, his mind is already miles away. Because if it wasn’t you… then who the hell took them?

The panties.

The photo of you and Haru—face down.

The off feeling in his office, the one he ignored.

The bloodstain Remi was scrubbing.

One coincidence is nothing. Two is annoying. But this? This is too many fucking things at once. It makes a slow, icy sensation creep along his spine.

Someone’s been in his house.

He lingers longer than he means to, his body still, the gears turning behind his eyes. And then—

“I thought you were gonna get cleaned up?”

He blinks, drawn back to the present. You’re watching him now—fuck, you’re too damn observant. Why is it that out of everyone, he can never hide this façade from you? Not completely—but he tries.

Because if someone has been in the house—if someone’s been bold enough to fuck around where they shouldn’t—you don’t need to know.

He’ll handle it.

This is your home. You should feel safe here.

That’s his job.

Rolling his shoulders, he schools his expression, slipping back into something effortless, easy. “Actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “just remembered I gotta call Suguru—something about the case.”

Your eyes narrow slightly, studying him. But you don’t press.

“Oh, okay.”

He grins, tapping his fingers against the couch as he steps back with a wink. “Don’t miss me too much.”

You scoff, shaking your head at his antics, a small grin playing on your lips.

And then, just like that, he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him as he steps into his office, and his expression shifts the second he’s alone—the playfulness evaporating.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping the screen before bringing it to his ear. The line rings once—twice—before Suguru picks up.

“Didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon,” Suguru sighs. “What’s up?”

Satoru gets right to the point.

“Someone’s been in my house.”

A pause. Then—

“What do you mean?”

Satoru moves toward his desk, dropping into the leather chair with a bit more force than necessary, his fingers drumming against the armrest. His feet prop up onto the desk, but the usual laziness in his posture isn’t there.

“I mean someone unwelcome,” he mutters, his jaw tightening. “Shit’s been moved in my office.”

Suguru exhales, unimpressed. “Satoru, your office is always a fucking mess. If something’s out of place, that’s probably on you.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow. “Not that office—this one. My study at home. It’s neat. Always.”

Suguru hums, not convinced but not dismissing it. “Alright. Go on.”

Satoru leans forward, elbows braced against the desk, rubbing his knuckles over his temple.

"The files on my desk? They were misaligned, Suguru. Barely, but I know it. My shit was touched."

“Hm.”

“And the picture.”

“What picture?”

Satoru clenches his jaw. “The one of her and Haru. It was face down on my desk.”

Silence. Then, Suguru clicks his tongue.  “Could’ve been one of the cleaners. Maybe they knocked it over when dusting.”

Satoru barely acknowledges the suggestion; his thoughts are moving faster than his mouth—his fingers tap against the desk.

“And then, the panties.”

Suguru coughs. “The what?”

“The panties I had of her,” Satoru repeats, irritation bleeding into his tone. “They were in my nightstand. But now, gone. Like they were never fucking there.”

Suguru goes completely silent for half a beat. Then—he bursts into laugher.

“Oh yeah, definitely sounds like a home invasion,” he chokes out between chuckles. “Panty theft is a serious crime, you should probably call the authorities.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling."You done?"

"No, no, go on," Suguru snickers. "This is getting good."

Satoru forces a slow breath through his nose, rubbing his temples. "Oh, go fuck yourself. You’re missing the point."

Suguru snorts, the laughter still dying in his throat. "Which is…?"

Satoru grips the phone tighter. His voice dips. “Someone was in my room. And…” his voice lowers, “there’s the last thing.”

Suguru hesitates, exhaling slowly. "What is it?"

Satoru leans back in his chair, tipping his head against the cushion as he stares at the ceiling. His fingers drum once against his thigh before stilling.

"I walked into her room earlier." A slow inhale."The nanny was scrubbing blood out of the carpet."

Suguru doesn’t say a fucking word. No snark. No sharp, witty comment. Nothing.

Just silence.

“…did she say where it came from?”

“She said she cut herself,” Satoru mutters. “But there wasn’t a scratch on her. I don’t trust her.”

The line stays quiet for another long, heavy beat.

Then, Suguru exhales. "Alright, let’s say someone was in your house,” His voice is different now—measured, calculating. “What’s your gut telling you?”

Satoru stares at the ceiling, jaw flexing.

“Nothing good.”

"Check your security feed," Suguru says. "Let’s see if your gut is right."

Satoru’s fingers tighten around his phone. Yeah… good point.

He doesn’t waste time, flicking his laptop open with a sharp movement, the cool glow of the screen casting shadows across his face. The security system interface pops up, and his fingers move with precision, clicking through menus.

“Pulling it up now,” he mutters, voice clipped.

Suguru hums on the other end, waiting as Satoru scrolls through the timestamps, looking for today’s footage. His eyes skim down the list—

Then stop. His cursor hovers over empty space.

Where the fuck are the files?

Suguru notices his pause. “Well?”

Satoru’s expression darkens.

“It’s gone.”

Suguru’s tone sharpens immediately. “What do you mean, gone?”

Satoru clicks through different dates, different times—nothing. The footage from earlier today has been wiped. His jaw locks as a slow, creeping burn curls at the back of his mind.

"Deleted," he grits out.

A slow exhale filters through the speaker. Suguru is quiet for a long moment before finally speaking. “You’re sure?”

Satoru huffs out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “You think I’m making this shit up?”

Satoru is pissed. Because this isn’t a glitch—it’s not a fucking accident. The files aren’t corrupted—they’re gone. Which means someone wiped them. Someone inside. Someone with access.

A traitor.

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, drumming his fingers against the armrest, his face eerily calm despite the fire simmering beneath his skin.

“I’m firing them all.”

Suguru doesn’t react immediately.

“…all?”

Satoru’s voice is cold. “Yup. Every last one of them. Only Ichiji stays.”

Suguru hums. “His loyalty’s not in question?”

“Not even a little,” Satoru mutters. “He’d rather fucking die than betray me.”

Another pause. Suguru knows better than to argue when Satoru makes up his mind. But then, his tone shifts—lighter, edged with sarcasm.

“Alright, genius… so who’s gonna watch Haru if you fire everyone?”

Satoru stills. Fuck.

His fingers tighten against the leather armrest. The daycare at Gojo Corp—his solution, his answer—wasn’t ready yet.

Which means…

Remi.

His jaw flexes, the weight of it pressing into his ribs. She can’t stay.

“I don’t fucking trust her, Suguru.”

Suguru doesn’t argue. “Yeah. I don’t either.”

That should be satisfying—should be a confirmation of what Satoru already knew. But it isn’t. Because it doesn’t change a damn thing.

Satoru drags a hand down his face. “Then what’s the move here? Because I’m not keeping her around just to get proof.”

“That proof could help us in court.” Suguru’s says, voice even. “If she’s working with the yakuza, that’s a direct link to Naoya. You get something on her, you might have what you need to—”

“I’m not putting them in danger for that.”

The words are sharp, leaving no room for debate.

Suguru exhales through his nose. “I figured you’d say that.”

“Then why the fuck did you—”

“Because I ran into Nanami the other day.”

Satoru blinks. “Nanami?”

“Yeah,” Suguru says easily. “At that bakery he loves—the fancy-ass one with the overpriced croissants. He’s back in town from Malaysia.”

Satoru leans back in his chair, rubbing his jaw.

Nanami Kento.

They went to high school together. He’s former Japan Special Defense Force. Retired. Precise, calculated, deadly when he needs to be.

And—most importantly—not a fucking traitor.

“If you’re going to wipe your entire staff, you need someone reliable to step in. Someone who can make sure your wife and kid don’t get caught in whatever the fuck this is.”

Satoru exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth. Nanami was always the first choice when shit needed to get done.

“You think he’d take the job?” Satoru mutters, “Nanami’s retired…”

“I think you should give him a call.”

ꨄ

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, they are all gone.

Every single one of them—except Ichiji and Remi (for now).

Satoru wasted no time. He never does. The second he ended his call with Suguru, he moved. Immediate terminations. No second chances. No hesitation. A single decision, executed with the same precision he applies to everything in his life.

And still—he isn’t cruel.

They all left with generous severance packages,enough to land on their feet. Because after watching you lose everything—your job, your security, your sense of stability—he decided a long time ago that he wouldn’t do the same to others. Even the ones he no longer trusts.

But that’s where his kindness stops. Because right after that, he made another call.

Nanami.

Now, after the exhaustion of handling this mayhem, Satoru finds himself drawn to the kitchen. The house is eerily quiet—emptier than it’s ever been, the usual hum of staff activity reduced to nothing. But here, in this small corner of warmth, he follows something softer.

Vanilla. Buttercream.

And you.

Standing at the counter, barefoot and at ease, piping delicate swirls of frosting onto freshly baked cupcakes. There’s a faint dusting of sugar on your wrist, the glow of the overhead light catching in your hair, casting a soft halo around you.

God you’re perfect.

It’s a picture of normalcy. And Satoru is starving for it.

It’s too easy to slip behind you—to pull you flush against him. His hands find their place at your waist while his fingers curve against the soft fabric of your shirt. Your warmth is immediate, grounding, and with a soft hum, you let yourself sink into his chest. Taking that as an invitation, Satoru’s chin drops low, brushing his nose against your neck as he inhales the faint traces of vanilla on your skin.

It settles something in him, a quiet part of his mind that’s been restless all day. For a moment, it’s almost enough to let him forget everything.

“Where’s Haru?” he murmurs lazily, lips grazing your pulse.

“In bed,” you sigh, adjusting your grip on the piping bag. “Finally. She fought it, though.”

Satoru smirks, nuzzling into you, savoring the warmth of you against him.

This is good.

She’s asleep. You’re here. And for just a moment, he allows himself to sink into this—this fragile, fleeting sense of normalcy. Until—

“Hey… um. Where is everyone?”

He stills. Just slightly. His face doesn’t change, his hands remain steady against your hips, but his mind clicks, recalibrates.

“Hm? What do you mean?” he asks—light, easy—as if he doesn’t already know exactly where this conversation is going.

You tilt your head slightly but don’t turn to face him, still focused on the cupcakes.

“I dunno.” You swipe a bit of frosting off your knuckle, licking it absently. “Just noticed when I was putting Haru to bed—the house feels kinda… empty.”

A pause.

“No one’s around,” you continue, almost offhandedly. “Didn’t hear anyone in the halls. No one cleaning. It’s weird.”

Satoru exhales through his nose. Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world—

“Oh, yeah. I fired them.”

You blink—hands freeze mid-frosting.

“…I’m sorry, you what?”

“I fired them,” he repeats, just as nonchalant as before.

There’s no hesitation. No buildup, no explanation. He just says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he didn’t just fire the entire household staff in one fucking day.

You stare at him, deadpan, before a breathless laugh slips out.

“You’re joking.”

“Nope.”

Finally, you turn in his arms, brows raising as you set the piping bag down.

“Wait, wait—” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “All of them? Just like that?”

Satoru shrugs, completely unbothered. “Well. Not all of them.”

Crossing your arms, your eyes narrow. “Okay… so who’s left?”

Satoru knows where this is going, so he doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you in—and then, he starts to sway. It’s gentle, lazy—the kind of motion that isn’t about dancing at all. It’s about grounding you, keeping you close, keeping you from overthinking.

“Just Ichiji,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “And Remi.”

The shift in you is subtle, but he feels it—the hesitation in your breath, the slight stiffening in your shoulders. And that? That’s not what he wants.

So, before you can dwell on it, before the worry settles too deep, he smooths a hand up your back, voice dipping softer.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he coaxes, pressing another kiss to your skin. “I already took care of it.”

You don’t answer as his swaying continues—his fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along your hips, lulling the information into you.

“I hired someone new.”

You blink, momentarily distracted. “Oh… huh?”

A low hum rumbles from his chest, and he feels your tension ease just a fraction.

“I hired someone,” he repeats, soft, unhurried. “He’ll be stopping by tomorrow while I’m out.”

That catches your attention.

“Out?” Your brows knit together slightly.

“Mhm,” he says, still swaying. “Me and Suguru are meeting Naoya, remember?”

The tension creeps back in—he feels it, but he expected that. So, he counters—pressing his lips to your temple, hands firm against your waist, keeping you right where he wants you.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “You’ll stay right here. And you get to meet our newest hire. He’s a friend of mine.”

Curiosity flickers through the concern, but your hesitation lingers.

“Okay… who?”

“Nanami.”

“Nanami?”

The swaying slows, shifting closer to stillness.

“Mmhm,” he nods. “Kento Nanami. Met him back in high school. Good guy. Very serious.”

Something unreadable flickers across your face as you drag in a breath, turning back to the counter, reaching absently for the piping bag.

“…okay,” you exhale. “So… what exactly does he do?”

“Oh, you know,” he hums smoothly, slipping behind you again, looping his arm around your waist as he presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “He’s just… gonna keep an eye on you when I’m not around.”

Your hands move as you resume piping the cupcakes, but your brow lifts just slightly—contemplating. It’s subtle, but Satoru catches it. Your grip tightening, your shoulders tensing, your lashes lowering—flickering with something unspoken.

You’re worried. And that? Yeah, that won’t do.

With a dramatic sigh, he slumps against you, burying his face into your neck, nuzzling into you like a lazy cat demanding attention. His breath fans the gentle curve of your throat as he whines, “Mm, don’t do that.”

Exhaling a quiet laugh, you remain focused on frosting.

“Do what?”

“That thing where you overthink.” His voice is muffled against your skin. “And make that cute little frowny face.”

You hum, amused but unfazed, continuing your work. Satoru, undeterred, nips lightly at your shoulder.

“Hey. Hey.” His voice dips, a touch more petulant. “I’m talking to you, missy.”

He catches the slow grin creep up your lips as you elbow him lightly.

“I’m frosting, Satoru.”

“Well, I’m suffering,” he huffs, tightening his hold and swaying you side to side, slow and lazy, like a child demanding attention. “Neglected. Unloved.”

A soft laugh slips through your lips as you roll your eyes fondly.

“You’re so dramatic…”

Finally setting the piping bag down again, you indulge him for a moment as he keeps swaying you—rocking you back and forth against his chest. When he speaks, his voice dips, softer—laced with a playful fondness.

“C’mon…” he whines quietly, “I need attention.”

Your sigh is utterly exasperated.

“And I need to finish these cupcakes.”

“Hhmp… frosting is not more important than me,” he grumbles, his nose nudging against your jaw, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “I’m your husband. You have obligations.”

That earns a quiet huff of laughter, finally tilting your head to glance at him.

“Oh, my deepest apologies, Mr. Gojo. Please forgive me for my negligence.”

His smirk stretches wider, smug and pleased, before spinning you to face him, hands still firm on your hips, pulling you close.

“I suppose I can forgive you…” he sighs, but there’s something playful in his expression, something scheming. “If…”

Your brows lift, suspicious. “Okay… what’s that look for?”

His grin widens. “Come with me.”

Your eyes narrow. “Where?”

“The living room,” he says, already tugging at your hand like an impatient kid. “C’mon, I set something up for us.”

And there it is—that signature Gojo glint in his eyes, the one that always means he’s up to something. You don’t budge. Instead, you fold your arms, eyeing him knowingly.

“What did you do this time?”

“No questions,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “You’ll have to save those for later.”

You pause, before exhaling, shaking your head with a quiet laugh. Then, turning back to the counter, you grab a plate and stack a few cupcakes onto it.

“Fine, fine.” You nudge his side as you pass him. “Lead the way, Romeo.”

And now, he’s practically dragging you along as you enter the living room, grinning.

As you round the corner, the fireplace crackles low, a gentle heat spreading into the room. There’s a small cluster of candles burning low on the coffee table, a cozy mess of blankets on the couch, a few pillows strewn at the edges. And in the background, the quiet hum of a playlist through the speakers—nothing over the top, nothing extravagant, but thoughtful.

Your steps slow, and he watches the way your gaze flickers over the setup—something unreadable in your expression before you glance at him.

“So… this is for me?” you murmur softly. “You did this?”

Satoru plops on the couch, stretching his legs out as he feigns nonchalance. “Mm.”

You arch a brow.

“I meeean,” he drawls, smirking, “I thought about going all out. Rose petals, violinists, maybe a red carpet… confetti cannons. But then I figured noooo, my wife will say that’s too much.”

Your lips twitch—just a fraction—but he catches it.

“Yeah… that would’ve been ridiculous,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He pats the space beside him on the couch. “So c’mon, sit. Enjoy the ambience. Indulge me.”

Rolling your eyes, you place the plate on the coffee table before sinking onto the couch beside him, your body settling into the mess of blankets he’d thrown. And then—just for a second—he catches it. The tiny, barely perceptible sigh when you lean back. Like you hadn’t realized how much tension you were holding until now.

His gaze lingers. But he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he lets his arm drape over the back of the couch, fingers brushing lightly against your sleeve. Then, his eyes flicker toward the plate on the table.

“Sooo,” he hums, tilting his head, “are those for me?”

You glance at the cupcakes, then back at him, brow lifting. “What?”

“The cupcakes,” he clarifies, grinning. “You made them for me, right?”

A slow smirk pulls up your lips as you pluck a cupcake from the plate.

“Mmm… nope. They’re for me.”

Satoru blinks, visibly affronted. “Uh… excuse me?”

You don’t answer. Instead, he watches as your delicate fingers move slowly, peeling back the wrapper of the cupcake. His eyes flick from your hands to your face, following every movement with an intensity he doesn’t bother to hide.

Little brat. You don’t offer him one.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, lifting the cupcake toward your lips with excruciating patience. And then—

You take the smallest, slowest bite, just barely grazing the frosting with your lips before pulling back, letting out a soft, satisfied hum.

His stomach clenches.

“Mmm…” your lashes flutter as you let the flavor settle on your tongue—exaggerated, taunting.

Satoru stares, pouting as you go in for another bite—this one just as tortuously slow. As your lips wrap around the edge of the cupcake, he doesn’t miss the way your tongue flicks out, catching a stray bit of frosting as you pull away.

His jaw flexes.

Fuck that tongue… he wants it all over his cock.

But you don’t seem to notice the way his fingers twitch against the couch, or maybe you do, and you’re just ignoring it. Either way, it’s infuriating.

“Damn,” you murmur, voice light, completely unbothered. “These are really good, if I do say so myself.”

Satoru exhales through his nose, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he watches you, his smirk sharpening. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Another bite—smaller this time, more deliberate. Your gaze flickers toward him, half-lidded and knowing.

Little fucking tease.

He shifts beside you, stretching his legs out like he’s just getting comfortable, but there’s nothing relaxed about the way his fingers flex at the back of the couch, or how his free hand curls against his thigh.

“You know I don’t like being teased,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, quieter, like a warning.

You hum, licking another bit of frosting from your thumb, completely unfazed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His smirk twitches, almost a scoff, but his eyes darken.

“Sweetheart…” shifting closer, his knee brushes against yours, “you’re a terrible liar.”

As you blink at him, playing innocent, he doesn’t buy it for a fucking second.

“You did make them for me, didn’t you?” he whispers, his hand moves to your thigh, sliding up slowly. “Be honest.”

When your lips part slightly, Satoru thinks you might actually answer him—but then, just as quickly, you press them together again.

He smirks. You started this, and oh he loves a challenge.

Exhaling slowly, he hums, low and amused, his fingers spreading wider over your thigh, brushing higher, just enough to make you shift under his touch.

“Well,” he sighs, dragging it out like he’s deep in thought, “if they’re just for you, I guess I’ll have to go about my night hungry and unloved…”

Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “God you are so dramatic…”

“And yet…” his fingers wrap gently around your wrist, guiding the cupcake up, just shy of his lips. “You’re still holding out on me.”

As him thumb strokes against your pulse point, slow and lazy, those blue eyes flicker up through his snowy lashes—gleaming with something dangerous, something hungry. He leans in just a fraction more, letting the heat of his breath ghost over you hand.

“C’mon, sweetheart…” his gaze lingers on your lips before trailing back to the cupcake. “Feed me.”

A sharp exhale drags through your nose, and he can practically hear the gears turning in your head. Now you know exactly what he’s doing.

Your lips part, then press together again, before reluctantly, you give in, bringing the cupcake to his lips. And now, Satoru takes his time—brushing his lips against your fingertips, soft, teasing.

His pink tongue flicks out, dragging against the frosting before his teeth sink into the cake, deliberate and unhurried. His snowy lashes lower as he chews, savoring the taste, but more than that—savoring the way you’re watching him now.

Because two can play this game.

Your breath hitches, and for just a fraction of a second, your fingers tremble—barely noticeable, but he catches it. And oh, it does something to him, something dark and satisfied curling deep in his stomach.

Pulling back, he lets his lips brush against your fingertips again—lingering, teasing, savoring. Then, with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, he licks away a stray bit of frosting from the corner of his mouth—purposeful, knowing.

“Mmm…” he swallows, sighing in satisfaction. “That frosting is just too good…”

You’re pouting now, and that bottom lip is just too cute. He smirks, running a pad of his thumb through a dollop of frosting. As his eyes drag back to yours, his grin widens.

“I do love buttercream.”

And then, before you can react, his hand moves, his thumb dragging against that pretty bottom lip, smearing the frosting over your soft skin.

You blink, inhaling sharply as a slow smile stretches upward.

“Oops,” he exhales, tilting his head slightly. There is a heat pooling behind those endless blue eyes as he murmurs, “Look at that… you made a mess.”

And he fully intends to clean it up.

Leaning in, his breath warms your skin as his lips barely graze yours—a featherlight touch. His eyes are heavy lidded as his longue flicks out, licking the frosting from your lips—slow deliberate.

He feels your breath shudder, and a quiet hum vibrates in his throat as he savors the taste.

And suddenly he’s kissing you.

It starts soft, coaxing, lips pulling against yours in a way that makes your body react before your mind can catch up. His fingers slide to your jaw, tilting your face up, deepening the kiss, drinking in every pretty sound you make.

You melt into him.

Each drawn-out kiss quickens, moving with purpose now, making him crave more. He groans, sliding his hands to your waist as he shifts, guiding you onto his lap with effortless ease. A quiet gasp escapes you, but he drinks it in, keeping you flush against him.

Your arms loop around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair.

And then—you tug.

A sharp sensation ripples down his spine, a growl catching in his throat. His teeth graze your bottom lip—biting, sucking, soothing. Slow, indulgent, taking his time as he licks away the last traces of sweetness.

Fuck.

You taste like buttercream and heat—dangerously addicting—like something he could get drunk on if he let himself.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead lingers close to yours, breaths mingling. Both of you are unsteady from the weight of it. Your lips are swollen and your gaze is hazy as it meets his.

But as he drags his thumb over that plump lower lip again, his lips curl—savoring the way they are slick, and clean from his kiss.

“Hmm…” his voice is smug, husky. “I dunno… tastes like these cupcakes were for me after all.”

A breathless laugh slips past your lips, your fingers still lightly threading through his hair.

“You are so full of yourself,” you murmur, shaking your head. “When have I ever made something sweet that wasn’t for you?”

His smirk widens, victorious. “Ahh… see? You admit it.”

You roll your eyes, but the moment lingers—comfortable, unhurried. Your fingers weave through his snowy hair, slow and absentminded, while his thumbs trace lazy circles against your hips, grounding and warm.

It’s a comfortable silence, but as your gaze flickers away from his, you take in the soft glow of the candles, the careful arrangement of blankets, the way everything feels so intentional. The way he feels so intentional.

Exhaling, you tilt your head slightly. “So… can I ask what all this is about now?”

Satoru hums, his fingers stilling at your waist for just a beat before his smirk returns—though there’s something else behind it now—something quieter.

“I wanna play a game.”

You arch a brow, clearly skeptical. “A game?”

“Mhm…” His hands skim down your sides slowly, caressing your hips. “It’s simple. We take turns asking each other questions, and we have to answer honestly.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is this just an excuse for you to be dirty?”

Clicking his tongue, Satoru shakes his head with mock disappointment. “Wow. You’re the one with the filthy mind,” he muses, voice dipping lower, teasing. “Naughty girl. It’s just an innocent game of questions.”

You hum, unconvinced. “Innocent, huh?”

“Yup. Cross my heart.” He grins, tracing an ��X’ over his chest with one finger. “I’d never use underhanded tactics to get you flustered.”

Pulling back slightly, you level him a knowing look.

“You literally just did.”

His smirk grows. “Semantics.”

Shaking your head, you exhale, your fingers still idly playing with his hair. After a beat, you tilt your head and whisper, “…so what kind of questions?”

For just a second, his grin softens, that cocky edge fading—just a little.

“Anything, really.”

His fingers trail absentmindedly along your hip, his gaze flickering over your face, like he’s memorizing something only he can see.

“I just… wanna know more about you.”

“You say that like I’m some kind of mystery…”

His lips curl faintly, a quiet hum slipping from him. “You are.”

You scoff lightly, shaking your head. “Not really… and we had to learn so much about each other for this fake marriage, Satoru. Favorite foods, pet peeves, how we take our coffee—hell, I know your blood type.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah… but that’s just surface-level shit. Facts, trivia—stuff you’d put on a dating profile.” His voice drops slightly, something softer curling around the edges. “I don’t just wanna know what you like… I wanna know why. I wanna know you.”

Your breath catches for a moment, something shifting in the air between you. And Satoru—he watches the way your expression flickers, the way you hesitate for half a second like you don’t know what to do with the weight of his words.

So, instead of letting it settle too long, he smirks. Tilts his head against the cushions, easy and lazy.

"Alright. Since I came up with the game, I get the first question."

You shift slightly in his lap, arching a brow.

"Mmm… is that how it works?"

"Obviously," he smirks. "Genius privilege."

You roll your eyes, but he catches the way the corner of your mouth twitches. Cute.

"Fine, go."

He hums in thought, fingers drumming idly against your side, watching the way your lips purse, waiting. Then, a slow grin spreads across his face.

"Alright, sweetheart. What's the dumbest thing you've ever spent money on?"

You scoff, lips pressing together, and Satoru already knows whatever answer you give is going to amuse him.

"Oho… I wanna know what your answer to this question is gonna be."

“Mm-mm.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You first, princess.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lean back slightly against his hold, pressing yourself a little closer to him.

"Okay, fine," you tap your fingers against his chest like you’re thinking hard. "Mmm… probably one of those water bottles that track hydration. The kind with reminders that light up."

Satoru stares at you blankly. “Uh… really? That’s it? How is that dumb?”

“Well…” You hesitate, then shrug. “It was pointless to buy, because I ignored it. Like I do with most things I don’t wanna deal with.”

His smirk stretches wider at that, a wicked gleam sparking in his eyes.

“Wow. Even a bottle has to fight for your attention. I almost feel bad for it.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, shaking your head. "Yeah, well... it should’ve tried harder."

Satoru presses a hand to his chest, expression mockingly solemn. "Tragic. A hero, forgotten in the darkness of a cabinet. I’ll tell its story."

Rolling your eyes, you swat lightly at his arm. "Oh, shut up."

"Next time, just give me the money, and I’ll nag you to drink water personally."

You scoff. “Like you need the money, Mr. Money Bags.”

Satoru grins at that, because he walked right into it.

“True, true. But think about it—I’d be way more effective. I could send you little reminders,” he pauses, voice dipping lower, "maybe even offer incentives."

Your brows furrow slightly, catching the shift in his tone. "Incentives?"

His smirk turns downright sinful, fingers tightening at your waist just slightly.

“Mhm.” He drags his thumb in a slow arc along your side, feigning thought. “Positive reinforcement. Every time you drink water, I could… reward you.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Okay… you definitely just made that dirty.”

He laughs, tilting his head, feigning innocence. "Did I?"

"Yes."

He hums, leaning in close to you. "Or… maybe you just have a filthy mind."

You groan, pressing your palm against his face in a weak attempt to push him away, but he only laughs, fingers tightening at your waist, keeping you right where he wants you.

"Alright, enough about me," you huff, leveling him with a look that only makes him more entertained. "I need to hear your answer to this question."

Satoru hums like he’s really considering it, but then—his lips curl, amusement flashing across his face.

“A castle.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Then, slowly, your hand drops from his face.

“…I'm sorry. You own a castle?”

His grin is all confidence, completely unrepentant. “Mhm.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You stare at him, baffled, before shaking your head. “Um… okay. Where?”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Uh, somewhere in the Alps? Or maybe Scotland—" He pauses, squinting. “Wait. No. It’s in France. I think.”

"You think?" you repeat, incredulous.

"Well, I haven't actually been there," he admits, waving a dismissive hand. “Not my fault castles are kinda inconvenient to visit.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, exhaling. "Then… why did you buy it?"

Satoru tilts his head. “You ever just scroll through luxury listings at 2 AM and think, ‘Yeah, I need that?’”

"Oh my god."

"But," he continues, ignoring you, "apparently castles require a ton of upkeep. Something about centuries-old plumbing and heating? Also, there’s a moat problem."

Your brows knit together. "Moat problem?"

"Yeah. Turns out, maintaining a functional moat is a logistical nightmare. Plus, I dunno, castles just… aren’t that practical."

“You’re ridiculous…” you groan, shoving lightly at his chest, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and pulling your hand back into his.

His fingers play idly with yours, absentminded, like he’s holding onto the moment without even realizing it. When his eyes flick back to yours, there’s a lazy kind of amusement settling there.

“And yet, here you are,” he murmurs, lips curling just slightly.

You shake your head with a wry smile, shifting, settling deeper into his lap—letting yourself relax against him, letting him hold you just a little closer.

“Alright, castle boy,” you mutter, tilting your head at him. “Next question.”

A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “Hit me.”

Humming thoughtfully, your eyes flicker over him, considering.

“Well, since we’re on the topic of money… what’s one thing you refuse to spend money on?”

Leaning back, Satoru stretches an arm over the couch as if this answer doesn’t require a single brain cell of effort.

“Easy. Economy flights.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

He levels you with a flat stare, completely deadpan. “Have you seen how long my legs are?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Mmkay… that’s fair.”

“And you?”

You consider for a second before shrugging. “Lottery tickets.”

He scoffs, lips curling in amusement. “What, you don’t believe in testing fate?”

“I know better than to test fate,” you say dryly. “I’ve always had terrible luck. And I hate spending money on something where the odds are literally against me.”

Satoru hums, twisting a strand of your hair lazily between his fingers, watching it slip through his grasp.

“Huh,” he muses, thoughtful now. “I dunno. I’d say you hit the jackpot once or twice.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please.”

“No, really.” His grin lingers, but there’s something softer beneath it now, something less teasing—more contemplative.

There’s a beat of quiet, the soft crackle of the fire in the background, the rhythmic sound of your breathing against his. His thumbs continue to ghost your sides, tracing slow absentminded circles.

Then—

“Do you think we would’ve still ended up like this if circumstances were different?”

He says it casually, smoothly, like it’s not sitting heavier in his chest than it should. Your breath catches just slightly, the weight of the question settling between you.

Tilting your head, you search his face.

“Well… would you have even given me a second glance if things weren’t the way they are?”

Satoru’s brow lifts, but instead of answering, his smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Uh-uh now. It’s my turn. I asked first.”

Exhaling, you shake your head.

“I… dunno…” your voice dips quieter now. “But the idea of never ending up here at all… that’s kind of a scary thought. So… I try not to think about it.”

His expression softens—just for a second—before he hums, gripping your waist tighter.

“I think…” He tilts his head, pausing, dragging the moment out just enough to make your brows pinch slightly. “Even if everything was different, I still would’ve wanted to know you.”

You blink, like you weren’t expecting that answer.

“…really?”

Satoru scoffs, his grin snapping back into place like it never left.

“Oh, absolutely,” he nudges his nose against yours affectionately. “But can you imagine if I hadn’t? You would’ve lived such a dull, Gojo-free life.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Wow, yes, what a tragedy.”

“It would be,” he insists, feigning offense. “Who else would’ve made it their mission to drive you up the wall every single day?”

You huff through your nose, exasperated but fond.

“You loved annoying me.”

“Still do,” he admits, shameless. “But… you were so serious. Always so focused. I had to try to get a reaction out of you.”

You hum, gaze flickering downward, fingers tracing an idle pattern against his shoulder.

“I… had to be.”

Tilting his head, Satoru watches you, waiting. His fingers still trace lazy, idle shapes at your waist. There’s a beat before you continue, your voice softer now.

“Back then… my life was kind of a mess. So… I didn’t have the luxury of being carefree. I was just… trying to hold everything together.”

Something about the way you say it pulls at Satoru’s chest, sharp and unfamiliar.

He doesn’t like it.

Doesn’t like that he wasn’t there, that he didn’t know you like this—buried under stress, struggling, holding on by the skin of your teeth.

He hates it, actually.

But he doesn’t say that. Doesn’t know how. So instead, he moves.

Exhaling, he leans back, stretching his arms with a lazy groan before tugging you down with him. You let out a small sound of protest, but it’s weak, breathless—because you don’t really fight it. And he grins because, yeah, he knew you wouldn’t.

The couch shifts beneath his weight as he sprawls out, adjusting until you’re right where he wants you—resting against his chest, tucked into him.

His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, warm, grounding. His fingers skate lazily up and down your spine—slow, unhurried, absentminded.

“…comfy?” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple.

“um… yeah,” you admit softly.

Satoru smirks, eyes slipping closed, his grip settling more firmly around you.

“Alright,” he hums, vibrating against you. “What’s one memory you hold onto when things get tough?”

You still slightly, like you weren’t expecting the question. For a moment, you just lie there, listening to the crackle of the fireplace, the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath you as his fingers trace lazy circles along your spine.

Then, you exhale, closing your eyes.

“Hmm… that’s a good question.”

As you hesitate, your fingers trace an idle, mindless pattern against his chest, until finally, you find your words.

"There was this one night… after everything with Naoya, when I finally got my own place,” you begin. “It was tiny, barely more than a shoebox… but it was mine. I remember sitting on the floor with a bottle of cheap wine, eating takeout straight from the container, just thinking… I did this. I got myself here. No one handed it to me, no one saved me—I made it happen. That night, I felt like I could breathe again… for the first time in years."

The words linger between you, quiet and honest, and Satoru doesn’t speak right away, but you feel the way his fingers continue to trail up in down your back.

He hates it.

Not the part where you made it on your own—no, that part is impressive as hell, that part makes his chest tighten with admiration. He’s always loved your strength, your resilience.

It’s the other part.

The fact that you were alone when it happened. That no one was there to see it, to celebrate it, to tell you that you fucking did it. That he couldn’t be there.

“You… really went through a lot all on your own, huh?”

You nod subtly against his chest. “…yeah.”

There’s something in his throat—something thick, something he doesn’t know what to do with. So he swallows it down, exhales softly—then presses his lips into your hair.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs.

He feels it when you still slightly. When the words settle, sinking deep. You don’t say anything at first, but your fingers tighten against his shirt, just for a second, just enough to let him know you heard him.

“…what about you?” your whisper, head still resting against him. “What’s a memory you hold onto?”

Satoru hums, sorting through the years.

“Hmm… there’s one,” he finally says, voice distant, like he’s pulling it from somewhere deep.  “It’s nothing big, but… when I was a kid, my dad would always throw these extravagant birthday parties for me. Like, ridiculously over the top—huge cakes, fireworks, even once had a live tiger.”

You lift your head slightly, blinking. “A tiger?”

He grins. “Yeah, it was cool—until it got loose and almost took out half the catering staff.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah.” He snickers at the memory, but then, his expression shifts. The amusement is still there, lingering, but something else creeps in at the edges.

“Anyway…” he continues, “the parties were never really for me. They were more for appearances—big shows for the business partners, other rich families. But there was this one year where Suguru—” He pauses for a beat, then continues, voice softer. “He convinced me to skip my own party. We ran off to this little ramen shop instead, just the two of us.”

Your breath stills slightly, sensing the shift in his tone.

“I… remember sitting there in this tiny hole-in-the-wall place, still in my stupid fancy suit, just eating ramen and laughing about dumb shit. No cameras, no expectations, no pressure. It was just… nice.” He exhales, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes, when things get overwhelming, I think about that night. Just the simplicity of it.”

There’s another lingering quiet, stretching between the steady crackle of the fire. Your fingers twitch slightly against his chest, and as you speak again, your voice is softer, tinged with a sleepiness.

“Suguru… really sounds like a great friend.”

Satoru hums, his fingers trailing lazy circles against your back. “Yeah… he is.”

Tilting his head slightly, Satoru looks down at you. Your eyes are still open, but only just. Heavy-lidded, hazy, like sleep is already tugging at the edges of your consciousness.

“You tired?” he murmurs.

You hum sleepfully. “Mm-mm. Just… comfortable.”

“Mmkay… well it’s your turn.”

As your lips pull into a drowsy smile, you allow your eyes to slip shut as you think. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, warmth lulling you further into the haze of slumber.

“What’s… one thing you’d never change about your life?”

Satoru exhales, tilting his head back against the couch, eyes slipping shut. He could say a million things. His freedom, his wealth, his power—things people assume matter most to him. But none of it feels right. None of it feels true.

Instead, his arms tighten slightly around you, his hand pressing a little firmer at your waist, like he’s anchoring himself to this moment.

“This… right here. You, in my arms.”

“Mmm… yeah?” you hum, voice slipping somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. Shifting slightly, you burrow deeper against him before you whisper, “…why’s that?”

His breath hitches.

You say it so simply, so easily, like you don’t know what you’re asking of him. Like you don’t realize you’ve just cracked open something inside him that he’s never let anyone see.

Because the words are there, sitting right at the edge of his tongue, but he’s never said them before. Not like this. Not to anyone.

He swallows.

And then, for once, he doesn’t overthink it.

“Because… I love you.”

The weight of the words settle, heavy, irreversible, and Satoru holds still, waiting for—something. For you to react, for the moment to shift, for the world to feel different now that he’s let those words exist outside of himself.

But there’s nothing. No reaction.

Your breathing has already evened out, slow and soft against his skin.

He looks down—you’re asleep.

A breath of laughter slips past his lips—quiet, a little incredulous. Of course. Of course the first time he ever says it, the first time he ever means it—you don’t even hear him.

His chest tightens, but there’s no frustration there. Just warmth.

Shaking his head slightly, he tugs you closer, pressing one more lingering kiss to your hair before reaching for the throw blanket resting over the back of the couch. He pulls it over both of you, tucking you in against him, letting himself just exist in this moment.

And as his grip settles at your waist, his body melting into the cushions as the fire crackles low in the background, Satoru exhales slowly, eyes slipping shut.

"Yeah," he murmurs, just for himself. "I really do love you."

And this time, he’s okay with you not hearing it. Because he’ll say it again.

And next time, you will.

a/n. awww... i hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter. i know the first half is mostly setting up plot, but we have a lot to come... hehe. writing this chapter was a big change up from my usual, and i definitely had a lot of fun with it. naoya is a creep, and not in a sexy way 😅 and the panties are an actual plot point?! whaaaa, betcha didn't see that coming 😂 excited to bring nanami in this storyyyy. and i'm excited for suguru and satoru's meet up with naoya. oh man, i can't wait for all the pieces to fall into place 💕 satoru finally said those three words 🤧 my heart. as always, would love to hear your thoughts. thanks for reading 🥹🫶🏻 -aly → you are currently all caught upꨄ

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[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER ONE

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, late-night facetime calls, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash

playlist: spotify

“Okay, let’s go over this one more time—”

A chorus of groans erupted around you, loud and exaggerated. Se-Mi flopped dramatically onto the couch, Ji-Yeong threw her head back like you had just sentenced her to death, and No-Eul simply sighed as she scrolled through her phone.

“I mean it,” you said, crossing your arms as you stood in the middle of the hotel suite. “This is a BuzzFeed interview. They’re going to ask easy, fun questions, but you guys still need to sound like you have at least half a brain between the four of you.”

Sae-Byeok, sitting on the arm of the couch, smirked. “That’s a lot to ask.”

You shot her a look, and she just raised her hands in surrender.

“This is why you’re our manager and not our PR rep,” Ji-Yeong said, grinning. “You actually care if we sound stupid.”

“Yes, and I’d like to keep my job,” you shot back. “So please, for the love of everything holy, just try not to say anything that’ll get us trending for the wrong reasons.”

Se-Mi, still sprawled on the couch, waved a hand lazily. “Relax, sweetheart. We’ll be fine. It’s just BuzzFeed.”

“Yeah,” Ji-Yeong chimed in, “worst case scenario, we end up in some ‘Dumbest Celebrity Interview Moments’ compilation on YouTube. Free promo.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I hate all of you.”

No-Eul, ever the voice of reason, finally spoke up. “They’ll behave,” she said, barely looking up from her phone. “Mostly.”

“That’s not reassuring,” you muttered.

Sae-Byeok, watching you with an amused expression, nudged your side with her foot. “You worry too much.”

“Because one of us has to,” you shot back.

She smirked. “And that’s why you’re our favorite.”

Before you could process that (did Sae-Byeok just call you their favorite?), a knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Their stylist popped her head in, clipboard in hand.

“Alright, you guys,” she said. “Time to get dressed. Interview’s in an hour.”

Se-Mi groaned as she sat up. “Ugh, do we have to?”

“Yes,” you, No-Eul, and the stylist all said at the same time.

Ji-Yeong snickered. “Alright, alright, let’s go.”

As they shuffled off to get ready, Sae-Byeok lingered for a second, watching you.

“You’re really stressed about this, huh?” she asked, tilting her head.

You exhaled. “I just want this to go well. You guys are blowing up, and interviews like this can really shape how people see you.”

She was quiet for a moment, then—

“…We’ll be fine.”

You looked up at her.

There was something steady in the way she said it, something that made you believe her.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You better be.”

She smirked and, with that, disappeared into the dressing room.

And you? You just prayed they wouldn’t give you a heart attack on live camera.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching as the girls got settled in the bright, modern-looking BuzzFeed studio. Cameras were being adjusted, mic packs were clipped onto their outfits, and a giant board with pre-written search questions was placed in front of them.

Ji-Yeong, of course, was already messing with it. “Ooooh, the mystery,” she teased, wiggling her fingers dramatically over the top of the board.

Se-Mi grinned, leaning forward. “I love these types of interviews. People Google the weirdest shit.”

No-Eul sighed, adjusting her mic. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Sae-Byeok, as usual, looked completely unbothered, sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed, waiting for things to start.

The interviewer, a cheerful BuzzFeed staff member, smiled at them from across the table. “Alright! Welcome, HOT DIVISION!”

A chorus of greetings followed, with Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi being the loudest while No-Eul and Sae-Byeok gave more subdued nods.

“We’re going to be doing the ‘Most Searched Questions’,” the interviewer explained, patting the board. “Each of these has a commonly searched question about you guys, and you’ll take turns peeling them off and answering.”

Ji-Yeong rubbed her hands together. “Let’s go.”

You prayed they wouldn’t say anything that would give your PR team a migraine.

Ji-Yeong, naturally, was the first to go. She dramatically peeled off the first strip of paper, reading it aloud.

“‘Is Kim Ji-Yeong… actually as chaotic as people say?’”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “I am offended by this question.”

Se-Mi snorted. “You shouldn’t be. It’s true.”

Ji-Yeong turned to the camera, dead serious. “I am a delight to be around.”

No-Eul, without looking up, muttered, “That’s a lie.”

Sae-Byeok just smirked, shaking her head.

Ji-Yeong sighed dramatically. “Fine. Yes. I am chaotic. But would you all love me if I wasn’t?”

Se-Mi threw an arm around her. “Exactly. Chaos is in our brand.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose from the sidelines.

Sae-Byeok lazily reached forward, peeling off the next strip. She read it, then raised an eyebrow.

“‘Is Kang Sae-Byeok single?’”

Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi exploded into laughter.

“OH, THIS IS GOOD,” Se-Mi cackled, slapping the table.

Sae-Byeok just sighed, giving the camera a blank look. “Yes.”

Ji-Yeong leaned forward, wiggling her eyebrows. “And are you—”

“No.”

Se-Mi pouted. “You didn’t even let her finish.”

Sae-Byeok shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

You watched from the sidelines, carefully keeping your expression neutral. (Not that you were thinking about it. Not at all.)

No-Eul peeled her question off, scanning it briefly before exhaling.

“‘Is Kang No-Eul the mom of the group?’”

The response was immediate.

“Yes,” Se-Mi said.

“Absolutely,” Ji-Yeong added.

“The only responsible one,” Sae-Byeok confirmed.

No-Eul, unimpressed, just stared at them. “I hate all of you.”

Ji-Yeong grinned. “See? Mom behavior.”

Fourth Question: "Is Han Se-Mi…?"

Se-Mi eagerly peeled off her question, reading it with interest.

“‘Is Han Se-Mi the flirtiest member?’”

You already knew what was coming.

Se-Mi gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “Me? A flirt? How dare you.”

Sae-Byeok rolled her eyes. “You literally flirt with the camera.”

Ji-Yeong nodded sagely. “She flirts with air molecules.”

Se-Mi turned to the camera, giving a slow, knowing smirk. “I just like to make people feel special.”

From the side, you muttered under your breath, “Menace.”

Se-Mi heard you and shot a wink in your direction.

Ji-Yeong peeled off the last question, reading it aloud.

“‘Is HOT DIVISION the next big thing in rock?’”

The girls exchanged glances.

Then, Sae-Byeok leaned forward slightly, looking straight into the camera.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just raw confidence.

Ji-Yeong smirked. “Damn right we are.”

Se-Mi grinned. “Hope you’re all ready.”

No-Eul nodded. “Because we’re not slowing down.”

From the sidelines, you felt something warm bloom in your chest.

They had come a long way. And they were just getting started.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25

[doumadono]

II - THE WEIGHT OF SURVIVAL

Summary: waking in the care of the rebellion, you recount your impossible survival — saved by a Sangreal Hunter who should have killed you — and as Aizawa orders a blood test to uncover why, a chilling realization settles in: whatever they find might change everything

Warnings: mentions of blood, mentions of vampires, vampire Dabi

WCT: circa 2.1k

𖥸 SANGREAL - previous chapter 𖥸 chapter III (to be added) 𖥸 SANGREAL - playlist 𖥸 MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST - PART II

Darkness still clung to you like a second skin. It was deep, vast, yet soothing, wrapping around you in a way that made your body feel weightless, like you had been untethered from the constant pain and exhaustion of existence.

But slowly, the weight returned.

A dull ache spread through your limbs, a heaviness pressing down against your ribs. Your fingers twitched, brushing against something rough yet warm, and the distant sensation of fabric beneath your skin dragged you back into reality.

A sound — a faint creaking of wood, the distant murmur of voices, the soft crackle of a fire burning somewhere close — filled the air. It was different from the dead silence of the Dregs you mostly experienced, from the ever-present howl of the wind screaming through skeletal buildings.

This place was enclosed. Safe.

Your mind clawed its way back to the last thing you remembered. Blood. Fangs. Fire. The vampire with turquoise eyes.

Your heart lurched.

Your body jerked forward as your senses slammed back into place. You gasped sharply, your lungs struggling to take in air, and in an instant, pain pulsed through your shoulder, tearing through you like a wildfire beneath your skin.  A strangled breath hitched in your throat as you reached for the source, fingers brushing over thick bandages.

You had been patched up. That thought sent a new wave of fear rolling through your stomach.

Your eyes snapped open. You were awake. But where were you?

And you were somewhere unfamiliar.

Your gaze darted wildly across the small chamber you had found yourself in. The walls were made of old stone, jagged but solid, and the ceiling hung low, wooden beams darkened with age. The air smelled of dust, parchment, and burning wood — a strange mix of old and lived-in, cluttered yet somehow comforting. A single candle flickered on the desk nearby, its golden glow illuminating stacks of scattered books and loose maps, crumpled notes scribbled in hurried ink.

The blankets pooled around your waist smelled clean, though they were rough with overuse. The bed beneath you was firm but not uncomfortable.

You were still in the Dregs. This was likely a hideout — one of many scattered through the ruins of Musutafu, tucked away by those who refused to kneel to the Sangreal but lacked the strength to stand against them. Survivors, drifters, those trying to disappear.

How did someone find you in that dim alley?

Your pulse still raced, but your body was too weak to move much. You pressed a shaky palm against the thin mattress, testing your strength. Your limbs still felt drained, like the blood had been siphoned from you while you slept.

A door creaked open.

Your body stiffened instantly.

A man stepped inside, and you barely had time to take in his appearance before his gaze locked onto yours.

Sharp, calculating, and impossibly tired.

He wasn’t young. His black hair was streaked with strands of silver, falling in messy strands around his severe, unshaven face. His eyes — dark, hooded, and weighted with exhaustion — scanned you in one slow, deliberate motion, assessing every inch of you in a way that made you feel laid bare.

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Then, after a long, unreadable silence, he sighed. “So, you’re awake.” His voice was rough, worn down, like a blade dulled by time. “That’s good.” His voice was rough, deep and flat, as if he had used it too much or not at all.

You said nothing, forcing yourself to remain still as he pulled a rickety wooden chair closer and sank into it.

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Where…?”

“You’re in one of our safe houses,” he answered before you could finish. “You were found right outside our door,” the dark-haired man added, voice unreadable. “Collapsed. Barely breathing. With that shoulder torn up and no supplies on you.”

Your fingers curled into the blanket at your sides. Memories of what happened — of them, of him — flashed behind your eyes.

“You’re with the rebellion,” you murmured, though it wasn’t a question.

His brow lifted slightly. “Good guess.”

Silence stretched again, neither of you speaking. The tension in your muscles refused to ease.

“But that’s not important now. Tell me what happened to you?” he finally asked.

You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around the sheets. “I was attacked,” you admitted, voice quiet but steady. “By low-class vampires. A gang of them.” Your throat constricted slightly at the memory of their claws digging into your skin, the stink of rotting breath against your neck. “I thought I was going to die.”

His stare didn’t waver. “But you didn’t.”

Your breath hitched. “No.” You hesitated, your body tensing before forcing the words out. “A vampire saved me.”

For the first time, something in his expression shifted. It was slight, but you caught the way his gaze sharpened just a fraction, his fingers flexing at his sides. “A vampire,” he repeated, tone unreadable.

You nodded. “I don’t know why,” you uttered truthfully. “He could have taken me just as easily. He should have. But he didn’t.”

The man studied you carefully, like he was searching for something beyond your words. Then, he sighed again, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Anything more that you remember?”

“There was fire.” You swallowed. “Blue fire.”

The man’s fingers tapped once against his knee.

“He killed them all,” you continued. “But he didn’t hurt me.”

Something passed over the man’s expression. Not quite disbelief. Not quite understanding. “Vampires don’t save people,” he stated matter-of-factly.

You nodded, because it was true. “I know,” you said. “But he did.”

The man didn’t respond immediately. He only watched you, long enough that you had to fight not to fidget beneath his stare.

You frowned. “I thought you’d be relieved that a person somehow survived.”

His lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite amusement. “You should be dead.” The black-haired man’s gaze flickered to your shoulder, where fresh bandages had been wrapped snugly around your wound. “But you’re not. And that raises more questions than it answers.”

Before you could ask what he meant, the door creaked again. This time, an older woman stepped in.

She was small, frail-looking, but the moment her gaze landed on you, you felt a weight of authority settle over you. Her face was lined with age, but her eyes were sharp and knowing, gleaming with something both gentle and firm.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Shota, but I need to check upon her.”

The man gave a single nod.

Suddenly it clicked. You knew who the man sitting beside the bed was.

You had heard countless stories about Shota Aizawa, the leader of the rebellion against Sangreal. The man who had built an army out of desperate survivors and fallen heroes, who had stood against the tyrants who ruled this world with fangs and violence.

The one vampire society had failed to break.

He was like a ghost among the ruins, a myth whispered in hushed tones in the Ash Markets, the last flickering light against Sangreal’s endless night.

And now, he was staring at you.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” the older woman vocalized simply, stepping forward. “Let me take a look at that shoulder.”

She didn’t wait for permission.

You hesitated, but then let her gently begin undoing your bandages. Her touch was careful, practiced, and the moment the fresh air kissed the wound, you inhaled sharply through your teeth.

“Still tender, I see,” she hummed, replacing the old dressing with a fresh one. “Try not to move it too much.”

Your mind buzzed with too many questions, but one pressed forward before the others. “Do you know who he was?” You asked silently, looking at the man sitting on the chair.

Both of them paused.

You didn’t miss the way their gazes briefly flickered toward each other.

“I didn’t get a good look at him,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But his eyes…” You swallowed. “They were turquoise. The most striking, unnatural shade I’ve ever seen.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

The older woman finished securing your bandages, but she didn’t speak. She simply exhaled, giving the man a knowing glance.

You sat up slowly, ignoring the protest in your limbs. “Who was he?”

His dark eyes met yours again. “Dabi,” he uttered simply. He studied your expression carefully before continuing, voice dipped in something dangerous. “The most dangerous of Sangreal’s Hunters.”

Your stomach twisted, the weight of the words settling deep in your chest.

The vampire who saved you — the one who should have killed you — wasn’t just any vampire. He was one of them. One of Sangreal’s killers.

And suddenly, you needed to know why had he let you live.

Aizawa let out a slow breath, then turned toward the older woman. “I need to know why,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face, the exhaustion suddenly pressing into his shoulders. “Why wasn’t she killed like any other person should have been?”

The words stung, but he wasn’t wrong.

A Sangreal Hunter wouldn’t just leave someone alive.

Recovery Girl sighed, setting down the bowl of water she had been using to clean your wound. “You think I have an answer for that?” she murmured, giving him a sharp glance. “You think any of us do?”

Aizawa’s jaw tightened. “Dabi’s never done this before.”

That sent a new wave of unease curling through you.

“He doesn’t let people go,” Shota continued, his voice even but laced with a dark undertone. “Not unless there’s a reason.”

Your stomach twisted.

There was nothing special about you. You weren’t a warrior, weren’t a rebel, weren’t anyone worth keeping alive.

The Recovery Girl tapped her fingers against the table beside her, thoughtful. “Then maybe we should start with what we do know.” She looked at you now, sharp, assessing. “If it wasn’t a mistake, there must be something about you that made him hesitate.”

Your fingers curled into the blanket draped over you. “Like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she turned back to Aizawa. “How about we test her blood?”

Aizawa’s gaze flickered. He hadn’t considered it. Yet.

Your pulse spiked. You didn’t like where this was going.

“Most vampires kill indiscriminately,” Recovery Girl continued. “But not all blood is the same. If this one is different—”

“She’s human,” Aizawa reminded her flatly.

Chiyo raised an eyebrow. “And? We’ve seen how they experiment with blood, how they evolve, how they find new ways to feed. What if there’s something about her that made him stop?”

Aizawa exhaled sharply through his nose, looking away. His fingers twitched slightly against his knee, then stilled. He hated that he had to consider it. “We need to know what makes her different.”

The room suddenly felt too small.

Your pulse was too loud, too fast, hammering in your ears.

But what could you do? Say no? Storm out and wander back into the Dregs, where death was waiting for you in every alleyway?

No.

You weren’t stupid. You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to steady. “…Fine. I also want to know why…”

Recovery Girl gave you a small nod, setting the supplies down beside you. “Good,” she said. 

Without a word, she got up and walked to the far corner of the room, where the shelves sagged beneath the weight of age-old medical supplies.

You watched her move, your chest tightening as she sifted through the contents, picking her tools with careful precision.

The soft clink of glass. The quiet shuffle of items being moved aside.

Chiyo returned a moment later, carrying a small metal tray, the dim lantern light glinting off the surface. A syringe. A vial. A length of rubber tubing.

Your throat went dry.

Aizawa must have noticed the way your body tensed, because his voice dropped slightly, not soft, but not as harsh as before. “I know you’re scared,” he stated. “But if a Sangreal Hunter let you live, that needs to be explained.”

The rubber tubing was secured around your arm. The syringe bit into your skin, sharp and fleeting.

You barely felt the needle slide beneath your skin, but your breath still shuddered as the vial slowly filled with your blood.

As Chiyo sealed the vial with practiced hands, a sick, clawing dread settled deep in your gut.

Whatever they were about to discover, you had the awful feeling it would change everything.

taglist:

@redlipstic @alexandhisstuff @pixelcafe-network @crystalwolfblog @fancymoonreview @feral-kittykat @grossograsso @arthurbristow @thewildgardensstuff @violet-forgetmenot @tiny-roki-todoroki @jjksimp3579 @dabislittlemouse @lura-valentine @imidarogerson @bakugoscunny @chaoticpeanuteagle @misafiryanki @dagger-dragger @shonen-brainrot @unhinged-bratty-boy @indignant-alpaca @jake-lockley-vengeance @greaterheart @pridefulbakugou @leven-and-ashley @roast-toast @sahhuban @irkedpomeranian @within-eyesight @isabeauwolf

[namelessghost04]

low energy devotional acts you can do!

hey guys! i know i haven't been quite active here, and as the title of this post suggests, you might already know why :') i know this is something that may happen to all of us, so i wanted to start by saying that it is completely normal and that you shouldn't beat yourself over it. so here are a few things you can do to honour your deities, even on days where you feel at your lowest <3

have a cup of tea in their name. you don't necessarily have to offer it, just have a nice warm drink in their name

drink water. you have to take care of yourself either way, so better keep yourself hydrated!

have a small meal in their name. just eat something, for their sake, and for yours.

light a candle. even an LED candle is fine. let its warmth embrace and its light guide you

listen to music. now's the perfect time to listen to your devotional playlists, even if you're just laying in bed.

pray. just pray to them. out loud, in your head. doesn't matter. you can do this from your bed, too, they'll understand

wear devotional jewellery. it doesn't have to be anything fancy, just a small ring or necklace or whatever that reminds you of them.

just take care of yourself. it'll pass. and they will welcome you with open arms once you recover your usual energy and go back to your usual self.

remember. your gods love you. so do i. everything will be okay <3 take care!

[zolo-san]

heyo ya girl finally finished Dressrosa last night✌️

did not think I was going to come out of that arch a lawlu shipper but here we are folks~

[thyras]

→ of dark deeds

PAIRING → annatar | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 9k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → complicated birth (no graphic stuff just wanted to warn y'all of that)

SUMMARY → his plan is in motion and there will be no stopping what he wills

AUTHORS NOTE → so i have maybe two chapters left for this story, so we are coming to the end. next chapter is going to be a long one because we have to cover so much, and it is going to be DARK so buckle up for that. i have a lot in store, but i had to get aerilaya's birth out of the way before we could steam roll to the end.

masterlist // series playlist // mood board

Weeks turned into months.

You remained a steady presence by Celebrimbor’s side, shielding him from whatever your husband sought to achieve. He still refused to help, unwavering in his stance, and you had made it your silent duty to ensure he stayed that way.

The two of you found solace in the study, away from the constant clang of the forge, in the quiet sanctuary where you had spent many days together over the centuries. It had become a refuge, a space of unspoken understanding, where words were not always needed. A small comfort in the face of the storm that loomed ever closer.

You had made your choice.

It had broken your heart, shattered you in ways you had never thought possible—but you had no regrets. You had to protect what was most precious to you.

Your child.

And the man sitting across from you.

A burden had been placed upon you the moment you had accepted this ring, a duty you could not abandon, no matter the cost. Even if it destroyed you from the inside out.

Celebrimbor, ever perceptive, did not pry. He never pressed into your personal matters, but you knew he saw the sorrow that clung to you, the tension that coiled in your muscles whenever his name was mentioned. The absence of Annatar in your life had become an unspoken truth, a wound left untreated, one you refused to acknowledge aloud.

Instead, Celebrimbor had simply congratulated you on your pregnancy and remained ever watchful, his keen eyes ensuring you did not strain yourself beyond what was safe.

It had been months since you had last spoken to Annatar.

Months since he had even tried to see you.

He had become a ghost, a shadow of a presence that lingered only in memory. But his words, his voids, still haunted you.

I want to heal you and create the world I promised you.

Lies. Beautiful, twisted lies.

If not for Nenya on your finger, you were impossibly sure that the sheer weight of grief would have unraveled you completely. Many nights had been spent tracing circles over the growing swell of your stomach, whispering soft reassurances to the life within you—seeking solace not only for your child but for the ache that still tore through your very fëa.

You wanted to give her everything. You wanted to shield her from the disappointment of never knowing her father as you once had. Of never seeing the light that once burned so brilliantly within him, the warmth that had made him yours.

"Thilwen?"

Celebrimbor’s voice pulled you from your thoughts, his tone gentle, laced with concern. You blinked, realizing too late that tears had begun to spill down your cheeks. Quickly, you wiped them away, offering him a soft, pleasant smile.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes,” you murmured, leaning back in your chair, rubbing slow circles over your now-prominent belly. You were close to term now—your very fëa stretched thin with the final stages of pregnancy. It was a wonder you had not succumbed to exhaustion already.

A sudden, strong thud against your fingers startled you, and you giggled, running your hand over the spot where the little one had kicked.

Celebrimbor’s expression softened with quiet amusement. “Have they deduced what you are having yet?”

You shrugged. “The midwives tell me it is most likely a girl. And I believe so as well.”

Your gaze dropped to your stomach, watching as a tiny hand pressed outward, stretching your skin in protest.

“Well,” Celebrimbor mused, a warm smile curving his lips, “I am sure she will be as beautiful as her mother.”

A heat crept to your cheeks, the warmth of the moment settling over you like a fragile balm against the pain of everything else.

For a fleeting second, you allowed yourself to believe in the quiet. In the possibility that this life you had carved for yourself, for your daughter, might be enough.

But deep down, you knew the storm had not yet passed.

And Annatar’s silence would not last forever.

As that last thought settled in your mind, a sudden, thunderous crash echoed through the corridor, shattering the fragile moment of peace. The impact rattled through the walls, sending a tremor through the floor beneath your feet. Both you and Celebrimbor snapped your heads toward the open door, the once-quiet study now filled with the distant, panicked murmurs of voices beyond.

Celebrimbor moved to rise, but you were faster, pushing up from your seat before he could. A sharp flicker of concern crossed his face as you turned to him, pressing a steady hand against his shoulder.

“Stay,” you murmured, firm but gentle, ushering him back into his chair. He hesitated, eyes searching yours, but ultimately relented, exhaling slowly as he sat back down.

“I’ll go see what has happened.”

You gathered the folds of your gown, bracing yourself before striding toward the door.

“Thilwen.”

The way he spoke your name made you pause. There was something in his voice—something quiet, almost pleading. You turned, meeting his gaze. His knuckles were white where they gripped the arms of his chair, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Please be careful.”

A soft smile tugged at your lips despite the unease curling in your stomach. You smoothed your hand over your belly, the warmth of the life growing within you grounding you for just a moment before you spoke.

“I’ll be just fine.”

It wasn’t quite a lie.

But as you stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, the air thick with tension, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to change.

Your ring chimed—a soft, resonant pulse against your skin—as you made your way down the hall toward the forge. The sound was not alarming, but it carried a whisper of warning, a subtle shift in the air that set your nerves on edge.

Voices echoed ahead, low and concerned, spilling from the open archway. As you stepped inside, the flickering light of the forge bathed the room in a dim, golden glow. The smiths were gathered in a tight circle around Mirdania, murmuring words of comfort, their postures tense with barely concealed unease. Tools were scattered across the forge and the anvil had fallen into the center of the floor.

But your gaze did not linger on the scene before you.

It found him.

Annatar stood apart from the others, his presence a stark contrast to the huddled group. He had not moved to comfort Mirdania, nor had he spoken. His piercing gaze was locked onto her, unwavering, unreadable. And yet, in the rigid set of his jaw, in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, you sensed something coiled beneath the surface.

He had yet to notice you.

But the moment you stepped forward, descending the short set of stairs, every eye in the room turned to you—including his.

The weight of his gaze settled over you like a crushing force, suffocating, heavy with something unspoken. Your breath caught, but you refused to let it show. You forced yourself to keep walking, closing the distance between yourself and the gathered smiths.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice steady despite the tension curling in your stomach.

Mirdania flinched at the sound of your voice, her head snapping up.

Your heart clenched at what you saw in her eyes—fear. A familiar fear. One that had once darkened your own face, months ago.

You tore your gaze away, scanning the other smiths, but none of them met your eyes. Their silence was deliberate, their reluctance thick in the air. Even Mirdania hesitated, her lips parting as if to speak before she cast a quick, nervous glance toward Annatar.

Then back to you.

She swallowed hard.

And you knew, without her saying a word, that whatever had happened—whatever had frightened her—had everything to do with him.

“Mirdania?” you pressed, your brow arching as you met her hesitant gaze.

She swallowed hard, her hands trembling slightly at her sides, but before she could gather the courage to speak, Annatar’s voice cut through the silence.

“We were—”

Your hand shot up, a sharp gesture that halted his words in an instant.

His expression flickered—first with surprise, then something darker. His blue eyes narrowed, a shadow passing through them at the boldness of your interruption.

“I asked Mirdania, not you, my lord.”

You punctuated the word you, letting it land with deliberate weight before shifting your focus back to Mirdania. The smiths instinctively stepped aside as you strode forward, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

She exhaled, tension easing just slightly beneath your touch, the warmth of your presence melting some of the fear that had gripped her moments ago.

“Tell me,” you said gently. “What happened?”

Mirdania hesitated, her lower lip trembling as unshed tears welled in her eyes. “We… we were trying a new design. I—I tried the ring on, and—”

Her breath hitched, and a few tears slipped free, trailing down her cheeks.

Without thinking, you cupped her face, thumb brushing away the streaks of moisture.

“You can tell me,” you whispered, voice a soothing balm against the weight of the moment. “Here, or we can go somewhere else. Whatever makes you feel safe.”

Her gaze flicked nervously toward Annatar, uncertainty warring within her.

“Mirdania,” you murmured, your tone soft yet unwavering, “you do not need anyone’s approval to speak.”

Something in her resolve hardened. Slowly, she nodded and reached for your hand, gripping it tightly.

“I would like to go somewhere else,” she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper.

You gave her a reassuring smile and squeezed her hand lightly before turning to lead her from the forge. But before you could take more than a few steps, Annatar spoke again.

“I really must protest,” he said, voice calm, almost measured—but you knew that tone, knew it was meant to mask the brewing storm beneath. “We are hardly—”

You whirled on him, the anger that had been simmering inside you finally bubbling to the surface.

“She is frightened.” The words left your lips with an edge, sharp and cutting. “You have an entire slew of talented smiths at your disposal—you can do without one.”

Your eyes burned into his, daring him to challenge you.

For a moment, silence stretched between you.

His jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line.

You could see it—the calculation behind his gaze, the way his mind worked through what to say next, how to twist this, how to turn it in his favor.

But this was part of his game, and you knew it.

And you would not let him drag Mirdania into it.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and led her away, leaving Annatar standing in the forge, the embers behind him flickering like a dying star.

You guided Mirdania gently into the chair you had been resting in, keeping a steady hand on her shoulder as she sat. Her breath was uneven, her body still trembling slightly from whatever horror she had witnessed.

Celebrimbor approached, silent and composed, a steaming glass mug of tea in his hands. He set it down before her with a quiet nod, his gaze filled with unspoken concern.

Without hesitation, you took the seat he offered you and reached for Mirdania’s hands, clasping them between your own. They were cold, shaking, the fear still clinging to her like a specter.

You waited, giving her the time she needed.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I saw something,” she choked out. “Something terrible… Something in the forge with us.”

Your grip on her hands tightened instinctively, but you said nothing, only watching her with patient, steady eyes.

“It was there the whole time,” she continued, shuddering. “Watching. Waiting for something.”

Her fingers twitched in your grasp, her breaths turning shallow again, her pulse rapid beneath your touch.

You knew.

You knew what she had seen.

You knew what these rings could do—what they could show a person. And those that had his hand in their making… they were worse. Far worse.

Mirdania’s voice wavered, her expression twisting as though the memory alone was enough to break her.

“Its eyes… they were voidless black.” Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard, her entire body trembling. “And it reeked of death. I—”

She broke, sobs wracking her frame as she collapsed forward.

Without thinking, you gathered her into your arms, holding her tightly as she cried, stroking her back in slow, soothing circles.

Your gaze lifted to Celebrimbor, and in his eyes, you found the same concern that was mirrored in your own.

But there was nothing you could say.

Because you knew who she had seen.

And you were powerless against it.

If you told them the truth, if you dared to speak his name aloud, then you would have to reveal your own secret as well.

And that was a risk you could not afford to take.

“I will go see what—”

Celebrimbor’s voice barely registered through the storm of your thoughts, but the moment he moved to step away from Mirdania, you reacted.

Your hand shot out, grasping his wrist in a vice-like grip, yanking him back before he could take another step.

“No!”

The word ripped from your throat, sharp and frantic—too frantic.

Both Mirdania and Celebrimbor froze, their eyes widening as they turned to you, confusion flickering across their faces. Rightly so. They did not know him. They did not understand what he was truly capable of—what he had already done.

But you did.

You could still feel the weight of his fingers around your throat. Could still hear the way his voice had snapped with finality when he told you the man you loved was dead.

You swallowed hard, forcing the panic down, scrambling for an excuse before they could question you further.

“I just…” you started, breathing unevenly. “I just think we should not escalate this.”

Celebrimbor’s gaze searched yours, the concern in his eyes shifting into something more wary.

“Escalate?” he echoed, his voice steady but careful. “Someone—or something—terrified Mirdania tonight, and you don’t want to investigate?”

“I just—” you hesitated, your grip still tight on his wrist. Think. Think.

“I just… don’t want you to act rashly,” you murmured, finally releasing him. “Not yet.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t press the issue. Not yet.

Mirdania, however, was still shaking in her chair, her hands gripping the cup of tea as if it was the only thing grounding her.

You turned your attention back to her, softening your voice. “We will figure this out, I promise.”

You did not know if it was a lie.

You only knew that you had to buy time—before Celebrimbor did go looking for answers.

Before he decided to intervene.

You had to protect him.

The moment Celebrimbor stepped back into that forge without you, he would be waiting. Watching. And you knew, without a shred of doubt, that Annatar would seize the opportunity to slither his way back into his mind, to twist his thoughts, to push him ever closer to the edge of a precipice he could not return from.

And you could not bear that.

You could not lose him, too.

Your fingers tightened around his wrist once more, a silent plea grounding him before you spoke, voice softer now—gentle, but unwavering.

“I promise, mellon,” you murmured, holding his gaze, willing him to believe you. “I promise we will find the answer. But first, let us take care of Mirdania. Then we shall see what has happened.”

For a moment, he hesitated, the conflict warring in his eyes. You could see it—the logic, the need to act, to uncover the truth. But there was also trust, the deep-seated understanding that had always bound you together.

Slowly, his shoulders eased, the tension in his stance relenting.

“…Alright,” he conceded at last, exhaling through his nose. “We tend to Mirdania first.”

Relief washed over you, but it was fleeting. Because while you had bought him a little more time—

You knew the storm had not passed.

Once Mirdania was safely home and settled, you knew there was no more delaying the inevitable.

You made your way back toward the forge, each step heavier than the last, weighed down by the looming confrontation ahead.

This was the moment.

The moment you and Celebrimbor would have to face him.

The moment you would have to stand against your husband.

Your breath was shallow, your fingers curling against the fabric of your gown as another sharp pang of exhaustion ran through your body. The weight of your pregnancy was taking its toll—your strength stretched thinner with each passing day.

And yet, despite the weariness in your limbs, despite the way your fëa trembled under the strain, you knew you had no choice.

You did not know if you had the strength to protect Celebrimbor from him.

But you knew, with unwavering certainty, that you had to try.

You fisted the skirts of your gown and ascended the stone steps, each step slower, heavier, as the weight of what was to come settled deep in your bones. At the top, Celebrimbor stood waiting, his sharp eyes scanning your face the moment you neared.

When you had left him, the tension in his shoulders had eased, if only slightly. Now, it had returned—wound tight as a bowstring.

He had seen your apprehension before, had known you long enough to understand that if you were concerned, then something was very, very wrong.

“I believe he has sent the rest of the smiths home,” Celebrimbor murmured, his voice quiet, yet edged with something unreadable.

You swallowed, glancing toward the forge’s doors. It made sense. Annatar would not want witnesses. Not for this.

Before you could respond, Celebrimbor’s hand came to rest gently beneath your arm, steadying you, supporting some of your weight as he tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow.

It was a quiet reassurance, a silent acknowledgment that you did not have to carry this burden alone.

You exhaled softly, nodding in thanks, and together, you turned toward the forge.

Toward him.

Toward whatever awaited you in the firelit depths beyond.

When you both finally entered the forge, Annatar stood off to the side, studying something with an air of quiet deliberation, as if he had been expecting you. His head turned the moment you and Celebrimbor stepped into the main chamber, his sharp gaze locking onto you both with unsettling precision.

Annatar’s presence was as commanding as ever—his tall frame exuding an effortless dominance, his face impassive save for the faintest flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. A silent confirmation that this confrontation was long overdue.

"Lord Celebrimbor. Lady Thilwen," he greeted smoothly, his voice rich and polished, like silk sliding over steel. "To what do I owe the pleasure at this late hour?"

Celebrimbor’s grip on your arm tightened, just slightly, a subtle gesture that betrayed the tension simmering beneath his composed exterior. "We need to discuss what happened with Mirdania," he said, his words measured but firm, his voice carrying an undeniable edge of steel.

Annatar arched a brow, the very picture of polite intrigue. "Ah, yes. An unfortunate incident. The poor girl seemed quite shaken." His tone was laced with feigned concern, but you knew better. Every measured word, every carefully chosen inflection was part of the mask he so expertly wielded. He was already shaping the narrative, painting Mirdania as some fragile, hysterical thing rather than someone who had seen something truly terrifying.

Celebrimbor’s jaw clenched, his entire posture stiffening in response to Annatar’s dismissive tone. "This is more than an unfortunate incident. Mirdania saw something in that ring—something that shook her to her core. We cannot simply brush it aside."

For the briefest moment, Annatar’s gaze flicked to you, his eyes darkening—a shadow passing through them before his composed mask settled once more. "My dear Celebrimbor," he said smoothly, "you, of all people, understand that the forging of such powerful artifacts can have... unexpected effects on the untrained mind. Mirdania is a talented smith, certainly, but perhaps not yet prepared for this level of craft."

You bristled at his words, at the quiet condescension woven into them, as though he were speaking of an apprentice, not a skilled artisan. Your fingers tightened on Celebrimbor’s arm as you stepped forward, voice even but firm. "With all due respect, my lord, I do not believe Mirdania's experience can be so easily dismissed. She has worked on countless complex projects before. What she saw in that ring was beyond ordinary—something unnatural, something truly unsettling."

Annatar’s pleasant façade cracked, just slightly. His eyes sharpened, his expression unreadable, before he composed himself with a practiced ease. "My lady," he said, voice still polite but now tinged with the subtlest hint of patronization, "while I appreciate your concern, I must remind you that the intricacies of ring-lore are not your domain of expertise. Perhaps it is best to leave such matters to those of us who understand the potential... side effects."

The words were a veiled dismissal, a gentle push to the periphery, as though your insight was irrelevant. Anger flared in your chest, but before you could reply, Celebrimbor took a step forward, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

"Annatar." His tone was sharp, commanding—unyielding. "Enough. Thilwen’s insights are always valued, as you well know. And Mirdania's well-being is not a trivial matter to be brushed aside."

He moved, ever so subtly, positioning himself between you and Annatar. A shield. A statement of allegiance.

Annatar’s gaze flicked between you and Celebrimbor, his keen mind reading the unspoken alliance between you. For a heartbeat, something dangerous glinted in his eyes—there and gone too quickly to be certain.

"Of course," he said smoothly, inclining his head in a mockery of deference. "Forgive me. I meant no disrespect. Though, with your insight, perhaps we could remedy these... unfortunate side effects. Your opinions on the matter could prove most helpful."

You moved past Celebrimbor’s shielding form, stepping closer, meeting Annatar’s gaze with an unflinching glare.

"No," you said, your voice cutting through the air like tempered steel. "He has told you, time and again, that he wants nothing to do with this craft. Why won’t you respect that?"

Your blood burned, a slow, rising fire, your fists clenching at your sides as you tried to steady your breath.

Annatar’s mask slipped further, a crack in the carefully controlled veneer. His irritation flared, brief but unmistakable, before he forced it back into place. His eyes bored into yours—a silent challenge, a reminder of who truly held power here.

"I am merely seeking a solution," he said, voice tight with the effort of restraint. "To ensure that such incidents do not happen again. Surely you can see the wisdom in that, my lady?"

"The only wisdom I see," you shot back, "is in heeding Lord Celebrimbor’s wishes and putting an end to this madness. These rings—whatever their intended purpose—bring nothing but suffering. Mirdania’s terror is proof enough of that."

Annatar’s jaw flexed, his blue eyes flashing dangerously. "You forget yourself, Thilwen," he said, his voice stripped of its usual silk, revealing the iron beneath. "And you forget to whom you speak."

The use of your name, absent of title or courtesy, struck like a blow. A cold, deliberate reminder of the widening rift between you.

Beside you, Celebrimbor tensed, his grip tightening on your arm in silent reassurance. "And you forget your place, Annatar," he said, his voice like carved stone. "You are a guest here, not a lord. I will not tolerate disrespect toward Lady Thilwen, nor will I allow the concerns of my people to be dismissed."

For the first time, Annatar faltered—only slightly, but enough for you to notice. His eyes flicked toward Celebrimbor, something sharp and calculating twisting behind them. For a fleeting moment, his composure slipped, revealing the frustration simmering beneath. He was losing his grip.

When he spoke again, his words were measured, deceptively calm. "Forgive me, Lord Celebrimbor. It was not my intent to overstep." He inclined his head, but the gesture felt hollow. "I only wish to continue our work unimpeded. Surely you understand that."

Celebrimbor’s gaze remained unmoved, his eyes storm-dark. "And I wish for the well-being of my people to be my highest priority. Anything that threatens that will not be tolerated, no matter how grand the ambition."

Annatar’s expression tightened at the clear dismissal. He was losing his hold on Celebrimbor, and he knew it. And you could see it—the frustration, the barely restrained anger, the way his fingers flexed slightly, as though resisting the urge to lash out.

For the first time, Annatar understood. His influence was slipping. And he did not like it.

The tension in the forge was palpable, like a bowstring drawn taut, ready to snap at any moment. Annatar's eyes flashed with barely restrained anger as he faced off against you and Celebrimbor. His carefully crafted facade was slipping, revealing the frustration and rage simmering beneath his calm facade.

"Very well," Annatar said at last, his voice tight with forced civility. "If that is your wish, Lord Celebrimbor, then I shall respect it."

But even as he spoke the words, you could see the lie in his eyes. This was not over. Not by a long shot. Annatar was not one to yield so easily, especially when his ambitions were threatened.

Celebrimbor gave a curt nod, his stance still guarded, his grip on your arm firm but gentle. "See that you do. The well-being of my people is not negotiable."

With that, he turned, guiding you away from Annatar and toward the forge’s entrance. You could feel the weight of Annatar’s gaze boring into your back as you walked—a silent promise that this confrontation had only been the first battle in a much longer war.

The moment you stepped outside, the cool night air hit your skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating tension of the forge. The stars above flickered against the velvety black sky, indifferent to the turmoil unraveling beneath them. You exhaled slowly, unsteadily, as Celebrimbor led you a few paces away from the entrance before turning to face you.

His eyes searched yours, concern etched into every line of his face. "Are you alright?" he asked softly.

A sharp, twisting pain suddenly lanced through your belly, stealing your breath. Your fingers reflexively went to your stomach, pressing against the taut skin as another wave of discomfort followed, stronger this time.

You winced, your body tensing. "I... I don't know," you managed, your voice strained. "Something doesn't feel right."

Celebrimbor’s brow furrowed with alarm, his gaze dropping to the way you clutched at your middle. The moment stretched between you, heavy with unspoken dread. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, steadying you as he studied your face.

"Thilwen, what is it? Is it the baby?"

You swallowed against the rising panic, nodding jerkily as another contraction gripped you, radiating across your abdomen in relentless waves. It was too soon—a few weeks at most. The child was not ready, and neither were you. Fear coiled in your gut, cold and sickening.

"Celebrimbor," you whispered, voice raw with uncertainty, "I think... I think something's wrong. She’s too early. I’m not—"

His eyes widened, but to his credit, he remained composed. Even as the flicker of fear in his gaze mirrored your own, he forced steadiness into his voice. He reached for your hands, his grip warm and reassuring.

"Alright," he murmured, firm but gentle, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. "It's alright. We’ll get you inside, to your chambers. I'll send for the midwife immediately."

You nodded, but another sharp pain stole your breath, your knees nearly buckling beneath you. Celebrimbor wasted no time—without hesitation, he wrapped a strong arm around your waist, supporting your weight as he guided you back toward where your rooms were.

Each step sent a fresh jolt of discomfort through you, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The pain was growing worse, your body preparing for something it was not yet meant to endure. Fear gnawed at the edges of your mind, but you clung to Celebrimbor’s presence, to his unwavering resolve.

Somewhere, distantly, you thought of Annatar—of the look in his eyes as you had turned away. You could still feel his gaze lingering, like a shadow crawling up your spine.

And in the back of your mind, a chilling thought took root.

This was not a coincidence.

Once Celebrimbor had helped you to your chambers, another sharp contraction seized you, nearly doubling you over. You gripped the edge of your bed, knuckles white, as you tried to breathe through the pain.

"Easy now," Celebrimbor murmured, his voice low and soothing as he eased you onto the mattress. His strong hands rubbed slow, steady circles on your back, grounding you as you fought against the rising tide of agony. "I'll go get the midwife. Just try to relax."

You gave a weak nod, your breath shallow, sweat beading on your brow as the contraction finally eased. Celebrimbor hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave you, his hand lingering at your back, as if he could somehow will away your pain.

"Go, please," you urged, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. "I'll be alright for a few minutes."

He searched your face, reluctant, but at last, he nodded and hurried from the room.

The door had barely shut behind him before another contraction ripped through you. A strangled cry tore from your lips as you doubled over, clutching at the bedsheets with trembling fingers. The pain was blinding, an unnatural force clawing its way through your body, relentless and cruel.

This was wrong. It was all wrong.

Your child was coming too soon—weeks before she was ready. And the pain... it was different. Not the familiar, inevitable pain of birth, but something sharper, deeper—twisting through you like a blade. It was as if something inside you was being forced, reshaped, against nature itself.

Gritting your teeth, you tried to steady your breath, but every inhale was like dragging shards of glass through your lungs. Sweat slicked your skin, dampening your shift, plastering loose strands of hair to your temples. Your body trembled with the effort of resisting, but it was useless.

A cold wave of realization crashed over you, sending a tremor through your aching limbs.

This was his doing.

The thought hit you with the force of a blow, stealing what little breath you had left. A shudder wracked through you, part pain, part horror.

Annatar.

Somehow—some twisted way—he had done this.

Another contraction seized you, white-hot and merciless, sending fresh tears streaking down your cheeks. Your fingers clenched into the sheets, gripping them as if they could anchor you against the storm raging inside you. A sob caught in your throat, raw and broken.

How could he?

How could he endanger the life you had created together? The child he had once sworn to cherish above all else?

But the answer was already there, lurking in the depths of your mind.

Because this child, this innocent life, was just another piece on the board to him. Another pawn to be sacrificed in his endless pursuit of power.

Your vision was coming to fruition.

And he was ensuring you would never see it through.

He wanted you away from Celebrimbor.

He wanted your mind, your heart, your purpose bound to him once more.

And so he did this.

A fresh wave of pain shattered your thoughts, your body convulsing under its sheer force. You gasped, curling inward, as a silent scream tore through you. But even through the haze of agony, one thing remained clear.

This was not just an accident of fate.

It was a warning.

A reminder that no matter how far you tried to run, how desperately you tried to escape his grasp—Sauron was always there. Watching. Waiting.

And now, he had struck.

With brutal, merciless precision.

And he would not stop until he had won.

The hours that followed were a blur of agony and terror, each wave of pain crashing over you with relentless force. Time lost all meaning, the moments stretching and twisting under the weight of suffering. The midwives moved around you in hushed urgency, their touch gentle yet unable to soothe the wrongness that had taken root inside you. Their whispers did not reach your ears, but their faces—etched with worry, with the weight of things left unsaid—told you all you needed to know.

Something was deeply, terribly wrong.

You clung to consciousness, but it was slipping, unraveling like frayed thread as exhaustion pulled at you, threatening to drag you under. Your body was failing, pushed beyond its limits by Annatar’s cruel machinations. Every contraction stole more of your strength, hollowing you out, leaving you raw and trembling.

The child within you struggled, caught in the merciless grip of something beyond nature’s design. You could feel it—her tiny fëa flickering like a candle in a raging storm, trapped between the light that had conceived her and the darkness that sought to claim her.

Celebrimbor never left your side. His presence was an anchor amidst the chaos, his hand wrapped tightly around yours, his voice a steady murmur of reassurance, even as fear flickered behind his eyes. He knew what it took to bring elven life into the world—that it demanded a toll on one’s fëa, a gift of spirit and strength. But he did not know the other truth, the one you had kept buried in your heart.

What he did not know was what it took to bring a piece of shadow into the world as well.

Each contraction was a dagger, stabbing deep, twisting, rending—not only flesh, but something far greater, something unseen. Your body writhed under its grip, but it was your spirit that bore the brunt of it. Your fëa stretched and frayed, unraveling with each wave of agony, like a rope straining under too great a weight.

This was no natural birth. This was not the sacred pain of creation, of life brought forth through light and love. This was something else entirely.

This was a violation.

A perversion of the natural order.

The shadow within Annatar—the darkness he had woven into himself—had passed into the child. And now it fought to break free, to claw its way into existence before its time. The pain was not simply that of labor—it was a battle, a war being waged within you. A struggle between the light and dark, between all that you were and all that he had sought to make you.

You cried out as another wave seized you, arching your back against the mattress, your fingers tightening around Celebrimbor’s hand until you felt the bones shift beneath your grasp. He did not flinch, did not pull away, though you knew he felt your pain as if it were his own.

"Hold on," he whispered, voice thick with barely restrained emotion. "Just a little longer."

“Keep her steady, my lord,” one of the midwives urged, her voice tense but steady as they worked tirelessly to bring your daughter into the world.

Celebrimbor obeyed without hesitation, his grip unwavering as he held you upright. His warmth was an anchor, grounding you amidst the waves of agony that threatened to pull you under. But even as he steadied you, the room seemed to tilt, the air growing thick with something unseen—something dark.

A shudder rippled through you as the shadows at the edges of the chamber deepened, stretching toward you like grasping fingers. It was subtle, almost imperceptible to those who did not know the nature of such things. But you knew.

And then, against the suffocating darkness, a familiar warmth pulsed at your finger.

Your ring.

The delicate jewel, imbued with light, with the very essence of all you had fought to protect, pulsed with a gentle glow against your skin. It was subtle, like the whisper of a breeze, but it was there. A reminder.

It had healed your curse.

It had been your sanctuary, a beacon against the creeping tendrils of Annatar’s influence.

It had kept you strong, even when his words had slithered into your mind like honeyed venom. Even when, for a moment—just a moment—you had believed him.

The pain sharpened again, stealing your breath, wrenching a strangled cry from your lips. The midwives moved swiftly, their hands working with quiet urgency, but you barely registered them. You clung to the ring’s warmth, its presence a tether against the abyss that threatened to consume you.

It would see you through this.

It was meant to.

Because this child—this life within you—was never meant to be claimed by the darkness.

You focused all your remaining strength and will on the warmth of the ring against your skin, drawing from its light as another contraction seized you in its merciless grip. The shadows that had coiled around the edges of the room seemed to recoil from its glow, pushed back by the power woven into its silver band.

Celebrimbor held you steady, his presence an unwavering pillar amidst the storm raging through your body and spirit. His voice was a low murmur of reassurance, though the words barely reached you past the all-consuming pain.

"Almost there," the midwife urged, her voice taut with both strain and determination. "Just a little more…"

Your entire body trembled, your fëa stretched to the breaking point, fraying like the last threads of a tapestry unraveling beneath unseen hands. You bore down with a final, desperate push, a scream ripping from your throat as the world seemed to fracture around you.

The ring chimed softly, its light piercing through the encroaching shadows, scattering them like wisps of smoke in the wind. The darkness recoiled, driven back by something purer, something stronger—something Annatar had never been able to touch.

And then—release.

A shuddering gasp wrenched from your lips as the pressure that had gripped you for endless, agonizing hours finally gave way. Your body sagged, boneless with exhaustion, as warmth flooded your senses. A new presence filled the space where once there had been only pain and struggle.

Then, a cry.

High and reedy, but strong.

"A beautiful little girl, my lady," the midwife announced softly, reverence lacing her voice as she lifted the tiny, wriggling bundle.

Tears welled in your eyes as she brought your daughter to you, placing her carefully against your chest. The moment your trembling arms encircled her, your body—ravaged and drained—became weightless. As if every pain, every fear, every whispered shadow had been silenced by the fragile warmth curled against you.

A choked sob escaped your lips, raw with relief, with joy, with something indescribable.

Celebrimbor’s hand found your shoulder, squeezing it softly, steadying you as you gazed down at the miracle in your arms. His own breath was uneven, his fingers shaking just slightly as they brushed against the blanket swaddling the tiny form.

"You called it," he said gently, a tired but kind smile pulling at his lips.

A watery laugh escaped you, weak but filled with profound gratitude. You turned your head toward him, taking his hand in yours, squeezing it. "I did." Your voice was little more than a whisper, but in it lay a thousand emotions, a thousand unspoken truths. "Thank you, mellon, for everything."

“Of course.” His fingers tightened around yours, offering you all the strength he could, all the love and devotion of a friend who had stood steadfastly by your side through it all.

Your gaze returned to your daughter, your heart swelling at the sight of her.

She was so small, her delicate features still soft with the haze of birth. Yet already, traces of him were there—the soft tufts of red-gold hair that curled faintly at the edges, the sweet dusting of freckles across her tiny nose and cheeks. Pieces of Mairon woven into her, undeniable reminders of the man you had once loved beyond all reason. The man your fëa still sang for in the quiet, aching corners of your soul.

For a moment, grief lingered at the edges of your happiness, the inescapable weight of what had been, of what was lost.

But then, her tiny eyes fluttered open.

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening, as you gazed into them.

Not tainted by darkness. Not the searing, molten intensity that had once looked upon you with promise and deception alike.

No.

Her eyes were bright and clear as starlight, filled only with the light you had imagined the Great Trees had.

Pure.

Untouched by shadow.

A sob of relief trembled through you, your heart breaking open with a love so fierce it threatened to consume you whole.

No darkness lurked within her. No corruption tainted the soul that had been formed in the balance between you and him.

She was yours.

Truly, wholly yours.

A child of both fire and light—yet free of the chains that bound him.

And as she nestled closer against you, her tiny fingers curling against your skin, you knew.

You had won.

After the midwives had completed their examination of both you and the baby, they helped you sit up and assisted you in feeding her—before one of them finally asked the question you had already prepared an answer for.

"Have you picked out a name for her?" she asked with a warm smile.

You looked down at your daughter, your fingers running gently through the tufts of red hair as she nursed.

"Aerilaya," you breathed, a soft smile grazing your lips. "That is what I shall call her. My maiden of the forest. A blessing from Yavanna herself."

You glanced up at the midwife, who nodded in understanding before offering a small curtsey to you and Celebrimbor. Then, with quiet efficiency, she and the others left the room, granting you privacy.

"Go get some sleep, my lord. I’ll be just fine," you said, squeezing Celebrimbor’s wrist reassuringly.

He hesitated slightly, before rising from the chair and moving to linger near the door, his hand resting on the frame. The concern in his gaze had not faded. "Are you certain? I can stay if you need me."

You smiled softly, shaking your head. "No, mellon. You have done more than enough. Please, rest. I promise I will call for you if I need anything."

His eyes searched yours for a moment longer before he exhaled and nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Very well. But do not hesitate, Thilwen. I am here for you, always."

"I know," you murmured, your voice heavy with gratitude. "Thank you."

With a final, reassuring smile, Celebrimbor slipped out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him. In the stillness that followed, you turned your gaze back to Aerilaya, her tiny form nestled against your chest, her breaths soft and even as she nursed. The love that swelled within you was almost painful in its intensity—a fierce, unwavering protectiveness that would never wane.

You had brought her into this world against all odds, against the very machinations of the one who had helped create her. You had shielded her from the darkness that had sought to claim her, pouring every ounce of your strength, your light, into ensuring she emerged untainted.

And she had.

She was perfect. Pure. A tiny beacon of hope amidst the shadows that had threatened to swallow you both.

Tears slipped down your cheeks unchecked as you gazed at Aerilaya, marveling at the delicate slope of her nose, the soft curve of her cheek. She was everything you had ever wanted, everything you had fought so fiercely to protect. In this moment, all the pain and heartache seemed to fade away, replaced by a profound sense of love and purpose.

As you held your daughter close, exhaustion began to creep in, weighing down your limbs and clouding your thoughts. Carefully, you settled back against the pillows, cradling Aerilaya securely against your chest. Your eyelids grew heavy, lulled by the warmth of her tiny form and the rhythmic rise and fall of her breath as she too settled into slumber.

Just as sleep threatened to claim you, a soft chime resonated through the room—the gentle hum of Nenya stirring at your finger, alerting you to something.

Your eyes shot open.

He was there.

Sitting where Celebrimbor had been moments before.

Your pulse lurched violently as you clutched Aerilaya’s sleeping form tighter to you, as if trying to shield her from the presence that now filled the room.

Annatar sat in silence, his gaze fixed on you and the child in your arms, his expression unreadable. The dim candlelight cast sharp shadows across his features, accentuating the tension in his jaw, the hollowness behind his eyes. He made no move to approach, yet his presence alone was suffocating.

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you met his stare, defiance and fear warring within you. "What are you doing here?" you whispered, your voice hoarse from exhaustion but edged with steel.

His lips twitched, a ghost of a smile devoid of warmth. "Can a father not come to see his newborn child?"

The words were soft, almost casual, but the undercurrent of danger in his tone sent an icy shiver through you.

Your arms tightened instinctively around Aerilaya at the word father.

"You lost that right," you said, voice steady despite the storm of emotions within you. "You turned your back on me—on us—when you chose your ambition over love."

Annatar's eyes darkened, a flicker of something sharp and unreadable crossing his face. "I have turned my back on nothing. Everything I have done has been for you, for us. To build the world I promised you so long ago."

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "No. What you have done is for yourself. For your own twisted ambitions. You nearly killed our daughter with whatever stunt you pulled tonight. That is not love, Annatar. That is possession."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a low, silken purr. "You still do not understand, do you? The power I wield, the rings I forge—it is all to protect what is mine. And you, Moríel, have always been mine. You and Aerilaya both."

The name—his name for you, spoken with such venom—sent a wave of nausea through you. Once, it had been a symbol of love, whispered in reverence and devotion. Now, it was a shackle, a claim you refused to accept.

"I am not a possession to be owned," you hissed, fury flaring through your exhausted form.

Annatar exhaled a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Your thoughts betray you, my love," he murmured, voice like silk. "Even now, after everything, a part of you still yearns for me. For us."

You flinched, hating the way his words cut straight to the heart of you, exposing the painful truth you tried so desperately to bury. Because he was right. Despite everything he had done, despite the darkness that had consumed him, a traitorous part of your fëa still sang for him. Still remembered the man he once was—the brilliance, the passion, the love that had once bound you together so completely.

But that man was gone. Twisted into something cruel and unrecognizable.

And you could not—would not—let that shadow claim you or Aerilaya.

"You’re wrong," you whispered, voice trembling but resolute. "Whatever part of me once yearned for you died the moment you threatened our child. The man I loved would never have done such a thing. You are nothing but a twisted shadow of who you once were."

Annatar’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous flashing through them. For the briefest of moments, his carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing the simmering malevolence beneath. "Careful, Moríel," he warned, his voice low and laced with menace. "Do not test me. You have no idea the lengths I will go to keep what is mine."

"And you have no idea the lengths I will go to protect those I care about, shadow." Your grip tightened around Aerilaya, pressing your ringed hand gently against her as if to shield her from his presence.

His gaze flickered to Nenya, his lips curling in a knowing smirk. "You think that trinket can protect you from me?" he scoffed.

You met his stare without flinching, despite the ice creeping through your veins. "This ring was made to protect, not to control. Free of you. Something you have clearly forgotten."

His expression hardened, the cruel amusement fading into something sharper, more calculating. "And who do you think will protect you when Celebrimbor is no longer around to play the valiant hero?"

The threat was thinly veiled, and yet it struck like a dagger to your chest.

"You wouldn’t dare," you whispered, horror creeping into your voice.

"Wouldn’t I?" Annatar leaned back in the chair, his smirk widening into something wholly malevolent. "Do not underestimate what I am willing to do, Moríel. Celebrimbor’s fate rests entirely in my hands. As does yours. If he does not craft those rings, I will start chipping away at this place, piece by piece, until there is nothing left of your precious life here."

A tremor ran through you, your mind racing as you struggled to suppress the surge of panic clawing its way up your throat. You tightened your hold on Aerilaya, her small, warm body grounding you, anchoring you in this moment.

"Why are you doing this?" The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them, hoarse with exhaustion and something dangerously close to despair. "Why can’t you just let us be?"

For a heartbeat, something flickered in Annatar’s eyes—something raw, almost pained. But it was gone before you could grasp it, swallowed by the endless void of his ambition.

His voice, when it came, was soft—too soft. "Because you are mine, Moríel," he murmured. "You have always been mine. And I will not let anyone, not even Celebrimbor, take you from me."

His words hung heavy between you, a declaration not of love, but of possession.

Your stomach churned with revulsion, your very fëa recoiling at the cruel perversion of the bond you had once shared. The man you had loved had been brilliant, ambitious, yes—but he had not been this. Not this creature of shadow, of obsession and control.

"I am not yours," you whispered, your voice trembling but unyielding. "I haven’t been for a long time. The moment you chose darkness over us, you lost me."

Annatar’s eyes burned with a tempest of emotion—anger, longing, an unrelenting hunger that sent a fresh wave of dread through you. He leaned forward, his presence oppressive, suffocating.

"You cannot escape me," he hissed, voice like silk and steel. "No matter how far you run, no matter who you turn to, I will always find you. And I will take back what is mine."

A chill swept through you, your very spirit recoiling at the venom laced in his words. You cradled Aerilaya closer, her tiny form a beacon of warmth against the oppressive weight of his presence. Nenya pulsed against your finger, a steady, calming force amidst the turmoil.

"Leave," you whispered, your voice shaking but firm. "You are not welcome here. Not anymore."

Annatar’s jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he stared you down. The air crackled with tension, an invisible battle waging between your defiance and his unwavering belief in his own dominion over you.

For a long, suffocating moment, neither of you moved. His gaze bore into yours, dark with something unreadable—a storm of emotions barely contained.

And then, for the briefest instant, you saw it.

A flicker of something deep and aching, something hollow and wounded beneath all the malice. A wound that had never fully healed, an emptiness he had spent centuries trying to fill.

Your heart clenched painfully, grief mingling with your fury. But you refused to let it weaken you. Not now. Not when Aerilaya’s safety was at stake.

"I said leave," you repeated, the quiver in your voice barely noticeable now.

Annatar watched you for a moment longer, something unreadable shifting in his gaze. Then, slowly, he rose from the chair, every movement graceful and deliberate. He loomed over you, his shadow stretching long and ominous in the dim light.

"This isn’t over, Mori," he murmured, his voice deceptively soft. "You cannot hide from me forever. Sooner or later, you will see the truth. And when you do—" his smirk returned, sharp and knowing "—I will be waiting."

The room grew cold as his presence faded, an unnatural stillness settling over you in his absence. You barely registered the door shutting behind him, too consumed by the violent shudder that wracked your body.

And then, the dam broke.

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks, your entire form trembling with a volatile mix of fear, rage, and exhausted relief. You clutched Aerilaya close, pressing a kiss to the top of her tiny head, breathing in her innocent warmth.

And yet, despite the warmth in your arms, despite the constant reassurance of the ring’s presence, an icy dread had taken root deep in your chest.

He would not stop.

Not until he had what he believed was his.

You.

Aerilaya.

The rings.

And the power to reshape the world as he saw fit.

[startaegi]

CHAPTER 005 . . .

in which namgyu breaks the heart of his childhood sweetheart and tries to piece it back together again while fighting death.

previous next masterlist playlist

Dinner was served after their near-death experience. A lunchbox, one which reminded you of your school days, and a bottle of water. You couldn't bring yourself to open the lid to see inside, the sight of death turned your stomach, and eating was the last thing you wanted to do.

You did your best to avoid Namgyu. After the piggy bank had been filled, the crowd quickly swallowed you in, causing you to lose the man in the process, which you were grateful for. However, it seemed he was always only a few steps away no matter where you turned, his voice still pleading out to you. It was a miracle his throat wasn't sore.

"Can you stop walking away from me and just listen?" He asked after you, footsteps quick to catch up.

You refrained from throwing the water and lunchbox at his face, "I don't care what you have to say" You said harshly. "Stop following me"

Your cold words hurt to say and cut even more when the sadness settled in his eyes but right now was not the time to be reliving your break up, to be trying to fix what had happened, you had to focus on survival if it meant making it out of this place alive, and then maybe only then would you consider hearing him out.

"Y/N, please," he said again. If it had been any other disagreement in which Namgyu was high, his attitude would have become more aggressive long before now. But sober Namgyu was different. He was clingy, caring, and always aware of his words and how they affected others. That was the Namgyu you missed.

His hand reached out for your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks, his fingers clutching the fabric of your zipper. You sucked in a breath of air, pulling yourself together, you turned to face him. "Namgyu," You replied softly. "Can we please not do this now?"

"But-" He started but was interrupted.

"Please," You said again. It wasn't like you to show your vulnerable side, growing up you were taught to suppress those emotions to the point it made you uncomfortable when doing so. Namgyu had been the only person you felt safe enough with dropping those walls, letting him see the side of you, you hid from the world.

You could see the wheels in his brain turning, his inner self debating if he should respect your boundaries or continue harassing you. In the end, he dropped his hand, a look of defeat on his face. "I'm not done with you," He said but left it at that, taking his food and water, and walking off to find his friend.

You finally felt your bones loosen, a sense of relief washing over you. You held a tight grip on the water bottle in your hand, eyes glued to the floor. Not paying attention to your surroundings, too caught up in your own world, you shortly walked face-first into something hard.

"Everything okay?"

You looked up, shaking the overwhelming thoughts from your head. The something had been someone. A boy you vaguely recognised, your brain unsure where to pinpoint his face. You opened your mouth to reply when he quickly interjected.

"Oh wait, it's you," He said, a cheerful tone in his voice. "I thought I recognised you earlier."

You looked from his face to his chest, player 388, and back again. You were still racking your brain to where you had seen him when he smiled widely, it reaching the corners of his eyes and suddenly it clicked. He was the stranger who had offered you kindness on a night you longed to forget. Although a traumatic memory you would always remember his goodwill, it was a reminder there was still good left in the world.

You smiled, fast to apologise, "I'm so sorry, that night was a blur it took a second to remember" You awkwardly laughed.

He waved his hands dismissing you, "I hardly remember myself," You knew he was probably lying but like that night he was conscious of not making you uncomfortable. "You sure you're okay?"

You nodded in reply, "Yeah, it's okay I know him" You smiled again in hopes of convincing him. "Thank you for that night, I probably came across as rude but I really appreciated what you did, your kindness stayed with me for a long time"

His smile hadn't left his face. "You don't have to thank me," He said honestly then continued. "And you weren't rude at all, I just hoped you made it home safely and I'm glad to see you did"

"Alive and well" You laughed, the first genuine laugh in a long time.

"Do you want to come sit with me?" he questioned, pointing to an empty bed behind him. "Whoever he is is still watching you"

You turned to face the direction in which 388 was looking. Truth be told Namgyu had his eyes, hooded and angry, directed right at you. Beside him stood player 230, a playful expression on his face, he lifted a hand to wave in your direction.

You rolled your eyes, turning to face player 388 again and nodded, "I'd like that, thank you." It wouldn't hurt to make an ally when you could.

He nodded, leading you to his bunk, "Daeho," He introduced himself. "I would say I'm happy to see you but," A beat of silence later and you both fell into quiet laughter.

"Y/N," You finally replied.

"Nice to officially meet you"

You both fell into comfortable conversation, sharing your reasons for participating in the games and whatever other idle chat came to mind. Daeho ate his meal with ease or so it seemed. You could sense from his restless limbs and wandering eyes; that every so often gazed for too long on the guns gripped against the guard's chest, that there was something deeper going on. He wasn't as brave as he was leading you to believe.

A crowd formed below Daeho's bunk, player 001 to the center, and countless other players gathered behind him. You moved to the left for a better view, your sight soon set on player 456, the same one who informed them only hours before that he had been in this same room before. He had played these deadly games, and not only did he come out alive he was the only one to do so.

"You said you've played these games," Player 001 said, approaching the past winner. He looked to the ground, a hint of sadness on his face before 001 continued. "I pressed the O button because of you"

You felt the weight of the badge against your chest at his words. A giant O on a blue patch stuck out against your green zipper. The decision hadn't been a difficult one in the end. You were either going to leave this place with little to no money and most likely end up dead at the hands of loan sharks or you would play again to win just enough to get them off your back and pray to any god listening that you wouldn't be leaving in a coffin.

"Honestly, I was scared and I wanted to quit and leave but you made me think maybe I could play just one more game"

456's earlier speech also gave you a sense of hope and like 001 was also the reason you found pressing the O button easier but now looking at his saddened expression you couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

"You know which game's next, don't you?" He asked. The crowd huddled closer in hopes of a clue, you and Daeho subconsciously following them, you both almost falling from the bunk to get a closer listen.

"That's right," The man beside 456 said, turning to face him. "You're a previous winner, so you should know. What are we playing next?"

The silence stretched for what felt like minutes, "The second game," He started. "Was Dalgona"

Daeho abruptly shot up, his knees knocking against yours as he leaned forward within player 456's earshot, "Dalgona? The sugar candy with a shape you can carve out?" He asked through a mouthful of food.

456 nodded, "Yeah, we had to choose one of the four shapes and carve it out"

It sounded easy enough but timed and with guards holding guns to their heads, you knew it would be anything but.

"Four shapes? Which was the easiest one?"

He answered quickly, "Triangle"

As if player 390 could hear your thoughts he asked, "Which was the hardest one?"

"Umbrella?"

"Umbrella?" 001 asked in disbelief. "Some people chose umbrella? Those unlucky bastards must have bitten the dust"

You felt Daeho's presence close in on you, his voice soft as he whispered, "Don't choose the umbrella"

It was an obvious statement. Of course, you weren't going to pick the umbrella but Daeho's worried face sent a smile to yours. It was nice to be in the presence of someone who genuinely seemed to care.

You both continued to eavesdrop, exchanging glances every so often. Daeho was scraping at his lunch box after rejecting your offer to take yours. You watched as he scooped up the last pieces of rice and then forced yours into his hand. He shook his head, pushing it away from his grasp but you weren’t backing down. It became a game of tug-of-war, the lunchbox thrusting between both your hands before he finally accepted it. He whispered a graceful thank you placing it beside him.

Daeho shuffled forward on the bunk, his white shoes soon hitting the floor with a thud. He made himself known to the three men sat below, "He's right, sirs" He quickly wiped the rice from his face letting out an exhale. "We have to stick together, I'll be with you all the way, my friend here too" Daeho finished, pointing at you.

You suddenly felt uncomfortable under the stare of the four men but waved gently in their direction.

"Who are you?" Player 390 asked. 

"I'm Daeho. Kang Daeho" He responded, reaching out a hand to shake but left ignored.

"Oh, Daeho-ssi"

Daeho nodded, hand still stretched, "Yeah" He shortly realised no one would respond, dropping his hands to his side he continued speaking, "Earlier during the game, Mr 456 here was like 'Freeze!' and I became his fan" You covered your mouth in hopes of silencing the laughter bubbling up your throat. "I'd like to get to know you, sirs. Please give me the chance"

He raised his left arm mimicking player 456 during red light green light when 390 approached him, pulling the sleeve of his shirt up to reveal a tattoo.

"You were in the Marines?"

"Yes, why?"

"Class number?"

Daeho chuckled, all signs of laughter soon wiping from his face when player 390 removed his zipper to reveal a matching tattoo. "Victory at all costs!" Daeho saluted as seriously as his days in the Marines.

"At ease" the other man saluted back.

You watched with a sense of sorrow. You thought back to the days of Namgyu's mandatory enlistment, the circles around his eyes gradually became darker with each visit, and by the end of the 18 months, he was a shell of his former self. You saw that period of his life; alongside everything else that added to his trauma, as the person Namgyu was today. In that sense, it made it difficult to hate him.

The day passed by quickly, the hours blending seamlessly together. The night, however, the hours seemed drawn out, the silence and darkness of the room adding to the unease. You lay on your side, hands tucked under your cheek, your limbs wrapped in a blanket as if it would add a layer of safety. Although your eyes were shut you could still feel his stare. To anyone else, it would have been unnerving but you felt a sense of comfort.

You blinked them open, falling sight on Namgyu who was also looking back at you. Earlier in the night he not so kindly forced the man who had been assigned the bunk to move. Happily shuffling himself under the covers, innocently smiling at you as he did so. Now, he was still, face solemn as he stared back.

He mouthed, "Go to sleep"

You didn't make a move to speak or reach out to him but it was like he understood.

"I'm here, nothing will happen to you" He mouthed again, the piggy bank screwed to the ceiling gave you just enough light to understand.

You were silent, fighting against yourself to not give in to him, until he pulled a hand from under the blanket wrapped around him, reaching his fingers ever so slightly to the edge of his bunk, as if they could brush against you, "You should sleep too" You whispered.

He shook his head, "I'm okay, get some sleep."

You reluctantly shut your eyes, pulling the blanket to your chin and curling into a fetal position. Your mind flashed with memories of the earlier day, you screwed your eyes together wishing them away when you heard a whisper, so quiet you could barely make it out.

"I love you"

previous next masterlist playlist

notes . . . im so so sorry this took me so long to write and i feel like literally nothing happened??? next chapter will be the next game so that should be more exciting!! thank u for staying around to read even with my slow updates <3

taglist . . . @chrisstyle @seonghwasslytherin @princessofthepuppets @sollum @okaycharr @hoshisgalaxy @alexatthedisco @swoofllia @chxrrybomb22 @drkitten226 @ryvampr @bbyjjunie @learninglinesintherainn @smally97 @sft-core @enterplanettelex @prettywhenicry4 @zannispppp @juhdoche @nuttybeans @wagawana @xtracy-xd7 @slxtgirl69 @ihrthoney @zella-74 @ancientdarko @loverzxi @boomzen @godly-sinsx @sirenkinnie @skibidirizzzlerrrr @come-as-you-are-111 @mochimitsuri @lavboat01 @preppyfella @diaboliku-loversu @mimipolo @ourseasone @loveeblob @ritapitmargarita @xoxolakeyah @mysatnin @pearforabear @deathbytsubaki (let me know if you wanna be added)

[chugging-antiseptic-dye]

•°. *࿐ mingyu

◦ words: pavement, thirsty, and seem (>600 words)

tw: i use italics like it's free and it is playlist: four (deluxe) album by one direction thank you for betaing, ally bear <3 @lovetaroandtaemin

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜

“The pavement isn’t as thirsty as you make it seem.”

The sound of pouring liquid continued even more aggressively.

“Okay, so you are not going to explain this insanity?” A boy rocking on his feet lazily drawled. His slightly questioning face, tinted with hints of disgust and curiosity, would have looked like constipation on anyone else's face. But, as the boy kept on reminding people, he was Kim Mingyu, and there was only one of him.

“Oh, you would know everything about insanity, wouldn't you?” You spat out.

Mingyu rolled his eyes. In his, admittedly, short life, you were the most difficult thing he ever had to deal with. If he tried to talk with you formally, you asked him who he was trying to impress. If he talked with you normally, you would roll your eyes and say that you guys were not that close. If he tried to be rude, you would announce to the world that the class monitor and soccer captain and science club president was a bully. If he tried to be nice, like he was now by giving you a sports drink because you almost fainted during PE, you acted like he was planning on murdering you. God, he could never win with you.

Between the two of you, he always gave in first. He had to. There was no one more stubborn than you in the whole wide world. And everytime he said it, you always replied, it’s because I am an aries. As if that counts for anything. When Mingyu protested that he was too, you gave the same reply as the previous thousand times: my birthday is on March 26. I am a March Aries, and that’s better. Suffice to say, he never won that particular argument.

“Okay, that’s it.” Mingyu’s hand darted out and caught your wrist that was going to chuck the empty bottle at his head. “Why can’t you accept one nice thing from me? Or better yet, just tell me why you hate me so much? Is it the science club thing? Cause I will resign if it is.”

“Science club thing?” Your voice is shriller with each word you utter. “You know what you did. Don’t try to play innocent with me. It’s not gonna work. I am not a part of your little posse.”

“Oh, you so wish you were.” Mingyu pulls you closer so that you are almost nose to nose with him. Your brown eyes blazed in indignation and he had to stop himself from getting even more closer if that was even possible. Closing his eyes for a second to reorient himself, Mingyu breathed out, “I am not playing innocent. Please, just please tell me where I messed up?”

You searched his eyes as if to see if he was speaking the truth. He could see you resisting the urge to just scream at him and leave. But, maybe, you could feel his sincerity. In a calm and tight voice, you said, “You straight up told my best friend to her face that she had no chance with you. How could you be so cruel?”

“I didn’t realize I hurt her so much.” Mingyu admitted. “But, I wanted to make it clear that I would never like her.” 

“Why not? She is so nice and kind and all things lovely.” You implored. “Maybe if you gave her a chance….”

“No.”

“But-”

“Sorry, not possible.”

“If you would just liste-”

“Nope.”

“Why are you being like this!” You yell out in a half-scream.

With more of a resemblance to a statue than a man, Mingyu replied, “Did you ever consider that I rejected her because I liked you instead?”

“Oh.”

.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜・・゜゜・．.・゜゜

if anyone wants me to write about a specific member, please send me an ask with the member name + three words from this word generator)

[hurtspideyparker]

Wanda is the ultimate mad woman !!! and yeah they really brushed right past Bruce. I know they just met the guy and were a bit preoccupied at the time but like... let's circle back mkay? that was heavyyy. plus Bruce deserves more character development other than Hulk vs. Bruce grrr angry

I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT WAOLOM FOR PETER. I made a post based on the scenario here last year 😭 he was so bright-eyed and bushy tailed, just a sweet boy, and then the rage and grief proved how easily he could tear the world apart if he chose

ohh I think I've seen Clara Bow irondad edits. yep definitely adding it to my playlist. "you'd be picked like a rose. take the glory, give everything. promise to be dazzling" oooooo baby boyyyyy. Iron Man Jr was literally his fantasy until it became the weight of the bricks that buried him.

"long story short it was a bad time/long story short I survived" as Endgame vs. Hawkeye (tv series) Clint makes me emotional. He was so broken as Ronin and now he has his family back and is building up a new one. So proud of him

I need to analyze so long London as a Tony Stark song another time when I'm not sleep deprived because GROWL. That was my favourite song when ttpd dropped and that's my fave guyyyy right there. It's very stony coded, with their arguments over time. and also how everyone expects him to be the money and dazzle while the rest of them do the dirty work and have the real morals. like NO! he's going down right with it, the Avengers are his FAMILY. "and I'm just getting colour back into my face, I'm just mad as hell 'cause I loved this place" the Avengers visiting him and asking to risk the new life he built after they tore apart his old one. He's just gotten back to a safe place worth living, forgave them and Steve for what he did in Siberia, and then they come back asking him to risk it all for them again. He fought till the very end to keep that family together.

hozier my man thank u for the anthems. Steve Rogers is always thought of as the mascot of America, a patriot and government symbol. He is NOT listening to America or any government. He wears the stars and stripes because he's what America should be, and every time people mischaracterize him as upholding the law. well the laws are unjust, and he'll never be afraid to point out the broken system. he's not fighting to protect the state he's fighting to protect the people. he's the ultimate leader and no he can not take orders to save his life. they are always trying to push him into that box, and it always back fires.

If we're gonna talk Hozier Francesca is the most beautiful irondad anthem. "it was too soon when that part of you was ripped away, though I know my heart would break I tell them put me back in it". Tony Stark did indeed invent time travel for that boy, his loss was the only thing strong enough to motivate Tony back to War. "if someone asked me at the end I tell them put me back in it, just to hold you for a minute" THAT HUG 😭😭😭 he's been waiting 5 years for that hug I swear. First thing he did, he needed to hold Peter so badly.

if you make edits you should totally share them on here ! "give it to me Rachel, show it to me please 😟😫🙏" /j

do you still use tiktok to watch stuff? I need someone to share good edits with 🥲

marvel characters as taylor swift songs but i take no critiques

tony stark:

stephen strange:

clint barton:

bucky barnes:

natasha romanoff:

peter parker (andrew)

peter parker (tom)

yelena belova:

pepper potts:

loki:

[ninjigma]

Obi-Bun Scene - 'Darkness on Umbara' Track: 'Hell or High Water' - The Rescues (Spotify / YouTube)

I apparently was not going to know peace until I made this, so, a little over 8 hours later, we have it, for better or worse. Started as "Wow I love this scene I am writing" and then "Oh, why not warm up with a different art style then usual?" and then... A scene from an AU where Obi-Wan is turned into a rabbit. Yes, you heard that right, and yes, it has turned into a full blown, in depth, I have six chapters roughly written already AU. And the Umbara arc is just as important in this world as any other, so it deserves some spotlight and I was just plain obsessed with this image in my mind, literally crawled its way out of my soul so I couldn't finish anything else today, which I won't say unfortunately because I actually love it.

Enjoy!

[puppppppppy]

littlest furth shop

@laikascomet

[sysig]

I think the world is so wonderful... (Patreon)

[lucktv]

OMS HIII!!!! Thank you @star-lights-up For tagging me!! I had honestly seen this before and thought "Oms Id love to participate in this" AND HERE I AM. I will mention that Im very new to tumblr so Im sorry if I'm doing stuff wrong and please tell cuz I will never learn if I never know (;

Now Get to know your mutuals!!

What's the origin of your blog title? Well... Long story but basically my real name is pronounced differently than whats written down (Because native language just pronounce the letters differently) And so I was quickly like; 'hmmm I need to find something thats still pretty close to my own name, but also everyone knows how to pronounce' And quickly I came up with the name 'Luka' Which is only once letter removed from my own. And then I just kinda wanted to have a cool username for it, so I had thought of many different things until I came up with "Luckalot" And that just kinda stuck. However, people I met online started calling me "Luck" Because of it, and honestly I have grown very fond of that name!!! SO anyways I might change my name to 'luckalot' on here because its 'lucktv' rn cuz I just kinda quickly made this account not knowing I'd be X-Men obsessed 2 months later. But its lucktv becuase (Taylor's Version) for those wondering!! :D

OTP(s) + Shipname: Honestlyyyy I dont really get obsessed over more ships than one at the same time soooo right now it's really just Charles/Erik - Cherik :3

But I also have been obessed with Sylvie/Loki - Sylki for a while (Some people get so mad about that But I just love em)

But that's about it when it comes to marvel, there's not many marvel ships I have actually been obsessed with for some reason...

Big Remus Lupin/Sirius Black - Wolfstar Shipper too tho!! My marauders phase was long ago but Id love to go back to it any moment :D

Favourite colour: Yellowww!!! Mostly just like the yellow yellow yk, like the chrome logo yellow, basically the yellow used whenever yellow needs to be used :3

Favourite game: I play lots of Minecraft!!! aaannnd Im one of those roblox players :3 I play little word games to improve my english on there and also Royale High because I LOVE Fashion and I played DTI for a bit but after all the updates I kinda stopped idk

Song stuck in your head:

The entire soundtrack of Wicked

Weirdest habit/trait? Good question! I do a lot of weird stuff that Im just kinda not aware of actually. But one I can think of right now is that I always lipsync to my music and its not only my lips but Im very expressive with my eyebrows so I kinda weirdly move my eyebrows with my singing... and yes this happens in public too, I can't help it (,:

Hobbies: Drawing, quite literally any type of art; writing, painting, graphic design, fashion and the list goes on

Im also OBSESSED with reading, but most specifically Fanfics and RN Cherik fanfics (Like literally I just finished a 180k fanfic in 2 weeks AND IM DYSLEXIC) I sometimes get a little too obsessed and just sit in my room ALL DAY reading fanfics in the weekend (If I even have time) And Im a big music listener! Music is very important to me and I love to listen to my playlists every moment of the day C:

If you work, what's your profession? Im a full time Media Design Student :3 But I have done a painters study for one year so I do lots of little painting side quests for family and friends (And they pay me (sometimes))

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? Realistically? I would LOVE to be just an overall illustrator, for like Book covers but also comics and storyboards, I would love to do something like that and just switch it up from time to time!

Something you're good at: Painting and drawing!! I enjoy it A LOT and I think I'm pretty good at it!! I'm also getting into shirt designs and so far I am quite proud of my creations :D

Something you're bad at: staying calm, I stress about quite literally EVERYTHING, Im a very anxious person from nature and am almost chronically stressed (,: I also have social anxiety which is big reason for my awkwardness most of the time... Idk Im just low-key a loser but Im a somewhat happy loser :p

Something you love:

X-MENNNNN< Specifically CHERIKKK!!!

And also very much Taylor Swift!! Her music is everything to me and Im a Proud swiftie

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: ANY and I say ANY of my hyperfixations; Cherik, Taylor swift, Arcane And also about deep life stuff, idk if it's with the right person I could talk HOURS about life and everything around it C:

Something you hate: People who hate and judge others for being excited about things they like???? Like huh??

Something you collect: rocks, rings, necklaces, earrings, more rocks, shells, literal trash, stickers, erasers??, just lots of useless stuff really...

Something you forget: everything... no but like; art ideas, writing ideas, where I left my shoes, where I left my phone (Its in my hand), what class I have first, What my teacher is called, when I promised my friend to hang out, texting people back, homework.... Everything BUT that one time I accidentally said "you too" To a person working at a cinema telling me "Enjoy the movie"

What's your love language? Quality Time and Physical touch both recieving and giving :D People always associate physical touch with weird stuff for some reason?? but I just REALLY like hugs and shoulder pats and pokes and tickles and elbow bumps and high fives and CUDDLLESSS :D

Favourite movie/show: X-Men First Class, Beauty and the Beast, Miss Americana, Arcane and The Amazing Spider-Man

Favourite food: I really enjoy Watermelon and tuna! But I like lots of foods!!

Favourite animal: Tigers, theyre absolutely adorable cute little big cats and they have STRIPES!

What were you like as a child? Overall very energetic (With my friend and family)! I was very shy and anxious as a child too, thats kinda always been like that XD I was also very good at being very very dramatic :3

Favourite subject at school? I have this little extra class I chose to do because I like painting so much, and it's basically just 2 hours of painting :D So that's deff my favourite

Least favourite subject: Maths.

What's your best character trait? I am very empathetic! I often understand others better than I understand myself

What's your worst character trait? Im a 24/7 stressed overthinker :p

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? anything that would gain me more time for the stuff I actually like doing, making cherik art, writing cherik fanfics... you know it

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? Idk if this is weird but Im just gonna pull a Charles Xavier and I'd say my past self? I just have so much I wish I could say to her <:

Tagging some of my mutuals! You don't have to respond if you dont want to :D (Or if u already did) @swiftie-as-a-coursing-river @faerlycertain @veevil @vvividlyy

Get to know your mutuals! Thank you to @joyful-soul-collector for tagging.

What's the origin of your blog title? I have a bunch of sideblogs dedicated to my most active fandoms and I am an insomniac. My first ever fandom sideblog started the trend as a joke and I just carried on the tradition!

OTP(s) + Shipname: Jayce and Viktor is the main one right now. I also love Ed and Stede from Our Flag Means Death.

Favourite colour: Iridescent white

Favourite game: Dungeons and Dragons for sure! I also like playing Jackbox games with friends.

Song stuck in your head: To Be Seen - Searows

Weirdest habit/trait? Sitting and doing things in the dark. I just prefer existing in dim light because lights can be overwhelming and the darkness keeps my mind calm. Doesn't help I'm stuck in fluorescent lighting all day haha!

Hobbies: Writing, Singing, Crafting, and Baking

If you work, what's your profession? I'm a medical laboratory technician in blood sciences!

If you could have any job you wish, what would it be? Realistically? Since it specifies realistic, I'd like to be a biomedical scientist in immunology. It would mean getting another degree but I don't mind that too much.

Something you're good at: I'm good at writing! I recently wrote my first children's book and intend to write more when the inspiration comes back. A poetic style of writing is my favourite to do.

Something you're bad at: Socialising. I'm quite awkward but I still like chatting to people.

Something you love: Snails! I adore snails, I used to have pet giant African land snails for a few years.

Something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: The immune system, pathogenic disease, my fifty million apocalypse stories, etc.

Something you hate: Willful ignorance and anti vaxxers. Both suck very much.

Something you collect: Pins! I have so many. They're on my lanyard, my dunagrees, my pinboard, and my ita bag.

Something you forget: The thing I was meant to be doing.

What's your love language? Gift giving and quality time. Also words of affirmation.

Favourite movie/show: Arcane for sure at the moment. I also love The Walking Dead, Good Omens, Our Flag Means Death, and a bunch of apocalypse/zombie shows.

Favourite food: Pizza

Favourite animal: Snails! 🐌

What were you like as a child? Strange is the best way to describe it honestly.

Favourite subject at school? Science! All the science.

Least favourite subject: Religious Education. No thanks.

What's your best character trait? I'm very passionate about the things and people I love.

What's your worst character trait? I tend to keep things bottled up inside until they come out all at once, I'm still working on not doing that.

If you could change any detail of your life right now, what would it be? Being able to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow! That would be amazing.

If you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? I'm not sure, I'm not particularly enamoured by anyone in the past. Maybe Oscar Wilde.

Tagging anyone who wants to!

[chirpsythismorning]

Yeah a teaser dropping on ST day would be cool. But can we agree that a DNA board reveal would be infinitely better?

[your-dead-european-ancestor]

Binging sfth plays to distract myself from The Horrors. 10/10 would recommend im too busy laughing to worry ab anything else

[solaestial]

I'm glad you're evil too - Pinocchio-P