#not saying mother for an entire minute challenge!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bokunoheros · 1 month ago

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TAGS/WARNINGS: reader is gender neutral but afab (keigo does talk ab making you a mommy tho, and you refer to yourself as his girlfriend once), reader is a civilian, this is pre-war, reader and keigo are dating, no lube no protection (all night all day), baby trapping lowk????, idk he nonconsensually cums in you and then proposes (you accept tho), creampies, cockwarming, kinda lazy ending?? idgaf GENRE: smut SUMMARY: it’s the start of mating season and keigo had just saved a mother and her child at work today, so it’s only natural for him to come home with the overwhelming need to knock you up. WORD COUNT: 2.6K 🦊’s A/N: keigo they could Never make me hate you…. anyway hope yall enjoy this fr

not only was today the first day of his rut, meaning his last day of hero work until the spring was over, but he had also gone out of his way to save a mother and her crying child while off-duty. he’d been heading home after an eventful and tiring patrol when he ran into them being threatened by a petty mugger—nothing he couldn’t handle, especially after the day he’d had, but he can imagine having a gun pointed to your face must be scary to an untrained civilian. now, he was brimming over with emotions, barely keeping his cool as he walks through the threshold of your shared home, slamming the door loudly behind him, wings all puffed up and ruffled.

“keigo? honey, what’s wron—” you’re suddenly cut off by a small flurry of his feathers sweeping you off your feet and carrying you from the kitchen towards where he stood in the living room, in the process of stepping out of his boots and shrugging his jacket off. you’re immediately taken aback by his serious demeanor and you open your mouth to say something, except that no words come out. what should you say?

“how was your day..?” you ask tentatively after a brief moment of silence.

rather than verbally answering you, he lets out a long, drawn out sigh and shakes his head — a response you’re unfamiliar with. usually, he isn’t afraid to yap for at least fifteen minutes about how his day went, what happened, and sometimes even the people or fellow pros he talked to! so for him to remain silent��. well, it’s safe to say you’re starting to get worried.

had you done something wrong? was today exceptionally challenging? your heart rate increases as your anxious thoughts swirl around in your foggy mind, and you don’t know where to go from here.

keigo knew what to do, though; he knew exactly how to relieve this stress.

taking a step in your direction, he narrows his eyes, intense, predatory gaze locked onto yours, and suddenly, he’s leaning in for a kiss as he backs you up against the nearest wall.

the way he kisses you is controlled and barely put together, and you can tell he’s on edge, like he’s about to snap, so you say what you think he needs to hear.

“you can rough me up a bit, kei, i promise i won’t break.”

his eyes fly open at your words before narrowing as he nods before leaning back in with much more passion and any restraint right out the window. but he himself has said it before, he’s awful—he has no self-control; something that rang especially true when it came to you.

he’s spent whole evenings with his head buried between your thighs, eating you out until you’re crying and begging him to stop, saying it hurts, it hurts!, to which he always asks you for just one more. “one more” never meant one more, of course—keigo was greedy in this sense. he could never seem to get enough of you, always wanting more, more, more. if he could, he’d devour you whole, make you his entirely, and—that’s exactly what he was going to do tonight. he had been planning to propose for a while now, anyway. he had a ring and everything! he’d.. just been working up the courage to ask. so, then what better way than by deciding to knock you up on a whim.

well, …was it really a whim if he had fantasized about it before? the two of you had been dating since the summer of last year, meaning you haven’t seen him during his ruts yet, and, while he’s mentioned it briefly in the past, he didn’t actually expect to last this long with you so he never divulged the details of it—not because he wasn’t in love with you, but because he gave up on the dating scene because he’s always the one being dumped for being so. so. !!!! outwardly nonchalant about most things! or being married to his work, whatever they meant by that; he only worked so hard so he could have a future to relax in! no one ever seemed to understand that…. until he met you.

something just clicked between the two of you upon your first meeting—you were probably the most interesting person hawks had ever saved, be it your quirk, your personality and mannerisms, or even something as simple as a remark you had made in the five something minutes it took to save you; he found himself unable to get you out of his head for days afterwards, eventually causing him to seek you out to ask a bewildered you on a date—just one, he had originally said.

you said yes immediately for a multitude of reasons—he was fine as fuck, he’d literally saved your life the other day, not to mention he was witty, and spoke his mind, too—something keigo hadn’t been expecting. he knew all of the above things, and yet, found himself somewhat nervous as he handed you a bouquet of pale red carnations, red camellias, and baby’s breath. he’d stayed up all night researching flower language and symbolism, deciding on the perfect ones to give to you, as he knew it was rude to show up to somebody’s house empty-handed, and, also, because… he’d never really felt this way about anyone before. there was something so magnetic between the two of you….

but that’s enough reminiscing—he needs to be in the present moment, needs to focus on fucking you so good you go braindead on his dick, focus on cumming so deep in you, there’s no way you couldn’t not be pregnant with his child. keigo understood that having children as the number two pro hero would be no easy feat, but he thinks with you by his side, he can do anything.

sliding his tongue over the seam of your lips, one gloved hand comes up to squish your cheeks enough to force your lips to part for him and he easily slips the wet muscle into your mouth, taking his time sliding it along the insides of your cheeks, the grooves of your teeth, and the roof of your mouth, carefully exploring every inch and committing it to memory (as if he hadn’t already).

meanwhile, his other hand settles on your hip, massaging it lightly for a moment before his grip quickly tightens and he’s coaxing your tongue out of your mouth and into his as he begins to suck on it.

“mmh,” you hum pleasantly, starting to drool as you let keigo decide how to use you in order to relieve his stress.

“missed ya t’day, dove,” he murmurs against your lips before nipping at your tongue and you feel your heart flutter. what had gotten into him? you weren’t necessarily complaining, but you still felt a little worried about him if you were being totally honest.

keigo, sensing your unease, slowly pulls away from the kiss to ask if something was wrong, just for you to deflect the question back onto him.

“‘m fine, it was just a long day is all,” he tells you in earnest, leaving out the part about the beginning of his rut. “need’a feel you s’bad, though,” he breathes out, moving to kiss you again; tilting his head, he slots his lips back over yours, and it feels like he’s going to eat you alive. and, truthfully, he just might.

before you even realize what he’s doing, he’s picking you up, wrapping your legs around his narrow waist, and carrying you into the bedroom where he’s pinning you to the mattress, wings spread wide for you to admire as you look up at him. you’re sure his words held a bit of truth to them, but he was behaving a little oddly for reasons you couldn’t put together yet.

him being a horny little shit wasn’t the unusual bit, but rather, his upbeat demeanor was nowhere to be found—even if it was an act almost all the time, it still felt weird to see him so serious looking.

“kei…”

“shh, stop worrying, sweets,” he shushes you, leaning in for another hungry kiss. you oblige him of course, parting your lips and poking your tongue out to meet his as you close your eyes

his large wings create an almost dome around the two of you, shutting out the world, only leaving room for the two of you, and not another soul.

perhaps it would be best to sit back, relax, and let your boyfriend play with you… so that’s exactly what you do, settling fully onto the soft bed and wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him in closer—something that had him smirking against your soft lips.

it’s not long before you’re both naked, having grown too hot for the unnecessary layers separating your bare bodies, and soon, you suddenly have a pillow tucked under your hips, keeping them at an angle—something that confuses you.

“keigo?”

“just relax, dove.”

he leans in closer, bringing his lips to yours as his one hand grasps at your hip, blunt nails (that he has to trim daily, mind you, lest they grow into talons) digging into the tender flesh there while his other grabs at his leaky cock, tapping it against your clit a couple times before lining it up with your slit and slowly pushing in, doing his best to show restraint and not bottom out in one fluid motion. you both groan at the feeling, the stretch so deep you almost feel nauseous.

bringing two fingers down to your pulsing clit, he rubs semi-rough circles against the little bud, trying his hardest not to overwhelm you, but needing to hurry up and get you off so he can stuff you full of his cum.

“mmmh,” you moan quietly as he focuses on working you up to your first orgasm out of many for the long night he had planned for you.

it’s not long before you’re cumming with a cry and suddenly, keigo’s got his dick lined up with your slick little hole, easing himself in as he bites his bottom lip, trying not to whimper.

“fuuuck, you’re so tight, sweets,” he groans, rocking his hips into your, unkempt pubes brushing against your neatly trimmed ones.

your hands come up to wrap around his neck in an attempt to pull him closer, before you’re tugging at his wings, and you feel his dick twitch inside you.

“don’t,” is all he’s able to get out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, where he begins sucking and biting at the skin there.

“why not?” you grin like an idiot, already knowing the answer. you knew damn well just how sensitive keigo’s wings were—already having had this discussion when you first started having sex and you went to grab at them for the first time.

“don’t ask stupid questions when you know the answer, dove,” he warns.

you, ever the brat, decide to start stroking on his wings, and you feel his hips stutter and teeth sink into the column of your throat.

“nngh–!” you whine, tugging on the bright red feathers. keigo moans loudly at this, and quickly grabs the backs of your thighs to fold you in half and start fuckin’ pounding into you—his thrusts are fast and sloppy, and the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin turns you on even more, pussy drooling around his dick.

it doesn’t take long before keigo’s cumming deep inside you without warning, something that has your eyes flying open.

“k–keigo–! y– you just— you..!” the words aren’t there as panic begins to settle in. something you had both agreed on before you started fucking was that even if you did it raw, he had to pull out—kids were a big no for the both of you.

but here was your boyfriend, fucking you throughout his orgasm and working his way up to a second as he looks down at you with a gaze so intense, you feel small beneath him.

tugging at his wings again, you cry out his name as he fucks his cum into you, just for him to ignore your pathetic mewls and pleas.

“k– kei—!”

“gonna knock y’up so good—g’nna— fuck— g’nna make you a mommy—”

your face flushes deeply at his words—is this what had gotten into him? the urge to breed you? knock you up?

“f–fuck!” you pull at his wings, rolling your hips upwards as best you can as he desperately ruts into you. this triggers keigo’s second orgasm, his pelvis pressing flush against yours as he cums hard.

“nngh—! hnnmg—fuck,” keigo moans as his hips still while he spills another load deep within you. “shit— y’feel so fuckin’ good, baby—”

this continues for what seems like ever, but in reality is maybe fifteen minutes of your boyfriend fucking into you until he physically can’t cum anymore, until tears are running down his cheeks from how overstimulated he is, and he’s collapsing on top of you with a tired sigh.

“k–keigo— we— we can’t—” can’t what? “‘m gonna get pregnant— y’gotta let me get up,” you try to say, shoving at his chest; but it was no use, he was dead weight.

“good,” he says breathlessly, nuzzling his face into your neck.

“n–no! not good! i— we’re only dating! what would the media think if they found out the number two pro hero went and knocked his girlfriend up?!” your concern is genuine, but also stems from selfish reasons. you’re sure the reporters would hound you the moment they caught a whiff of something fishy, and—

“then marry me.” his words are so serious sounding that they immediately break you out of your own mind and your eyes go wide with shock and awe. had he seriously just. proposed?! while still being balls deep in you!?

“huh!?” you sound just as caught off guard as you look, and keigo cranes his neck up to look at you, expression the most serious you’d ever seen it. …okay, so he obviously wasn’t joking around, but, but–!

“you heard me. …i’d been meaning to get you a ring for a little while now, but couldn’t find one i thought you might like, so…..” his cheeks are flushed and face sweaty, hair sticking to his forehead as he gazes at you so tenderly, your heart can’t help but feel full.

“i— keigo, i…” he waits patiently as you fumble with your words. “yes,” finally falls from your lips, a grin tugging at the corners of them.

unable to say anything else, you cup his cheeks with both hands and press kisses all over his handsome face before you slot your lips over his and lean in slowly, almost teasingly.

keigo, ever impatient, leans in to close the gap, one large hand coming to cradle the back of your head as his hips twitch and he pushes further into you, causing the disgusting amount of cum stuffed in your cunt to form a creamy ring around the base of his cock, and drip down to your puckered asshole. after that, it doesn’t take much longer for keigo to fuck you both to sleep.

and that’s how you found yourself in the exact same position one year later, having put your first child to bed no less than an hour ago, with your now husband pinning you to your shared mattress, talking about how he wants a second kid—how beautiful you looked pregnant the first time, and how he’d love to see you like that again. so, he makes it happen. and then one more time after that.

return to KINKTOBER | PRO HERO M.LIST

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ceoofyearning · 6 months ago

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Say Yes to Heaven - Lucien

Pairing: Lucien × Reader

Summary: You find the bed empty upon waking up. Bundled in your blanket, you head out to find Lucien and demand that he warm you up.

Tags & Warnings: Fluff, suggestive but nothing explicit (if i miss anything, let me know)

Word Count: 1077

Links: Masterlist

Sunight creeps languidly through the heavy drapes, heralding the persistent call of the waking world. The day has come, and in minutes, the entire room is bathed in golden light. You’re forced to relinquish the last dregs of sleep clinging to you. You roll over expecting to find Lucien beside you, only to see that his side of the bed is empty. You run your palm over the sheets and find them still warm.

With one last stretch, you pull yourself out of the bed and onto your feet. You wrap the blanket tightly around your shoulders, not ready to give up their warm embrace just yet. The manor is deathly quiet as you pad through the hallways as if the rest of the world is as reluctant to wake too. The persistent chill of winter remains in the air, the tiles as cool as ice beneath your feet. The blanket trails on the floor behind you, and you can already imagine the legendary scolding Jurian would give you if he were to catch you. You imagine Vassa would only laugh at you, if she wasn't too busy being a bird.

Thankfully, no such altercations occur, and you find Lucien sitting in the library, busy reading what you assume are reports from Prythian. He’s lounging by the fire, clad only in his rumpled, unbuttoned tunic and plain trousers. His legs are carelessly spread, his cheek resting on his hand - the picture of relaxed nonchalance. Lucien wears finery like a fine suit of armor, his bravado like a sword secured at his hip, and it’s rare to see him so unguarded, so candid. When he spots you, all bundled up, by the door, a bemused expression makes its way across his face.

“You left,” you sniff indignantly.

His only response to your complaint is a smirk. So you pad deeper into the room until you're standing in between his legs. The smug look on his face only seems to grow at the increased proximity.

“Why?” He asks. “Did you miss me?” Lucien’s eyes trail down your body with deliberate slowness, stalling over your exposed thighs. His hand comes up to grasp the side of your hip, a movement made instinctually, naturally, as though his existence only makes sense when you’re there, with him.

You don’t deign to respond, but you let him pull you onto his lap. He wraps his arms around you, tucking you under his chin as he continues to read. You sink onto him, enjoying the heat that perpetually radiates off his body. He’s basically a sentient furnace, your love. Your hands trail beneath his shirt and he jolts the moment your cold hands make contact with his skin.

“Mother’s tits, you’re freezing.” He exclaims, wiggling in his seat.

“Because you left,” you retort, running your hands languidly over his back. Goosebumps rise in the wake of your touch. “This is your doing, miscreant.”

Lucien cackles but recovers. “Apologies, my lady,” Lucien says with exaggerated gravity, his hand over his chest. “I’m adequately chastised. I’ll be sure never to abandon you in bed again.”

“You better,” you threaten, trying to fight the smile from emerging on your lips. “Or else I’ll find someone else to warm my bed.”

Lucien stiffens, holding you tighter against him as if readying to fight off anyone who dares to draw near. With his hand on your chin, he lifts your head to meet his gaze.

“What was that?” He speaks, something dangerous lingering in the depths of his words.

You raise your brow in challenge. “I said, if you keep leaving me I’ll find-“

He shuts you up with his lips on yours, but it’s a soft fragile thing. His lips move against yours like the back and forth of a waltz. Lucien pulls you tighter into his embrace, enveloping you in the scent of sandalwood, cinnamon, and smoke. You melt against him and think that you could stay like this forever, as long as you’re with him. You want to lay here even as the world cracks and burns around you, until the both of you are covered in ivy, moss, and memory.

As if sensing the direction of your thoughts, Lucien deepens the kiss. Your lips willingly part for him and he licks into your mouth, eager for a taste. His hands are molten against your skin, kneading the pliant flesh of your hips from where your nightgown has ridden up. You can feel his chest expand as he inhales your scent as if reminding himself that you’re with him, in this moment, and there you will remain until your body gives out from the force of loving him.

Eventually, the two of you have to break the kiss. Just there, his forehead on yours, breathing the other in. Idly, you tap your finger over the freckles on his chest, parsing them like constellations in the night sky. You wonder what prophecies you’d be able to divine in the shapes they take. You press a kiss on the freckle over his beating heart, and Lucien shudders beneath your touch.

You move to the wealth of freckles spread across his cheek, over his nose, then on his chin. Lucien pretends to be preoccupied with the reports, but it’s a losing battle. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and you plant a soft, chaste kiss at the upturned corner. You kiss him like he’s an object of worship, and only your heart, your body, your whole being would be a worthy sacrifice.

“Is that the only thanks I get for being your sentient, walking furnace?” He teases, brow arched, but not unkindly. “Threats and a few kisses?” Beams of sunlight hit his face like a lattice of amber, accentuating his sharp features, and setting his russet eye ablaze. And it strikes you just how damn pretty he is, scars and all.

“I’d prefer it if my sentient furnace did not walk away at all,” you retort, raising your brow in turn.

“Ungrateful,” he teases, even as he begins to trail tender kisses over your neck. “You’re lucky I adore you, dearly.”

You huff, pretending his words haven’t set you aflame in a way only he can.

“I suppose,” you begin, tapping your finger over your chin. “I could be persuaded to thank you properly if you go back to bed with me.”

Lucien glances at the report and pretends to consider it for three whole seconds, before setting it down the table with finality. He smiles, as bright as the sun, beautiful, blinding, yours.

“Let's go then,” he says, as he easily carries you back to your room.

AN:

Hello! I’m new to this fandom & I’d love to hear your thoughts. 💙

i’ve been so obsessed with Lucien recently. I made art of him and I love how people kept mentioning his freckles so here is we are. + I hate the cold and had the thought that Lucien would be the perfect person to cuddle up to in winter.

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trippinsorrows · 6 days ago

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looking through your eyes + twenty six

authors note: this chapter almost entirely covers grief. be prepared.

cw/tw: angst (discussion of grief and loss)

song inspo: ‘looking through your eyes’ by leann rimes

chapter suggested listening: "i hope you dance" by gladys knight, "lift me up" by rihanna, and "dancing in the sky" by dani and izzy.

masterlist +story playlist + taglist request form

words: 9k

Solana still vividly remembers the moment she was told her mother was dead. Not the moment where Nina died, where she took her last breath. No, that devastating memory is forever attached and molded to Solana’s recollection, something to never escape her, despite her best efforts to dump it into the sea of the forgotten.

No, the moment she was told is something different, somehow colder and heavier.

She can still recall the sound of beeping machines, blurry, amorphous figures melting into something less abstract and more corporeal. The smell of nothing, sterilization that was quickly permeated by the overwhelming scent of her father’s cologne.

For some reason, that was more prominent and noticeable than the tube down her throat, preventing her from clearly speaking. It didn’t stop her from trying though. Because even with her barely cognizant state, with the fact that she wasn’t still fully aware of where she was and what occurred, her focus was on one person.

Her mother.

That was the intended word, Solana’s muffled moans and groans, fighting against the tube. The pain that shot through her little body while trying to move it wasn’t enough to stop her from asking.

Mommy

It’s something that’s always sat with her. Influenced her in many ways.

It’s also something that helps her understand a fraction of what Roman is going through right now, the feelings he might be experiencing. Everyone is different. She knows this. But, she also knows the feeling of loss. Of feeling alone.

And she swore to him he would never be alone.

Fetu is gone, yes. But, he’ll always have her.

It's what she keeps in mind as she and Jimmy arrive at Fetu's place and move to enter.

Solana had a feeling she would be walking into a difficult scene, but she hadn’t the slightest clue the severity of said difficulty.

“Oh my God….”

It’s bedlam.

Chaos and destruction all around her from the minute she and Jimmy open the front door and walk in. Furniture turned upside down, shattered shards of glass littering the floor all over, dents and scuffs on the wall, indicating objects being thrown.

Solana even spots a few holes she can tell weren’t caused by objects.

They were caused by fists.

But while Jimmy stands beside her, face not hiding his shock and slight horror at what lies before them, Solana’s similar expression stems from a different space.

It stems from how devastated her husband must be right now to cause such destruction.

“I’ve gotta find him,” Solana says, swallowing and moving to maneuver past the glass when a cautious but firm hand grabs her arm.

“Solana, let me find him.”

She doesn’t need an explanation as to why this is being proposed. The answer is written in red lettered concern all over his face.

She shakes her head. “No.”

Jimmy sighs, dropping his hand to gesture to the wreckage around them. “Solana….look at what he did.” She has. Hard not to. “He’s clearly not in a good place right now.”

“Would you be?” She challenges. “Put yourself in his shoes, Jimmy. In my shoes.” Voice breaking, she discloses. “You don’t know what it’s like to unexpectedly lose the one person who meant the world to you….and to not be able to say goodbye.” Solana sniffles, forcing out a shaky breath. “I know what he’s feeling right now, which is how I know what he needs, and it’s not you.”

Jimmy is silent. A small part of her understands and appreciates his concern, but he has to understand her side of things too.

Roman may be his cousin, lifelong friend, borderline brother.

But, Roman is her husband. Her person. Her better half.

Her soulmate.

“I’ll be fine,” she reassures, reaching for his hand. “What I need you to do is find Ava.” She motions to the destroyed room. "We don’t know if she was part of this as well.” Because despite only one meeting, Solana can tell that Ava has a strong personality just like Roman. Loved Fetu just as much as Roman.

She has to be just as distraught.

Jimmy counters, “let me try to clean some of this up first.”

“No.” Solana shakes her head. “I can handle that.” Because cleaning up after men following outbursts is something, sadly, she has plenty of experience with. Countless times her father and brother would destroy rooms and force her to clean up their mess. So, certainly, she can do the same for a man whose actions are fueled not by rage.

But pain.

Loss.

Grief.

Especially when that man is her husband.

“Solana—”

“And I—I want you to leave after that.” His eyes double in size, prompting her to explain. “Roman…..he’s gonna need some time. I don’t….I don’t think he’s going to want to be around anyone, even you.” Maybe even me. “I want to give him what he needs.”

“Solana—”

“I’ll be fine, Jimmy.” There’s not an ounce of her that believes she won’t. “I just need you to find Ava. Help her. And get back home, because I need you to keep Dulce for us.” She swallows, adding in a small voice. “He’s gonna need a couple days.”

More than that. Much more. But for now, it’ll have to do.

Jimmy still looks unconvinced.

But, he eventually agrees, leaving to find Ava who had sent a vague text saying she needed air.

Nothing more.

It's how both Jimmy and herself suspect she's gone for a walk in the surrounding woods.

And as soon as he's gone, Solana is on the move, instantly going up the stairs.

Each step taken feels like there’s a ton of bricks attached, weighing her down, pulling her back and trying to keep her from exactly where she needs to be. It’s all mental and emotional, but it’s not enough to keep her from pressing forward.

She passes Fetu’s room without sparing a glance, both for her own mental sake and knowing that’s the last place he’d probably be. His room would seem the most logical place to start to look, but she also knows that when one is deep in the throes of grief, there is no place for logic.

So, she goes through each room, bypassing the bathrooms and Ava’s bedroom. Again, another place she just can’t picture him being.

It eventually leaves her with two options: the last guest room and his room. Given the cracked door for the latter, that’s the route she chooses.

Solana’s heart is slamming repeatedly against her chest, her eyes watering prematurely at what she knows will be a heavy ass sight. But still, she powers through those emotions, bypasses her own personal sentiments and focuses on him.

A gentle knock followed up with, “Roman?” Nothing. She’s not surprised, but she at least would like him to know it’s her about to enter and not someone else. Something tells her his reaction would be different—very different—if anyone else was trying to “disturb” him right now.

Solana gently turns the knob, partially unsurprised to also find the room in a slight state of disarray. Not nearly as bad as the living room and entrance but still indicative of turmoil.

A lamp lays shattered near the door to the bathroom, a picture knocked off the wall, the TV also down on the floor. Nothing major beyond that, but even if so, it wouldn’t capture much—or any—of her focus. No, that’s because it’s already spoken for.

“Roman….”

She sees him. Slumped on the floor, one long leg outstretched, other leg up, extend arm resting on his knee. Closing the door behind her, she rushes over to him, again unsurprised by how he doesn’t even bother looking in her direction.

Instantly, those watery eyes are upgraded to silent tears streaming down her face. “Ro…..” Carefully leaning down beside him, she finds herself reaching to push back some of his hair that’s not neatly tucked into his everyday bun but instead wild, hanging, unruly.

A perfect representation of what he must be feeling.

She shakes her head, “I’m so so—”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

There’s not a part of her that’s taken back by his words: hollow, empty, stoic. If anything, it’s expected.

She expected this kind of reaction to her presence.

Shaking her head, Solana keeps her voice leveled. “I’m exactly where I should be.” Her gaze travels to his hand, a small gasp leaving at the blusied, lacerated, bloody state of his knuckles. “Roman—”

“I want to be alone.”

Another emotionless statement, forcing her to look back at him. He looks shattered, but in a way that makes sense for him. No red, teary, puffy eyes. No. Just an empty look that hides an abundance of emotions.

Solana makes sure not to stutter, stammer, or anything of the sort as she calmly replies, “I’m not leaving you alone.”

He closes his eyes, his jaw ticking, a sign of growing anger. It doesn’t deter her. “Solana, I want to be alone.”

“Roman—”

“I said leave!”

Silence

There’s a burst of silence that washes over the room following his outburst: loud, frigid, pained.

It’s been some time since he’s raised his voice with her, and the last time, her reaction was typical for where she was at that point. Scared, frightened, terrified even.

None of that could even remotely describe what she’s feeling right now.

Solana has no reaction to his outburst. No flinching, no cowering, no wincing. Nothing.

“No, you don’t.” A closed, sullen smile as she moves a lock of his hair back out of his face. “You just don’t want to feel what you’re feeling. You’re angry and hurt and sad and confused and so many things you probably don’t even understand, because….because that’s what grief is.”

He says nothing, offers not outward reaction to her words.

“I’m gonna say this one time and one time only.” She’s never been more sure about something in her life. “You can yell at me, you can scream at me, you can throw shit in my presence, you can even flip over every piece of furniture in this house, but I am not leaving. You may want to be alone, but you don’t need to be alone.” Pushing back more of his hair, it’s not missed on her the way he clenches his jaw. Not from anger. Something else. Something vulnerable. “I’m gonna clean and wrap up your hand, then I’m going to clean up downstairs and cook. I won’t talk to you unless you initiate it, and I won’t force you to interact with me. You can ignore me all you want, but as long as you’re here, I’m here.” Her voice cracks as she stresses, “I’m not leaving you.”

Roman continues to remain silent following her heartfelt explanation, but it doesn’t bother her. None of what he’s done, what he’s said or not said bothers her, because right now, whatever he’s feeling is valid.

“I’ll be right back,” she murmurs. Solana walks over to the bathroom and pulls out the first aid kit from the cabinet, returning to her husband who hasn’t moved. Silently, she works to disinfect and tend to his injuries. It’s not horrifically bad, but it’s not good, either. She’s unsure if Roman flexes his fingers to show nothing is fractured, but regardless, it’s appreciated and checks off a box without her needing to ask any questions.

Once finished, she informs, “I’m gonna go start cleaning up. Afterwards, I’ll fix you something to eat. I’ll have your plate on the table and text you when it’s ready. I’ll eat elsewhere.”

Roman continues to offer no sign that he’s listening to a word she’s saying. Still, it does nothing to deter her. Kissing his forehead, she returns the first aid kit to where she found it and walks out the room, leaving the door slightly cracked.

Solana walks back downstairs and stops midway to survey the damage around her. A lot is ruined beyond repair, but her focus is less on what was broken and more on ridding the place of the hazards. Starting with the broken glass.

Remembering where the cleaning supplies are kept, Solana carefully maneuvers her way across the floor and grabs the broom and dust pan. Wordlessly, she moves to clear the floor, dumping the shards into the nearest trash can. For extra protection, she vacuums the floor twice to suck up any remaining pieces.

Following that, she goes to put back unbroken items where they belong. Pillows back on the sofa. A sofa that she had to tip over. Books back on the shelf. Pictures that once belonged in now broken picture frames on the coffee table. And the items of irreparable damage dumped in both the kitchen bin as well as the big bin out back.

It’s about half an hour of work, significantly less time than most people would need, but this isn’t Solana’s first rodeo.

She’s seen this movie before.

Is very familiar with how it plays out.

She’s about to start on the food when the sound of a door opening pulls her from searching the fridge to see what she can put together.

Turning and walking towards the front door, Solana is already moving towards a despondent Ava, pulling her into a comforting hug.

Ava sniffles into her shoulder, Solana’s eyes closing as she feels Jimmy’s sad gaze on them.

“I’m so sorry,” Solana whispers, holding her tighter. This is such a devastating loss on all fronts, and while he heart breaks for Roman not being able to see Fetu before she passed, Ava was the one who probably sat with her as she took her last breath.

Solana also knows how equally devastating that can be as well.

“Thank you for being here,” Ava murmurs, eventually pulling back and wiping her eyes. “And for….cleaning up.” She lazily gestures to the room that’s still not together but much better than it was.

Solana nods, taking Ava’s hand. “I was going to cook. Why don’t you—”

“Thank you, but—” Ava offers a small smile that doesn’t meet her eyes. “I can’t—I can’t stay here.” Her lips press together as she shrugs with one shoulder. “Too many memories.” Solana also understands that. Understands it well. “I have an apartment out in town. I’m gonna—I’m gonna go stay there for a couple days, at least until–until the funeral.”

Funeral……

Solana doesn’t want to think about that.

“Of course,” she nods. “But, if you need anything—”

“I know.” Another smile. One that more so meets the eyes. Comes from a place of gratitude. She then gestures up the stairs. “But, he’s going to need you more.”

————

It’s difficult.

For many different reasons. Solana trying to process her own grief while wanting to support and be there for Roman, while he works through his own. And while Solana logically knows that Roman icing her out, to some extent, should be expected, it doesn’t make it any easier.

Doesn’t hurt her any less to know he’s hurting but won’t let her help him.

But, she also knows she made that an option for him, and she doesn’t regret it. Nothing could stop her from being exactly where she is, even if Roman hasn’t said a word to her since her arrival almost three days prior.

Occasional glances and head nods, but nothing verbal. That also hurts, but she doesn’t take it personally. Knows that he’s just weighed down by everything that’s happened.

She just continues to do what she can, prepare his meals that he eats alone, handles cleaning and laundry as he seems to spend the bulk of his days in the home gym or outside on ruins. A lot of avoidance behavior. But, she’s starting to see that’s maybe just how Roman copes.

He doesn’t. He just avoids shit until it “goes away.”

But this….this isn’t something to avoid, something that will go away.

He’s going to have to confront his emotions sooner or later.

Solana shifts on the bed in the guest room. The room where she’s been sleeping, already knowing that if Roman can’t even bring himself to interact with her, the likelihood of him wanting them to sleep in the same bed is slim to none.

Another thing that’s hard.

She’s just gotten so used to sleeping in his arms, but that’s a thought that’s much too self-focused. Her needs matter, but so do his, and right now, he’s not able to provide her that.

And that’s okay, because he’s not okay.

She just wishes she could do something to help that.

Her phone lighting up with Dr. Stratus smiling face is a nice distraction. “Solana.”

“Hi, doc,” she greets, shifting on the bed. “Thank you for—for making time for this.”

“It sounded important,” her psychiatrist's grin shifts into more of a frown. “And judging by how sad you look right now, I bet it is.” She directly asks, “what’s going on?”

So much. Too much to even fully unpack. “Roman’s…..had a loss in his family recently, and it’s….it’s hit us all pretty hard.” Him, arguably, the most, but also, her meeting and connecting with someone as much as she did with Fetu only to lose her so quickly…..it’s rough.

To say the least.

Dr. Stratus frowns. “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Solana already knows the question before it’s asked. “You know I have to ask. Are you experiencing any type of ideation?”

“No.” An easy answer. “Not at all. Just….heavy emotions.” Extremely. “Part of that though…..is probably because I’m pregnant.”

A gasp. “Solana.” Again, Dr. Stratus is smiling, still not as deep as her initial grin. But filled with excitement. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Solana sniffles, wiping at her eyes. “I’m sorry, I just—” She’s unable to catch the tear that spills down her cheek. “I still haven’t told Roman, and—and now that this has happened, I don’t even know how I’m supposed to tell him.”

Because that’s the other noxious thing about all of this. How wonderful, life-changing news has been tabled by horrible, also life-changing news.

In no universe can Solana understand and come to terms with how telling Roman about her pregnancy is appropriate. How is he to celebrate life when he’s just lost it?

It’s just all so terribly cruel.

Solana clears her throat. “I went to Roman’s doctor to do the test for me, and it came back positive, but he’s also certain that we’re having twins.”

“Oh, wow,” Dr. Stratus sighs, sympathy written all over her face. “Solana, I can’t imagine how difficult and confusing this must be for you right now.”

Solana whispers, “very.”

“Have you….have you spoken to Gail about this?”

She shakes her head. “No, because…..because it feels wrong—it is wrong—to keep telling people when my own husband doesn’t even know.”

Because it does. Because in a perfect world, she would have come up with a sweet and sentimental manner in which to break said news to him. Instead, she’s having to hide it from everyone around her—including him—sans the medical professionals she needs to know for various medical reasons.

“I understand.” Her voice is kind and calm, a constant. So very much appreciated. “But, you know, like myself, Gail is bound to confidentiality. As your therapist, she can help support you through this on the clinical side.”

“I know, but….but, I signed that paper allowing her to speak to Roman.” A full release of information. Solana knew what it was when she consented and still does now.

“That doesn’t matter,” she counters. “You can revoke it any time, or even if you want to discuss it and make it clear she’s not to share that with him, you can. You are her client. Not Roman. Her responsibility is to you.”

Solana sits on the helpful advice. She’d forgotten Gail had made that clear when explaining the ROI. That it wasn’t the end all, be all, allowing Roman to know anything and everything about her.

She might have to keep that in mind.

“So, I take it, you’ve only told me because of your medication, correct?” Solana nods. “Well, I wanna keep you with the Sertraline and Hydroxyzine. We could probably keep you on the Wellbutrin as well, but with a multiples pregnancy, I don’t want any take any risks.” She goes on to explain the plan, the way Solana is to taper off one medication to start another. Solana takes notes to avoid missing anything and makes sure to let the other woman know she probably won’t be home for a couple days. Thus, the switch won’t be immediate.

That’s another thing that alerts Solana to how low her husband must be feeling. He hasn’t realized or either maybe just feels too down to even be on top of her medication. She’s been giving it to herself, which is something she’d like to become a regular thing. But, Roman not being as strict about it is yet another telltale.

A strong indication of his continuing mental decline.

Another thing for her to worry about, and God is she worried.

————

I hope you still feel small when you stand beside the ocean

Whenever one door closes, I hope one more opens

Promise me that you'll give faith a fighting chance

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance

Sniffling, Solana pauses the music, unable to listen to anymore.

Fetu’s smiling voice and cheery voice suddenly fill the room, returning to her along with a bittersweet memory.

“Such a beautiful song. One of my favorites,” she’d shared, guiding Solana through a traditional Samoan recipe. “You want to know my favorite line?”

Solana nodded, smiling as she continued to peel the potatoes. “Of course.”

She waited for Fetu to turn down the music before she recited the lines. “Tell me who wants to look back on their years and wonder where those years have gone. I hope you dance.” Solana watched the almost solemn look in her eyes before the older woman smiled warmly. “Life is such a precious thing. We all have such limited time here in the grand scheme of things. In the good and the bad, we must always dance and find something beautiful to look back at.”

Solana’s tears intensify, still remembering, feeling the exact emotion she felt in that moment. So profound and moving.

She’d give anything to have just one more type of interaction or conversation with Fetu again.

Even if…..

Even if just to tell her about the pregnancy.

That makes her cry harder.

It takes a good twenty minutes for Solana to gather herself, to feel ready enough to check on Roman, to see if he needs anything before she goes to bed.

Day five of his grieving has arrived, and he’s still not spoken to her. It still hurts, but it’s not a major concern.

What is a concern is everything else. His isolation. His helplessness. His sadness.

Solana knows better than anyone else what a depressive episode looks like, and the last thing she wants is to see him slip into one of those.

But, if he doesn’t stop shoving his feelings away, shutting down and dissociating…..that might be where he’s headed.

Solana bypasses knocking on his door as it’s partially ajar. She instead walks in only to find the balcony door also open, Roman, shirtless, sitting on the chair, staring at absolutely nothing.

She frowns.

It kills her to see him like this.

Walking over to him, she stands just close enough for him to hear. “Ro? I’m going to bed. Do—do you need anything?”

His response is as the rest have been. Nonverbal. He simply shakes his head no.

She’s grateful he can’t see the disappointment in her face. “Okay.” Dejected and deterred, Solana turns to leave and return to her room.

“I didn’t come see her enough.”

Solana stops dead in her tracks as his deep voice penetrates the silence. For a quick second, she doesn’t trust it. Doesn’t trust her own hearing, because Roman hasn’t said a word to her in days. And yet…..

She turns toward him, realizing that her hearing isn’t needing testing when it happens again. He speaks. “I should have—I should have listened to you.” Solana walks so that she’s standing in front of him, where she’s partially eclipsed his view of the dark forest and sky that’s littered with a blanket of stars. “I should have—” He closes his eyes, as Solana kneels down in front of him.

“Please don’t do that,” she begs, shaking her head, taking his hands in hers. His right hand has healed nicely following her tending to it at least once a day since he messed it up. “Please don’t blame yourself. She wouldn’t want that.”

Studying him, Solana is realizing this is the most expressive Roman has been in days. She could feel his grief before, but she can actually see it now. “She knew you loved her, Roman. And she loved you, too.”

“It wasn’t fucking enough though.” The anger is rising again, but it doesn’t deter or scare her, just makes her heart ache. Because she knows it’s just a cover-up for an abundance of sadness. “Never enough.” Her heart fractures even more as he says in a pained, tortured voice. “I wasn’t enough for her….to stay. Not—not her. Not my parents. My uncle. My siblings. None of them.”

And it’s really not until this moment Solana has truly known what it means to see the person you love the most break down before you.

This is a completely different side of her husband.

This is vulnerability.

“Ro…..” Fingers raking through some of his hair, she does her best to find any words that could provide him some type of comfort, all while knowing nothing can ever really take away his pain. “Baby, you are enough.” More than enough. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

He looks away, clearly distraught. “I couldn’t save her this time.” Her eyes shut. This is heartbreaking. “I didn’t…..I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Solana’s chest aches. Tears brimming in her eyes, she stands up. “Come here.” She doesn’t even have to try to embrace him. Roman already has his arms around her, tugging her closer as he lays his head against her stomach.

It takes a second for it to register, for her to recognize there’s a slight tremble of his body against hers. For her to understand why his grip on her seems to tighten by the second. He’s holding her so tightly.

And, it’s when she hears it that it registers.

It’s when she hears the quiet sniffles that it hits her like a ton of bricks.

He’s crying.

Another brief second of shock that’s quickly washed away by her natural instinct to nurture and protect.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs, holding him, kissing the top of his head. “Baby, I am so so sorry.”

For one thing and one thing only. His loss. What Fetu’s death has done to him, how it has impacted him so deeply. What’s she’s not sorry for is this long awaited breakdown of sorts. Roman has needed this. Needed it for so long. To finally breakdown and feel his feelings, and while she knows better than anyone how uncomfortable and overwhelming that can be, it’s also inevitable.

This was bound to happen.

She’s just grateful she can be here to support him through this.

The way she always will.

————

Roman’s breakdown proved to be the catalyst. The thing that helped progress him from this almost stoic state of dissociation to a state of feeling and being. He’s actually talked to and with her. More interaction that doesn’t feel forced, almost natural. What she’s used to. To some degree, because he’s still sad. Of course, he’s sad. Still grieving. All normal.

But, he’s no longer icing her out, and that’s all that matters to her.

So much so that he’s continued to accept her nurturance and affection. Welcomes it. Craves it, almost. The way he’s welcomed her back into the bedroom, sleeps at night practically on top of her, head on her chest as she rakes her fingers through his hair. The way he pulls her onto his lap as they eat. It’s all so subtle but also loud. The kind of love and support he’s clearly needing, and she gives it all to him.

Whatever he needs, she’ll do.

Solana presses a kiss to his temple and runs her fingers along his broad shoulders as he lays back, almost relaxed against her, the bubbles surrounding them covering the majority of their bodies, warm water infused with lavender and chamomile contributing to the serene atmosphere she was aiming for.

A goal that seems to be working based upon how at ease he feels against her, the leaking of the tension from his big body.

“I’m gonna drive tomorrow,” Solana informs. Because Roman’s emergence from his dark hole has also meant reintegration into reality and society. Over the past two days, she’s overheard him taking phone calls, some in English, some in Samoan. And from what she could make of these calls is that they were pertaining to funeral arrangements for Fetu.

Clearly, as the funeral is set to be held this upcoming Sunday.

She has such mixed feelings on that. On how hard that’s going to be for her husband.

But, one thing at a time.

“I can drive,” he answers, eyes still closed.

Sighing quietly, she angles her head so that she has a better view of his face. “I said I’m gonna drive.” At that, Roman opens his eyes, clearly taken back by her calm but firm push back. Frowning, she strokes his beard. “I want you to rest.”

Because, she does. Because he’s going to need it. Because in this space for the past week, he’s been able to just be. Be angry. Be hurt. Be sad. Be anything he needs to just be a human freaking being.

But, once they’re back home, all of that has to be turned off. He won’t have the space to be anything but the Tribal Chief and not a man just grieving a very important person.

So, she wants him to have as much time dwelling in this safe space as possible, and that includes being able to relax while she gets them back home.

“Besides, I haven't done it in so long, I need to make sure I still remember.” Being chauffeured quite literally everywhere has entirely deprived Solana of the need to have a car of her own but also to actually, well, drive.

Roman scoffs quietly. “That’s reassuring.”

Rolling her eyes, she flicks his shoulder and murmurs with a small smile, “shut up.”

He does, but it’s only in preparation for what comes next. “Thank you.”

She has a feeling what he’s referring to, but assumptions have rarely done society any good. “For?”

His reply is instant. “All of it.”

Comfort. It’s something she’s clearly been providing him but something he’s always provided her.

Solana moves her hands down his chest and across his shoulders, mouth against his temple. “I’d do anything for you…..” Because she would. Anything at all. “Anything you need, just tell me, I’ll do it.”

He’s done so much for her. Supported her through some of her darkest, lowest moments. The least she can do is return the favor.

Solana watches him sit up, never takes her eyes off him as he adjusts himself so he’s facing her, gently pulling her so she’s almost straddling him. The movement creating a ripple of waves that brushes against their conjoined bodies. Her wet hands move to his face as his move up her damp back.

“I just need you.” It could mean a lot of things, could refer to many of the things she’s done with and for him over the past week. But, that look in his eyes, the way his still solemn gaze drops to her chest, how his hands are moving to her hips, she knows exactly just how he needs her right now.

Solana reaches past him to turn the knob to start draining the tub before ghosting her lips over his, murmuring, “so take me.”

————

Being back in their home is an experience. A bit of a tease, really. Because while it’s nice to be in her house, with Dulce who seems to stay by Roman’s side, clearly sensing his grief, it’s also bittersweet.

Because it doesn’t change what’s happened. Doesn’t make the feelings of sadness go away.

Doesn’t stop Solana from thinking about the letter Fetu gave her, from trying to figure out if it’s the right time to give it to him.

A dilemma that haunts her in the days leading up to the funeral as she works to support and be there for her husband while also managing her own pregnancy symptoms that seem to pop up at the most inconvenient times.

It’s only by the grace of God that Roman hasn’t walked in on her hunched over the toilet, emptying her stomach from any and all food consumed. An irritating occurrence that seems to happen when she’s trying to cook.

She's definitely noticed an increased sensitivity to certain smells. Spices and seasoning that have always been staples in her cooking shelved due to her literally unable to tolerate the nausea that they cause her to experience just from the aroma alone.

Irritating, to say the least.

But, it’s the morning of the actual funeral that has her anxiety spiked, her concern at a naturally high baseline level. All things considered, she just has to focus on being there for Roman. Whatever that looks like.

Still, it’s heavy and sad and just gut-wrenching.

Just about ready, only needing to slide her sandals on after letting Dulce outside to relieve herself, Solana decides to check on Roman.

She finds him sitting on the edge of their bed. Like herself, he’s already dressed. A white, short sleeved button up shirt accompanied by a skirt-like wrap with tribal designs. A lavalava, according to Ava with leather sandals.

She’s certain he heard her walk in, but he remains sitting, head down, ula fala on the bed beside him. Gently closing the door behind her, Solana walks over, partially surprised by how he reaches for her. Hands on her hips, her eyes never leave him as he lifts his head, clearly taking in her outfit. There’s a moment of anxiety under his intense gaze.

It’s easily squashed, however, when he says in a low voice, “you look beautiful.”

His compliment is so appreciated, especially when she thinks about his ability to still balance his grief while also making her feel so special. “Thank you.”

Solana moves her hands to the back of his head as he holds onto her, resting his head against her stomach. “I don’t want to do this.” Her eyes shut. She knows he doesn’t. “But, I have to.”

And that’s the part that kills her. That so much of handling this falls on his shoulders, is his responsibility because of his title. It kills her because it deprives him of just being able to grieve.

“I know, baby,” she comforts, gently stroking the back of his neck. “But, you don’t have to do it alone.”

She feels it. The heavy sigh against her. A sign of a semblance of relief. She’ll take that. She’ll offer that in any way that she can.

Roman sits back up, Solana watching him stand before her. Reaching to his side, she’s careful in how she picks up the ula fala and holds it before him. “Can I…..”

He nods and dips his head, allowing her to place it upon him. Solana is mindful of the placement, remembering the exact place it’s always sat when she’s seen it on him. And when he straightens to his full height, she moves her hands to his chest and says, “I know that you have to be the Tribal Chief today, but when it’s all said and done, and everyone has left and it’s just you and me, all I want and need you to be is Roman….that’s it.”

Because Roman is a man grieving. Who needs to be able to freely feel his feelings.

Whether he wants to or not.

Solana nods and leans up to kiss his cheek before taking his hand in hers, reminding, “I’ve got you.”

He says nothing, only nods, but he doesn’t have to. She can see the appreciation—and love—in his gaze.

—-----

Solana has never actually attended a funeral before. By the time she woke up from her coma, Xavier already had her mother buried, depriving her of that formal goodbye.

So this is a first for her. Different. She quickly learns that death is something that is not necessarily seen as a bad thing in Samoan culture. Sad, yes, but the focus is on the celebration of life, which she started to figure based upon the white color scheme.

Given the nature of the situation, Solana is unsurprised by the small attendance. Roman’s preference, no doubt. Jimmy, Jey, and Rikishi are all expected guests, along with the preacher who officiates. However, it’s Paul and Dwayne who take her by surprise.

There’s a sense of gratitude, however, when they both hug Roman and offer their condolences. And she’s especially moved by the extended time taken with the hug from Dwayne, the way she can feel the empathy emanating from his tall frame.

She appreciates it deeply, and she knows that Roman does, too.

There are also a couple of other attendees that surprise her but not entirely, as they uphold what she would guess are Samoan traditions for funerals. Song and dance. Prayers.

It’s a beautiful send-off, one fitting for Roman’s eccentric aunt.

And almost the entire time, Solana remains by his side. Holding his hand or his arm, and if not in physical proximity, she always finds him, watching him. He is her number one concern.

All things considered, he holds himself together well, but that’s highly due to the mask he’s wearing. The strong resilience he’s displaying in terms of not giving away the true extent of his hurt. But, Solana feels it. Feels it deeply when it’s just the two of them standing in front of Fetu’s casket, the others already departed and readying to leave. She’s about to do the same, leave him to have some semblance of privacy, only for him to tighten his hand that’s tightly clasped with hers.

“Stay.”

A single, simple word. But, enough.

Solana nods, moving to hold onto his arm, standing quietly but supportively beside him.

As she always will.

It’s after that, unfortunately, that things go downhill.

Solana partially expected the twins to come over following the funeral. Ava as well. All three, however, expressed their desire to give Roman his space. And, it’s appreciated, because Solana also believes that to be the best.

For right now.

However, that sentiment is not shared by Dwayne, Paul, and Rikishi. And truly, the first of the three is no issue. He doesn’t ride in the limo, opting to drive himself back to the house.

But, it’s during that ride, for the first time since learning of Fetu’s passing, Solana feels anger.

Not even as part of the grieving process. No, she feels anger towards the two men who sit across from herself and Roman. She feels anger toward them because they haven’t even driven off yet when they’re throwing a bunch of work questions and situations at her husband.

Her husband who may look present, but she knows him well enough to know he’s not.

And given how long these two men have known Roman, she would have thought they could see the same.

Maybe they don’t.

Or, maybe they do and just don’t care. Either one pisses her off. Makes it hard for her to hold her tongue.

Shipments. Orders. Contracts. All logical things someone in Roman’s state shouldn’t be dealing with.

But, it’s exactly what they’re throwing at him.

Even as they arrive at the house, Dwayne taking a call out back, Paul and Rikishi barely have Roman sat down at their dining room table when they’re back at it.

“Orton wants to speak with you regarding re-negotiating the RKO proposal.”

“Stocks are looking good, but we need to start thinking about next quarter.”

“The Cartel are still interested in meeting. You need to make that happen ASAP.”

A bunch of irrelevant shit. Solana partially wants to stay outside with Dulce to avoid having to overhear it, but it’s impossible to not want to be present. To not feel the need to be present.

Just what more do they plan to throw at Roman?

Her husband is responding, being responsive, but she can see it, hear it. The difficulty he’s having.

And it has her nearly bursting at the seams, trying to focus on moving around the kitchen, early preparation for dinner, but it’s hard.

She’s given a chance though when Roman clears his throat and says something about changing before he stands up from the chair and starts to walk away.

Just like that, Solana knows this is her opportunity, her chance, and she has to take it.

Because, she’s disgusted.

It’s only when she’s certain that Roman is upstairs, fully out of hearing distance that she finds herself asking, “what is wrong with you two?”

Both men look at her with partially startled, mostly confused, expressions. Rikishi is the first to speak. “What?”

Solana scoffs and points toward the steps. “He just buried his aunt. Her body isn’t even cold in the ground, and you’re asking him about work?” She continues, throwing out almost angrily, “does he look like he needs to be working right now?”

There’s a bit of a standstill. Paul looks flustered, his cheeks turning red like a child being scolded by a parent. Rikishi, however, wears an almost blank expression. “You are not Samoan, therefore you do not understand our ways. We do not mourn like you do. We celebrate life.”

“Yeah, well he’s not in place to celeb—”

“Roman is the Tribal Chief. What he needs is irrelevant when it comes to the Bloodline.” Rikishi’s interruption—and his words—have her taken back. “He understands what his duty is.”

“His duty…..” It’s potentially a build up of things, sadness and grief, manifesting as anger. Regardless, it’s growing with each word that leaves this man’s mouth. “Has he not given enough? He does everything he’s supposed to do for the Bloodline—”

“Except provide an heir,” Rikishi’s voice is as icy as the cold look in his eyes. “Or would that be you failing at the one job you have?”

Paul’s eyes widen as looks at the man beside him. “Rikishi—”

It takes so much, so much for Solana to not shut him up, to not tell him that she’s pregnant, hoping that he spreads it to any and all who’ve given Roman a hard time about not having a child.

Because fuck them.

The chubby man lifts up his hand as he stands from his seat, rounding the corner of the table. “You are not Bloodline, so I’m not surprised you don’t know your place—”

“My place–” There’s not a single ounce of her wanting or willing to back down in this moment. “–is beside my husband.”

“Do not forget, girl, who put you in that position.” There’s an almost hint of disgust in the way the word ‘girl’ leaves his mouth. “You were nothing before him. Nothing but a punching bag for that pathetic father and brother—”

Solana has never considered herself a violent person, especially not someone who responds with violence. But, it’s almost instinct. Because one minute her hand is at her side, the next it’s colliding with Rikishi’s cheek, with an intensity that sends his head to the side.

And she doesn’t regret it one bit.

Finally aware of what’s just happened, Solana can only process the anger in his fat face and the way he lifts his hand toward her. Except instead of cowering, she prepares to block it.

But, she doesn’t have to.

Because someone else does.

Solana gasps quietly at Dwayne who stands beside, almost in front of her, protectively, holding Rikishi’s arm in an iron grip.

“I don’t think you want to do that,” he says with the perfect balance of lightness and seriousness. “Unless you want me to lay your candy ass out for breaking Bloodlines rules for putting your hands on a woman.”

Rikishi hisses and snatches his arm away. “She put her hands on me. I am an Elder.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are. You will not disrespect me in my house,” Solana swears. Never again will she allow any man to harm her, physically or verbally.

And that’s a promise.

Dwayne shrugs. “Sounds fair to me.” He then smiles, but there’s no trace of humor. “And like you said, she’s not one of us, so she doesn’t know our ways.”

Solana is surprised at that. How long has he been listening?

Paul suddenly steps forward, looking like he’s about to have a damn panic attack. “Clearly, there’s been some—”

“Get out.”

Solana’s interruption earns a variety of expressions ranging from surprisement, amusement and indignation.

Paul stutters. “I’m s-s-”

“I want you both out of my house.” There’s no stuttering on her end. “Now.”

While Paul looks confused between his friend and Dwayne, the latter chuckles, expressing, “I believe the wife of the Tribal Chief has made herself clear.” And just like that the smirk drops into a straight line as he orders, “leave.”

Paul doesn’t need to be told twice, the obese man hurriedly grabbing his papers with trembling hands. It’s Rikishi, however, whose gaze is now focused on her with borderline amusement.

He holds her stare, and she doesn’t dare look away. He will not intimidate her.

Paul is mumbling and murmuring to the other man about needing to leave, something about coming back later, but again, he’s silenced by Rikishi.

“Well played, girl. Well played.”

Rikishi turns to walk away when Solana finds herself stepping past Dwayne. “My name is Solana. Solana Reigns. The wife of your Tribal Chief, Roman Reigns, and you will address me as such.”

Paul looks like he’s seen a ghost, like he’s seconds away from pissing himself. Rikishi just stares with a cold smile, one that doesn’t prevent or scare her from continuing.

“And if you ever raise your hand to me again.” she steps forward, invading his personal space the same way he invaded hers. “Just know that I don’t need my husband to kick your ass.” There’s an almost snarl to her lip as she vows, “I can do it myself.”

Because she can. Because if she can put her brother, someone who terrorized and literally tortured her for years in the ICU, she can certainly do it to the rotund man before her.

He doesn’t say anything else, just turns on his heel and leaves out with Paul, but Solana knows better. Recognizes that look. Has seen it before. Knows what it means.

This isn’t over.

And yet, there’s not a part of her that’s nervous, that feels scared or even upset with herself at how she responded.

Because she’s spent years being hurt and disrespected by men. No more.

Not for herself but also for the children growing in her stomach. Children that she strongly believes to be girls. Solana would soon rather die than have anyone treat her daughters the way she’s been treated.

And she knows Roman would and will feel the same.

So, it starts now. The demanding of respect that she’s always deserved.

Regardless of who her husband is.

Dwayne steps forward, gentle hand on her shoulder. “You alright?” Before she can answer, he informs, “I’ll make sure Roman knows about—”

“No,” she interrupts and shakes her head. “I mean, I’m okay, but I don’t want you telling him. He…..he has enough on his plate.” And the last thing she wants is anything else being added to it.

Dwayne frowns. “I don’t disagree with you, but as the faletua—”

Now she’s the one frowning. “The what?”

“Faletua,” he says it slower, offering and explanation. “It means the wife of the Tribal Chief.”

Solana is temporarily taken back by that. She never knew there was a direct word for who she is to Roman. For what she is to the Bloodline.

It’s…..surprising, to say the least.

“Speaking to you the way he did was unacceptable, but going to hit you?” He shakes his head. “Thought he would have learned that shit don’t fly with us by now.”

Curious, Solana crosses her arms and finds herself asking, “what do you mean?”

Dwayne seems a bit reluctant at first, eventually lowering his voice and offering an explanation. “Look, I’m 13 years older than Roman and Rikishi’s twins, so they were too young or not even born to have been around Rikishi when he was a piece of fucking work. Hothead. Impulsive. Used to beat on his wife. Always felt like he should have been the Tribal Chief. Nakoa, Roman’s dad, eventually had to give him an ultimatum: he get some help and straighten the fuck out or he and his entire family would be ex-communicated from the Bloodline.”

Solana hears the word coming out of this man’s mouth, but it’s difficult for her to process said words. Everything seems so…..unbelievable, like it can’t be true. Like the biological father of Jimmy and Jey, who have become like brothers to her, could be the sons of someone so…..vile.

Someone abusive.

Dwayne continues, “he’d calmed down a lot by the time Roman and the twins were born, so they don’t really know much about it. How bad it was, at least.” He then adds over a dark chuckle, “that’s where Jey gets his temper from. His old man.”

Solana has a lot to think on, but she also has many questions, too. Obviously, Rikishi’s behavior hasn’t been a problem for some time. Yes, there was today’s incident, but Solana thinks she knows her husband well enough to know he wouldn’t put up with any bullshit.

So perhaps today was just a one-off? Fetu was his relative as well, so there’s a good chance his grief is presenting as irritation similar to how Roman’s presented as anger.

And yet…..

There’s this small, nagging part of her that doesn’t believe that. Believes that there’s more at play than what meets the eye.

Is starting to wonder if she now knows who Fetu was talking about when she said she told her brother, Nakoa, not to trust him.

Shaking her head, Solana redirects her focus to the conversation at hand. “Thank you.” Because she’s grateful for this man that she doesn’t know very well but believes to be a good person. Someone who’s good for her husband. “I—I’ll talk to Roman about what happened.” And she will……just sans some details.

He doesn’t need to know everything.

It’ll only put more stress on him, and he doesn’t need that.

Dwayne seems unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue. “If that’s what you prefer.”

“It is,” she answers. Switching gears a bit, Solana lowers her voice, sharing, “and thank you for being here…..for him.”

It’s not missed upon her the sad countenance that appears on his handsome face. “Gotta be honest with you, when I got the call, I was shocked. If I had known she was still……” Dwayne sighs and runs his hand over his face. “I understand why he kept it a secret. She….she meant a lot to him.”

More than you could ever know. “I know,” Solana whispers. The realization that Roman should have been back by now causes her to clear her throat. “I should probably go check on him.”

Dwayne nods. “I should probably get going anyway.”

Solana goes to protest, not wanting him to feel uninvited. “Oh no, you don’t—”

“You were right to tell them to leave,” he interrupts, gesturing to the steps. “He does need time.”

Solana says nothing, though feels immensely grateful to have someone who also recognizes that Roman is just a human being who just needs to feel and grieve instead of this machine that can just keep moving like clockwork.

Solana again thanks him for attending and his overall support before seeing him out the door and moving up the steps to check on her husband.

“Ro?” Opening the door to their bedroom, she's partially surprised to find Roman still sitting on the edge of the bed, clothes unchanged outside of the ula fala that lays on the dresser.

He turns to her as she closes the door behind her and walks over to him. “I just….I need a minute.”

Moving in between his legs, she informs, “it’s okay. They’re gone now.”

At that, he looks at her with a confused expression. “What do you mean?”

“Dwayne left on his own, but I made Paul and Rikishi leave.” And before he can say anything, she’s explaining, “I understand there’s things you need to get done, get caught up on, but the Bloodline can survive another day without you taking charge.” She sighs and cups his face, reminding him, “today was a lot for you. The least you can do is take the rest of it to just….be.”

She’s partially expecting him to push back, maybe even some irritation for her “speaking” on his behalf only for him to ask, “how did they take it?”

Shit. She wants to lie, feels like it would be an easy short term thing and maybe it would. But, the fact that she’s already keeping this pregnancy from him is more than enough secrecy for her.

“Paul seemed more scared than anything. Rikishi….he didn’t like it, but Dwayne backed me, so it was fine.”

A flash of anger appears in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if he likes it or not. If you say something, he needs to fucking do it.” And this is what she wanted to avoid. Him getting upset when he doesn’t need to. “I’ll handle it.”

Solana shakes her head. “That’s not important right now.” Because it really isn’t. Especially since she’s already handled it. “Why don’t you change? Lay down. I’ll fix you something to eat. If I start now, I can have it ready by—”

She’s stopped by Roman reaching her for her, his hands on her waist as he says so quietly, “stay with me.”

It’s such a quiet, little thing, but it’s something he’s wanting.

Something he’s needing. Thus, the answer is obvious.

Solana nods and reaches for the middle of her skirt, hiking it up enough so that she can climb on top of his lap. Roman moves them back on the bed as she lays on top of him, snuggling herself into his chest as he wraps his arms around her, holding her.

“Thank you,” he says after kissing the top of her head. The vulnerability in his voice is aligned what she’s seen and heard in him off and on all week. “I don’t…..I don’t know if I could have handled with this without you.”

His words cause chills to sprout up her spine. Another thing she can relate to. The loss of her mother was something she once thought she would never recover from, largely because she had to deal with it alone.

But, Roman isn’t alone.

And, he never will be again.

Holding him a bit tighter, she promises, voice clear and firm, “you’re gonna be okay, Roman."

And, he is.

She’s going to make sure of it.

#roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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itsvelyria · 10 months ago

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"types of smiles the f1 boys would love from their s/o"

happy show-your-loved-ones-you-love-them day!! 🤍🤎

Charles Leclerc

the shy smile: he fell in love with you when he saw that smile for the first time. he always knew you were too good, too nice to this cruel world and despite all the hardships you’d faced, you somehow still retained that innocence from childhood. that shy smile, all gentle and modest — he liked to think you reserved it solely for him, made his heart flutter like a schoolboy with their first crush all over again. your lowered eyes, radiating a certain charm he could never put to words. it was like he was cleansed from all the negativity that accompanied his line of work. maybe it would be better to say he was your devoted follower, begging his goddess for just a glimpse of her smile every so often.

Carlos Sainz

the loving smile: it wasn’t like Carlos had never had a crush before, hell he’s been in a long-term relationship before. but never has he felt the pull to you so strong before, even as you are right across him, laughing at something his sister said. his mind can only focus on the way your eyes sparkle at dinner with his family, mapping the crinkles beside them. and as the gaze he is dying to have land on him does, the bright smile shifts, edges softening into fondness, the slight raise of your eyebrows asking what he needed. he reaches across the table, greedily needing to feel your warmth too, wanting this moment to last forever.

Danny Ricciardo

the smirk: he can see it taunting him even from a few feet away, in the neon pink glow of the club. you were teasing him, challenging him after a casual remark about how you had no game. the glances you send up at the second level where he hung by the railing shoots sparks of green fury in him. he should have known better; you were nothing if not confident and it was evident in the guy you had been grinding against for the past 15 minutes. he hated everything about this, his skin felt like it was on literal fire, and he had half a mind to go down to the floor to drag you away. perhaps Max had a point, maybe he needed to face the reality that he had feelings for you.

George Russell

the warm smile: miles away from your hometown, new cities every week, away from everything and everyone he'd ever known, you were his anchor. your presence grounded him when it felt like the world was spiralling away and he had absolutely no control over anything. he waited as you spoke to a member of the team, the warm smile on your face taking the tension out of the new girl. it was the same smile you brought to restaurants and parties, making the people around feel at home. it was the same smile you gave him in his moments of uncertainty. you bounded over happily, saying something about the same school, with the new girl trailing behind and as he smiled at his colleague, something in his brain told him that things may change and ebb away but your smile could never.

Lando Norris

the proud smile: his whole life, he’s been working to be the best – to stand on the topmost step of the podium and hold that trophy up, to have people acknowledge him as a great driver, the best in the world. and he’s one step closer, the first race win of his career, a step towards greater things. he could feel the elation emitting from his entire team, but the pats on his back and cheers from his team couldn’t compare with that beam on your face. even all the way up on the podium, the only thing he was focused on was your face and how it resembled a mother hen looking on her chick. he pumps the trophy higher, the sense of pride bursting in his chest and all he could think about was how he was going to be a better driver, a better man, for you.

Lewis Hamilton

the comforting smile: it was the slightest tilt of your lips, the light from his nightstand outlining the soft frame of your body. the smile in your voice was easy to detect even as he laid his head on your tummy, exhausted from a long day of endless meetings and emails. sometimes, he wonders why he works so hard. his life has already amounted to so much and he had accumulated enough life experience to know the most important thing was family and his sweetheart. and then its nights like this, when the world beyond your sanctuary is dead asleep and everything fades away, leaving only what mattered: the gentle vibration under his head and your sweet lullaby and smile telling him nothing was more important than this moment right now.

Max Verstappen

the smiling eyes: the Internet had never been a nice place to him. sneers and belittling comments deterring him from ever going on there if he had a choice. but as a 3-time World Champion, his social media obligations were more important than before. when you two started dating, he wanted to keep it private. everything bad in the world, in his opinion, had no chance of ever hurting you as long as he was around. which is also why he never brought you to races. the fewer the interactions between you, the less there was for the media to scrutinize. but it was moments like this, as the camera pans to you in the garage. your face is hidden but your eyes are bright and admiring him in his element, your name broadcasted with his beneath, told to whoever was watching, that he bookmarks the image in his mind.

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bakugoushotwife · 11 months ago

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born sinner (part one)

pairing: crime boss!suguru geto x fem!surgeon!reader series content: blood, gore, realistic descriptions of surgery but like as accurate as someone with access to google has, angst, slow-burn, eventual smut, anxiety as a heavy theme, no curses!au, violence, guns, gang mentions and typical violence, religious imagery, etc. words: 8.5k a/n: omg omg happy new year! the gojo writer takes on suguru geto!! he's so challenging for me in the best of ways and i hope that his characterization is at least tolerable LMFAO!! i got this amazing idea from a gorgeously detailed outline from @antizenin who trusted me to bring her outline to life. i hope you love it!! part two //

the lights are entirely too bright in the meeting hall. it’s nothing compared to the lights in the OR that illuminate the vessels of a heart as you slice into it—finding the clot that caused the fourty-one year old mother of two to collapse in the middle of making breakfast. you saved her life, you save lives. you’re a cardiothoracic surgeon–and a top one at that, though you spent your residency flirting with general and neurosurgery, you ultimately landed on the heart of it all–literally. it was riveting work. it was satisfying work. you got to play god, holding the lives of everyone that came through the hospital doors in your hands. you got to be the one to repair the tear in their aorta, the one to physically pump their heart with your own grip. it was thrilling. until it wasn’t. until you couldn’t stop the bleeding or make the heart beat again. until being god of the emergency room meant sending some people to the afterlife, and realizing that you are no god. you’re just a woman with a degree and a scalpel and a crippling fear that you don’t know what you’re really doing at all.

that’s what got you here. the clock in front of you is just about the only thing to look at in this section of the hospital. the board meets here—the people that convene to discuss fates. it’s almost comically just that the long hallway before the meeting room was barren and hopeless–only the clock’s hands to tick loudly by in mock of you. 7:55 am. just five more minutes until you went from the god above it all to a simple beggar praying to be spared. you were no different from those you operated on. you’re suddenly very aware of how scratchy and hard your chair is, making you adjust and readjust to try to find some semblance of comfort in the last five minutes before judgment day. as a surgeon, you know just how out of whack your vitals are. as someone with a diazepam prescription, you know exactly what’s causing it, regardless of the MD at the end of your last name. shit, you forgot to take your pills again this morning—

there’s a faint sound of heels clicking against the cold tile floor in conjunction with the loud clunk, clunk, ding dong ding! of the clock that signals the top of the hour. it’s time. the secretary calls your name as if you’re not the only person waiting out here, and you nod without meeting her eyes. you know without lifting your gaze that hers is judgmental–like everyone’s lately.

the problem with being god is that you can’t make mistakes without feeling the wrath of the people that once loved you and championed your name.

millions of thoughts race inside your head simultaneously: if you can’t handle the hardening stare of a measly secretary, how on earth would you be able to function under the eyes of the council, the real gods amongst men. they have the authority to revoke your license if you don’t figure out how to answer to them. the one case, the one incident, the one person’s life that ended because of your inability to handle such racing thoughts drives you to clutch at your chest now as you rise from your chair, back aching.

“right this way.” she says without another glance, and you’re thankful for that reprieve. she turns, loud heels click clacking their way back down the hall at the same pace of your hammering heart. you love being a surgeon. you can’t lose that. you have to fight for it. saving lives is important to you! you just have to convey this. it’s not hard. swallow your fear and finally fight for something you want, put one foot in front of the other, you tell yourself. breathe in and breathe out—you have to get your sinus rhythm back to normal if you have any hope of getting through this. but it’s so hard when all your senses lie to you like this, the clock’s ticks still rattling across your brain—the long and dark hallway only stretching to be longer and darker before you. you know it’s impossible–just your mind playing tricks. or, more aptly, part of you knows that. but the other part starts to break out in a cold sweat once you finally approach the door. on the other side of the heavy oak were the group of people who would decide what your life was worth: do you get to stay a god amongst men, or will you be cast out like the devil himself?

you can hear the different voices speaking in low whispers before the secretary has even pushed into the room. you know they must be speaking about you from the way their eyes dart all over your timid form in front of them as they shuffle their papers—reports of every mistake and triumph you’ve ever had laid out in front of them, reducing you to a datapoint. it’s a medical license hearing, but you feel like a freshly hit opossum standing before the vultures just waiting to pick your bones clean. maybe being roadkill was more freeing than this.

this room is much darker than the lobby you waited in, dimly lit by reading lamps positioned to the right of each panelist–five total. three men and two women would decide if your mistake was enough to ruin your career. their desk towered above you, so much so you had to tilt your chin back to be able to take in their disgruntled, disappointed, and disapproving stares. your saliva feels like liquid cement when you go to swallow it down—though it tastes like bile.

“good morning doctor.” the man on the furthest right says. he has the kindest eyes of them all, though your brain catches his deception. he’s just acting. the other panelists give you tight lipped smiles of greeting and head nods of acknowledgement. you clear your throat a little and give them a bow.

“good morning, board of internal medicine. i’ve…prepared a statement?” you clench your jaw at the shakiness you can hear in your voice. it’s the older of the two women that nod at you this time.

“you may present it.” she says, a drawn-on eyebrow raised expectantly. you swallow down that bile-cement flavored spit again, training your eyes on a hairline crack in the tile under your toe. it’s fitting. as time passes, this crack will widen and cause that tile to erode and crumble away. this meeting could be the crack in your foundation. the decision made here today could be the first domino of events to ruin the picture perfect life you’ve carefully put into place.

“..hiroshi nakamura entered the emergency room on november twenty-third at 4:57 pm. he was suffering from an aortic aneurysm. as many of you are former surgeons yourselves, i know you’re familiar with the diagnosis. many of these go unnoticed. symptomatic pain is brushed off, and many times it’s too late to save them, the silent killer.” you shift your weight, doing your best to maintain eye contact despite the haunting memory. “nakamura-san was a patient of mine previously. he was diagnosed with arteriosclerosis three years prior, the exact date escapes me. it was in the summertime. july maybe. later that day i performed an endarterectomy to reduce the atheromatous plaque in his carotid artery. we kept him for the next three days for observation, his vitals improved and he was discharged with instructions to receive regular checkups. when he was brought back in…i knew immediately that the buildup must have returned, making it harder for blood to travel until it turned into a clot. when i opened him up, his pressure started dropping. he had an aortic dissection, which i’ve run into many times. but the size of nakamura-san’s was significant. i hesitated, deciding between a graft or a stent for treatment. i took too long to choose, and nakamura-san…bled out on the operating table.” you grimace, looking down at that cracked tile again. the line was shaped like a lightning bolt, its jagged curve leading straight under your shoe. you can feel your chest tighten, so you close your eyes and try to push back against the wave of emotion sitting in your throat. “i had to tell nakamura-san’s family what happened. his wife of forty years, his thirty-four year old son, thirty year old daughter, and twenty-eight year old son as well as his young grandchildren. i’ll never forget what my mistake has done to their lives, and i believe it is punishment enough.”

you step back once you’ve finished speaking, heart still hammering away in your chest. the members of the board nod, seemingly unaffected by your words. the man in the middle of the massive mahogany table picks up his stack of papers, licking his forefinger before flipping through them. “how long have you been prescribed diazepam, doctor?”

your blood stills. your anxiety was clearly well documented, and you knew it would be on their list of questions. “since i was a teenager, sixteen i believe.”

he hums, eyes focused on the paper before him. “and how would you say it helps you manage your generalized anxiety disorder?”

you would do anything for that ticking clock right about now, for this room is so quiet you swore they could hear your thoughts. “it helps considerably. i’ve stayed on it for over ten years now.”

“your prescription history is spotty. were you trying alternative therapies?” the younger woman asks, manicured red nails clutching your entire life between them via vulturous paper reports.

you open your mouth to answer–no, argue–but realize that won’t help you anymore than the truth will. “no. i…had not.”

she raises her brow just like the other woman did, except her eyebrow was real and also well taken care of. “so what happened? it seems like you’ve forgotten to pick up your medicine three times this year—one of which was during nakamura-san’s surgery?” you are a cardiothoracic surgeon, one that was considered proficient enough to pick her specialty. you are no fool. you can see the trap she’s laid before you even unmedicated.

this is the end. all because of your busy schedule and long hours at the hospital. sometimes you missed pharmacy hours, other times you just forgot about it altogether, mind racing with diagnoses and cases that wait for you the next day. but that won’t matter now, you can feel it before you even answer. they knew what they were going to do before you ever walked in this room. “my business hours are usually reserved for saving lives at this hospital. sometimes i’m not able to make it to pickup.”

“how long until your death toll matches that of your successes, doctor?” the final man at the left asks, punctuating their line of questioning. he shuffles the edges of his papers against the flat top he sits behind. “i think our decision has been reached. you’re no longer licensed to operate in this hospital or any other, effective immediately. take your medicine.”

he has his doubts, but he supposes that is his nature. it feels strange to organize a meeting between two warring sides, hoping for a somewhat amicable and fortuitous outcome. hope is a foreign concept in this world, in suguru geto’s reality. he runs the west side of tokyo—keeping businesses running and funding local projects as well as controlling the streets with his biggest means of profit—guns for hire. he was a local historic monument. a ghost–everyone knew of him but pretended not to. everyone from bar owners to bakeries, lawyers and school teachers alike all under his influence, his pulse on the town. that’s how he knew the rival eastside head planned to make a move on his territory, and he’s been able to orchestrate a negotiation between them based on the opinion of his mentor and right hand man.

traditionally, suguru would eliminate his problem at the source. there’s no need to play politics when you make your own rules. but he trusts wholly in his sacred few, the ones who have been with him since the beginning of his reign, and even before then. suguru’s best friend, satoru gojo was his best assassin and loudest mouth. choso kamo was a younger pup, but loyal and hardworking—very protective. and then there was toji fushiguro, the most valued of all. he’s shown suguru the ropes of this industry while still respecting and protecting him. geto entrusts his life to toji. if the man believes a meeting would be wise, then they’ll have the meeting.

besides, there was no arguing with his logic. if they were able to pull this off, then his men will have free reign in the east, able to expand their territory into shinjuku, and have a working alliance with their only competition. so why was he having second thoughts? he blames satoru and his creepy blue eyes staring at him in the mirror he’s checking himself over in.

“do you not trust me?” he asks the other man, tugging the top half of his too-long black hair into a neat knot. it reveals the long dragon tattoo that creeps up his neck, eyes glowing with anger at whoever looked. his own golden eyes flicker with unease as they survey the only person in the room. suguru hated how opinionated satoru could be at times, and valued it in others. though he usually didn’t know which way he felt until after the fact.

the arctic-haired boy scoffed, kicking himself into stride from his previous position leaning against the wall. “oh i trust you. i just think it’s weird. i mean–toji’s so gung-ho, let’s slaughter ‘em all, and now we’re supposed to believe he’s become a diplomat?”

“i didn’t know you knew what diplomat meant.” suguru comments drily, sidestepping his friend’s critique of their teacher.

satoru shoves his round sunglasses back up his nose to conceal his eye roll. suguru was technically his boss—though he could get away with more than most. “hey, you asked. i just…have a bad feeling about this.” he shrugs–a knock at geto’s door causing both men to go on high alert immediately. satoru reaches for his weapon, always expecting an ambush. such is this way of life.

“geto–sama, the car is ready.” the driver says from the other side of the wood, and satoru relaxes at the realization that it was just ijichi–a man so weak and cowardly that an ambush at his hands would be impossible. suguru releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding onto. he fastens the final button on his shirt, glancing over himself in the mirror once again. he wanted to appear polished and professional in his all black attire—and it worked. he seemed larger than life and as intimidating as ever.

“perfect. i should get going.” he nods to his best friend–who, due to his abrasive and blunt nature, will not be attending this meeting. suguru adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves, strapping his guns to his torso and giving satoru a tight lipped smile. the latter gets the door for him, mockingly saluting.

“i’ll hold down the fort until you get back, boss!” he chirps, nodding to ijichi before making his way back to the data room.

toji meets them in the car. it’s a bulletproof black bronco, a fitting vehicle to cart around a high-profile crime boss. suguru’s confidence is bolstered at the sight of his most trusted companion, and he genuinely smiles as he ducks into the backseat with him.

“hey kid, big day.” the older man says gruffly, his gravelly voice making it sound like he were sixty years his senior instead of a mere fifteen. suguru was no child, and didn’t appear to be one either. the twenty-eight year old man towered over six feet, thick with muscle and riddled with scars of experience, but to toji—suguru was a helpless kitten.

suguru hums, eyes already scanning for potential danger as the car rolls out of the garage. “big day indeed. you’ve spoken to him already this morning?”

toji claps his broad hand down on suguru’s even broader shoulder, chuckling. “we wouldn’t be headin’ out if i hadn’t. sukuna’s ready for us.” he assures, noting how strong and steady suguru looked. toji was proud, geto has grown quite bit from the scrappy little boy he once was. if he was nervous, he was keeping that close to his chest.

“good. i think he’ll find my proposal beneficial for us both.” he nods, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. sukuna’s crew mostly pushed petty crime and even pettier drugs—suguru’s bunch could elevate their product and offer more riches for the notoriously greedy ‘cursed king’ ryomen sukuna.

toji snorts a little, amused by his arrogance. “let’s hope so.” he nods, checking the rearview and windows before they fall into silence.

the ride is smooth due to the expensive tires and ijichi’s careful nature, leaving geto plenty of peace and quiet to brainstorm all of the ways this could go down. he’s doing a genuine good for japan–sure, he has to break a few laws to do it, but the people of tokyo—well, his half anyway—are prospering. he hopes that even the arrogant man that ryomen is can see what banding together would do for them both. then, it could be just a matter of time before he can branch out into the rest of japan.

there’s that word again. hope. he feels silly each time he catches himself using it. it’s akin to faith to him. something ideal in entirety, hardly true to the touch. he only believes in what he can see–things like optimism and god are lost on him, they are only fantasies.

“ijichi! watch the right side—” toji commands gruffly, sitting up straighter in his seat to get a better look. suguru is grounded with a shot of adrenaline, leaning over to peer at the black suv hot on their tails. this highway is busy—civilians in their own cars without a clue in the world littered all over the roads at various speeds. it could be nothing–except geto knows better than to hope that the tinted windows on the car were meant to block out the sun instead of concealing identities. the large suv switches into the left lane, speeding up to catch them. “idiot! step on it!” he calls, and suguru draws one of his guns to be prepared ahead of time, a lesson he learned from the man sitting to his right.

“is it one of sukuna’s?” he asks aloud, cocking his .45 as the first shots ring out from the vehicle beside them. they bounce right off his armored car, but one knicks the tire. geto curses under his breath, cracking the window enough to pop off a few returning shots of his own. the cadillac is impenetrable too–though he had hoped to flatten one of their tires in return or even get one under the hood.

ijichi starts to lose control on the vehicle as the tire blows—just the metal rim scraping against the concrete with a deafening hiss. the bronco starts to fishtail, the car beside them only furthering the inevitable by nudging the rear quarter panel into the median ahead. “i’m losing it! we’re gonna flip!” ijichi cries out in panic, prompting suguru’s eyes to widen.

there’s a loud crunch of metal on concrete before they’re airborne. geto feels a sense of finality wash over him as they turn, his seatbelt the only thing keeping him from breaking his neck. there’s another gross sounding scrape of the driver’s side scraping on the road briefly before they rotate again—heartbeat erratic. this is it. all of his hard work would end in a fiery car accident. he can’t even feel it as his head bounces off the window, only thinking about how satoru was right. he should have appreciated his friend more—he’s probably the only person who will mourn him when he’s gone. the roof caves in when they fall onto it this time, shrapnel scratching his face and making him realize they had stopped. they’re on their back–he’s hanging upside down, but he’s alive. he can smell oil and gas and the inevitable smell of fire, so his numb fingers fumble for the seatbelt’s release button. the car alarms are going off—and he knows if he doesn’t get out soon, the relief of being alive won’t even have time to sink in before it’s ripped away again. he looks around the car—toji’s door ripped off in the accident and his body nowhere to be seen.

“goddammit–” he growls, clicking the button on his seatbelt over and over, unable to get free. there’s a million alarms going off—the car’s sensors, the airbags, the bitter hum of gunshots ringing in his ears still, maybe even faint police sirens heading this way. none as loud as the one in his head telling him that he had to get out soon–fighting until the button finally releases him and he lands with a thud on the sunroof portion of the now mangled bronco. he crawls toward the only exit, toji’s exit, grimacing at the sickening sound of crunching glass digging into his side as he drags himself through it. he thought dying would be more peaceful—that he would be ready for it, even if he hadn’t finished his work yet. in this business, there is no tomorrow, yet he found himself fighting for one. this wouldn’t be the end of him, some sort of voice in the back of his head told him so. it wasn’t his own, in fact he didn’t recognize it—but it made him take the pain and push forward, out of the car and onto the street beside.

the sunset would be prettier under better circumstances, but he’s grateful to see it irregardless. his head hurts, and he can’t look around as fast as he wants to without getting dizzy, that ringing deafening his senses. he sees the cadillac–still on the scene– with a group of men huddled outside of it talking.

he sputters out a cough, clearing his lungs of some of the debris he’s inhaled. it catches their attention—and all geto can process is a pair of dark boots stomping over rubber scraps and glass shards until they’re inches from his face and the legs attached are squatting down to get a better look at him.

“eh, shoulda known you’d survive it if i did.” he grumbles, a voice so unmistakable suguru’s blood stills in his veins. the sole of the man’s boot shoves into suguru’s shoulder, kicking him to his back. “you trust too much kid. why would sukuna negotiate when he could just take from you instead? shame. you coulda been great.” he says, fumbling behind his back for a 9mm piece, the sobering click of the safety and familiar cock of the gun clearing out all the other noises. geto’s too devastated to speak—though he knows there’s nothing he could say. he lived through the accident just to die with the truth: his mentor betrayed him.

bang!

getting shot doesn’t feel like you think it does. it’s white hot and instant, a blistering intensity that tells you you're dying. suguru’s hand flies to cover the damage to his chest, eyes wide in disbelief still. he must have already died and gone to hell. he can’t hear anything now but the ringing of the gun and toji’s sigh.

“meh–just to be sure.” toji yawns, scratching his head with the barrel before turning it back to suguru’s chest.

bang!

it hurts to breathe, but he has to gasp for air either way—bleeding out on the pavement below. the ringing in his ears is replaced by tires spinning out—signifying that the rival crew had left before the cops could arrive. suguru holds his crimson soaked hand up above his face, clenching his jaw. the pain was hitting him in waves, the clawing feeling of glass embedded in his skin mixed with the burn of being shot, the inability to take a deep breath and his growing weakness, he really was dying this time.

no.

that voice again. he’s annoyed by it, but intrigued. why? why not give up? he asks himself, coughing despite the excruciating pain it puts him in and the wetness that seeps out of his mouth—something even he knows is blood.

there’s so much life to live. fight. revenge, love. there’s more for you.

he stares up at the pale outline of the moon hanging in the sky, growing brighter as the sky darkened. revenge. that was something he’d like to see. he didn’t know about the rest of it–but was confused by this…guardian angel of his. is this god? he was a born sinner—far away from anything holy. this must be an imagination of his—yet it was motivating enough to get him to move again. they wrecked just outside of harajuku. he knew of a dive bar under his business portfolio that he could try to get to–he could hang on until satoru found him and got him to the hospital, though that was a whole new set of problems. he had to get moving, the ringing of sirens getting closer by the second.

his vision is blackening and he doesn’t even know how close he is to the bar. his breathing is ragged, everything screaming and aching, body telling him to give up but that voice urging him to keep going. night has settled in fully by now, and he’s thankful for that cover. this area of town is avoided by anyone with good intentions, hence its emptiness at this hour. it couldn’t be too late, 8 pm at the latest, but the only traffic moving through this district are giggly college students and no good drug pushers meeting up with customers in the dark. but it’s reassuring to him, it means he’s getting closer. that’s when the reminiscing hits him. he’s able to see some bright flashing lights—a telltale sign that the bar was just ahead. the shelter of the alleyway gives him some reprieve. maybe if he stops just stopped for a second to catch his breath he’d be able to get to his feet and walk inside, or just getting a phone call in would be enough to save him. he thinks about satoru, how he’d come running as soon as he picked up the phone all while cursing him out for not listening to his warnings sooner. he feels embarrassed that the only person he has to think about is his sarcastic best friend, left to wonder if things would be better or worse if he had a family to think about instead. the last thing he thinks about is that mysterious voice calling out to him to stay awake—but his body is done fighting. all is black.

what better way to end the worst day of your life than getting shitty at the shittiest bar in town? there were probably lots of better options, like conserving your money since you didn’t know where your next source of income would stream from—but that was tomorrow’s problem. tonight’s problem was drinking your sorrows away next to the attractive man buying all your drinks. he was tall and his hair was spiky to look at but you knew it would be soft to the touch–or maybe that’s the vodka talking. his smile was more akin to a smirk rather than a genuine grin. he was trouble. but trouble was buying, so you’d keep batting you lashes and whining about your sorrows so the shots kept coming. the top-shelf vodka the man offers each time is working to its desired effect, numbing the ache in your heart and the bickering thoughts in your brain. it almost cloaks the mildew scent in the air—rose-colored glasses making the nasty blue carpet and hideous wood paneled walls of the bar look like a dream come true. you finally feel light. you almost forget about the man eyeing you like a predator in wait to your left, consciousness floating high in the clouds.

you used to hate drinking. as a surgeon, you need a clear mind at all times. who knew when you’d be called in for an emergency case. well, needed. plus, you’ve always been an angry drunk, overly emotional and yelling constantly. it wasn’t a pleasant sight. not to mention the hangovers, ugh—your long-term psyche had always beaten out the short-term pleasure, but tonight you owed it to yourself to feel as bas as possible tomorrow. that’s why the clouds clear—your light-hearted joy short-lived as the bartender slides you another shot before muttering.

“that’s your last one, doctor.” he tilts his head down, used to serving your fellow surgeon friends when you did have a well-timed night off, though he’s never seen you drunk as the most responsible member of your group, you were always designated driver. not anymore, you’d be lucky to get a text back from any of them now that you were disbarred. maybe that’s what actually makes you mad instead of being cut off. it’s the realization of all the things you’ve really lost–-including the right to drown your sorrows out with a swollen liver.

“what the fuck?? and i know ya heard me talkin’...not a doctor anymore!! so let me have my vodka, i deserve it!” you whine, stretching your upper body over the scratched and chipped wooden bar keeping you from jumping across at his dumb stupid fat neck—

“no can do, miss. you’re over served as is, ‘s my job on the line.” he shakes his head, eyeing the man next to you to get you under control, assuming he knew you better than a few hours of tipsy talking. you scoff at his insinuations–both that you’re too drunk to handle yourself and that this wallet has any sway over your motor-mouth.

“don’t look at him—fucking look at me! i’ll kick your goddamn ass, you know that?” you’re fuming. this is the proverbial straw that broke the hypothetical camel’s back. after the day you’ve had, you’re surprised it took this much to get you this rowdy. how much was one person meant to take anyways? venting out your anger would help you plenty, you think to yourself as you lift your knee up, prepared to crawl over that wooden plank saving that man’s life.

“security!! come get ‘er. she’s wasted.” he scoffs, taking your shot away and making your blood boil even more. “they’ll get an uber for ya. take it easy, doc.” he shakes his head, making you feel remarkably judged all of a sudden, every eye in the place was on you as a guard even bigger than the man next to you drags you off the bar as carefully as he can. you don’t make it easy, kicking and screaming out despite the burning sensation in your cheeks.

“you’re scared of a girl? that’s fucking embarrassing!” you bellow to cloak your own, getting tossed on your feet gently— outside of the dingy building.

“come on, little lady. let’s get you a ride home.” the security guard says, another one of them making their way outside as some sort of backup–like you were some genuine threat. you scoff, folding your arms.

“fuck off—don’t need your shitty help, i’ll get home on my own!” you kick his shin, throwing your hair over your shoulder before marching off into the dead of night.

in one of the worst parts of town.

the cold shocks you awake, the fear putting you on edge and pushing back the drunkenness that fought so hard to claim you. every rustle of the bushes, each twig snapping has your head on a swivel. you just need to make it to your car, though it was daytime when you foolishly parked it a few doors down to avoid the traffic of drunk people leaving later in the evening. you’ve already made half the distance, the connecting alleyway just up ahead.

you don’t make it two hundred feet before everything hits you again—and you’re bawling at your own stupidity. you should have made time to pick up your pills. you wouldn’t have to be worried about being kidnapped or murdered in the middle of the night if you had just taken your medicine. your life if over—and you couldn’t blame anyone but yourself. you’re a mess. you’re nearly gasping for breath already—the dark alley mocks you with long shadows reflecting from the moon and stray cats that hop out of the dumpster just to make you fear the worst. you wipe at your cheeks, desperately sniffling to try to regain your senses, eyes aching from the downpour. you’re constantly looking over your shoulder to make sure you’re not being followed, entirely too focused on what’s behind you to notice the log in front of you—you’re sent flying over it and towards the pavement. luckily you take the impact on your shoulder, nothing more than a shocked, “ow–” leaving your lips before you realize you’re not hurt at all thanks to your coat absorbing the brunt of it.

it’s just another strike of your famous luck then, something annoying enough to inconvenience you on a day chock full of them, but not enough to take you down. you push to your hands and knees, looking back towards the offending log—only to realize it’s breathing and has long dark hair strewn about its head. you gasp–the fog muddying up your senses clearing instantly at the realization that this was no log, but some severely injured man! you can hear his struggling breaths, springing into action immediately. it’s nearly second nature to you as you push his hair out of his face and away from his neck. it’s much too dark for you to make out specifics–but his chin shines with something you can only imagine is blood, the same wet liquid pooling in front of his torso, the man laying on his side in an almost fetal position.

“sir–can you hear me?” you try, placing your fingers where his heartbeat should be. it’s weak and much too slow, but it’s there. you can save him. “sir what happened to you? what’s your name?” you ask loudly, trying to get him to wake up. you groan when he doesn’t respond, blindly fumbling around for the wounds. your heart is racing, any slowness from the alcohol was killed by the adrenaline consuming you now. you gasp out again when you feel glass shards and bullet holes, a good fifteen minutes away from home even if you step on it. you’re not sure if this man has fifteen minutes left in him—the reasonable part of your brain telling you to call the emergency line to get him helped. though, they’d take just as long to show up despite how serious his wounds are. “you’re gonna have to help me a little, big guy.” you groan even louder, trying to put him on his back. it would jostle him less and was the only shot you had at getting a man of his size back to your vehicle on your own.

you swear you hear him chuckle, but perhaps you were still a bit tipsy. you grab his hands, trying to be careful of the one riddled with glass, situating them in your own at the best leverage point. you’re strong—you can do this. you need to feel useful again–and this man needs to be saved. he’s so heavy, nothing but dead weight as you tug him along behind you. you have to bend a little and pray that your legs can make it to your car, just a final push to get to safety.

you’re grateful when you see your mom-mobile waiting for you. this was your ambulance, and you were running out of time and the strength to keep pulling, gnawing nervously on your lip. what if he died anyway? what if you couldn’t save him at all, and were only chasing highs you’d never feel again?

no. you’re skilled. if you couldn’t save this man then… the truth was that no one could. so determination overrides your anxiety for the time being, and you pop the trunk of your sporty suv, looking down at the man with a heart sigh. “okay–i can do it. what are ya, 200, 220?” you muse, squatting down and fixing him over your shoulders as best you could—a fireman’s carry of sorts. your hips and thighs should support you more than your exhausted arms, so you heave up with a strangled grunt. you throw him in a little harder than intended, grimacing. “sorry!” you huff, circling to your driver’s side. at least he’s in, even if your arms are jello and you know you’ll have to get him in the house somehow. you aren’t even thinking about how his blood will stain your tan interior—the rush of saving a life quieting any background noise in your mind. “you gotta hang in there. hang in there, please.” you mumble, weaving through traffic.

you back up as close to your garage as possible, trying to think ahead for anything that could make this easier on yourself. you throw the car in park, hurrying to get him out of the back. he’s running out of time, and a surgical god you may be–but there’s only so many miracles you can call in. you get him in the same hold from earlier yet you let his feet touch the ground, muscles burning at the exercise. you have to breathe in short bursts, crushed by his heaviness, adrenaline helping you accomplish something you normally wouldn’t be capable of. you stumble with him, still half dragging him. it’s a battle you’re worried you might lose, but you get him on your dining room table, splayed out like a gurney. then you’re prepping your OR, getting the lights on, all the tools and dressings you would need, and most importantly—scrubbing in. infection would kill him if you weren’t careful now.

“you stumbled into the right hands, mister. or well…i guess i stumbled over you–but you get the point.” you roll your eyes at yourself and glove up, stretching the vinyl over your fingers and flexing them, all part of your pre-op routine. you get your first good look at him then. he’s terribly hurt, it really is even worse than you thought. bullet holes and all this blunt trauma–he must have endured something horrific. but beneath all the bruising marring his olive skin, you can tell that he’s a beautiful man. his inky hair gleams under your bright dining room lights, somehow looking silky despite the tangles bunched up throughout the mane. you sigh, turning your attention to the blood soaked shirt he had on–two perfectly round entrance piercing his front, but no exit wounds. in his case, it was probably saving his life, those bullets possibly lodged in important arteries—scary, but better than bleeding out. he’s already lost quite a bit of blood–and it’s not like you have any history on him to know what type he is. there’s no time to worry about tests–you’d have to get your emergency stash of o negative. it was universal–your own blood that you kept on hand in case of the worst. it looks like this is it. you flawlessly install the iv, watching the slow stream shoot through the clear iv catheter and into his body. it helps with his paleness after a few minutes, and you smile in relief. this was a good sign. you rip his shirt with the last remaining strength you’ve got left, buttons flying to expose extremely bruised ribs and those gaping bullet wounds. “this isn’t gonna feel great, i’m sorry.” you grab your cheap bottle of house vodka, taking another shot from it to steady your nerves before pouring a decent amount over his chest. “i have to get in here—i’m happy you can’t feel it–now, anyway.” you take a deep breath and reach for your scalpel. you decide to perform a sternotomy—cutting between his breast plate to the web of arteries beneath. “i can see the bullets. you’re gonna make it.” you whisper, more encouragement for yourself than for him. your retractors keep his chest open for you wide enough for you to get your forceps in, aiming to pull out a bullet out of a vein close to his heart. “it missed the aorta. you’re actually really lucky.” you chuckle humorlessly.

you wedge your forceps in and take a deep breath. it’s not the aorta, but it will spew blood anyway. “not my preferred method of grafting—no catheters here but. i gotta fix it somehow.” you growl a little in annoyance. you have to squint and move slowly, but you’re able to repair the first leak with a shifty little graft. you’re onto the next one, dropping the offending metal into a bowl—complete with a little clink. “we’ll get you to the hospital just to check my work, yeah?” you sigh, hoping that this would be good enough to save his life. your hands steady over the second bullet, and you repeat the same motions as before. you’re relieved at the sight of his heart literally beating underneath your working hands, knowing that he’s still fighting for his life. you remove the second one and get out of his body—sewing up his chest, letting the blood bag refill his own supply until the bag is drained. you push some saline to clean out the line before hanging a bag of morphine, the pain this mystery man would wake up to would be excruciating.

once you’re done with the intense life-saving measures, you sit in a chair to pluck the glass from his skin and apply ointments to the road rash on his face and arms. it takes another hour or so of work, but you don’t mind. it’s strangely relaxing to feel like you’re doing your job, and it’s so rewarding when you check his pulse every ten minutes to find it getting stronger and stronger. you hate that you hadn’t invested in a stat monitor, having to check his blood pressure the old fashioned way, but that looked like it was perking up too. you grin, proud of yourself. losing your license didn’t mean you lost your touch. you decide to get the glass and rubble out of his hair, pulling it back away from his face for a second time tonight. you take another lengthy look at the man you’ve saved, still grimacing at the ugly bruises and scrapes when something else catches your eye. the man had several tattoos that seemed unremarkable at first, different dark lines tangling into patterns you didn’t recognize. but the dragon creeping from his collarbone to peek over the collar of his shirt—it’s a yakuza trademark. this man wasn’t a poor soul caught up in a tragic accident—this was a dangerous man. you just saved the life of a war-monger, countless lives ended due to his line of work. part of you wants to open his chest back up and make your grafts fail—but the other part of you wants to feel the success course through your veins when he wakes up. besides, what makes a surgeon and what makes a gang lackey? is it a good childhood? morals? options? who’s to say this man had killed anyone? god knows you wouldn’t want to be judged based off of a few sneak peeks. you sigh, piddling off to your room to get him some new clothes.

it’s invasive, changing a stranger. but you’re at fifth base already right? saving his life gave you a get out of jail free card, even if he was in the most dangerous crime syndicate in japan. you get his matted jeans off, making yourself look up at the ceiling in modesty and respect. you shimmy the plaid pajama pants up his body–thankful that your ex never came back for his stuff. you decide against wrestling a shirt around all the bandages on his arms and chest—knowing you could hurt him just as much as you’ve helped. you decide to try your luck one last time, pushing your table the short distance to your living room to let him rest on something more comfortable than the cold marble slab. it’s an easy shove to get him onto the couch, and you finally take a deep breath and sigh it all out. success is sweet–surgery is exhausting. you pull a little blanket over him, setting hourly alarms to check on your patient until he wakes.

he wakes up to the smell of something cooking. the light pouring in from the curtain makes him squint–definitely a sharp adjustment from the darkness that consumed him before. he hears a woman humming a few rooms away, only furthering his confusion. he didn’t die? but how…he didn’t call anyone, and he knows no one in that area would willingly bring the sirens in to help him–and where exactly was he? all of these things hit him at once, but nothing harder than the deep ache in his bones. he couldn’t describe it, something so sharp and throbbing he could hardly get his body to obey his mind’s orders to move.

sitting up is pure hell. every red flag and stop sign goes off, making him grunt in agony. but he knows he has to get going–get out of whatever trap he’s got himself into. he doesn’t recognize the room–for all he knows, sukuna’s men followed him and have him here to torture.

but that woman’s voice, he knows it. that doesn’t mean this isn’t a trap still. the humming stops, and footsteps pad closer until a bright face pokes into the room, an ‘o’ shape forming on her face before she enters–complete with a plate of food.

“you’re awake–” you gasp in surprise. you had just come to do your rounds, deciding that eating with him would help you better watch out. you weren’t expecting him to already be up and at ‘em, he must be very strong. though you still notice how rigid he’s holding himself. “you really should lie down, you…” he cranes his sore neck, flashing you a glimpse of that black ink. you suddenly remember just how dangerous he is, and he looks like a dog backed into a corner, narrow black eyes sizing you up—distrust all over his feline features.

“who do you work for?” he tilts his head to one side, and your brows furrow in confusion, oh–he was worried you worked for a rival. you shake your head, eager to defend yourself.

“n-no one, no one right now!” you blurt out, anxiously shifting your weight foot to foot. you look down at the breakfast in your hands, holding it out for him to take instead. “here! eat, as a sign of my goodwill.”

he analyzes the plate, then looks back up at you–peacocking his shoulders back and hissing at the pain the stretch brought him. now you know just how weak he is—and he can’t make another target out of himself. “i hope you know i will have you killed if you’re lying.”

despite the way his glare makes your skin crawl and the hair at the base of your neck stand up, you can’t help but laugh at that. “i wouldn’t lie. i saved your life, why would i waste my time?” you shove the plate out further, basically putting it in his hands–one still heavily bandaged from dragging himself through the wreckage.

he takes the plate from you. if he’s shocked by that, he doesn’t show it. he only watches you as he eats your food, grunting in pain every so often. you took the iv out while he slept, not sure how he’d react when he woke up to wires. “i uh…i have medicine…for the pain.”

“who are you?” he returns without a second passing. he takes another reluctant bite of food, stomach growling in thanks.

you tell him your name, stealing a few glances at the heavy furrow of his brow. “you were badly hurt. i am a doctor..so i helped repair what i could. you should recover. i imagine you need to lay low?” you ask with a raised brow, betraying your intellect. he knows you must have some idea of who he is. “you can stay here as long as you need. you might want to shower–but you’ll…probably need some help.”

his expression shifts before your very eyes. his clenched jaw and steel brow relaxes into a soft look of…gratitude? truthfully, he was baffled. a doctor stumbled upon him, realized that he’s a criminal, saved him anyway—and now offers her home? he almost worries about how naive you really must be—but he owes you a debt he can never repay. you have given him a second chance—made revenge possible when he had given up completely. “thank you, little ebi. i will take up your gracious offer.” he nods, smiling kindly.

you smile, heart going awol inside your chest. it was the right thing to do, he was injured and needed to be cared for. you’re a doctor who suddenly has a lot of time on her hands. it means nothing–but that you still have empathy left in you. you know you’re close to shaking, but you turn to leave before it can show. “i’ll grab you a change of clothes. don’t move too much until i get back.” you hum, and he hums in acknowledgement.

he’s rather polite for a yakuza, his refined calmness even in the most dire of situations rubs off on you easily—you hold your head high as you pilfer through the tote of clothes your ex left behind, trying to find something for the big scary man in the living room. you finally decide on a plain black t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. you even nab some of those painkillers you offered earlier, hoping to ease that stiffness he carries himself with to mask his suffering.

but when you get back to the living room the only thing waiting for you is the empty breakfast plate and a few hundred dollar bills—your curtains blowing in the harsh wind. your heart sinks for an unknown reason, and you tell yourself it’s because your patient wasn’t dressed for the cold.

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