#that old man? complicated child | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mononijikayu · 4 months ago

Text

the other woman — ryomen sukuna.

“Do not mistake this for affection.” he warned, his voice low and rough. “I am still who I am. I am still the monster you should fear.” But you could only nod, your heart aching with a mixture of sorrow and hope. “I know,” you whispered. “I know, but I’m still here.” And for the first time, you thought you saw a hint of softness in his eyes, a flicker of something that could almost be… understanding. Maybe, just maybe, you were starting to reach him, one fragile step at a time.

GENRE: alternate universe - heian era;

WARNING/S: nsfw, angst, one sided romance, conflicted feelings, hurt/no comfort, unhappy marriage, hurt, physical touch, character death, mourning, loneliness, pain, grief, unhappy ending, depiction of one-sided relationship, depiction of grief, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of illness, depiction of canon related violence, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, mention of illness, mention of loneliness, heian! sukuna, long suffering concubine! reader;

WORD COUNT: 11k words

NOTE: this was always going to be long, because it's heartbreaking. and heartbreaking ones have to be something that has to be expressed well. i listened to this in a audio software like its a podcast and i actually liked it. the other woman by nina simone was the constant in the writing. also, this is the aftermath of ashes of love, which is a series i did about heian sukuna. anyway, i hope you enjoy this!!! i love you all <3

main masterlist

the other woman masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

══════════════════

YOU KNEW THAT YOU WERE THIS UNLUCKY. The moment you were born, there would be a bleak fate for you to live. You were an accidental child, and multiple times, your own mother had nearly miscarried. Perhaps even as a fetus, you had always known this. How cursed you were. Even if you had done nothing.

When your mother brushed your hair as a child, she would tell you of how you were born. She said that when you breathed the air for the first time, you were melancholic in the silence to the world. Somehow knew that you were built for this miserable world. And every day since that day, you knew. You were meant to live life without true joyous jubilation.

It did not help that the day you were born, there was a lone dark star in the morning sky, one which had been considered a bad omen. And with that, the whispers of fate echoing long before you had even had consciousness to know. Your village nestled in the shadowed valleys of Hida province, a place of whispered dread and ancient pacts. And for the longest of times, the once prosperous Hida province was in turmoil.

And so, in those days, if there was anyone who controlled the ruins of Hida, it was that god-like curse user Ryomen Sukuna. His name alone was a talisman against the unknown horrors that lurked beyond the mountains, a deity whose power and wrath commanded fear and reverence in equal measure. And all either quivered at the sight of him or drew fanatic fervor.

The Ryomen clan, his kin at one point, were at war—embroiled in brutal conflicts with neighboring clans for so long. And this had been going on before you were even born. The blood had soaked the earth for so long that the soil seemed to thirst for it. And the people were exhausted.

The clan struggled to maintain control over Hida for a long time now, their influence fraying like an old tapestry torn at the seams. And with that, a power vacuum had long been in existence. The chaos of the era was a tide that threatened to drown them all, and Ryomen Sukuna's protection became the last fragile hope for those who called this land their home.

Your parents spoke in hushed voices of the offerings, the sacrifices made by the villagers to appease their god, the man who can save them, this man to fear and worship, Ryomen Sukuna. To ensure his protection, they said. For years, the sacrifices continued, the chosen ones becoming mere footnotes in a history written in blood and fear.

It came upon you rather quickly when you were young and it struck you—that the villagers saw you not as one of their own, but as a piece on a board, a pawn destined for slaughter. A sacrifice to their god. You would be among the countless, one more life to be cast into the jaws of the demon god they all feared.

The day of your sacrifice came as the sky was painted with hues of blood and gold, a cruel irony that did not escape you. The air was heavy with incense and prayer, but there was no comfort in their muttered words, no solace in the chants that pleaded for Sukuna's mercy. They adorned you in ceremonial robes, marked with symbols and sigils, your skin painted with the sacred ink that was supposed to cleanse your soul before the offering.

You were led through the village, a procession of death that seemed to stretch on forever. The eyes that watched you pass were filled with a mixture of pity and relief—relief that it was not them, not their child, not their blood that would be spilled today. Mothers held their children close, men bowed their heads, and the elders chanted in a low, continuous hum that sent shivers down your spine.

At the shrine, they bound you to the altar, thick ropes biting into your skin as you stared at the sky, searching for a sign, a miracle that never came. The high priest began his incantation, his voice rising above the murmur of the crowd. You could feel the cold seep into your bones, the air around you thickening as if the very world held its breath.

And then, you felt it—the shift in the air, the heavy presence that pressed against your chest like a vice. You had never seen him before, but you knew it was Sukuna. The villagers gasped, a collective intake of breath as his form materialized from the shadows, a figure cloaked in malice and power.

His eyes, crimson and unforgiving, swept over you like a cold blade. You felt your heart hammer against your ribcage, fear clawing at your throat. You were nothing to him, just another offering, another desperate plea from a village clinging to survival.

Ryomen Sukuna smiled, a slow, cruel smile that sent a tremor through the crowd. He stepped forward, each movement a ripple in the air, as if reality itself bent to his will. You met his gaze, defiant in your fear, knowing that you were one of many. Countless lives had been given to him, countless souls lost to his hunger.

And now, it was your turn.

══════════════════

YOU HAD NEVER EXPECTED TO MEET THE MAN IN THE FLESH. But before you stood this man, this god, with dark crimson eyes. Taller than any tree, intimidating than any curse. Frightening than hell itself. You could remember when you were younger. The whispers reached you before you even stepped foot in the shrine, everyone has. Tales of Ryomen Sukuna had traveled through the villages like the wind, carrying with them rumors that were both terrifying and tragic.

You had always known that the man was delighted with the worship of the human people. But they said he had taken no other concubines, that he showed no interest in any woman who dared come near him.

And if he did, they were more likely to be servants than anything close to a concubine. And some were not so lucky. Some spoke in hushed tones, their voices trembling with fear, that he was a monster of unspeakable debauchery, one who had killed the women for even daring to breathe in his presence.

But the truth, as you had come to understand it, was far more tragic. At least from how you see it. The people of Hida knew—oh, they believed—the story was told long ago. There was someone who had been so loved long ago and most of all, by Sukuna.

Ryomen Hiromi, the one who had captured Sukuna's heart, the one he had loved beyond reason. There was another Sukuna a long time ago, many were aware. But there was nothing proven.

If anything, the children of Hiromi reject any notion of such a relationship. But the tale was woven into the very fabric of tales told, whispered among the elders late at night and shared in riddles among the children who barely understood the weight of what they spoke.

Hiromi, they said, had been his sun, his moon, his stars. A woman of beauty and strength, whose laughter could calm the wildest storms and whose voice was like the sweetest song. She had been the only one to ever touch his heart, to see the man beneath the demon god. But she was gone now, lost to time and tragedy, leaving Ryomen Sukuna to languish in his grief.

No one dared speak her name aloud, not when Sukuna’s rage could split the earth itself. People have seen it. It was said he mourned her loss every day, that his fury was born from the emptiness she left behind. And that was why he would not tolerate any other woman. No one was going to be like her. None would match her wit, her beauty. Why should the king of curses settle for less when he had the world?

As you lay on the cold altar, the ropes cutting into your skin, your thoughts were consumed by the stories. What kind of man—no, what kind of creature—was Sukuna? You wonder about this paradox of a man, this creature like god.

Did he truly mourn, or was that just another tale spun by terrified villagers to make him seem more human? What was he, actually? You had a million questions, and you know they will never truly be answered.

A gust of wind stirred the trees around you, the leaves rustling like whispered secrets. You heard the shuffle of feet, felt the eyes of the villagers upon you, their fear palpable. Then, you heard his voice. You could feel it all, that powerful cursed energy, coming from one direction. For a moment, you had no words. Only uncertainty.

"Why do they send another?" Sukuna's voice was like a low growl, rumbling through the air with the force of a storm. "Do you think I am so easily appeased, you fools?"

You dared to lift your head, the ropes pulling at your skin as you met his crimson gaze. He was tall, imposing, and every bit as terrifying as the stories had painted him. But there was something else there—something in his eyes that spoke of deep, simmering pain.

"Do you truly want to know why they sent me?" you found yourself saying, your voice steady despite the fear clawing at your throat.

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you thought he might strike you down then and there. But he didn’t. Instead, he tilted his head, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Speak, then, girl." he said. "Tell me why I should not turn you to dust where you lie."

You swallowed, gathering your courage. "They send me because they fear you, because they believe you will protect them if they give you what you want. But… no one knows what you truly want, do they? No one speaks of her. Of Hiromi."

His expression shifted, a shadow passing over his face, and you knew you had struck a nerve. The air grew colder, a chill that seemed to seep into your very bones.

"Hiromi is dead." he said, his voice quiet but filled with an edge that could cut through steel. "And no one speaks her name. It is what I command.”

"But you still mourn her…." you continued, unable to stop yourself. "Do you not, my lord?”

His dark gaze bore into you, the weight of it almost unbearable. For a long moment, he said nothing, and the silence stretched on like an eternity. Then, slowly, he laughed—a sound that was bitter and hollow.

"You dare ask?" he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. "What do you know of it all, little one? What do you know about such a life lived?"

You felt a tremor run through you, but you did not look away. "I know enough, my lord." you replied softly. "I know enough to see that your anger is not born of hatred, but of grief."

Sukuna's cruel smile quickly faded, and for a brief moment, you thought you saw something in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability, quickly swallowed by the darkness. He hated how you said it, you know it too well. But there was no other choice. You were here for a purpose and you must fulfill it. You must.

"You are bold, little one." he murmured. "Bold….for someone so close to death."

"Perhaps, my lord." you whispered back to him. "But if I am to die, I would rather die knowing who you truly are, rather than the monster they say you are."

He stared at you for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, he stepped closer, so close that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the power that thrummed through him like a thunder strike.

"Then you are a fool, little one." he said quietly. "For believing that I am anything more than a monster."

But there was something in his voice, something that made you wonder if perhaps… he wished you were right.

For the meantime, you were lucky to have your life, despite speaking so boldly, despite saying her name aloud—the name that everyone else dared not utter. Sukuna’s silence stretched on, his crimson eyes still locked onto yours, unreadable, cold yet burning with something darker beneath the surface. He could have ended you with a flick of his wrist, reduced you to ashes for your insolence. And yet, he did not.

He leaned closer, the edges of his form blurring into the shadows that seemed to ripple around him like stabbing waves in the ocean. His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. You felt your heart pound in your chest, each beat a drum that signaled your fragile hold on life.

“Perhaps you are simply foolish. Many have died for far less than what you dared to speak.” Sukuna finally said, his voice low, almost contemplative. “Huh, you speak brashly.”

The villagers around you seemed to hold their breath, waiting for his judgment. They looked at you with a mixture of horror and awe, unable to believe you were still alive after uttering the forbidden name. You, a mere sacrifice, a lamb thrown to the wolf, had survived what so many others had not.

“Why do you think I will let you live?” Sukuna’s voice cut through the tense silence, his tone curious, but with a dangerous edge. “Do you think I find you interesting? Amusing? Or perhaps I see something of her in you, something worth sparing?”

You swallowed hard, the reality of your situation settling in. You had survived speaking out of turn, but you were still bound to this altar, still at the mercy of a being who could destroy you on a whim. Yet, something in his words gave you pause, a flicker of something unspoken that lingered just beneath his surface.

“I do not presume to know your reasons, my lord.” you replied carefully, choosing each word like a step on thin ice. “But if you see something of her in me… then perhaps I am not so different from you after all.”

Sukuna’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing. “Not so different?” He laughed, a sound that was both mirthful and bitter, filled with a deep, aching emptiness. “You compare yourself to me? To Ryomen Sukuna? You are a child, a mere mortal who knows nothing of gods or demons, of love that scorches the soul and burns the world to ash.”

“And yet…..” you dared to continue, feeling the tightness in your chest. “If my lord felt nothing, you wouldn’t care enough to be angry… or to remember.”

He stiffened, and for a moment, his expression faltered. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, his aura flickering like a candle flame caught in a strong wind. You sensed that you were dancing on a razor’s edge, but you could not stop now. There was something here, something raw and real beneath the monstrous exterior.

“Enough.” Sukuna hissed, his voice a sharp command. The air grew colder, and you felt a shiver run down your spine. “You dare much, human. Too much.”

You pressed your lips together, bracing yourself for the inevitable blow, the moment when his patience would finally snap. But instead, Sukuna’s lips curled into a faint smile, one that did not reach his eyes.

“Perhaps I will spare you.” he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself. “If only to see how long that fire burns before it is extinguished. Or perhaps to see if you will end up like the rest—broken, hollow, pleading for mercy where there is none.”

He turned away from you then, his back a wall of power and darkness, his form towering against the dim light of the shrine. The villagers started, stunned, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You will reside in my temple.” Sukuna commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You will remain there, under my watch. Let them see what comes of those who speak of things best left forgotten.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, a mixture of fear and shock. They did not understand why he had spared you, why you, of all people, were allowed to live. Perhaps they thought you were cursed, or perhaps they thought Sukuna had some darker plan in mind. But you knew better. You knew that, in some small way, you had touched on a wound that had never healed, a scar buried deep beneath his monstrous exterior.

And as Sukuna vanished into the shadows, you realized that your fate was no longer in the hands of the villagers, or even in the hands of the gods they prayed to. No, your fate was now bound to his—a god who mourned like a man, a monster who remembered what it was to love.

══════════════════

IN A WAY, IT IS NOT SO BAD, BEING HIS CONCUBINE. You spent your days in isolation, your life confined within the walls of Sukuna's palace. You were nothing more than a servant, though they called you a concubine. The title meant little, for you were given no special privileges, no adornments, no tokens of affection.

But it was a life. Your life. And it lived in some comfort, more than what is experienced by the rest of Hida province. You had multiple meals a day, you had rooms to yourself and even servants that address every bit of your needs.

Still, your world was small, your days filled with the quiet tending of the gardens, watching the shifting sky as the hours bled into one another. The flowers you nurtured became your only friends, their petals a fragile comfort against the cold indifference that surrounded you.

Perhaps the peace came from the fact that you did not see Sukuna often, and when you did, his gaze never lingered on you for long. He had no interest, no affection, no fondness to spare. You were simply there, like a shadow in the corner of his realm.

A figure lost amidst the vast emptiness of his domain. And perhaps that was for the best. It was better than being forced into Sukuna’s bed. You think that all women in the harem think that it was better that way.

But slowly, ever so slowly, something changed. His dark scarlet eyes began to linger, just a fraction longer than before. You felt the weight of his gaze like a chill running down your spine.

The other servants noticed it too, their whispers growing louder, bolder. You finally caught his attention. But it wasn’t because he had come to care for you, to see you as anything more than the nothing you were.

No, the truth was much crueler than that.

You were a spitting image of Ryomen Hiromi, the woman who haunted his every step, the ghost who lived in the shadows of his mind. At least that’s what the people say. But you did not want to believe them. Yet, looking at the murals at the glass gardens, the resemblance was uncanny.

It was obvious somehow. It was similar, everything. Your eyes, your hair, the curve of your smile. Every feature, every gesture seemed to remind him of her. And though you knew you could never be her, you had become a cruel echo, a reflection of something he had long lost.

And soon enough, the people talked. Of course, they did. They always talked. You tried to shut them out, but the more they whispered, the more people listened. And the more they listened, the more people spoke.

“She reminds him of Hiromi, I am certain!” they whispered. “She is nothing but a shadow, a poor replacement for the one he truly loved. She lives in her image, as if she could ever hope to fill her place.”

You became the other woman, even when you didn’t want to be. No, not even that. You were a pale imitation, a mockery of a woman who had captured the heart of the king of curses. Every glance Ryomen Sukuna spared you was not a look of admiration or desire—it was the gaze of a man staring into the past, into a memory that was forever out of reach.

And so, you lived your life as another woman. No, the other woman. To a dead woman. To a love that had died long ago, but never truly left.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, when the silence was so thick it pressed against your skin like a heavy shroud, you would wonder about her. About Ryomen Hiromi. Who was she, really? What had she meant to him, this fearsome god, this creature of darkness who now watched you as if searching for something he had lost in her eyes, now reflected in yours.

He never spoke of her. He does not want to. He does not dare to. Not to you, not to anyone. Some servants have been here longer than you and they have seen people killed over even a mumble of a prayer for the lady. And so you don’t ask.

Not even when there were times he would come closer, when his dark eyes lingered on your face, searching, always searching. Yet he will never truly find it. He knew this, as much as you did. But it was as if he was trying to see her again, trying to find her in your skin, in your voice, in the way you moved through the gardens like she once had, perhaps. It was hope, a foolish hope. And yet you cannot escape this foolish hope.

The weight of her memory suffocated you. You were not allowed to be yourself, to have your own name, your own identity. You were always, always compared to her, measured against a ghost that you could never be, never touch. And Sukuna, with his cold gaze and his empty eyes, reminded you of it every day.

"You’re not her, little one." he said once, his voice low, more to himself than to you, as if testing a truth he could not fully accept. “You’ll never be her.”

His words cut deeper than any blade, leaving you with the bitter taste of something unnameable, something that tasted like defeat, or perhaps longing, or perhaps both. You had never wished to be her, to be anyone but yourself. But here, in his domain, under his shadow, you were not allowed that freedom.

You were trapped, forever bound to a life that was not your own, in the shadow of a dead woman who would never release you, and a man who could never let her go.

Days bled into nights, a blur of routine and solitude, and you began to feel like a ghost yourself, haunting the corners of Sukuna's palace, where life seemed to move around you but never through you. The servants kept their distance, wary of your resemblance, as if fearing you might be some ill omen, cursed to echo the tragedy of the past.

And Sukuna… he watched you, always watching, his eyes a deep crimson that saw too much and yet revealed nothing. He was like a storm contained within the fragile walls of the palace, his presence a force of nature that you could neither escape nor fully comprehend. His mood was mercurial; one day, he would barely acknowledge you, and the next, his gaze would linger on you, heavy with something you couldn’t name.

“Do you enjoy the garden?” he asked one afternoon, his tone deceptively casual, as if he were simply inquiring about the weather.

You glanced up, surprised that he had addressed you at all. He rarely spoke directly to you, even when his eyes seemed to follow your every movement. “I do,” you replied, careful, measured. “It is quiet there. Peaceful.”

“Quiet…peaceful.” he repeated, almost as if tasting the word. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. “Yes, she liked the quiet too. Always wandering among the flowers. Trees too. She’d like that then.”

You stiffened at the mention of her, the ghost you lived with every day, who lingered in every corner of this place. “I am not her, my lord.” you said, a tremor in your voice. You had repeated these words to yourself countless times, but they sounded fragile, almost insignificant when spoken aloud.

Sukuna's expression did not change. If anything, his gaze grew sharper, like a blade pressed against your skin. “No, little one.” he agreed softly, almost mockingly, “You are not her. But you will do… for now.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, refusing to let him see the fear that coiled within you, like a snake waiting to strike. “Why do you keep me here?” you dared to ask, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Why do you watch me as if you expect me to become someone else?”

He laughed then, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “You misunderstand, little one. I do not expect you to become her. I know you never can. But you… remind me of her. And that is enough… for now.”

The way he said it, the way his eyes darkened with something unreadable, made your blood run cold. You were nothing more than a stand-in, a living, breathing reminder of something he had lost. A cruel joke played by fate, a shadow dancing in the place of the one who truly mattered. To be kept alive, your village kept alive — because you look like a ghost.

“I am not a replacement, my lord.” you insisted, your voice firmer this time, surprising even yourself with the strength behind it. “I hope my lord knows that I will not live my life as a mere echo.”

His smile faded, his expression turning serious. “You think you have a choice?” he asked, leaning in closer, his face so near to yours that you could feel the warmth of his breath. “You are here because I allow it. You exist at my whim, not because of who you are, but because of who you resemble. Do not mistake this for anything more than it is.”

The reality of his words hit you like a blow, the finality of it sinking deep into your bones. You were nothing to him, nothing but a passing fancy, a painful reminder of a past he could not reclaim.

“I am not her, my lord.” you repeated, your voice shaking with defiance, with a spark of something that refused to be extinguished. “And I will not be her for you. You must understand.”

For a moment, something flickered in Sukuna's eyes, something almost like surprise, perhaps even respect. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the cold, unfeeling mask he always wore.

“Brave words, little one.” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “But words mean little here, in my domain. You will learn that soon enough.”

He turned away from you then, leaving you standing alone in the empty hall, your heart pounding in your chest, your hands trembling at your sides. The silence closed in around you, heavy and oppressive, and you knew that nothing had changed. You were still trapped, still living in the shadow of a dead woman, still bound to the whims of a god who mourned like a man.

And yet, deep inside, something stirred—a flicker of defiance, of hope. You might be a ghost to him, a reflection of a lost love, but you were still alive. You were still you, and as long as you drew breath, you would not allow yourself to be consumed by his shadows. Not without a fight.

Time passed slowly in Sukuna’s palace, and with it, your heart began to change. You did not notice it at first; how could you? Day after day, the monotonous routine of your existence lulled you into a sort of numbness. The gardens became your refuge, the sky your solace.

Yet even as you tried to find comfort in these simple pleasures, you found your thoughts wandering back to him—Ryomen Sukuna, the fearsome god, the monster, the man who mourned like a human.

At first, you hated him, hated him for what he represented, for what he had made you into: a replacement, a mere shadow of someone who had meant everything to him. But as you watched him, as the days turned to weeks and weeks to months, you began to see more.

You began to notice the things others did not—the subtle tension in his jaw when he was angry, the way his eyes softened just a fraction when he spoke of her, the quiet moments when he thought no one was looking, and the mask slipped, just a little.

You were in the garden one afternoon, trimming the roses, when you heard footsteps approaching. Sukuna rarely came to the garden, but today he seemed restless, pacing along the paths with a dark expression on his face. He stopped by the old cherry blossom tree, his eyes distant, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Without thinking, you moved closer. "Is something troubling you, my lord?" you asked quietly, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. You had learned not to provoke him, to keep your words soft and your gaze steady.

Sukuna looked at you sharply, as if surprised you had dared to speak. "Why do you care?" he snapped, his tone harsh, but you had seen the flicker of something else—a fleeting vulnerability, perhaps? “Such matters are none for you to care about, little one.”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I see you every day, my lord.” you replied softly. “I see how you… struggle over something. And I cannot help but… care.”

He scoffed, but it was a hollow sound. “Care?” he echoed, almost mockingly. “You think you understand me, mortal? You think you can comprehend the depths of what I am, of what I have lost?”

You bowed your head, feeling the sting of his words but refusing to back down. “I don’t pretend to understand, my lord.” you murmured. “But I see the pain in your eyes, the way you linger in places she once loved, the way you… look at me.”

He was silent for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then he turned away, his shoulders tense, his hands unclenching. “You are a fool, little one.” he muttered, almost too softly for you to hear. “A fool to think you can feel anything for me.”

And maybe you were a fool. A fool to care for a man who did not care for you, who saw you only as a shadow of someone else. But you could not help it. You could not stop the way your heart ached when you saw him, the way your breath caught when he looked at you with those sad, tired eyes.

Day by day, you found yourself drawn to him, not by his power or his beauty, but by the quiet moments when he thought no one was watching. The moments when his face softened, and you saw the man beneath the monster, the man who had loved so deeply and lost so terribly.

You saw the cracks in his armor, the places where he had been wounded, and you wanted, desperately, to reach out and touch them, to soothe the pain you knew he carried.

You found yourself thinking of him when you were alone, wondering what had made him this way, what had broken him so completely. You imagined him before all of this, before the darkness, before the loss, and you felt a strange, deep sorrow for the man he might have been.

One evening, as you were leaving the garden, you saw him standing by the cherry blossom tree again, his face turned upward, staring at the pale blooms against the darkening sky. He looked so lonely, so unbearably alone, that you felt your heart tighten in your chest.

Without thinking, you approached him, moving slowly, cautiously, as if approaching a wounded animal. “My lord, look.” you said softly, and he did not turn away. “The blossoms… they’re beautiful this year.”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “Hiromi loved them.” he said quietly, his voice thick with something you could not quite name. “Fond of them.”

You nodded, your heart aching for him. “I imagine she did, my lord.” you replied. “They’re… peaceful.”

He was silent for a long time, his gaze fixed on the flowers. Then he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She was… my peace.” he admitted, his tone so raw, so vulnerable, that it made your chest tighten painfully. “And now… there is only emptiness.”

You wanted to reach out to him, to touch his hand, to tell him that he was not as alone as he thought, but you knew he would not accept it. So you stood there, beside him, sharing the silence, hoping that maybe, in some small way, your presence could ease the ache in his heart.

And slowly, painfully, you realized that you were falling into the saddest position in the world. You were beginning to care for him, truly care for him, despite knowing that he did not, and could not, care for you. You were beginning to understand him, to see the depths of his sorrow, to feel the weight of his loss as if it were your own.

You were living as a shadow, and yet… you found yourself wishing, hoping, that someday he might see you as something more. Even if you were just a reflection of a memory, even if you could never be her, you wished, desperately, that you could become someone to him.

But as you looked at him, at the emptiness in his eyes, you knew that day might never come. And still, you could not help but care.

Days continued to slip by in a blur of silent moments and stolen glances, and though you tried to keep your heart guarded, you felt it slipping further and further away from you, like water through your fingers. You had resigned yourself to your fate—a concubine in name, a ghost in truth. You had accepted that Sukuna would never see you as anything more than a mere echo of what he had lost.

But as time passed, you noticed a subtle change in him. It was in the way his gaze lingered on you a moment longer, or how his tone softened when he spoke to you. It was in the quiet moments when you would catch him watching you, his expression inscrutable, as if he were trying to decipher some mystery he could not quite solve.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and painted the sky in shades of crimson and gold, you found yourself in the garden again. Sukuna was there, seated on a low stone bench beneath the cherry blossom tree, his face turned upward as if searching for something in the dying light.

You approached cautiously, unsure if he wanted your presence or not. He did not turn to look at you, but he did not send you away, either. You took it as a small mercy, a silent invitation to sit beside him.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you like a fragile thread, delicate and unbroken. Finally, Sukuna spoke, his voice low and contemplative. “You are always here, little one.” he murmured. “Always watching. Why?”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Because I see you, my lord.” you replied quietly. “I see the way you carry your pain, the way you hide it behind your eyes. I… I understand it, in a way.”

He turned to you then, his gaze piercing, searching your face as if trying to find the truth hidden within your words. “And what do you think you understand?” he asked, a note of challenge in his tone.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his stare. “I think you loved her more than life itself, my lord.” you said softly. “And I think losing her broke something inside of you that will never heal.”

He was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he laughed—a harsh, bitter sound that cut through the stillness like a knife. “You presume to know my heart, mortal.” he said, but there was no true malice in his voice, only a deep, hollow emptiness. “You think because you look like her, you can speak of love and loss?”

“I do not pretend to be her, my lord.” you answered, your voice steady, even as your heart pounded in your chest. “But I know what it is to lose, to live with emptiness. I know what it means to be alone, even in a crowded room.”

His eyes softened, just for a moment, and you could almost see the man beneath the monster, the one who had loved and lost, who had once been capable of kindness, of tenderness.

“You think you know loneliness?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost vulnerable. “You think you know what it is to love someone so deeply that their absence is like a knife in your soul, cutting you with every breath?”

“I think I’m starting to understand, my lord.” you whispered. “More than I ever wanted to.”

He looked away, his jaw clenched tight, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. “You are a fool.” he muttered, but there was no heat in his words, only a weary resignation. “You should hate me. You should despise me for what I am, for what I have made you.”

You shook your head slowly. “I can’t, my lord.” you admitted, your voice breaking. “I don’t know why, but I can’t. Maybe it’s because I see the pain in your eyes, the way you look at me… the way you remember her. I can’t hate you for that. I just… I wish things were different.”

He turned to you sharply, and for a moment, there was something raw and desperate in his gaze, something that spoke of a longing he had buried deep within himself. “Different?” he repeated, almost scoffing. “There is no ‘different’ for us. This is the world we have been given, and we must live in it.”

You felt your heart clench painfully, knowing he was right, knowing that no matter how much you wished for it, you could never truly reach him, could never become more than what you were—a shadow, a reflection of a woman long gone.

But you could not stop yourself from caring, from hoping that somehow, someway, he might see you, truly see you, not as a ghost or a replacement, but as a person in your own right.

You sighed, turning your gaze to the blossoms above. “I know, my lord.” you murmured. “I know that better than anyone. But I still… I still want to understand you. I still care, even if you don’t care for me.”

He was silent, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, you feared you had said too much, crossed a line you could never return from. But then, slowly, he reached out and took your hand in his, his grip firm but surprisingly gentle.

“You are a strange one, little one.” he said quietly, almost as if to himself. “To care for a monster… to care for a man who has nothing left to give.”

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, and you did not bother to hide it. “Maybe I’m just a fool, my lord” you whispered. “But I can’t help it. I can’t help but care for you, even when I know you can’t care for me.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours, as if looking for some answer he could not find. Then, without a word, he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your forehead in a gesture so tender it took your breath away.

“Do not mistake this for affection.” he warned, his voice low and rough. “I am still who I am. I am still the monster you should fear.”

But you could only nod, your heart aching with a mixture of sorrow and hope. “I know,” you whispered. “I know, but I’m still here.”

And for the first time, you thought you saw a hint of softness in his eyes, a flicker of something that could almost be… understanding. Maybe, just maybe, you were starting to reach him, one fragile step at a time.

══════════════════

TIME FLEW BY AND WITH THAT, YOU AGED TOO. Slowly, like the steady drip of water carving its path through stone, Ryomen Sukuna began to accept your presence as something constant in his life. At first, it was subtle—the way he no longer sent you away when you appeared by his side, the way he allowed you to linger in his chambers or the garden without a word of complaint.

Over time, it grew into something more. He began to call for you, not often, but enough that you noticed. Sometimes, it was just to sit in silence while he read or stared into the fire, and other times, he would speak to you, his voice low and distant, as if he were speaking to himself rather than you.

He did not love you; you knew that much with painful certainty. His heart belonged to another, to a woman whose name he whispered in his dreams, whose memory seemed to haunt his every step. You were not her, and you never would be. You were a shadow of what he had lost, a pale reflection of a love that had burned too bright and consumed itself in the flames.

But he tolerated you, and in this dark, twisted place where fear ruled and love was a forgotten dream, that was enough. You had learned to find solace in the little things—the way his gaze would occasionally soften when he looked at you, the rare moments when his voice held a note of something other than indifference.

You knew you would never escape Hiromi’s shadow. Her ghost lingered in every corner of this place, in every whispered word and hushed breath, in the way his eyes darkened whenever he spoke of her.

You were not foolish enough to think you could ever replace her in his heart, nor did you wish to. You had come to terms with your fate, with the cruel twist of destiny that had brought you here, to this palace where the walls seemed to whisper her name.

For the finite years of your mortal life, you would be what you were to him—an echo, a shadow, a living memory of something lost. You could have fought against it, could have railed against the injustice of it all, but you chose not to. You chose to make peace with what fate had given you, to find what small joys you could in the fleeting moments he allowed you to be near him.

There were times when the weight of your existence threatened to crush you, when you longed to scream, to demand that he see you for who you were, not for the woman you resembled. But those moments were few and far between, and you had learned to push them down, to bury them deep within your heart where they could not hurt you.

Instead, you found contentment in the little things—in the way his presence filled the room, in the rare, unguarded moments when he would speak to you of things he had buried deep within himself. You listened to his stories, the ones he told in quiet tones when he thought no one was listening, and you treasured them like precious gems, tiny fragments of the man he had once been.

You learned to be grateful for what you had, even if it was not what you had dreamed of. You accepted that you would always live in the shadow of Hiromi, that you would always be the "other woman"; the one who was not loved, but merely tolerated. And for as long as you had breath in your lungs and life in your veins, you chose to find peace in that.

You sat beside him by the fire, you felt a strange sense of calm settle over you. He was quiet, his eyes fixed on the flames, his expression thoughtful. He did not look at you, but you could feel his presence, warm and solid beside you, a reminder that you were not entirely alone in this world.

You turned your gaze to the fire, letting the heat warm your face, and you whispered, almost to yourself, “I do not ask for more than this. I am… content with what I have.”

He glanced at you, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to understand your words. “Content?” he repeated, a hint of incredulity in his voice. “You are content being nothing but a shadow?”

You smiled softly, a hint of sadness in your eyes. “Contentment is a choice, my lord.” you replied. “I chose to be content with what fate has given me. It is not happiness, but it is enough.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, and then he nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are wiser than I thought now, little one.” he murmured. “To find peace in a place like this… it is no easy feat.”

You nodded, knowing he spoke more to himself than to you. You had accepted that you would never be more than a shadow in his life, but even shadows had their place, their purpose. You would be content with that, for as long as your mortal years allowed.

The days passed with a creeping heaviness that settled into your bones, a fatigue that no amount of rest could cure. You began to feel the strain in every step, the way your breath came shorter, the way your limbs feel heavy and uncooperative. At first, you dismissed it as exhaustion, a lingering effect of sleepless nights and endless thoughts that twisted in your mind like shadows.

But then came the coughing fits, each one more violent than the last, leaving a bitter taste in your mouth and a sharp pain in your chest. You ignored it at first, waving away the concerned glances of the servants who attended you. You kept your back straight and your face serene, refusing to acknowledge the way your body seemed to betray you.

Yet it grew harder to hide. The pain became more frequent, stabbing through your lungs like a knife with every breath, every step. The first time you coughed up blood, it was a shock—a bright, vivid red staining your hand. Your heart raced as you stared at the crimson stain, panic rising like bile in your throat.

You quickly wiped it away, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully, you were alone in your chamber, and you pressed a trembling hand to your chest, willing yourself to calm down. There was no reason to be afraid, you told yourself. It was just a momentary lapse, nothing more.

But it wasn’t. It happened again, and again. You found yourself waking in the night, gasping for air, your throat raw and burning. The servants began to notice the dark circles under your eyes, the way you would clutch your side when you thought no one was looking, the way you moved a little slower, a little more carefully.

There was a day that you sat in the garden, trying to find solace in the soft petals of the cherry blossoms, a violent fit seized you. You doubled over, coughing hard, and felt something wet and warm splatter against your lips. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and saw the unmistakable smear of blood.

A sharp gasp came from behind you. One of the younger servants had seen, her eyes wide with fear and concern. She rushed to your side, her hands trembling as she reached out to steady you.

“My lady, oh my!” she whispered, her voice filled with worry. “You’re… you’re bleeding.”

You shook your head, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace. “It is nothing.” you said, your voice hoarse. “Do not worry yourself over me.”

The servant looked unconvinced, her brow furrowed with concern. “I must tell Lord Sukuna.” she said quickly, glancing toward the entrance of the garden as if she expected him to appear at any moment. “He must know—”

“No, no…..” you cut her off sharply, your voice firmer than you had intended. “There is no point in that.”

She hesitated, confusion clouding her eyes. “But, my lady… you are unwell. He should—”

“He would not care, little girl.” you said softly, looking down at your blood-stained hand. “There is no use in troubling him with this. It would make no difference. Sukuna does not love me, nor does he care for me in that way. Do you think he would be moved by something as trivial as this?”

The servant bit her lip, clearly torn between her duty to you and her fear of Sukuna’s wrath. “But… if he knew, he might—”

“Might what?” you interrupted, your voice edged with a quiet resignation. “Send a healer? Take pity on me? No, he would not. I am nothing more than a reminder to him, a shadow of a past he cannot let go. He tolerates me, yes, but that is all.”

The servant looked at you, her eyes filling with tears, but she nodded slowly, understanding the weight of your words. She knew as well as you did that Sukuna’s heart was a barren, desolate place, filled with ghosts and haunted memories. There was no room for you there.

“Promise me, little girl.” you whispered, reaching out to touch her arm gently. “Promise me you won’t tell him.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded, her expression tight with worry. “I promise, my lady.” she murmured, though you could hear the doubt in her voice.

You leaned back against the tree, closing your eyes and letting the cool breeze brush against your skin. You knew there was no point in hoping for more than what you had. Sukuna had given you a place by his side, but it was not out of affection. He had lost the woman he truly loved, and you were only a semblance of her—a shadow he tolerated, nothing more.

You were dying, that much was clear. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, a way to free yourself from this liminal existence, to escape the torment of being a living reminder of what he had lost. You could find peace in that, you thought. At least, you could try.

You would not burden him with your illness, with your slow, inevitable decline. You would carry it quietly, with dignity, for whatever time you had left. After all, what was one more life in the grand, cruel scheme of his world? You were just another fleeting moment in the endless march of time—another sacrifice, another offering to a man who had already lost everything he had ever cared for.

══════════════════

YOU DECIDED TO LET FATE RUN ITS COURSE. You let time pass by, letting the illness be hidden in the shadows of low whispers and painful tears in your long suffering days and nights. And sure enough, Ryomen Sukuna had returned from his long and exhausting trip within the next few days.

He had been famished from his trip and sent word that he would be having supper with you that night, which you had obliged without another word. You dressed in your finest, watching the servants prepare the table in your chambers and calmly thanked them one after another as they left.

The evening had settled into its usual quiet rhythm, with the two of you sharing dinner in the dimly lit chamber. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the walls, and the scent of roasted meat and simmered vegetables filled the air.

It was a routine you had come to accept with a resigned sort of familiarity, a ritual that offered a small measure of normalcy in your otherwise constrained existence.

You sat across from Sukuna, picking at your meal with an absent-mindedness that spoke more to your weariness than any lack of appetite. His presence was imposing, yet tonight, he was unusually subdued, his attention focused on the food in front of him rather than on you. And somehow, you were a bit more grateful for it.

As you took a sip from your cup, you looked up at him, your expression earnest. "My lord, do you not think you should be more understanding of your subjects?" you began, your voice gentle but firm. "I must implore you once more to be more lenient with the people. The fear you instill is one thing, but mercy could win you their loyalty and respect."

Sukuna's eyes, dark and inscrutable, met yours. He did not respond immediately, his gaze lingering on you as if weighing your words. This was not the first time you had made this plea, and it was not likely to be the last. You had grown accustomed to his silence, to the way he would listen but rarely act upon your suggestions.

"It is not for me to coddle them, little one." he said finally, his voice low and dismissive. "Fear is a more effective tool than mercy. It ensures obedience."

You sighed softly, knowing well that your words often fell on deaf ears. Still, you persisted, driven by a conviction that even the smallest act of kindness could make a difference. "I understand your perspective, my lord, but sometimes even the harshest rulers find strength in showing compassion. It can—"

Before you could finish your thought, a sudden, sharp pain gripped your chest. You gasped, doubling over slightly, and a violent coughing fit overtook you. You struggled to steady yourself, but the force of it was too strong. Blood splattered onto the table, the vibrant red stark against the white of your kimono and the pale wood of the dining surface.

Your heart raced as you quickly wiped the blood away with your sleeve, hoping to hide the evidence of your distress. You tried to maintain your composure, but your hands were trembling as you looked up at Sukuna, who had gone still, his eyes fixed on the crimson stain.

For a moment, there was a silence so thick it felt like a physical presence. Ryomen Sukuna’s gaze was heavy and unyielding, his red eyes locked onto the blood that had marred the table and your attire. You could feel the weight of his scrutiny, his silence, a heavy burden that pressed down upon you.

"It's nothing, my lord." you said hurriedly, forcing a weak smile as you tried to brush off the incident. "Just a momentary lapse. Please, continue with your meal."

Sukuna’s expression was unreadable, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. He did not speak, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—perhaps surprise, or concern, or something deeper that he quickly masked.

You could feel the tension between you, an invisible thread connecting your quiet plea to his unspoken thoughts. It was clear that your condition had not gone unnoticed, even if he chose not to acknowledge it openly. You had always been a presence in his life, but tonight, the reality of your fragility seemed to cut through the usual indifference.

He took a deep breath, his gaze finally shifting away from you as he turned his attention back to his meal. The silence that followed was filled with the soft clinking of utensils and the low murmur of conversation from the servants who hovered at the edges of the room, their eyes darting to you with barely concealed concern.

You ate in silence, each bite of food tasting like ash in your mouth. The pain in your chest had subsided, but a deep weariness remained, a lingering reminder of your deteriorating health. You glanced at Sukuna from time to time, but he was absorbed in his meal, his expression unreadable.

The conversation you had tried to initiate was now buried beneath the weight of your illness, and you knew better than to press further. The battle for his leniency would have to wait for another day, another time when you were not so overshadowed by your own suffering.

As the meal drew to a close, you felt the oppressive silence settle around you once more. Sukuna’s gaze was distant, his thoughts seemingly occupied with matters beyond the confines of the dining room. You could only hope that, in some small way, your presence had made a difference, even if it was not the kind you had hoped for.

When the servants cleared away the dishes and the room began to empty, you excused yourself, retreating to your chamber with a heavy heart. You knew that your time here was growing shorter, that the end was approaching with each passing day. But for now, you would carry on, finding what small measure of peace you could in the fleeting moments you had left.

And as you lay down in your bed, staring up at the ceiling, you could not help but think of the blood you had tried to hide, of the way Sukuna’s eyes had lingered on it. You could only hope that someday, he might see you not as a mere shadow or a reminder of what he had lost, but as a person who had tried, in her own way, to make a difference in his world.

The next morning, you awoke to a disorienting cacophony of shouts and harsh reprimands. The once-familiar silence of your quarters was shattered by the sounds of chaos from the courtyard. Your heart sank as you stumbled out of bed, a sharp pain reminding you of the night before.

As you made your way through the hallways, the noise grew louder, mingling with the harsh, angry tones of Ryomen Sukuna’s voice. Your mind raced, dreading what you might find. You knew it already. You have seen it in the other households of the other concubines. And you can only know what had caused such a commotion. When you reached the courtyard, the scene before you was both startling and terrifying.

Your servants were gathered in the center of the courtyard, their faces pale with fear and their postures crumpled under the weight of Sukuna’s wrath. He stood at the center of the commotion, his expression thunderous as he raged at them. His anger was palpable, his words a relentless storm of fury directed at those who had failed to inform him of your condition.

Your breath caught in your throat, and without thinking, you stepped forward, your heart pounding in your chest. The courtyard fell into a stunned silence as Sukuna’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes dark with a mixture of surprise and irritation.

"My lord, please." you began, your voice trembling as you bowed deeply, your forehead nearly touching the ground. "This is my fault, not theirs. I beg for your forgiveness and mercy for my servants."

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed as he took in your contrite posture, his anger momentarily faltering. He regarded you with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity, his dark, unforgiving, gaze sharp as he assessed your sincerity.

"It was my decision to hide my illness, my lord." you continued, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I did not want to trouble you or cause unnecessary concern. Please, spare them your anger. They were only following my wishes."

Ryomen Sukuna remained silent for a moment, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. The servants, though still shaken, dared to lift their eyes to you, their expressions a blend of relief and apprehension.

Finally, Sukuna's gaze softened, a hint of resignation creeping into his expression. He took a deep breath, his anger dissipating as he looked at you with a new intensity. "You would take the blame for them?" he asked, his voice low and edged with incredulity.

You nodded, maintaining your bowed position. "Yes, my lord. It was my choice, my responsibility. I could not bear the thought of them being punished for my actions."

Sukuna’s expression hardened slightly, but the fury in his eyes had dimmed. After a moment of consideration, he gave a curt nod. "Very well. You will accept any punishment I shall put upon you.”

You swallowed the bile down your throat. “Yes, my lord.”

“Then I will call for healers. You will see them immediately." He says, as though it was the final verdict. “You will see them, all of them. Do you understand?”

“Yes…yes, my lord.” You whispered back to him.

He turned away from the servants, his gaze now fixed on you with an inscrutable intensity. "Go." he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "See to your health, you foolish girl. Your servants too can go. They will tend to you, no matter what you ask.”

You straightened slowly, a mixture of relief and trepidation washing over you. You dared to look up at Sukuna, meeting his eyes briefly before turning to address the servants.

"Thank you, my lord." you said quietly, your voice filled with gratitude. "You have done nothing wrong. Please, return to your duties."

With a final, respectful bow, you turned and headed back toward your quarters with the help of your servants. As you entered your quarters, you felt like you had lived a thousand lifetimes in that one moment. Your servants were bowing at your feet, asking for your forgiveness. But you had all but shooed them away, telling them it was your duty as their master.

You wanted to be alone right now. At least when you still had the chance. When the healers arrive, you would have a life to yourself any longer. You would be stuck in their mercy, with their potions and their whims.

You must prepare yourself for the arrival of the healers. You groaned lowly as you clutch your chest, a wave of pain hitting one after the other. It will be over soon, that’s what you hoped. That’s what you want. You want to be free from this pain. You wanted nothing more than to be free.

══════════════════

THE PAIN WAS RELENTLESS. The days dragged on in a relentless cycle of pain and futile hope. Despite the best efforts of countless healers, none seemed able to bring you any real relief.

If anything, your condition worsened, each new treatment only seeming to accelerate your quick decline. Ryomen Sukuna’s frustration was palpable; his anger had become a regular presence, casting a long shadow over the already bleak atmosphere of the estate.

You had heard the whispers of the fate that befell each healer who failed to improve your condition. It was a grim reminder of Sukuna’s volatility, a dangerous mix of desperation and rage. The once-bustling quarters were now filled with an air of fearful tension as new healers arrived, only to face Sukuna’s wrath when their efforts proved ineffectual.

On one of the rare days when you felt well enough to leave your bed, you chose to sit by the garden. The fresh air and the sight of the vibrant blooms were a welcome distraction from the constant ache in your body. You had managed to position yourself on a stool under the gentle shade of a cherry tree, finding some small comfort in watching the birds flit about, their cheerful chirping a stark contrast to the turmoil that had become your life.

Sukuna appeared in the garden, his presence as imposing as ever. He walked with a deliberate pace, his gaze scanning the surroundings with an air of detached observation. As he neared, you looked up and greeted him with a smile, though the effort felt heavy, as if each movement was a strain against the burden of your illness.

“My lord.” you said softly, your voice barely more than a whisper. “The skies are beautiful today, aren’t they?”

Sukuna stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your serene expression. The silence stretched between you, an unspoken tension that lingered like the heat of a summer day. He said nothing in response, his gaze fixed on you with an inscrutable intensity.

After a moment, he broke the silence. “How is it that you can accept death with such… calm?” His voice was low, edged with curiosity and something else you couldn’t quite place.

You blinked, taken aback by his question. A laugh escaped you, soft and brittle, more out of surprise than genuine amusement. “Accept death, my lord?” you repeated. “I haven’t accepted death, in truth. But there is no way to avoid it.”

Sukuna’s eyes remained on you, his expression unreadable as he listened. You continued, your voice tinged with a philosophical resignation. “Death will come for all of us, eventually. It’s a natural end to this life. We all must face it in our own time. In that way, we are all freed from the burdens of this world.”

He studied you with a mixture of skepticism and something akin to contemplation. “You speak as if it is an inevitability you embrace, little one.”

“Not embrace, my lord.” you corrected gently, sighing. “But acknowledge. It’s a part of life, as much as the beginning is. We can fight it or we can accept it, but it will come regardless.”

Sukuna’s gaze softened slightly, though his expression remained stoic. He seemed to be weighing your words, his usual fierceness replaced by an unusual quiet. “And you are not afraid, then?”

“Fear?” You tilted your head, considering the question. “I suppose I am afraid of the pain that might come before the end. But fear of death itself? Not so much. It’s merely another step in the journey, my lord. That is what I believe, at least.”

For a moment, there was a stillness between you, punctuated only by the distant chirping of birds. Sukuna’s eyes flickered to the sky, perhaps contemplating the vastness of existence you had spoken of. The anger that had once seemed so consuming in his presence now appeared subdued, replaced by a contemplative silence.

“I see.” he said finally, his tone carrying a trace of grudging respect. “Your words are… unusual.”

You smiled faintly, a tired but genuine expression. “Perhaps. But sometimes, facing the truth can be a way to find peace, my lord.”

Sukuna stood there for a while longer, his presence a dark silhouette against the backdrop of the garden’s tranquility. Finally, he gave a curt nod and turned to leave, his demeanor less harsh than before. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded as he walked away, leaving you alone once more with your thoughts and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze.

As you sat there, watching the birds and the shifting clouds, you felt a small measure of contentment. Sukuna’s visit had brought a moment of introspection, a reminder of the fragile balance between life and death. Even in your suffering, you found a semblance of peace, understanding that acceptance was not about surrendering to fate but about finding a way to live with it, even as the end loomed ever closer.

And just like that, the day you had dreaded finally arrived. And truly, you were left feeling an unbearable weakness that signaled the end was near. The once-familiar confines of your quarters now seemed like a distant world, and the pain of your illness was a constant, gnawing presence. Each breath was a struggle, each moment of consciousness a battle against the encroaching darkness.

To your surprise, your lord Sukuna appeared by your side as you lay on your bed, his imposing figure contrasting sharply with the fragility of your own condition. He had not been a part of your daily existence in the past weeks, his visits sporadic and his presence usually marked by anger and frustration. But now, he was here, seated beside you in a rare display of stillness.

You looked at him through the haze of pain and weakness, your voice a mere whisper. “My lord, it seems this is my time to part from you.”

Sukuna’s eyes were steady, his gaze betraying an emotion you could not fully decipher. “I know, little one.” he replied simply, his voice holding a note of finality.

A pained laugh escaped your lips, the sound mingling with a shuddering breath. “I only wish… I could avoid being reborn into such misery again. To be the other woman, to be nothing to you.”

Sukuna’s silence stretched between you, a weighty pause that seemed to deepen the divide between you. After a moment, he spoke, his voice low but firm. “You were something.”

You shook your head, the effort to move even slightly causing a fresh wave of agony. “You lie easily, as you breathe, my lord.” you said with a faint, sorrowful smile.

The silence that followed was heavy and palpable, filled with the unspoken complexities of your relationship. As you lay there, the end drawing closer with each passing moment, you found a strange clarity in the finality of your situation.

“I love you, my lord.” you said softly, the words carrying a weight that transcended the physical pain. “As sad as it is, I do. But I have no intention of having it returned. I hope that, in the next life, I never meet you again.”

Sukuna’s expression remained impassive, but there was a softness in his gaze that belied his usual stoic demeanor. As you took your final, labored breaths, his sigh was a mix of resignation and something deeper, something that spoke to the complexity of your intertwined fates.

“I hope so too, little one.” he said quietly, his voice carrying a rare touch of vulnerability.

With those words hanging in the air, you felt a sense of release, the weight of your suffering beginning to lift. As your consciousness faded and the pain finally ebbed away, you left behind the world that had been both your prison and your refuge. Ryomen Sukuna looked at your lifeless body, pursing his lips into a flat line.

“Live on in a better life, little one.” He whispered, his fingers brushing against your hair. “May you be loved by someone who loves you. May we never meet again, my other woman."

2K notes · View notes

joemama-2 · 1 month ago

Text

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 12.7k (huhhhhh?) tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation, mentions of miscarriage a/n: smidge more angst, delves more into yns internal thoughts & feelings series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

“Sa…” you can’t even find it in yourself to finish that sentence, to utter his complete name. As if afraid that when you do, it’ll be like summoning some sort of demon. Only this time, it’s the father of your child—same thing.

He looks as shocked as you, if not more so. His eyes widen and then narrow in a rhythmic movement that makes you scared, anticipating whatever utterance will fall from his pretty lips. If only you could go back in time and deny even the thought of going on this whatever with Mr. Ito. Maybe then you could’ve been spared, at least given some time to mentally prepare yourself for seeing the face of the man who has been practically haunting you for five years. Maybe then, he wouldn’t look so…different.

“Ms. Y/N?” Mr. Ito’s confused voice snaps you both simultaneously out of the small staring contest you were just in. When Satoru finally acknowledges the other man, you can see a small tick on his eyebrows. Mr. Ito—well he’s not dumb. Every feature of Satoru reminding him of a small, much younger someone who happens to be in his kindergarten class. “O-oh…is this…do you two…know each other?”

What do you even say to that? Yes? No? Maybe so? It’s all so fucking confusing and complicated, but Satoru seems to save you. “And who are you?” he asks, voice flat and calculating. His eyes dart between you and Mr. Ito, like he’s trying to silently gauge what’s going on between you two. His analytical skills always seem to put you off, so you look away.

“Um…well, I’m Ms. Y/N’s son’s teacher. Nice to meet you.” Mr. Ito slowly explains, putting on a timid smile, outstretching his tan hand towards Satoru.

To no surprise, Satoru doesn’t reciprocate the welcome gesture. He is instead, clenching his fists by his side. You can see his jaw tick from your peripheral, as if he’s doing his damned hardest not to blow the hell up right now. “Are you now?”

Mr. Ito, caught in the middle of something he has no business in, glances around awkwardly. A weird chuckle leaving his mouth, lowering his hand back down to his side. “Um, yes, sir.”

“Funny,” Satoru laughs, though there’s no humor laced in it. He looks back down at you. “Very funny,” Satoru adds, his voice light, almost conversational. His sharp blue eyes flick from Mr. Ito to you, then back again, but there’s a glint in them you recognize all too well—calm, composed, and dangerous.

Mr. Ito doesn’t seem fazed, meeting Satoru’s gaze with polite confidence. “Yes, we were just discussing some things regarding her son,” he says, his tone smooth and professional. There’s a flicker of curiosity in his expression, though, as he glances between the two of you, clearly piecing things together.

“Were you now?” Satoru’s lips twitch into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He then casually pulls out a chair from the table and sits, resting one arm on top of it as if he has all the time in the world. “And what kind of things are we talking about?”

With every second that passes, you feel yourself grow closer and closer to pissing your pants. You know exactly what he’s doing, it’s the calm before the storm. Satoru is great at saving face, but after knowing him so intimately, you know his true intentions and feelings. But still, you’re too frozen in place to stop it all before it gets out of hand.

“Well,” Mr. Ito replies, still composed but he spares a look at you before continuing. “Just a few concerns regarding his talkativeness.” Mr. Ito keeps it vague, still a little on edge by this sudden change of events.

Satoru lets out a low hum, nodding slightly. “Oh, he talks a lot, does he?” he says, his tone almost too soft, too soothing. His eyes slide to you, lingering just long enough to make you squirm. “And that’s become a problem?”

Mr. Ito nods.

Satoru smiles, arms crossing and one leg crossing over the other. “Must be a little troublemaker, he seems to take after his mom.”

The subtle barb stings, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. Mr. Ito, seemingly oblivious, smiles warmly. “Hah, well, I’m not sure who he takes after.”

“Correct.” Satoru simply responds.

Mr. Ito pauses then continues. “But, She’s an excellent parent,” he says, glancing your way. “We’ve had a few chats during pick-up. It’s always nice to see someone so involved in their child’s education.”

Satoru’s smile tightens ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he leans forward just a fraction. “It is nice, isn’t it?” he says smoothly, his voice calm but edged with something you can’t quite name. “I mean, a teacher like you must see all kinds of parents. You’ve really taken the time to notice Y/N, haven’t you?”

Mr. Ito hesitates for the first time, sensing the subtle shift in Satoru’s tone. “Well, I try to be passionate about connecting with all the parents of my students,” he replies, still polite but less certain now.

Satoru’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens slightly, though his eyes remain cold. “Of course,” he says, leaning back as if completely at ease. “You’re just doing your job. Going above and beyond, I see.”

You can feel the tension radiating off Satoru, even if he’s doing his best to appear calm. It’s in the way his fingers tap against the table in a measured rhythm, the way his gaze sharpens with every word.

“Satoru,” you interject quickly, trying to defuse the situation before it escalates. “Can we ta—”

“Oh, just a second,” he holds up a long finger, regarding you with such simplicity in a way that makes you feel inferior. Eyes not moving from Mr. Ito’s. “I mean, I should probably be involved in this conversation too, no? Considering I’m the—what do you call it?—Oh, right, father.”

You gulp hard. Mr. Ito once again shifts his position, hands awkwardly clasping together.

“Anywho,” Satoru switches back to the subject at hand. “Passion’s a good thing. As long as it’s directed where it belongs, of course.”

The remark hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Mr. Ito moves uncomfortably but keeps his polite demeanor, clearing his throat. “Well, I should probably get back home, I have some things to grade,” he says, glancing at his watch. “It was nice meeting you, Mr.…”

“Gojo,” Satoru finishes for him, his smile razor-sharp. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

Mr. Ito nods, grabbing his jacket he put on the back of his chair. “Goodbye, Ms. Y/N. I'll see you on Monday.” He still has the audacity to give you a warm smile before leaving the cafe, the bell dinging following his departure.

After a second or two, Satoru’s calm facade finally cracks, his jaw clenching as he exhales slowly through his nose. You brace yourself, knowing that the real conversation is about to begin. The way his eyes scan you up and down in an analytical way makes you feel naked. “And look at you,” he huffs, head tilting in a patronizing way. “Silent and jittery like a little mouse. If I didn’t have other things to say, I’d say you look quite pathetic.”

Blow number 1, there he goes already. Though, you can’t find it in you to rebuttal that. Scared to say anything, honestly. There’s a pause as Satoru picks apart every little thing about you inside his head. You might have felt better hearing it out loud instead of being stuck on the silent end of the stick. Eventually, you find your small amount of courage. “Satoru…”

“Oh, look. You do my name. Thought you would have forgotten it after all the sneaky shit you seem to have been doing these past few years.”

“Can we please talk?” You ask, voice laced with desperation.

“Hm?” His eyebrow raises. “We’re talking right now, right? Why don’t you sit down?”

Hell no. You bite your lip, hands trembling by your sides. “Please, somewhere private.”

“What makes you think you deserve anything right now?”

He’s right, really right. You probably deserve shit with the lies and deceitful nature you’ve been harboring these years. But, can’t he have at least a little bit of sympathy for you? He has no idea about the shit you’ve been going through all this time by yourself. And while yes, you do feel guilty, he should be still trying to address the situation in an adult-ish manner. “Satoru…please. We shouldn’t talk here, let’s just…go somewhere more quiet.”

Satoru mulls over your words, a part of him wanting to drag this out even longer and make you more uncomfortable. You deserve it. But, you’re also right. So, he takes in a deep breath, stands up, and motions his head towards the door in a silent command. Without wasting a second, you turn around and walk out of the cafe with him hot on your tail. Intending to lead him to the secluded park that you and Koji frequently visit because there’s not a lot of foot traffic. Although your ideal spot would be indoors, you can’t exactly lead him to your apartment right now—not that you want to, anyway.

It’s only a few minutes of walking, but the entire time feels horrible. He stares at the back of your head, eyes roaming down to your back, legs, and then ass. In that specific order. Satoru’s always saved the best for last, and while checking you out should be the last thing on his mind, staring at your ass will at least somewhat calm him down. You’re not stupid either, it’s like you can feel his eyes shamelessly darting about. However, that’s the least of your worries right now.

You see the familiar bench in the distance, taking a seat. He sits beside you, leaving a considerable distance between your bodies. There’s another silence, this one feeling more suffocating. It suddenly hits you that you’re about to do this—about to have this conversation with him, own up to all your bad deeds. You have to, no more hiding. You gulp down the lump in your throat before speaking, “I know this is all probably…really bad. I know you’re mad at me, you have every right to be.”

Satoru doesn’t respond right away, leaning back on the bench with an air of nonchalance that contrasts starkly with the storm brewing in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the horizon, as if giving you the floor—but the weight of his silence feels heavier than any words he could’ve said. “Mad?” he finally repeats, his voice low and deceptively calm. He turns to you, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

You wince, his words cutting deeper than you expected. Your hands grip the edge of the bench, knuckles turning white as you scramble for the right thing to say, the perfect way to explain yourself—but nothing feels sufficient. Nothing ever will. “I know,” you whisper, forcing yourself to look at him even as shame threatens to make you shrink away. “I know I should’ve told you—about Koji, about everything. I was just… scared. I didn’t know how to handle it, and—”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his tone sharp enough to slice through your excuses. His gaze pins you in place, icy and unrelenting. “Don’t you dare try to justify it. You made the choice to keep my son from me. For five years.”

The raw anger in his voice makes your chest tighten, guilt clawing at your insides. “I didn’t do it to hurt you,” you plead, voice trembling. “I swear, Satoru, I thought I was doing what was best—”

“For who?” he snaps, his calm facade slipping for a brief moment, revealing the frustration bubbling underneath. “For me? For Koji? Or just for you?”

You flinch at his words, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “For Koji,” you choke out. “I wanted to protect him. There’s—there are reasons why I didn’t…..” your voice trails off, unable to get the remaining part of your excuse out. But it’s true. You had—have—your reasons. And while most people still might not consider it good enough or justifiable, you truly believed what you did was for good.

Satoru lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair as he looks away, shaking his head. “Reasons?” he mutters, almost to himself. “And what, you think keeping my son a secret all because of ‘reasons’ makes this situation any better? Are you that fucking stupid?”

“No, no, I…know it won’t make anything better,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “I know that. But back then, I just… I just thought that…he wasn’t ready for your world, like I’m not.” By world, you mean quite literally that. Satoru grew up spoiled, his inner elite circle is all he’s ever known. Responsibilities at such a young age, responsibilities no child should face. Expectations, public display, people constantly butting their heads in your business, you have absolutely zero privacy. Satoru would vent to you about that, and you knew—just knew—you couldn’t put your innocent baby boy through that. There’s a class divide between you and Satoru, the main reason as to why you two broke up in the first place.

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to lash out again—but instead, he exhales sharply, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You didn’t even give me a choice,” he says quietly, his voice laced with hurt. “You decided for both of us. For him.”

The weight of his words crushes you, the reality of your actions settling in your chest like a stone. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears finally spilling over. “I’m so, so sorry, Satoru. I just… I didn’t know how to face you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, his head bowed as if he’s trying to gather his thoughts. When he finally looks up, his gaze is softer, but no less intense. “Do you have any idea what it’s like,” he murmurs, “to find out you have a son—your son—after all this time? To realize you’ve missed everything?”

Your heart breaks at the pain in his voice, and you reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his before pulling back, unsure if he’ll accept your touch. “I know I can’t fix this,” you say, voice shaking. “But I want to try. I want to make things right. For you. For Koji.”

Satoru studies you for a long moment, his piercing gaze searching your face for something—truth, regret, maybe even hope. “Making things right?” he echoes softly. “You can’t make this right. Because you did something so fucked up, I think I’m starting to hate you.”

“I don’t expect you not to,” you say, sniffling as you wipe your eyes. Now’s the time to be transparent.

“Tell me,” he commands, looking at you with an unrecognizable face. “Tell me every single fucking reason why you thought what you did was okay. Then maybe—only maybe—I’ll decide how we should move forward from this.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I thought I was doing what was best for Koji,” you repeat softly, though the words feel hollow even to your ears. “Your world, Satoru—it’s suffocating. The spotlight, the responsibilities, the pressure... I didn’t want him to grow up with that. I didn’t want him to be molded by something he never asked for. I–I just wanted him to have a normal childhood growing up, something you weren’t able to have…”

He stares at you, unblinking, his expression unreadable but his jaw visibly tightening.

“And then... there was us,” you continue, your voice faltering slightly. “We had just broken up, and I—I didn’t think you’d want to settle down with a kid so soon after everything. I didn’t think you were…ready.”

His eyes narrow, sharp, and cold. “So you assumed I wasn’t ready, just like you assumed it would be better to keep him from me?”

“It wasn’t just that,” you say quickly, the tremor in your voice betraying your desperation. You let out a shaky exhale, willing yourself to continue, even though it’s getting harder to breathe. “After the miscarriage... I couldn’t handle the idea of telling you I was pregnant again. I was terrified, Satoru. Terrified of losing him too, and what that would do to both of us. I thought... if I kept it to myself, maybe I could protect him, protect us from that pain.” The words of your past are extremely hard to get out. You vowed to yourself to never even utter or think of the word miscarriage ever again, though that’s hard to do when you’re explaining yourself. It was hard, so fucking hard for you. No words or exercises can prepare you for the pain of having a child, just like nothing can prepare you for the pain of losing one. It happened two years into your relationship, and although it was completely unexpected and accidental, you felt something in your bones that told you to keep it.

Satoru tried, as hard as he could, though you’re not sure that means a lot. You could see the exhaustion and fatigue in his face, feeling guilter by the day for wanting to keep it. While he never explicitly voiced out getting rid of it, you knew he wouldn’t be upset if you did. That alone was the start of your relationship’s downfall. Maybe it was your own version of stress, anxiety, and whatever else you were going through back then, but you lost it. Your body wasn’t strong enough to house and grow a production of your love, which you hated yourself for. Maybe even a small part of you started hating Satoru, thinking about how happy he must have been behind his soothing words and even more soothing hugs. You thought how ecstatic he must be, lying straight to your face after crying with you. Of course, you never voiced these malicious feelings out either. The memories you’ve locked away for years now come crashing through your defenses, spilling out into the open where they can’t be ignored.

You remembered the nights spent curled up on the bathroom floor. The heavy blood clots, mixed with strong abdominal pain. Sobbing silently so Satoru wouldn’t hear you, your hands pressed to your stomach like you could keep your child safe just by willing it. But it hadn’t been enough. Nothing you did was enough.

The moment you’d lost your first child, a part of you had shattered beyond repair. The guilt was unbearable, the self-loathing even worse. A horrible thing for a twenty-one year old to experience; for any woman to experience. Every reassuring word from Satoru felt like a lie, no matter how sincerely he meant them. It’s almost like you could see the shadow of relief in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking, the slight easing of tension in his shoulders that felt like a betrayal even though you couldn’t blame him for it.

It had eaten away at you, little by little, until the mere thought of being pregnant again felt like a cruel joke. You’d failed once—what if you failed again? When you saw the test, you didn’t cry out of happiness. You cried out of fear, choking on your sobs as the weight of the decision pressed down on you. Keeping Koji meant risking everything again—your heart, your sanity, your relationship with Satoru, already frayed and stretched thin. Could you go through that pain again? Could he?

You didn’t think you could, and that thought was what finally broke you. Because if you couldn’t handle it, how could you expect Satoru to? You’d already seen the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he’d tried so hard to comfort you when he was barely holding himself together. And the truth that you never said out loud, the truth you could barely admit to yourself, was that you didn’t believe he’d want to try again.

You were terrified he’d ask you to get rid of it this time. Or worse—he’d do what he did last time: try to be there, try to support you, while secretly wishing for a way out. You couldn’t handle the idea of hearing him say it. You couldn’t bear the thought of watching his love for you chip away under the strain of something neither of you was ready for.

So you decided. Alone. After the break-up. That is when you found out, after all; three weeks later.

You told yourself it was for Koji. That keeping him away from Satoru’s world—the world of power, expectations, and relentless spotlight—was what was best for him. You told yourself it was for Satoru, too, because he deserved to live his life without being shackled to a family he might not have wanted. But deep down, you knew it was also about you. About your own cowardice, your fear of rejection, your inability to face the possibility of losing everything again.

Sitting here now, with Satoru’s eyes burning into you, the weight of your decisions feels unbearable. The excuses you clung to for so long sound hollow, even to you. But they were your truths at the time, however twisted and fragile they might have been. “I thought I was protecting all of us,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the strain of holding back tears. The words hang in the air, raw and exposed, as you finally let yourself feel the full weight of the choices you made and the people they hurt.

Satoru feels his world pause when you mention the traumatic event you both went through. His stomach twisting in a disgusting feeling, a hint of bile rising in his throat. Memories, painful memories playing on repeat in his mind. He even feels the familiar tickle at his eyes, blinking rapidly to avoid any pour out.

Then, for a moment, his gaze softens, just a flicker of something raw and unguarded crossing his face—but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “So…by protecting, you decide to hide it, him, everything from me. You decided I didn’t deserve to know him,” he says bitterly. “That I didn’t deserve to be there for him—or for you. Did you just think that I wouldn’t be the man I was supposed to be towards my children? You didn’t give me a second chance, to—to prove to you we could’ve done this, together. You…You didn’t even give me a chance, Y/N.”

“It wasn’t just about you,” you snap, the frustration bubbling up despite your guilt. “I was scared, Satoru. Scared of rejection, of what your family would think, of how we’d even make it work with everything stacked against us. I didn’t have your money, your power, your family name. I was just... me. And I didn’t think that would ever be enough.”

His brows furrow, and you can see him processing your words, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think I care about any of that?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I’d let a class divide or family politics get in the way of being there for my son?”

“I didn’t know what you’d do,” you admit, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “You were so far out of reach, Satoru. And after we lost... after everything we went through, I didn’t think you’d want to try again. I thought it’d be easier for you—easier for both of us—if I just disappeared.”

“Easier?” he repeats, his voice rising slightly, his calm facade threatening to crumble. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve hated myself for the last five years? For losing you? For wondering what could’ve been?”

You blink at him, startled by the crack in his voice, the sheer vulnerability in his words.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “It wasn’t you, Satoru. It was me. I was scared, and I made the wrong choice. I know that now. I know I can’t fix this, but I want to try. For Koji’s sake. For your sake.”

He leans back slightly, exhaling sharply as he runs a hand through his hair. The silence between you is deafening, the weight of everything you’ve said hanging heavily in the air. “Do you know what I’m feeling right now?” he says finally, his voice quieter but no less intense, “How it feels like to find out you have a son you’ve never even met, to know you missed his first steps, his first words, his entire life so far? And why? Because you took that from me.”

Tears spill down your cheeks, but you don’t wipe them away. “I know,” you whisper. “I know, and I’m sorry. I was selfish. I thought I was protecting him, but I was just protecting myself.”

Satoru looks at you for a long moment, his piercing gaze searching your face for something—truth, regret, maybe even hope. Finally, he exhales, his shoulders sagging slightly. “You’ve done a lot of damage, Y/N,” he says quietly. “And it’s going to take more than an apology to fix it.”

You nod, wiping your tears away. “I’m not asking for forgiveness, Satoru. I’m just asking for…a chance to make things right.” Your head lowers, vision blurry as you focus on your trembling hands in your lap.

He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze shifting to the horizon. “This isn’t about you and me anymore,” he says after a long pause. “It’s about Koji. And I’m not going to let you shut me out of his life again.”

“I wouldn’t,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “I–I swear, Satoru. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. For him.”

Satoru lets out a slow breath, standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Then let’s start now,” he says, his tone firm. “Take me to him.”

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the reality of the situation sinking in. This is only the beginning—and there’s no turning back. “H-he’s at home.”

“So take me there.”

You stand, fumbling with your words. “I…I can’t just have you two meet out of nowhere, I have to tell him in advance.”

His lips purse, and downturn into another frown, a look that lets you know he’s this close to stop being lenient with you. However, he concedes. “Tomorrow. Here.”

“Whe–”

“Ten in the morning, I’ll leave my meeting early.” he glances at the pristine, gold watch on his right wrist. “Give me your number, in case you try to run and lie again.”

A pang of hurt flies through you, though you can’t blame him for being cautious. Even if that cautiousness is riddled with snide remarks and insults. He gives you his phone, to which you go to contacts and place your new number in, marked by your name. Without another word, he pockets his phone. When he looks at you for one last time, it looks like it hurts, like he’s forcing himself to. After a second, he turns around and walks away, leaving you to your own devices.

Letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, you sit back on the bench, head in your hands and lightly tugging at your strands of hair. Things still don’t feel right. You know you two still have a lot more to say to one another, unspoken words being your enemy. It’s far from over, actually.

But at least you two have come to a small conclusion, for now. However, you don’t know how tomorrow will go. You can only hope you don’t cry too much, and that Koji and him will get along well.

Still, you can’t help that lingering sense of anxiousness. Is it okay for you to feel this way? To be wary? Or are you stretching your already little luck?

The walk back home feels boneless and empty. Taking your time, going through small detours, and whatnot. You get back home after a few hours, it’s already twelve in the afternoon. Regarding Sana with a muttered greeting and haphazardly giving her her money. When she leaves, you’re left alone. Koji’s surprisingly down for a nap. Usually, you would question why he’s sleeping this early in the day, but you could honestly use the peace and quiet right now. You could use it every day, actually.

You sit on the small, worn-out couch. Letting your body sink into the thin material, head leaning back against the cushions. You’re in your mind again. It seems like every day is more exhausting than the last. As the saying goes, you learn something new every day. And today, one of the things that surprised you most was how Satoru said he’s been miserable in these past five years. He missed you? He hated himself for losing you? Then why didn’t he fight for you? Why’d he just stand there and take everything? If he really wanted you, he would’ve begged you to stay, he would’ve come up with some solution to your deteriorating relationship. Unless he said all that now just to make you feel even more shitty. You don’t know what’s right anymore.

The thoughts spiral like a storm in your mind, each one crashing into the next without pause. The quiet apartment, usually your refuge, feels stifling now. The weight of everything Satoru said—and everything he didn’t—presses down on you like a heavy fog. You pull your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as if it could keep the memories and doubts at bay. It doesn’t. His words replay in your mind, over and over.

"You think I’d let a class divide or family politics get in the way of being there for my son?"

"Do you have any idea what it feels like to find out you have a son you’ve never even met?"

It’s not just his anger that haunts you; it’s the pain you saw flickering behind his icy facade. You knew it would be there, but experiencing it firsthand feels nauseating. Satoru Gojo wasn’t the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but in those fleeting moments, his vulnerability was almost unbearable to witness.

Still, you start to wonder. Why didn’t he fight for you? That thought burns the most. It’s a question that’s lingered in the shadows of your mind for years, one you tried to bury under the weight of your choices and responsibilities. The truth is, you don’t have an answer. Maybe you never will.

You glance at the small coffee table, littered with Koji’s coloring books and the half-empty mug of coffee you didn’t finish this morning. It feels like a snapshot of a life you’ve tried so hard to hold together, but now the cracks are impossible to ignore. You think of Koji, sleeping soundly in the other room, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in your chest. He’s your anchor, the one thing that’s kept you grounded all these years. But now, with Satoru back in the picture, everything feels uncertain.

A part of you wants to believe he meant what he said—that he missed you, that he hated himself for losing you. But another part of you wonders if it’s just anger talking, a need to lash out and make you feel as miserable as he does. The exhaustion pulls at you like a tide, and you let your head fall into your hands, groaning softly. You want to scream, cry, or maybe just disappear for a while. But none of that will solve anything. You can’t rewrite the past.

The soft hum of the refrigerator fills the silence, a dull reminder of the life you’ve built here, brick by fragile brick. And now, in just a single morning, Satoru has shaken the foundation of everything you thought you knew.

You sigh heavily, forcing yourself to stand. There’s no use drowning in your thoughts. You glance at the closed door to Koji’s room, then at the kitchen. Maybe you should prepare something for lunch. Maybe you should sit down and write out everything you’ve been feeling, like the therapist you saw briefly after Koji’s birth suggested.

But instead, you just stand there, frozen in place, as the weight of your choices and the uncertainty of what comes next presses down on you. He’s gonna meet his dad. Koji’s finally getting what he’s wanted after so long, after so many curious questions. You think about how happy he might be, a little shy at first, but he’ll grow to become best friends with his dad. Bitterly smiling, you walk to the kitchen, forcing open a locked cabinet. You pour an unknowing amount of small white pills in your palm, dry swallowing them to quell your monstrous cluster migraine. The pills burn slightly as they go down, a sharp reminder of how raw your nerves are. You grip the edge of the sink, your fingers curling into the cold metal. The thought of Koji meeting Satoru feels like a knife with two edges—one gleaming with hope and the other with fear.

Once Koji wakes up, you’ll need to have a talk with him. Koji’s been asking about his dad for as long as he could form the words. His innocent curiosity, his longing, had always been a reminder of the choices you made, and now…now, you’ll have to confront what those choices mean for him.

He’ll most likely be jumping off the walls, but…you start hoping he doesn’t. You imagine his face lighting up when he sees Satoru—those wide, curious eyes sparkling with excitement and the kind of joy you could never quite give him on your own. That should make you happy, shouldn’t it? He deserves to have both parents in his life. But the thought of him bonding with Satoru, looking up to him, and maybe even loving him more than you…that thought digs into your chest like a splinter. You hate how petty and small it makes you feel.

You’ve done your best, haven’t you? You’ve given everything you could, sacrificed so much, and tried to shield him from the harshness of the world. But Satoru has something you can’t give—a life free of constant worries, opportunities Koji can only dream of, and a charisma that pulls people in like gravity. It’s stupid, you know it is. But you start worrying that Koji will begin to prefer Satoru over you. That he’ll find more comfort and happiness in a parent he just met than the one who’s done everything she could.

But that’s the thing.

Maybe your everything, your all, it just wasn’t enough. It still isn’t enough. Because while you’re giving Koji the bare minimum, you can’t do the littler things. Vacations, buying him toys he loves that he constantly sees on TV, newer clothes and not the thrifted kind, going out to eat dinner. None of that, and more.

You glance at the clock. Koji will hopefully wake up soon. There’s no more time to wallow in your thoughts. You rinse your hands under the cold water, hoping it’ll steady the tremor in them. "This isn’t about you," you remind yourself firmly, staring at your reflection in the window above the sink. The woman staring back looks older than her years, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and worry. But beneath all of that, there’s still love—a fierce, unrelenting love for the boy who’s about to have his world turned upside down. You can’t control how Koji feels about Satoru, just like you couldn’t control how things fell apart between you and him. But you can control how you navigate this moment, for Koji’s sake.

You take a deep breath, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack your face. When Koji wakes up, you’ll talk to him. You’ll answer his questions, help him prepare, and do your best to hide your own fears. Because this isn’t about you.

"It’s about him," you whisper, as if saying it out loud will make the truth easier to accept.

“What I say, baby, I want you to listen well, okay? Can you do that for me?”

The young boy nods and grins. “I can listen, Mama,” he admits proudly.

You should also probably bring up the issue Mr. Ito expressed to you, but that’s for another time. Also, you feel as if you weren’t getting the full story there. Whatever, that’s for another time. You steel yourself, choosing the correct words to say. “So, you know how Papa is always busy?”

He nods.

“Well,” you continue, taking his much smaller hand into yours, presenting a warm smile. “Papa won’t be busy tomorrow.”

He gasps, already seeing the twinkle form in his eyes, and you feel a tad jealous at how happy he’s already getting. “He is?!”

“Mhm,” you nod back. “Do you want to see Pa—”

“I wanna see Papa!”

He cuts you off, causing your jealousy to momentarily skyrocket. You catch yourself before the feeling twists any further, biting down the sharp edge of jealousy threatening to creep into your tone. This isn’t about you—it’s about Koji. It’s always been about Koji. “That’s great,” you say, forcing your smile to stay steady, even as a part of you aches at how easily he lights up for someone who’s been a ghost in his life until now. “But, Koji, baby, you need to listen to me first, okay? Seeing Papa is a big thing, and we need to talk about what that means.”

He tilts his head, the excitement in his eyes dimming just a little as he picks up on the seriousness in your voice. “Is it gonna be like when we see Uncle Ren?”

Your heart twists at the innocent comparison. Ren, for all his faults, has been one of the only constants in Koji’s life outside of you. But no—this isn’t like Ren. This is his father. Ren’s the nicer, older man who runs the sweet shop down the corner. He always greets you two with such warmness, even giving Koji a free lollipop most of the time.

“Not exactly,” you say carefully. “Papa is... someone very important. He’s not like Uncle Ren. He’s your family, Koji. Your real family.”

He blinks, trying to process your words. His little brows knit together in confusion. “So... he’s gonna stay with us?”

You feel your stomach drop at the question. You hadn’t prepared for this. You hadn’t thought about how to explain that Satoru isn’t coming into Koji’s life as a permanent fixture—not yet, at least. How do you tell a child something so complicated when it’s barely something you’ve figured out yourself? “Not right now,” you say gently, squeezing his hand. “But he’s going to start spending time with you. He’s been waiting a long time to meet you, Koji.”

“Really?” His face lights up again, his tiny frame vibrating with excitement.

“Really,” you confirm, though your voice feels thick. You clear your throat, forcing the emotion back down where it belongs. “But when you meet him, you have to be on your best behavior, okay? No running around like crazy or talking over people.”

“I’ll be good!” he promises, practically bouncing in his seat. You hope so. More than anything, you hope this meeting is what Koji dreams it’ll be. That he gets to see the man who is half of him and feel nothing but joy.

But as you watch his wide, excited smile, your stomach churns with doubt. Will Satoru disappoint him? Will Koji’s expectations crash under the weight of Satoru’s complexities? Or worse, will Koji grow to love him so much that he stops looking at you the same way?

You push the thought away, leaning forward to kiss Koji’s forehead. “I’m proud of you, baby,” you murmur, even as the ache in your chest refuses to subside. “And I’m so excited for you to meet Papa.”

Koji giggles, his little arms wrapping around your waist in a hug so pure it threatens to undo you entirely. You hold him close, pressing your cheek to his soft hair, and try to anchor yourself in this moment—this fleeting, fragile peace—before tomorrow comes and changes everything. As Koji pulls back, his eyes are gleaming with uncontainable joy. “Do you think Papa likes dinosaurs?” he asks suddenly, his voice pitched with excitement. “I can show him my dino book! And my drawings too!”

Your lips twitch into a soft smile despite the heaviness sitting in your chest. “I think he’ll love them, Koji,” you say gently. “But remember, it’s okay if Papa doesn’t know everything about dinosaurs. You can teach him, right?”

Koji nods eagerly, his little hands fidgeting as if he’s already planning how he’ll show off his collection. “I can teach him all the big words, like pachy... pachycephalosaurus!” he declares proudly.

Your laugh is small but genuine, breaking through the weight of your thoughts. “That’s a big word, alright,” you say, ruffling his hair. Koji’s excitement is infectious, and for a moment, you let yourself bask in his enthusiasm. It’s easier to pretend that everything will go smoothly, that tomorrow won’t bring possible complications you can’t predict or control. But as he bounds off to his room, presumably to organize his dinosaur books and drawings for tomorrow, the silence that settles over the apartment again feels excruciating. You glance toward the kitchen, where the locked cabinet hides the pills you’ve been relying on far too often these days. For a moment, the thought crosses your mind, unbidden: Would it even matter if I wasn’t enough anymore?

You shake your head sharply, disgusted with yourself for even entertaining it. No. You have to be enough—for Koji, if nothing else.

Sighing, you push yourself off the couch and move toward his room. You lean against the doorframe, watching as he carefully stacks his books into a neat pile, his little hands moving with purpose. “Koji,” you call softly, and he looks up at you, his face lit with the same pure joy it’s always had.

“Yeah, Mama?”

“I just...” You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. I just love you so much. It feels too simple, too heavy all at once. Instead, you force a smile. “I think Papa’s really lucky to have you.”

Koji beams, his smile wide and toothy. “And you, Mama!” he says, matter-of-factly, before returning to his project.

You linger for a moment longer, letting his words wrap around your heart like a fragile thread. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring—if it’ll heal or shatter you further—but for now, you let yourself hold on to the hope in his voice. Because like always, Koji is your guiding light in a world so dark, he’s the hand that pulls you out when you’re sinking too deep. If you begin to question your love for even yourself, your love for him is enough to keep you going.

Today’s a little more warm than usual, though that doesn’t say a lot considering it’s winter and the air feels crispy; still sunny. You hold your son’s hand, guiding him along the sidewalk and to the inevitable meeting spot between father and son. You left a little early; it being 9:30. It feels slightly calmer within your mind, probably because Satoru isn’t here yet.

You sit with Koji on the bench, letting him find placement on your lap. Adjusting his red beanie and gloves. “Are you excited, Koji?”

“I’m really excited, Mama. do you think Papa will like me?”

You coo. “Of course he will. Papa already loves you.”

“Really? Even though he’s never seen me?”

“Koji beams at your words, his small hands tugging at the ends of his gloves as if to keep himself busy. “Do you think he’ll play with me? Maybe dinosaurs or tag?” His little backpack is full of things he wishes to show his father, most of them being either dinosaur or car-related.

You smile softly, stroking his cheek. “I think he’ll play whatever you want. Papa will want to get to know you, Koji. You’re very special to him.”

His grin widens, and he leans into your touch, the warmth of his trust settling heavily on your chest. You wish you could bottle this moment—his innocence, his excitement, his unshakable belief that everything will turn out fine.

The minutes pass as you and Koji wait for Satoru, the latter being more excited than the other. Finally, the sound of footsteps crunching in the frosty grass pulls your attention, and your heart skips. You glance up and see Satoru approaching, his tall frame unmistakable even from a distance. His coat flutters slightly in the breeze, his pace steady yet reluctant, as if he’s as nervous as you are. He’s wearing sunglasses, per usual. A voice in the back of your mind berates him for that fashion choice. “There he is,” you murmur, nudging Koji gently.

Koji hops off your lap, his tiny hand still clutching yours tightly. He squints toward the approaching figure, his expression a mix of curiosity and awe. “Is that Papa?”

You nod, your throat tightening. “That’s him, sweetheart.”

As Satoru comes closer, his steps slow, his gaze fixed on the little boy beside you. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between wonder and hesitation, like he’s trying to process the reality of seeing his son for the first time.

“Koji,” you say softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Say hello.”

Koji looks up at Satoru, his shyness momentarily overtaking his excitement. “Hi, Papa,” he says, his voice small but filled with hope.

Satoru stops a few steps away, his hands shoved in his coat pockets. His usual cocky demeanor is gone, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. His blue eyes flicker to you briefly before settling on Koji. “Hey there, little buddy,” he says, his voice quiet. He crouches slightly to Koji’s level, offering a tentative smile. “You must be Koji. I’m Satoru.”

Koji nods, gripping your hand tighter. “That’s me. Are you really my Papa?”

Satoru chuckles, though there’s a faint crack in the sound. “Yeah, kid. I am.”

Koji’s face lights up, and he lets go of your hand to take a step toward Satoru. “Mama said you love me already. Is that true?”

For a moment, Satoru seems at a loss for words. His gaze softens, and he nods, his voice rough with emotion. “Yeah, Koji. I do. I’ve always loved you.” The boy beams, closing the remaining distance to hug Satoru’s waist, his little arms barely wrapping around it. Satoru freezes for a second before carefully putting his hand down, his large palm resting gently on Koji’s back.

Your chest tightens at the sight, and you quickly look away, blinking back the tears threatening to spill. This is their moment, you tell yourself. A moment you’ve waited so long for, no matter how bittersweet it feels.

Koji pulls his head back, a wide and toothy smile as he regards his father. His head tilts, staring at his own reflection within the tinted shades of the glasses before Satoru reaches and pulls them over his head. It’s like a mirror, almost uncanny how similar the two look; you seem like an outsider. There’s an unspoken moment as the two continue to look at each other, as if finally saying this is really him. Their eyes are like when you place two mirrors in front of one another.

Satoru’s lips twitch upward into a faint smile as he holds the glasses out, letting Koji’s small fingers curl around the frame. “Here, try them on,” he says, his tone light but carrying a hint of something deeper—an unspoken acknowledgment of their connection.

Koji’s eyes widen with delight, and he eagerly slips the oversized glasses onto his face. They sit crookedly on his nose, far too large for his small frame, but his grin stretches even wider. “Do I look cool, Papa?” He asks as the glasses slide down his nose.

Satoru laughs softly, a sound that feels warmer than you expected. “Cooler than me, for sure. Guess I have to step up my game now.”

The boy giggles, and you watch the interaction with a bittersweet ache in your chest. This is what you’d imagined all those nights when you wondered how the two of them would get along. The way Koji lights up under Satoru’s attention is both heartwarming and a painful reminder of what’s been missing. Koji pulls the glasses off and holds them out to Satoru. “Here, you can have them back. Mama says sharing is nice.”

Satoru takes them, sliding them back over his forehead. His gaze briefly flicks to you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he looks back at Koji. “Your mama’s right. Sharing is pretty nice.”

You clear your throat, feeling like an intruder in their growing bond. “Koji,” you say softly, “how about we sit down for a bit?”

Koji nods eagerly, pulling Satoru’s hand as he moves toward the bench. Satoru lets him lead, his expression softening as he glances down at the boy. It’s a strange sight—Satoru, who’s always seemed larger than life, brought down to such an intimate moment. As they sit, Koji climbs onto the space beside him which is in between you two, his legs swinging with restless energy. “Papa, do you like dinosaurs? Mama says I know a lot about them!”

Satoru leans back, crossing his arms as he smirks. “Dinosaurs, huh? Bet you’re smarter than me already. You’ll have to teach me everything.”

“I can do that!” Koji declares proudly, bouncing slightly in his seat. Satoru hums, his gaze shifting to you again momentarily. There’s an unspoken question in his eyes, as if silently acknowledging the effort it must have taken to bring this moment to life. It’s gone before you know it.

You offer a small, shaky smile, unsure if it’s enough. But for now, it seems to be all you can give. Koji digs into his backpack, pulling out his dinosaur drawings and books. Koji’s small hands fumble with the zipper of his backpack, his excitement palpable as he pulls it open and begins rifling through its contents. “Wait, Papa! I gotta show you something!” he exclaims, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

Satoru leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, curiosity piqued. “Oh yeah? What’ve you got in there, buddy?”

Koji triumphantly pulls out a stack of slightly crumpled drawings, held together by a paperclip, and a well-worn dinosaur book with a cracked spine. “These are my favorite! Look!” He spreads the drawings out on Satoru’s lap, pointing at each one with his little finger. “This is a T-Rex—it’s the king of dinosaurs. And this one’s a Triceratops! It has three horns, see?”

Satoru’s gaze moves over the colorful scribbles, a mix of crayons and markers. He chuckles, tapping the corner of a particularly fierce-looking dinosaur. “This T-Rex looks like it’s about to eat someone. You’re a pretty good artist, Koji.”

Koji beams, his chest puffing out with pride. “Mama helped me with some of the colors!”

You can’t help but smile at the way he gives you credit, even as you hover a few inches away. “He did most of it himself,” you say, your voice softer than you intended.

Satoru glances at you, his expression unreadable, before turning back to Koji. “You’re really into dinosaurs, huh? You know, I think I might need some lessons. I don’t know much about them.”

Koji’s eyes widen. “You don’t? Oh, Papa, I know so much! I can tell you all about the Velociraptor! They were super smart and super fast, like this!” He hops off the bench and runs a small circle in front of them, his arms tucked close like claws.

Satoru laughs, leaning back and watching his son’s animated movements. “Fast, huh? Guess I’ve got a lot to catch up on. You think you can teach me everything in one day?”

Koji stops, his hands on his hips as he considers the question. “Maybe two days,” he says with a solemn nod, as though he’s made a grand concession.

“Deal.” Satoru holds out his pinky, and Koji eagerly hooks his smaller one around it.

You watch the scene unfold, a lump forming in your throat. It’s a simple, tender moment—a glimpse of what could have been all these years. The sight of Satoru interacting so effortlessly with Koji stirs something deep within you: a mixture of relief, regret, and longing. For now, though, you let it play out, quietly holding onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—this is the start of something better.

Watching Satoru and his little carbon copy switch from topic to topic so animatedly, laughing practically in the same tone, hopping up from the bench and making their way over to the playground a few feet away where they play tag and other parently things, it’s bittersweet. Their voices overlapping with excitement, is nothing short of surreal. They laugh at the same things, sounding so bright, carefree, and unrestrained. It’s uncanny how similar they are, from the sparkle in their eyes to the animated gestures they make when they’re especially engrossed in a story.

Satoru follows Koji without hesitation. His long legs make exaggerated strides as he pretends to struggle to keep up with Koji’s smaller but determined ones. They dart toward the playground a few feet away, the father pretending to stumble dramatically as Koji tags him with a triumphant giggle. “Gotcha, Papa!” Koji exclaims, hands on his hips in victory.

Satoru clutches his chest, feigning defeat. “Oh no! You’re too fast for me! How am I ever gonna catch you now?” Koji’s laughter fills the air, high-pitched and unbridled, and Satoru’s laughter follows—louder, but just as genuine. They move seamlessly into other "parent-y" things: Satoru helps Koji up onto the monkey bars, playfully pretends to lose at rock-paper-scissors, and even kneels in the dirt to “help” Koji build a small castle from wood chips and fallen leaves.

It’s poignant.

On one hand, this is what you always wanted for Koji: the joy of having his father present, the sense of belonging that comes with it. Seeing them together, it’s clear they’re already forming a bond—one you never doubted they’d have. But on the other hand, it’s a painful reminder of what could have been. Of all the moments you and Koji missed out on, of the milestones, Satoru wasn’t there to witness. It feels like watching a puzzle finally fall into place, except you’re the piece that doesn’t quite fit.

You sit on the edge of the bench, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to focus on the joy radiating from Koji rather than the ache in your heart. The past five years feel heavier than ever as you watch them, your mind flipping through memories of bedtime stories, scraped knees, and birthdays spent alone. You did your best, but sitting here now, it feels like it was never adequate.

Satoru glances over his shoulder at one point, catching your eye. There’s something obscure in his expression—maybe it’s a touch of hesitation, or something softer. For a moment, you hold his gaze, unsure of what to say or do. Then, Koji calls his name again, and he’s pulled back into the moment, grinning as he lets the boy climb onto his back for a piggyback ride.

You smile faintly, blinking back the sting in your eyes. This is for Koji, you remind yourself. This is for him. Even if it hurts, even if it feels like you’re standing on the outside looking in, it’s worth it for him. Always for him. Because at the end of the day, no matter what his parents are going through, he needs Satoru just as much as you, and vice versa.

What if he starts needing Satoru more? Fathers and sons always have that special bond that can’t be replicated by mother and son, it’s like how daughters and mothers have a relationship like no other. Fathers and sons, they always seem to share a unique connection, one that feels effortless and almost predestined. The kind of connection you can never quite replicate, no matter how hard you try; and daughters naturally gravitate toward their mothers, a coalition that feels like it was written into their DNA.

But Koji’s all you have.

What if he starts asking for Satoru more? What if this new relationship between them becomes so strong, so unshakable, that you’re left standing on the sidelines? A shadow of the parent you’ve always tried to be. The thought sends a jolt of panic straight through your chest, cold and unrelenting.

What will you do then? No, you think, that can’t happen. It won’t.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thought as quickly as it came. That can’t happen. It just can’t happen. You’ve been there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every nightmare that needed soothing. You’ve carried the weight of being both parents for five long years. There’s no way Satoru can just step in now and take your place, no matter how effortlessly he seems to connect with Koji. But that was because you chose that, a voice in your head reminds you.

Still, is it bad to hold your son this close to you? Fearing that he’ll be ripped away from you before you can even blink? Is that co-dependence? To want to shield him from a world that feels like it’s constantly trying to take him away from you? Is it selfish to want to keep him tethered to you, even as you know he deserves the freedom to explore this new relationship with his father?

You swallow hard, your hands fidgeting in your lap. Maybe it is selfish. Maybe it is in fact co-dependence, this need to keep him as close as possible, as if letting go even a little might mean losing him completely. But how could it not be? He’s been your everything for so long, the only light in a world that’s often felt impossibly dark. You glance at the playground again, watching as Satoru spins Koji around in his arms, both of them laughing like they’ve known each other forever. And maybe they have, in a way. Maybe some part of Koji has always been waiting for this, for his father to finally show up and fill the space you couldn’t. Wait, you know he’s been waiting for this.

Your chest tightens, and you force yourself to take a steadying breath. This isn’t about you. It never was. Koji deserves this, and you owe it to him to put aside your fears and let him have it.

Even if it feels like it’s breaking you apart in the process.

It’s been a few hours and if possible, it’s like Koji and Satoru are best friends. That’s good, right? Satoru has always been a charming person, one you could easily find comfort in. You’ve lived that. Koji’s sweating by the time he comes over to you. “Drink water,” you gently instruct, handing him his small Spiderman water bottle, and wiping at his sweaty face and neck with the sleeve of your coat.

“Energetic little boy,” Satoru sighs in mild exhaustion as he comes over. He seems to be sweating too, cheeks flushed a nice red, chest heaving up and down. He undoes another button on his casual button-down, giving you a view of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. You catch yourself staring too intently and look away before he can say anything.

He notices.

“Mama, Papa is so fast. I wanna be fast like him.” Koji breathes out, smiling at you, his cheeks red in similarity to his dad.

With a light chuckle, you take his water bottle back once he’s done. “You’re already fast, Koji. But when you grow up into a bigger boy, you’ll be really fast, maybe even faster than Papa.”

“Hey,” Satoru cuts in, giving you a frown that teeters on the line of a playful pout. “He’s not there yet, let’s cross that bridge when we get there.”

The word let’s makes your stomach twist a bit. A reminder that he does want this, he does want Koji, he does want to be a father. You entertain the idea of him wanting you, before quickly shuffling that away.

“Papa, are you coming home with us?” Koji innocently asks, unaware of the way his two parents simultaneously stiffen. The question hangs in the air like a weight, heavy and unrelenting. Koji’s wide-eyed innocence is almost cruel in its purity, completely unaware of the way his words have sliced through the fragile peace you and Satoru have been clinging to.

Satoru’s eyes dart to yours, his expression unreadable, though the slight twitch of his jaw betrays his tension. You can feel his gaze searching for some kind of answer, some indication of how you want him to handle this. But how could you possibly guide him when you don’t even know what to say yourself?

You force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace, and gently brush Koji’s hair back under his red beanie. “Papa has his own home, sweetheart,” you say carefully, your voice soft but firm. “He’s not coming home with us today.”

Koji’s face falls just slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks back at Satoru, his small hands clutching the hem of his sweater. “Can I see Papa again?”

Satoru crouches down to Koji’s level, his long fingers lightly ruffling the boy’s hair. “Of course, you can,” he says, his voice warm and reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere, buddy. You’ll see me again real soon.”

The promise is sincere, and it makes something in your chest ache. For Koji’s sake, you want to believe him. You want to believe that Satoru will keep his word, that he won’t somehow put his work over his own son. But a small, bitter part of you—the part that remembers how he let you go so easily all those years ago—can’t quite let go of its doubts.

Koji seems satisfied with the answer, his smile returning as he hugs Satoru tightly. “Okay! I’ll see you soon, Papa!”

As Satoru hugs him back, his eyes flicker to you over Koji’s shoulder. There’s something there, something unspoken but heavy. Guilt? Hope? Regret? You can’t tell, and you’re not sure you want to. When they finally pull apart, Satoru stands, his hands slipping into his pockets as he looks down at you. “I’ll walk you both back,” he offers.

You hesitate, your first instinct to decline, but Koji’s excited cheer cuts you off. “Yes! Papa can come with us!”

And just like that, you’re outnumbered. You force another tight smile, nodding as you gather Koji’s things. “Alright,” you say quietly.

The three of you set off together, Koji happily chatting away as he skips in front of you, completely unaware of the tension simmering just beneath the surface. Satoru walks close enough that his shoulder occasionally brushes against yours, each touch sending an unwelcome jolt through you.

It’s a painfully wistful image, the three of you walking together like some semblance of a family. But deep down, you know it’s just that—an image. A fleeting moment in time that doesn’t change the years of distance and pain that still stretch between you and Satoru. And yet, for Koji’s sake, you try to hold onto it just a little longer. Even if it hurts.

The closer you get to your apartment, the more the houses look a little run down. Trash on the streets, beat-up cars, the way the number of people slowly dwindles down as if they know not to cross an unspoken line of the city. You suddenly feel extremely self-conscious; you know Satoru is having internal questions.

You live here?

Is this even a safe neighborhood?

You’re raising my son in some place like this?

He stays quiet, but you know he wants to say something. He has to want to. Because Satoru was given everything growing up, all in pristine condition. He’s never had to worry about whether those were fireworks or not, he’s used to the kind of neighborhood where your neighbors are mowing their lawns at seven in the morning, greeting everyone in a happy way.

The tension is stifling, stretched thin by the unspoken judgment you feel radiating off Satoru. You don’t dare look at him, your eyes fixed on Koji’s little form skipping ahead, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering behind him. Your cheeks burn with shame, and you hate yourself for it. This is your reality, your life. You’ve done everything you could to provide for Koji, and while it may not be perfect—or anywhere close—you’ve kept him safe, fed, and loved. But under Satoru’s unspoken scrutiny, it suddenly feels like none of that is enough.

He’s used to opulence, to security, to the kind of life where struggle is nothing more than an abstract concept. What could he possibly know about living paycheck to paycheck, about stretching every dollar, about the fear of your son asking for something you just can’t afford?

Still, his silence grates on your nerves, each step you take toward your apartment building making the tension in your chest tighten like a vice. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, measured—but you can hear the edge in it, the careful restraint. “You’ve been here the whole time?”

You stop walking, Koji a few feet ahead now as he fiddles with a crack in the sidewalk. Turning to Satoru, you feel your stomach churn at the unreadable look on his face. His hands are still stuffed in his pockets, his posture casual, but his piercing blue eyes burn with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.

“Yes,” you answer, lifting your chin slightly as if that could shield you from the vulnerability creeping up your spine.

“And this is where you’ve been raising Koji?” There it is. The question you knew was coming, coated in a thin veil of curiosity but laced with something deeper—concern, maybe even disappointment.

“Yes,” you say again, your voice firmer this time. “This is where we’ve been.”

Satoru lets out a slow breath, his gaze sweeping over the street, the cracked pavement, and the graffiti-stained walls. “It’s not exactly... ideal,” he says carefully, though the criticism in his tone is unmistakable.

Your fists clench at your sides, a rush of defensiveness coursing through you. “I know it’s not ideal,” you snap, your voice low but sharp. “But it’s what I could afford. It’s where we’ve made a life, and Koji is happy here. Isn’t that what matters?”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks at Koji, who’s now crouched down and inspecting a dandelion sprouting from a crack in the sidewalk, blithely unaware of the storm brewing between his parents. Satoru then sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying you haven’t done your best,” he says, his voice softer now. “But...he deserves better than this.”

The words hit you like a slap, and you take an involuntary step back, your heart sinking into your stomach. “You think I don’t know that?” you hiss, your voice trembling. “You think I don’t hate myself every single day for not being able to give him more? I’m doing everything I can, Satoru. Everything. And if that’s not good enough for you, then maybe you should’ve been here sooner.”

“Then maybe you should’ve told me sooner,” he’s quick to quip back.

The silence that follows is deafening, and for a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, the weight of years of pain and resentment hanging heavy between you.

Koji’s voice breaks the tension, cheerful and oblivious. “Mama, look! A flower!”

You force a smile, blinking back the sting of tears as you walk over to crouch down to Koji’s level. “It’s beautiful, honey,” you say, brushing a hand over his soft hair. “Just like you.”

Behind you, Satoru says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you, heavy with something you can’t quite name. And as you take Koji’s hand and lead him toward your building, you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, and what this moment means for the three of you.

You three finally get to the poor excuse of an apartment lobby, making your way to the elevator that always makes questionable sounds. Once inside, you press the 3 button, and you’re off. The doors creak shut and the small, dingy light above flickers during the ascent. During this time, you wish Koji would mask the awkwardness with his childish nature. Too bad he’s pretty tired from playing til his heart’s content, leaning his cheek against your arm.

The elevator hums and groans as it ascends, the sound filling the uncomfortable silence that hangs between you and Satoru. Koji’s small, warm weight against your side is a comfort, but it’s not enough to dispel the tension. You steal a glance at Satoru, who stands a step away, his hands shoved into his pockets as he leans against the elevator wall. His expression is unreadable, his blue eyes fixed on the faintly glowing numbers above the doors.

You wonder what he’s thinking. Does he regret coming? Is he silently judging everything—the elevator, the building, you? You hate how self-conscious you feel, how his presence has peeled back layers of armor you didn’t even realize you had put on. Koji shifts against you, mumbling something incoherent. You brush a hand over his head, smoothing down his messy hair, and whisper, “Almost home, sweetheart.”

Suddenly, there’s a sound of a ding. Followed by another. And then another. And then another. Confused, you glance over at Satoru who subtly pulls his phone out to glance at his home screen, a frown pulling at his lips. You can’t see who’s texting, but it looks and sounds like a lot. You know you have no right asking, but you can’t help but speculate about who’s blowing up his phone, and why he looks so annoyed by it. And why he also looks like he’s trying to hide the phone from your view.

The elevator jerks slightly as it reaches the third floor, and Koji stirs, blinking up at you sleepily. “We’re here?”

“We’re here,” you confirm with a small smile, gently nudging him upright.

Satoru stuffs his phone away again as the doors creak open, revealing the dimly lit hallway beyond. The carpet is worn and the walls are scuffed. You promptly feel another intense wave of embarrassment. You’ve grown used to this place, its imperfections blending into the background of your daily life, but seeing it through Satoru’s eyes makes you painfully aware of every flaw. “This way,” you say, your voice tight as you step out, leading them down the hall.

Koji perks up a little, his steps are more energetic as he tugs on your hand. “Papa, wait till you see my room! I have dinosaurs everywhere!”

“I can’t wait,” Satoru replies, his tone light and easy, but there’s something in his eyes as he glances around. He’s taking it all in—the peeling paint, the faint smell of dampness, the creak of the floorboards under his expensive shoes. You stop in front of your door, fishing your keys out of your pocket. The chipped paint and tarnished doorknob seem to scream your insecurities aloud.

“This is it,” you say quietly, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

Koji rushes inside, his earlier fatigue forgotten as he kicks off his shoes and heads straight for his room. “Wait here, Papa! I’ll show you my dinos!”

Satoru lingers in the doorway for a moment before stepping in, his gaze sweeping over the small living room. It’s cluttered but clean, with Koji’s toys and drawings scattered here and there. The couch is worn, the coffee table scratched, and the kitchen in the corner is cramped and outdated.

“It’s... cozy,” Satoru says after a moment, his tone careful.

You bristle instinctively, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s what I can afford.”

“I didn’t mean—” He stops, exhaling softly. “You’ve done a good job, really. Koji’s happy. That’s what matters.”

You study his face, searching for any trace of condescension or pity, but all you see is sincerity. It catches you off guard, and you look away, busying yourself with tidying up. Satoru takes a few steps further into the room, his gaze lingering on one of Koji’s drawings taped to the wall. It’s a crayon depiction of you and Koji holding hands under a smiling sun. Next to you, there’s an empty space, as if waiting for someone to be added.

He doesn’t say anything, but the slight tightening of his jaw tells you he’s noticed.

Koji rushes out with his toy dinosaurs, holding them up for his father to take. The two move to the couch, the weight of Satoru causing it to creak weirdly. Once more, Koji is giving his father a lesson about dinosaurs, their names, and what they were like—even what sounds they made.

“Do you want a drink?” you ask, looking over to the kitchen. “I have water and some juice.”

He looks up momentarily. But just as he’s about to answer, his phone rings, this time a call. The three of you look down at his phone, Koji tilting his head in confusion before focusing on making his dinosaurs fight again. However, you’re a little more focused. Seeing a name, a woman’s name, accompanied with a picture of your ex kissing a woman you’ve never seen before.

You feel your muscles stiffen, a tug at your heartstrings. As if he notices your behavior from his peripheral, he locks his phone and lets it ring, putting it back in his pocket. “Sorry.” is all he mutters before looking at Koji. “Hey, buddy.”

Koji looks up at him. “Mhm?”

“Papa has to go home now, I have work to do,” Satoru responds slowly.

“You work today? But Mama doesn’t.”

The older of the two nods. “I know, but it’s special work.”

“Special?!”

“Special.”

“Okay!” Kojis nods, grin widening. “When will you come again, Papa?”

Satoru hesitates for a moment, his eyes moving to you, then back to Koji. You notice the brief pause, the weight of his words hanging in the air. He doesn’t look at you directly, but you can feel the shift in the space between you both. “I’ll come back soon, buddy,” he says finally, ruffling his hair affectionately. “I’ll see you again. We’ll play more, alright?”

Koji’s eyes light up, and he nods vigorously. “Okay! We’ll play dinosaurs again!” His excitement bubbles over, as if nothing has changed, as if the uncertainty of the last few minutes never existed.

Satoru smiles, ruffling Koji’s hair. “You’re the best, Koji.” He stands, looking over to you now. There’s an awkwardness that lingers, like the space between you two is suddenly filled with things unsaid.

“Thanks for letting me come by and meet him,” he adds quietly, the words sincere but tinged with something you can’t quite place. His gaze flickers down to his phone again, but it’s almost as if he’s avoiding it now, like he knows the reminder of what’s going on in his life is right there.

You nod stiffly. “Of course. Thanks for spending time with him.” Your words feel distant.

Satoru turns towards the door, his steps slow. “I’ll text you about when I can come back,” he says, his voice a little more subdued than before. He opens the door, then stops, his hand resting on the handle. “Take care of him. And yourself.”

You can’t tell if the last part is meant to be comforting or a reminder, but you nod anyway, your own thoughts swirling. With that, Satoru steps out, and the door closes behind him. You hear the faint click of his shoes as he walks down the hall, and then everything goes quiet.

Koji is already back to his dinosaurs, chattering to himself, completely unaware of the complexities unfolding in the space between his parents. You stand in the living room, your gaze lingering on the spot where Satoru had been, a thousand different emotions crashing inside you. The woman’s name on his phone, the kiss, the way he shut down the moment you noticed—it all gnaws at you, but you don’t know how to confront it. How do you even begin to ask? And what would it change, anyway? Why do you even care in the first place?

You take a deep breath and walk over to where Koji is playing, forcing a smile for his sake, trying to push everything else to the back of your mind. For now, it’s just you and him, and that has to be enough.

a/n: can you guys tell i love ominous endings? ^--^

taglist: @celestialforce @theclassbookworm @tbzzluvr @uhenivid @ofkilljoysandslytherins @sadmonke @bunheadusa @shartnart1 @lady-of-blossoms @itsinherited @duooy @ari-sa @dakotali @mew4-ever18 @iv-vee @devils-blackrose @a-girl-with-thoughts @bitchycloudstrawberry @tiffyisme3760 @iheartshopping @chiara-hotel @uriahs-barn @celloccino @roronoazorosbxtchh @pseudophyllus @ratedrrrr @m1gota @tojideckmuncher @yigaclvn @sukunaslve @eiizabeth-torres @cherrythiccums0 @satorustorm @zoeyflower

1K notes · View notes

dilf-docs · 29 days ago

Text

I'm Happy Where The Devils Are

dbf!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: something something about forbidden things; you never learn, not until the heart you gave returns to you in shreds, bleeding out of love. what's left when you've given all of your heaven away? hell.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap (but this time it's sad not hot or both idk), smut, p. in v., virgin!reader, (forced??) creampie, fingering, riding, oral (f. receiving), corruption kink, reader has no daddy issues ++her dad is lovely nor mommy issues like me but a secret third thing, ANGST IN CAPITAL, situationship™, jumping very late to this trend or series IDK hope someone still lurks around this neighbourhood, joel has no kids and is unmarried cause i need him to be BITTER, in short this is very AU canon divergence at max coded

word count: 7,629 words

side note: IF U SAW IT POSTED BEFORE NO U DIDN'T IT WAS A HONEST MISTAKE (clicked publish instead of save draft) OKAY i just searched thru my top 2024 songs by spotify for some inspo and well!!!!!! my yet to be dilf RM's (or joon as i, his wife, loves to call him endearingly) song called heaven popped up! those are the vibes if u wanna give it a listen (PLS DO OKAY HE RANKED TOP KOREAN ALBUM THIS YEAR AND I SEE I'M GETTING OFF THE HOOK BUT HE DESERVES IT RAHH I LOVE HIM SO MUCH) and yk i said it's got the miller vibe going on: ANGST™ okay stopping my rambling and letting y'all enjoy (or suffer, idk anymore: as u see, i have a thing for sad complicated old man and suffering myself, because i could've choose any other idea but here goes user dilf-docs the angst whore choosing to suffer again lolz)

part: I / II

It was winter when he first touched you.

Joel Miller: a name you've learned to pronounce like it was spoken on a different language that only you knew.

You've known him for years, a familiar face that stands in corners and only laughs when spoken to, begrundingly, like it's rather a favor than something of his amusement. A guy who would drop by your house until you learned his name like he'd learn the games you'd force him to play. A friend of your dad, who moved back to town and has haunted your house since he stepped a foot inside, tainting the walls with his pine phantom.

Joel's a face you've seen age as much as he's seen you grow out of your pigtails and child-like wonder: and perhaps that's why it's wrong.

It is all so wrong: the way your gaze lingers a bit too long over his tired and bitter expresion, looking for those flickers of softeness that appear when your dad calls him. Old friend, filled with affection, and Joel can't deny the only man who hasn't left his side a smile that he hopes is enough to express what he can't; he's not good with words.

It is all so wrong: how the sheets stick to your body while you scream his name, the sound drowning against your pillow, your body leaking with the secret of an unspoken desire that gets harder to hide with each passing day.

But you can't help it: one day the feelings started to blossom and the admiration left for the crush to harvest until it fully bloomed in your chest. Its petals have asfixiated you ever since.

On winter, you returned to town, like a vice. You always came back for the holidays, a silver of hope that shouldn't exist. You felt it in the air, impregnated with a heartbreak so cutting, it was hard to remember when the winter carried the happiness it should've; all that's left was the cold, harsh feeling.

"Y/n!" your dad embraces your body on a hug as warm as a fireplace, "you're home"

He passes you around the people over, because that's how he always is: joyful, the house full with guests that don't stop at family, but feel as close as those of blood. She came! he loudly yet proudly announces your homecoming, adding small sprinkles of how's college and how smart his little girl is (a nickname he can't let go of, not caring if you were ten then and now just above twenty), not caring if your face is as red as christmas easters.

"You have to stop, dad" you plead with annoyance, but a small smile betrays you, "no one wants to hear how I'm top of my class again, for the millionth time"

"Well, it's my house" he jokes, "so they better get used to it" he then looks around the room, as if he's forgetting something, "ah, someone I must bore with your stories is missing..."

He talks to some more people around and you have to plaster a smile and salute faces you can't recognize, but as on cue, the door flings open, some people near the entrance greeting a face you've yet to see and recognize. Your father gets there first, the smile that spreads across his face making your stomach tie in knots.

"Joel's here!" he delivers with excitement, unaware of how your polite smile falters.

"Joel's here" you repeat, grief laced within your words. Grief of what? You don't know, but you do know a part of you dies the more you look at Joel Miller the way you're not supposed to.

"Come say hi" your father insists, happy in his ignorance, despite your paced walk and stiff demeanor.

And walking your way is him, the man who owns your heart without knowing.

His hair is still as soft as ever, more tints of grey sprinkled through it. Your fingers itch to trace it, so you keep your fists closed until the red nails dig into the tight white flesh. He has more wrinkles, pronounced when his brows furrow at the sight of you.

"I know she's grown a lot, but I hope you still recognize her" your dad says with affection, "isn't she beautiful, my y/n? Grown into a whole lady"

Your heart hammers against your chest as Joel looks you up and down, but there is no emotion across his face.

"It's only been a year, but sure, she has" as stoic as ever, but it's enough to make your nerves wreck. You can't believe how much a simple stare and a few words can get to you.

But you were always like this: weak. Back then, at kindergarten grounds, when making a friend seemed the hardest task. Now, at university, when you wonder if something is wrong with you that always makes you the last option to choose.

Maybe that's why Joel, a man so strong in appearance and character, never liked you: that all those memories were a dream, and he just did it as an extension of his affection for your dad.

You'll never forget that dinner last year, on these same days, when for the first time, both your parents left you alone with Joel, their guest for the night. There was a storm outside, and it was almost funny how the brash wind against the window mimicked your steady heart. You didn't know he was coming, but when you did, you put on your best dress on purpose and dusted a makeup palette a friend gave you, yet he didn't even look your way.

"Do you hate me, Joel?" you asked in a whispered breathe, the cold silence as answer.

It's contradictory, really: your love grows where his hate does. More like hate, it's a disregard so cruel, you can't help but wonder if there's something wrong with you, making you attached to an older man that only seems to have apathy for you. Because one thing is attraction, but other is the deep adoration where you'd die if he were to ask you.

It's your fault, really, for turning his life into folklore. You still remember sitting on your father's lap as he talked your ear off, full of stories that Joel, always by his side, would quietly laugh, the fireplace casting shadow over a man who seemed to overpower the darkness that now is palpable on his gaze. He'd said your dad was making him greater than he really was, pinching your cheeks as he called you sugar, reasoning you were so sweet.

But since last year, something shifted: he started avoiding you, like he resented you.

And you never understood why. So every season you've searched in his eyes for a sign, anything, that can make you go back to that speacial relationship you had, missing him like a little kid. It's been a year, and you feel, if possible, more at loss than before.

Back to now, it's almost midnight, and most of the guests have gone already. You've tried to look cool in the eyes of those who are still there, conversation flowing easily through your eggnog-tinted tongue, yet you know it's all pretend.

"Excuse me" you can't take it anymore, the air suffocating you in anxiousness.

"Where are you going?" questions your mom, stopping you in your tracks before going up the stairs.

You turn around and feign a smile, "Up to my room"

"Are you okay?" your dad asks with worry.

"Yeah, just tired" you lie with ease, and the miles you've driven back it up.

"If you need anything, just tell" she says.

When you fall against the mattress, all the weight settles in. You close your eyes and count to ten, breathing in and breathing out.

The door creaks, so you get up as you open your eyes. "Dad" you start, knowing he's all about giving you talks, "Not now, please-"

"M' not y'r daddy"

You shiver despite the closed windows.

"Joel!" you jump, straightening yourself, "did dad send you?"

He doesn't respond, looking at you through brown warm eyes that reveal nothing. The pit in your stomach grows along awkward silence.

"It's cold outside, isn't it?" you attempt to make conversation, hating the silence. But you fail: he's still here, and regardless of his indifference, he doesn't leave.

Maybe it's the bit of alcohol from before, but you're standing over until you get close to his resting figure against the doorframe, the darkness of your room leaving his face, now barely lit by the light outside in the hallway. Joel's so close you can hear his breathing, and it surprises you the way it drags like a cigarette.

You feel confident for the first time, defiant even, tired of it all, like if it was his fault you loved him. You're sick of him viewing you like a naive kid who knows no better.

"Joel, why are you here?"

The lavender gets under his nose, his skin on fire. He looks at you again, but this time, the brown in his eyes darkens.

"Joel...?" you ask on a shaky breath.

Before you can register, there's warmth against your cheek. His fingers graze your face with an unspoken yearning on his fingertips, as he gently grabs your chin.

Your breath hitches, hand traveling to feel his on your face, to see if it's real and not a dream.

"Joel, what are you doing?"

He backs up, like your touch burns. And then looks at you, as if you're a stone on his shoe: just like all those boys back at the city, who have rejected you. You feel small, like crying.

"M' sorry" and walks out of your room, his scent up your nose. His limping figure walks down the hallway that now looks longer. You don't realize how long you've stared until you hear your father ask downstairs where was he.

It's like he was never there.

It was spring when he first kissed you.

It's funny how you still came back home after such disastrous holidays.

Joel stayed for the rest of the holidays, including Christmas and New Years, and when he hugged you in the living room full of guests, you had to pretend his fingers hadn't hold you differently before. You both lied your way out, and when you left, for the first time, you felt relieved, which is why it took some convincing from your father to make you return for spring.

"You couldn't miss this" he insists, "it's the best time to visit the cabin"

And you have to agree: a small cabin by the lake that your parents bought when they first moved in to town, a place you spent most of your childhood. Your father taught you how to fish there, and ever since, even as you moved away for college, you came back to do so, a tradition kept intact despite the years.

Your mom looks at you from the rear view mirror. "He wouldn't stop talking about it, afraid you wouldn't join us this year" your dad hushes her, embarrased, "oh! Don't act like you didn't"

Truth is, you'd still come: you miss the green tickling your bare feet, the cold water, and the sun kissing your skin as you lay outside. It's a lie you don't wait all year to leave the cold city and embrace the blooming spring.

"I wouldn't miss it for anything, dad" you lay against the car's door, closing your eyes as you smile. He doesn't say anything, yet with the way your mom giggles, you know he probably got teary or something―your sappy old man.

The car stops, the cabin in front of you. You feel like crying, so many memories flooding you. Alright, you're being sappy just like your dad, but it's been a hard semester and you missed your family.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you something" he says as you get out. The small denim short rides up as you stretch, your legs numb from the trip.

"Yeah?"

A car honks from behind. You jump, loosing balance as you trip. "Ow!" you land on the grass, embarrasingly so.

"C'mere" you look up, the sun blinding his face. "Lemme help ya', sugar"

The nickname feels like a slap to your face, so you stay there stupid, body stiff as you raise up, Joel's face flooding your field of vision.

"That's what I forgot to tell you" your dad laughs, "or who"

You're not laughing. Joel Miller is here and it's ruines your trip.

"Well, you should've" you took his hand just for the show, because you know your mom is observant. If there was an electric rush, you must've imagined it, just as the way his hands fall to his sides, twitching.

Over the next couple of days, you try to ignore him as much as you can, pretending your spring hasn't changed: fishing, laying down, sun and baths.

"Hey"

Your sun glasses rest on your nose as you raise from your spot, laying on a towel on the grass as you sunbathe.

"What'd want, Joel?" your tone is icy, contrasting the warmer climate.

"M' going to the lake" he mumbles, then stays silent. It's almost as if he's waiting for you to answer.

"Okay?" you lay down again, "have fun"

"Y'r dad said you'd teach me" he raises a fishing row.

You groan in annoyance, getting up from your spot, "why doesn't he do it?"

"Said y'r the best" then coughs, "besides, I think him and your momma needed some time alone..."

You walk past, shoulder brushing against his. You've never been this childish before, but your anger fuels your emotions: rage when you see him and remember how the warm of his touch turned cold in seconds.

You arrive at the small dock, sitting on the rather hot wood. You don't flinch, trying to prove nothing. Joel sits next to you and makes a face at the burning sensation.

"What?" you mock, venom dripping from your tone, "can't handle some heat?"

He just scoffs, passing the row to you with a little more force than necessary.

Your petty revenge is splashing his shirt, damping the cotton with the lake's water.

"I'm sorry" you apologize, feigning an innocent tone, "wanted to freshen up"

"Thought ya could handle the heat" Joel grumbles.

Then he curses under his breath, taking the shirt off and tossing it to the side.

You take in now shirtless body, admiring the strong muscles, broad shoulders and sturdy back. He sits next to you, his belly pushing just above the seam of his shorts. You recoil, almost as if heat radiated off his body, your cheeks burning. Your hands tremble as you hold the row, and it takes every strength of you to not succumb to the dangerous view; it's all too tempting.

"Y'r gonna teach me or what?" he breaks your train of thoughts, his voice so low, as if you were a little animal he was trying not to scare off, "just gonna stare? Ain't y'r daddy taught ya some manners?"

A current shoots through your body and looses itself in the middle of your legs.

You divert your gaze, ashamed. "Don't know what you're talking about"

"Liar" but it's so soft, it sounds more like an observation than an accusation.

"Drop it, Joel" you focus on the water but you know your mind is elsewhere.

"Sugar..."

You feel like throwing up. Why after ignoring you is he calling you like he used to? When he was your favorite person in the world and you were his. He used to hold you close, but now acts like your touch is poisoned. Joel confuses you too much; he's got you feeling like screaming at the sky.

"I said drop it, Joel" you seethe, "you may be old, but you're not deaf"

"And you may be young" his fingers remove the glasses from your face, your wary eyes in exhibit, "but y'r too bold"

They stay there, on your face, his rough fingertips touching your soft sun-kissed skin.

You don't know why you do it, but you do.

You get up, your legs on his face. Until then, you don't realize how close you two were.

"I'm not bold, Joel" you whisper, "I'm scared"

And then you jump.

The world reduces to a blur, body as light as a feather. The sensation of falling is familiar and you don't know why.

It's barely a second, like a blink.

The cold water hitting your body brings you back to reality.

You can't see, it's all dark. But you feel free: you may be underwater, but over him.

You feel like you got the upper hand, but then the water starts moving and a huge splash next to you makes you look back.

Joel jumped too.

"What are you doing?!" you shout.

What are you doing to me? What do you want from me? What will you do to me?

"Takin' a splash" he answers, like it's obvious.

"You know what I meant" your tone is rather spiteful.

"And you had'a teach me" he's again in front of you, barely inches away, "so I guess we're both dissapointed we didn't get what we wanted"

There's water dripping from his hair, falling to his face. Water drops adorn his eyelashes, warm eyes deeper than ever, and you feel like drowning even as your body floats.

"And what do you want?" you challenge, the question implying only so much.

His lips clash into yours, hungry like a wolf. Your hands immediately grip his neck for support as his tongue forcefully gets inside of you, water droplets filling your taste buds. You gasp for air, all of your body pressed against his.

"That answer y'r question?" tone defiant, as if he's also a player on this game that's just started.

You just don't know yet how much you've got to loose.

It was summer when he became yours.

You'd never anticipated coming back home as much as now.

The lingering feeling of his scruffy beard against yours, back pressed against the walls of the shed at midnight while he devoured your lips in a hungry kiss has stayed with you since you left the cabin, trapped in the salt air. Now you're coming back for more, butterflies in the low of your belly as you remember his words:

"When y'get back, I'll have ya' a surprise"

You park at your house, searching for the keys under the rug, but they aren't there. You knock to no answer, so you call your dad and mom, only for both of the calls to go directly to voicemail. Yes, you came a day earlier than planned, but your parents are always home the week you arrive, so something must be going on.

Before you worry, a voice behind you says:

"Ain't nobody inside. Y'r folks went out"

It's Joel, looking as good as the last day you saw him. Just to taste him again, you were complaint on every single of his requirements, one being no contact. He claimed he didn't want to distract you back at college, and you didn't ask any more questions, afraid you'd press a wrong button and loose what felt like a dream.

"Really?" you walk out of your porch to where he is, resisting the urge to kiss him in the middle of your neighbourhood's street.

"Hmh" he nods, "said they ain't comin' back soon"

"They told you so?" you question, "why do I feel you had something to do with it?"

"Ain't do shit" he crosses his arms, the t-shirt sleeves making his arm muscles more prominent. He then coughs, "just recommended y'r dad a nice restaurant outside town. Maybe they'll be later than night, traffic is kinda packed at late"

You smile, "Joel?"

He doesn't look at you, "yes?"

You fail to suppress a giggle, "did you just get rid of my parents?"

"No" he answers, stern. "Now" he looks around, all doors closed, "why don't 'cha come inside? Sun is hittin' hard"

He's a terrible liar.

As soon as you enter his house, you can't believe you've never been there before, visits usually in your house.

It's exactly what you expected: a simple and sober decoration that hides a welcoming feeling somewhere. There's something else you notice: the lack of pictures.

"Make yourself comfortable" he says, coughing, looking akward all of a sudden. You want to laugh and coo his now insecure demeanor, shy in your present. If he seemed sure before, he doesn't anymore. "I''ll get ya' some water"

"Joel?" your voice comes out low, equalling a purr. His cock twitches in his pants at the way you call him.

"Yes?" he swallows, adam's apple bobbing.

"I hope you didn't bring me into your house just for a glass" then you sit on the couch, the small short you're wearing riding up your thighs. "Besides, I'm not thirsty"

He doesn't move, almost as if he's lost the ability to react; in a trance.

"What do you want?" voice deep, like he'd give you anything you ask.

"Have you forgot already, old man?" you quip. "You promised me something" even if your voice is steady, your fingers tremble when you start un-buttoning your shirt, "and I'm waiting for it"

If he could drool like a dog, he would. He slowly gets closer to you, until he's towering over your sitting figure.

"Ya' think it's funny tempting me like that, sugar? Playing with an old fuck as me like that?"

You whimper, resolve melting quickly. "N-no" you feel ashamed, hand ready to button yourself again until his hand grabs yours, stopping you from doing so.

"I'm sorry, sugar" he raises your body swiftly, making you stand up. "Actions have consequences, and I'm gonna teach ya' some"

When his lips land on yours, you feel you've reached heaven again. His mouth easily know your roads, traveling to every spot he can to deepen the kiss. He eats you out like he's starved, sweat starting to pool in your foreheads. He grabs you by the waist, pulling your closer if possible, your chest clashing against his pecs. His heart hammers against you, and that's all you hear aside your raggedy breaths and famished clashing. You grab his hair again, feeling the soft texture under your fingers. Joel moans against your lips when you bite his, something a friend told you to do, and it's proven to work.

"Where'd you learn that, huh?" you taste like strawberries, the proof on his now coated shiny lips and your disheveled gloss. His grip turns stronger, "thought ya' were innocent, little vixen"

"I still am" you avoid his gaze, and even if his hold falters, when you look again into his eyes, there's a flame burning in them. "But I want you to have it, Joel"

"Sugar-" starts, condescending.

"Don't" you immediatly cut him off. "I'm an adult, I know what I want"

"I just want ya' to be sure" but his cock is already hard, "don't want ya' to regret it"

"I could never regret you, Joel" you whisper.

He picks up your body, that despite the years, is still as strong as ever. He goes up the stairs, looking at you so lovingly, you feel like anything is possible.

Maybe this is how it feels like.

He softly drops you onto the mattress, that dips under your weight. You place yourself against the bed head, and when Joel gets in, it creaks.

"I'm gonna make ya' feel so good, sugar. I promise" he slurs, "Now be a good girl and open up for me"

Your part your legs, and he's taking down your shorts until your lingerine is exposed. With wandering fingers, he traces your inner thights, delighted at the way you squirm under his touch. He then travels to your pussy, the clothe the only thing separating him from your bare cunt.

"Has anyone eat ya' down here before?" he can smell your arousal, seeing the wet spot in the middle of your panties. He's salivating at the fresh meal. You deny, embarrased, but he seems content at that, "those dumb college boys haven't treated you right? Then lemme show y'how a real man's supposed to eat ya'"

He strips you off your panties, landing somewhere on the floor. You shudder at the sudden breeze on your bare core.

"Already drippin' for me?" he softly laughs, "we ain't even started"

He dives down, the rough of his facial hair sending tickles through your body. He gives a small lick at first, as if testing. When you let out a small moan, he feels invencible. He keeps the ministrations going, more cute sounds escaping your lips. He wants to hear more of them, addicted to the sound, heat pooling when he remembers he's the one causing them.

"Liking it, sugar?" he stops to ask, his voice provoking more vibrations that hit your core in a pleasant way.

"D-don't stop" you plead in the middle of a whine.

He eats you like a madman. Slurping and sloshing sounds bounce off the walls, your hands gripping his greying locks tightly as his face pushes further into your puffy heat, sucking on the sensitive clit. With his filthy mouth, he takes on of the lips on his mouth, robbing a loud groan out of you.

"Your pussy, God" his breath fans against it, "tastes so good, sugar, sweet like you" he licks more, making it get wetter. You didn't know you had that in you, nothing compared to when you tried to touch yourself back at your dorm, too ashamed to try anything else.

He groans against your heat, sending another wave of pleasure through your body.

He then gets up, showing you his thick digits like one shows something new to a baby, "guess what?" you have no idea, and your innocent doe eye'd gaze makes him squirm at the thought of being the first to touch untainted territories (in many ways).

"M' gonna finger you baby, okay? I promise's gonna feel good" Joel assures as he slowly inserts one of his fingers. You arch your back as you felt his fingers in your warm walls. He then puts another, thick fingers in and out of your pussy, your arousal dripping down his wrist. You squirm and whine, thighs shaking at the intensity of the pleasure he was giving you. There's a weird tension happening down there. "J-Joel" you pant, "I feel-"

"Let it go, sugar" he doesn't stop, "I'm here for ya' and y'r sweet cunt"

Liquid soon gushes out. "Fuck" he curses. You shy away and looking everywhere but his eyes.

"Feels good?" you nodded incoherently, "wanna feel even better?"

He gets rid of his pants, the silhoutte hard under his underwear. You gulp, afraid you might not take it.

"Joel..." you call his name, hesitant. Fuck, he's so horny he could care less if he's too big for your first.

"We'll go slow" he leans forward to kiss your forehead, "I know'll take it"

"O-okay" you're still not sure and a bit afraid, but you want him, so you surrender to him.

You feel something heavy go inside your folds. You look down to see his enormous cock sliding in between your tight walls, the skin glistening in your slick,round tip leaking with his precum.

"Tell me" he's soft on you, despite what you're doing, "I'll stop if it hurts"

It does. It burns: how your cunt tries to adapt to his girth, stretching in a painful but delicious feeling.

"N-no" your voice comes out strained, drops of blood falling into the sheets, "keep going"

"Such a greedy thing are ya'?" Joel laughs, truly laughs, the rich sound coming deep from his chest, "what would daddy say?"

"Shut up" you bite, holding onto his shoulders for stability. Please, don't let me fall.

Half way in, he pulls out before diving back in, helping you adjust to his size slowly. Your eyes are trained on the way his cock disappears inside your leaking pussy.

"Should'I keep goin'?" he asks.

"K-keep going" you say softly, and with that, he gently starts inching into you.

"Good girl" he coos.

His cock stretches out your virgin hole perfectly, like it was meant for him. He feels himself melting at the sight of you, something to worry about later. Not now, when your breath hitches as he fills you up. Your cunt fit snug around his length, like you were made for him.

Joel drops his head on your shoulder as he fully entered you, tired, his energy not as much as when he was young. Beads of summer sweat shimmer in your bodies, as not only that but the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his dick make you warm.

Joel takes in a moment to see the mess he's made of you: parted lips, shut eyes, nails digging on his neck. You were deep in pleasure: because of him. His dick twitches at that, and inside of you, it makes you whimper.

"M' gonna start movin', 'kay? Tell me if it's too much"

His weight presses over your body before starting to pull out and push back in. The thrusts start slow, soon picking up a rhytmic pace. Joel grips your hips with his rough big hands, to then start fucking into you.

"Mhm" you whine.

"Mhm, what? Use your words, sugar"

"I-it feels so good, Joel" despite the pain, despite the doubts, the haze is so envolving, he's made of you a moaning mess, drunk in pleasure; the feeling of him inside of you has you seeing stars.

"Y-you feel good too, baby" he pants, your pussy gushing at each thrust. He starts going harder, making you scream.

"Who you belong to, sugar?" his hot breath pours in your ear, "say it"

"You, Joel" you whisper the answer like a sacred oath, "Just you. I'm all yours"

Before you can say anything else, his dick touches a spot within you. Such a sweet spot, that has you moaning and feeling something unlike anything you've experienced before: it washes over you as you clamp down on him. You hear yourself cry, voice barely recognizable. Your vision goes blurry, then mind blank.

Joel groans with your pretty cries of pleasure, watching the way your cunt milks his cock, drooling with your juice.

"Such a nice girl for me, sugar. Did so well" he whispers, and a dark tought crosses his mind. He feels dirty, taking advantage of your age and naivety, your figure still half-gone, "think you want me, all of me?"

You nod, still out of your mind, and before you can process the real meaning of his words, hot stripes of his seed plaster your walls, coating each inch of you. Joel presses his lips into yours to shut your moans, kissing you hard.

"You good?" you can only nod, still in shock, the events dawning over you. "Don't worry, I'll buy ya' a pill before your folks come back"

The sun shines outside; there's still time. You just wonder how much.

It was autumn when he said I love you.

Yellow and orange leaves fall in the roads not taken as you've fallen for Joel.

Ever since summer, you've been waiting for the next time to see him: sleeping with him being the last thought, touching yourself to his voice on your mind, drawing hearts in the bylines of your notes. His figure, first a dream, then a fleeting hope and now a high you need to feel once again, because you can't let go of the way he fucked you, your cries of pleasure, how your walls stretched for him and the way he held you that afternoon and the next nights you escaped your house, crossing the street under the moonlight, hiding as a criminal.

But you'd do anything to feel him, his heart beating against your chest like it was yours to bear. You need to see him, so you're doing the most stupid choice of your life.

There's a pause after you knock, and then Joel opens his door.

"Sugar!" he looks surprised, then angry and finally scared. "The fuck you doin' here? Ain't you supposed to come 'til winter?"

"I couldn't wait" you whine in desperation, clinging onto him like a koala. You'd searched for something, anything, that smelled like him back at the city, but even his flannel shirt you'd stolen had started to loose its smell.

He looks around, "do your-"

"No" you pause, "they don't know I'm here"

He curses under his breath, realizing just how much you're deep in this. He's fucked: fucked because he'll comply even if he knows this has to stop.

"I have the keys" you pick the dirt under your nails, a nervous habit of yours, "for the cabin"

Joel remembers last spring, how he ate you inside the walls of the shed, wishing for more. More came the next summer, and now you're hear again, looking at with with that look he hates: like you'd burn the world just to keep him warm.

"How'd you do that?"

"Took them last summer" you reveal your plan all along, "just in case" yet you had already made your mind before leaving town.

"Damn it, sugar" he's speechless, "you're fucking crazy"

You giggle despite the uneasiness creeping up, "just for you, Joel"

He takes you to the cabin on his car, yours already there. And you'd walked to his house? You have indeed, lost your mind.

"What're we supposed to do?" he thinks out loud.

You groan, "I don't know, Joel. But I didn't drive miles just for you to stand there"

He can't lie and say he hasn't thought about you: your lashes, soft when closed; the way his room still smelled like you even after two weeks of your parting, or how the sun seemed to highlight all your perfect spots. He even thinks of you on his bathroom while he grabs his dick, fucking himself to the memorized song of your moans and uneven breaths as he pulled in and out of you.

"Then get inside" he's demanding, and your panties wet at the tone and the voice you missed so much, "it's cold out'ere"

As soon as you close the door, he's grabbing your face with force, that it almost seems like two people fighting, not two who missed each other.

"Joel" you mumble, breathless.

"Missed ya' so much, sugar" he confesses against your lips. A trail of saliva hangs; silver of hope. "It was killin' me"

"I missed you too, Joel" you deepen the kiss, tears threatening to spill from the corner of your eyes. "Couldn't stop thinking about you"

"Yeah?" he sits on the living room's couch, creaking under the sudden weight. "Tell me what that pretty head of yours was thinkin'"

"You" in a heartbeat, and you see his gaze go from dark to something else, lurking behind; you're scared to find out what it is.

Joel motions you to come over. You take your shoes and pants off, siting on his lap.

"Yeah-?" his voice falters, "tell me what"

"How our names sound together, how pretty you are..." you wander. "I also thought about you, all of you, inside of me"

"Watch that filthy mout of yours, sugar" he chastises but there's no anger behind his reprimand, "one summer bouncing on my cock an' y'r already a needy slut"

You whine at his words, rubbing yourself against his tight.

"D-don't" he undoes his belt and jeans, leaving only his underwear. Your desperate fingers pull them down, revealing his already pulsating cock, "don't tease this ole' man and just do the real thing"

He lets you use him, his hips rocking forwards despite his creaking bones, your swollen clit dragging against his pelvis. He sees your face, how you bite your lip as you test your needs, fucking yourself while you ride him. He lets you because: one, he's old and tired, and two, he wants to see you until he's memorized every small detail of your face. He lets you edge yourself close, crying as you feel it coming, but then he plants his feet onto the wooden floor, his boots making a hollow sound that echoes through the walls, the only other sound aside your cries, and thrusts his length up into you.

You yelp at the sudden sensation of his cock inside of you again.

"Think I'd let ya' have it all?" he mocks, "need to fuck y'r pretty pussy too; gotta have it for myself. Would ya' let me?"

You can't deny him anything.

"Yes, Joel" his hands immediatly grab your hips with a pressure so strong, you fear there'll soon be a bruise there. His cock buries fully within you. The air fills with a strong scent, just your moans and his grunts bouncing off the walls, soon warming up from the cold, the crease of his eyebrow pronounced as he realeases, coating your folds with his cum.

"God, sugar" he sounds a bit embarrased, "look at you, makin' me cum so fast"

But he's too enamoured by the sight of you on top of him, still riding him despite his quick orgasm, so he cups your face gently, the beads of sweat on your forehead falling into his hand. He feels more alive than ever, like his life has just started. Oh, he can picture it: coming home to the smell of your food, kissing the absence of the day off your mouth, to then bend you over the counter. He wants so much more, but he knows it can't be, yet, he's far too gone to even think about turning around.

You lift your hips until his cock slips out of you, using your fingers to bring it back. His cum clings to your folds as you sink back down, hips barely lifting you back up before you keep him buried inside of you. He loves watching you slide down his length, slipping in and out of your puffy cunt as his cock softens. It pushes his cum back into your cunt, sticky over your clit as it drips to your thighs.

You did bring a pill this time, so you don't care of the mess his thick flood of cum that dribbles out of you has made on your pussy and his clothes.

"Fuck" you let out, sex-filled mind speaking up. "Don't ever leave me again"

"I won't" he answers hastily, then regrets it. But you don't know that.

Instead, numbness takes over your body, the events of last hours finally draining your body. Sleep settles in, and you nest your head on Joel's sweaty shoulder.

"Lemme take you to bed" you hear his half-drowned voice, carrying your body to the main bedroom.

Joel Miller was always a mystery to you: a man who seemed impossible to break, his world hiding behind a permanent scowl. It felt like his heart was locked, seemingly unbreakable, but where he was rough, his edges had softened for you.

He places you over the bed softly, dipping next to you. Joel's strong arms embrace you, pulling your tired figure closer. His face hides in your neck and his soft belly pushes against the curve of your back, all while he presses a soft kiss to it.

"I think I love you" he murmurs to no one in particular.

But you hear.

It was winter again, when he broke your heart.

Before the holidays, you'd drop by every other weekend. Cancelling plans, waiting for his call. For his grave voice to say Come over, and you'd speed up the brakes with an urgency only he had taught you.

You'd find yourself in the cabin, loosing track of time that rushed like a bottle of wine. Kissing until your mouth was swollen and the only thing that satisfied your hunger was his lips, fucking until sunrise and his bones ached. He'd then offer a tired smile, and you'd sing a soft tune in front of the fireplace while cuddling.

They say home is where the heart is. And it felt like one.

It was during one of those escapades that you showed up with your newest adquisition: a small cursive J just above your thigh, hiding under the plaid of your skirt.

It was your first fight. He shouted at you like he had never before, scolding you like a father would to a naive kid, the hatred you hadn't seen since he touched you that night a year ago, resurfacing.

"We're loosing ourselves" his voice cracked, sounding defeated. But then he'd suck the skin around it until it turned red.

The back and forth became the only thing keeping you alive, the need for his touch as addictive and destructive as a drug.

Which is why Christmas hadn't felt this jolly since being a kid.

You're back, and as you hug your dad and mom, you scour the place for his face: the one you've grown to yearn and love.

Your dad exchanges a glance with your mother and then looks at you weirdly before answering.

"He isn't coming; I thought you knew"

You don't care about the future explanations or the calls of your name, storming off and crossing the street to his place.

"Joel!" you shout, knocking desperately, "open the door!"

When you don't get an answer, you search for the spare key hiding under a pot in the porch. As you make your way inside, you spot Joel sitting in front of the fireplace, his eyes lost in the fire.

"Joel" you softly call his name. At that, he snaps, standing up. His eyes glow with the flames, circling in doubt.

"Sugar?" like he didn't expect you to actually search him on his absence, "what'd doing here?"

"I could ask you the same" you laugh, sardonically. "Don't know how I'll explain running off like that, so thanks, by the way"

"M' sorry"

The words fall heavy in the air, suddenly thick. Something tells you he isn't apologizing exactly for that.

There's something like guilt and fear simmering in his eyes. You think about all those times in the cabin, spring and autumn, and you're reminded of those three words he's said and you haven't. The realization hits you, and you're quick to reach him, grabbing his hand.

"Joel?" you call again. "I- I need to tell you something"

"So do I" but he sounds reluctant, "you go first"

"I don't know what's happening" your lip quivers, eyes glossy. God, he feels terrible, "but I want you to know that I love you"

He gasps, like you've slapped him across the face.

"No" he starts, pushing you away. He lets go of your hand, and the sudden cold hits you.

"I thought I still had time..." his shoulders slump in defeat, "guess I'm wrong"

"What do you mean?" anger and sadness flood your words.

"You can't love me" the words cut through you, and you're sick.

Sick of your rusting wheels that only move when he tells you to. Because that force, the dominance, Joel Miller seems to carry over the rest of the people, doesn't cut as deep as it cuts through you.

It's almost done with a benevolent authority, like he knows of said power and doesn't want to abuse it.

So now he's ordering you to stop loving him, like this year has meant nothing. Nothing.

"Love, funny word" your words carry rage, "do you even know what that means?" you try to hold back the tears in vain, "you don't, yet you say them so freely, like they mean nothing to you" he makes a surprised face, and you savour the pain reflected on his face, alike of yours. "Yes, I heard you, Joel. Y-you made me the happiest girl on the planet, but now I realize you're so full of shit"

You turn around, trying not to see his face, because you know that the more you look at him, the more seconds you add and the harder it would be to erase the memories you'll have to burn.

"Did you ever love me, Joel?" it pains you to whisper out loud.

"I love you, sugar" his voice is horse, like something had cut through it. "That's why I'm doing this"

"Are you, Joel?" you sigh, "if you loved me, wouldn't you want me to stay?"

"This won't end well" it's his answer, trying to reason, "I don't want to hold you back"

Coward. Asshole. Idiot.

Your tone is icy like the storm outside, "but it's already ended"

He's about to speak but you cut him off.

You can only smile. "I've given you everything and you took it. I really thought you were giving me your everything, but I realize now, that I know what you are. You don't need to hide it" he looks at you like it is you who's hurted him the most, "you're hard to love, Joel. But I tried"

He'll regret it. You know and you want to: you want him to feel the empty days blur with one another, that he remembers late at night what you had and he ended, so when he feels alone, the ghost of your free love haunts him with the happy days and sweet taste of your lips. Just then, he'll understand what your year of loving really meant.

You leave his house empty, a knife twisted in your heart. He's the only one who's got the key, and you know it will be long until anyone else can break it open.

But it's okay: if being with Joel was heaven, you'll happily burn in the flames of what's left.

#dilfistwrites #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #tlou #tlou fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

deebris · 7 months ago

Text

The Mysterious Visitor 2

Batfamily x batsis (platonic!)

Synopsis: The unknown child evokes conflicting feelings in Bruce Wayne, who once again finds himself needing to deal with Talia's life problems. The girl only wanted the simple desire to see her brother again, unaware of the danger she had put herself into on her journey.

Warnings: The reader is 13 years old and is Damian's twin sister; the tone of the story is somewhat sad; Bruce is intimidating; Hugo Strange mentioned.

Word count: 2.8k

Note: I feel like maybe I could have developed a more emotional scene between Bruce and the reader, I also want to delve deeper into her thought process, but I hope to make up for that in the next part.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6

Alfred could finally check the exact time now that he was standing in front of Bruce's room, admiring for a few seconds the clock in the corridor's decoration, which showed 4:17 am. He prepared to knock on the door, but suddenly a thought crossed his mind: would it be more rational to wake Damian instead of his father? Throughout his life, he had faced unusual situations thanks to the Wayne family; hardly anything would shake him now. His concern, however, was not for himself, but for Bruce.

Talia was a persistent shadow in Bruce's past, still haunting him, and although he had tried to convince the butler many times that the only link he had with her now was because of their son, Alfred still doubted it. Their relationship had been complicated in many ways, either because of her ambiguous nature or Ra’s al Ghul's insistence on trying to persuade Bruce to join the League of Assassins, making Alfred fear that Bruce's morals might deviate because of this passion at the time.

Alfred raised his fist to knock three times and waited patiently as was his custom, but it seemed that was not enough to wake his master. He knew the door was open and knew he was allowed to enter without knocking, so just this once he used the liberty the young man had given him over the years; because in the end, Bruce Wayne was just that, a young man, and would always be seen that way by him.

Inside the room, he turned on the light, and the intense glare made him close his eyes to avoid the sting of the brightness. Approaching the bed, he sighed at the sight of Zolpidem pills left on the nightstand. This had been the only way Bruce found to stop spending sleepless nights, reluctantly since he was too stubborn and preferred to patrol in the darkness. Waking him would be a difficult task.

"Master Bruce," he called, waiting for a response, but got nothing. Alfred felt sorry for waking him, seeing how he finally seemed to be resting. "Master Bruce," he called again, this time nudging his shoulder. The pills must have been wearing off because he started to stir on the mattress.

"What’s going on, Alfred?" Bruce asked in a hoarse voice while rubbing his eyes to relieve the discomfort from the lamp. He sat up in bed, leaning his back against the headboard, blinking several times to see the butler in the corner. One of the room's curtains was open, and he saw the snow falling outside with the dark sky, showing that it was still night. "Is it Hugo Strange? Has he shown up somewhere?"

"Unfortunately, or fortunately, no, sir." Alfred paused, then licked his lips, preparing to continue and finally revealing, "There's a young lady downstairs who claims to be Master Damian’s sister." Direct, as always.

"Sister of Damian?" Bruce repeated the information, still not fully comprehending its meaning. He needed some time, just standing there absorbing the words. It seemed to be taking an eternity, but Alfred wouldn't interrupt the moment of clarity he was having.

He squinted, pushed the covers aside, and picked up the shirt he found nearby. Buttoning it up and getting out of bed, he continued, "When did this happen?"

"Just now, sir."

"Did Damian bring her here?" The question had a bitter tone but never crossed the line of respect that was drawn between them, and Alfred knew he should prepare for his interrogation. Bruce saw the alarm clock and, like the butler a few minutes ago, checked the time. "He never mentioned anything like this."

"Nor to me." Alfred suddenly extended a coat for him to take. Bruce held the fabric between his fingers, confused. "This coat is hers. There’s a map of Gotham City and a letter inside. I recommend you take a look at the addressee."

Pulling the papers from the right pocket, Bruce noticed a map folded into many smaller parts and a letter witch was still sealed, though the corners were noticeably crumpled and marked by small fingers. Carefully analyzing the cursive handwriting, he read. "I had no idea Damian still had contact with his mother. Much less that Talia had a daughter," he said, still drowsy, staring at the name 'Talia Head,' to whom the letter was addressed and recognizing his son’s elegant handwriting. Apparently, she still used the alias surname.

"It's not surprising considering you only discovered your son after so many years." The statement could have easily been interpreted as irony, but it was acidic. "She didn’t seem sure Damian lived here; I suppose she found out because of this letter."

"You left her alone downstairs?" he ignored the previous comment.

"I left her in Master Dick's care."

Bruce stared at him for long seconds and hurried out of the room. Halfway down the stairs, he could already see some glimpses of Dick's hair over the back of the sofa, talking to someone, or rather, laughing with someone.

"Dick?" The voice quickly caught his attention, turning his face to see his father approaching. When Bruce stood in front of the fireplace, he could finally look at the child beside the boy. Dick began to say something, but Bruce couldn’t hear.

He stared at the girl, analyzing everything about her, from the way she intertwined her fingers nervously to her deer-like eyes. Her iris were shining, as if she had cried, and her swollen and bruised lips were quite noticeable. She had definitely been outside not long ago, shaking and rubbing her hands together constantly to warm herself up. She seemed too sweet, but Bruce knows that appearances can be deceiving.

His gaze passed over the pendants hanging from her bracelet, a simple detail that caught him off guard. Two crossed swords and a demonic head, he understood well what they meant; they were some of the symbols of the League of Assassins, the third was a simple "T" surrounded by a moon. He shouldn’t have been surprised, Talia was a possessive woman and he knew that the "T" was her way of marking property.

"Her name is Y/n," he heard Dick say after a long time.

You noticed how this man's eyes went dark while he watched you and couldn’t help but shrink back on the sofa. It was impossible to hold his gaze, and you began to feel ashamed of being stared at for so long.

"Y/n, this is Bruce Wayne."

"What do you want?" That came out ruder than he intended, but his aversion to the League of Assassins stirred a certain anger. The idea that this could all be a trap crossed his mind. You might be young and exude innocence, but you must have enough understanding to participate in their malicious plans.

"I just wanted to see my brother," you said with sadness in your voice, questioning yourself if this whole situation was worth it. Bruce knew the best way to confirm if this was all true would be by his son’s word, but the signs were so explicit that it might not even be necessary.

You don’t look anything like her, at least at first glance, but you wore her favorite colors and clothes so perfectly matched that no girl your age could choose yet, exactly to Talia's taste and with the appropriate youthful touch for your age. The pendants, the cut of your hair, literally everything had her touch. It was impossible for anyone to convince him otherwise.

"Go get Damian." He said, and Dick understood that the message was for him. Bruce needed to make sure you were telling the truth, or at least needed to make sure you weren’t dangerous. This could still be a League scheme or some plot by your mother.

"Can I see him?" Your voice was the loudest you had spoken that night. The excitement was clear, and it was so much that irrationally you stood up to follow Dick, but a calloused hand suddenly wrapped around your torso and stopped you, making your back hit a slightly prominent belly. You looked up and saw the old man again, his expression was not happy, and you realized it was directed at Mr. Wayne, who had an arm extended towards you but that never managed to touch you.

Like his face, his arm was tense, with visible veins and contracted tendons. You didn't know what his intentions were, but by the way the old man grabbed you to prevent him from laying hands on you, maybe he wasn't as good as he or Dick. It was a very scary sight., making you feel that this man could be dangerous. Trusting the old man, you turned to hug him, hiding as much as possible. Mr. Wayne’s aura was dark, very unfriendly, but you still saw how he recoiled with his face displaying a certain sense of regret.

Dick noticed Alfred's sudden movement behind him before he could leave the room. He glanced at their faces and for a moment considered whether it would be appropriate to turn back and mention the conversation he had with you to the butler in secret, but then his eyebrows furrowed thinking of Damian. Maybe he should confront the little demon first.

"Don’t do anything stupid, Bruce." Dick thought.

Frantically he knocked on the boy’s door. One, two, three, four times until he lost count. At no point did he hear any noise inside, so he began to turn the doorknob, only to find it was locked.

"Of course he’d lock it, that brat..."

"What are you doing?" Suddenly Tim's bedroom door behind him opened abruptly, making a sliver of light from inside illuminate the opposite wall. He was obviously irritated at being woken up but still had that tone of seriousness he carried most of the time.

"Where's his room key?" Dick completely ignored his brother's attitude.

"Forget it. I heard him sneak out to patrol again." Tim's voice sounded tired.

"And you let him?!" Dick snapped but reminded himself to contain it, remembering that Jason was sleeping in one of the rooms in that wing and that you three downstairs might hear the commotion. "Why didn’t you stop him?"

"And what good would it do? That boy is too stubborn." Tim tried to defend himself. "Besides, I have his location right here. He’ll be fine." He opened the door a bit more to show one of his computer monitors tracking the trajectory and heart signals of a green dot on the streets of Gotham City.

Dick looked both ways down the hallway before pushing Tim back into his room and closing the door.

"Hey, what's this? Why are you acting so weird?" Tim was startled by Dick's unusual behavior, feeling anxious as he watched him go to the computer to check Damian's exact location, observing the dot on the screen moving. Dick pressed a button, likely an emergency notification to get Damian to return home. Then he turned to Tim, gripping his shoulders and looking at him with intense seriousness.

"Tim, what I'm about to tell you might be a lot to take in, and I need you to try to understand as much as possible." Dick pointed a finger in his face, waiting for confirmation.

"You're scaring me like this. What the hell happened?"

"No questions and no interruptions! Understood?" Dick's tone was authoritative, stepping back only when he saw Tim nodding affirmatively.

"Why the hell is everyone awake downstairs? Did someone die or something?" Jason barged into Tim's room without ceremony, trying to make a joke, but when he saw the ghostly expressions on their faces, he quickly shut the door again, this time with him inside the room. "My God," he exclaimed in shock. "Can I join in on your little secret?" he asked ironically.

"Did you see the girl?" Dick asked Jason nervously, with a certain expectation.

"Yeah. I saw a girl with Bruce and Alfred. But they didn't see me, since I went back upstairs. The mood down there is pretty tense." Jason threw himself on the bed, making the mattress bounce and Tim frown in displeasure. "I think Alfred is going to give him a lecture afterwards."

"She's Bruce's daughter."

Jason propped himself up on his elbows, and Tim had to sit in the computer chair. His mouth formed a perfect 'O' as he struggled to believe Dick's words.

"With who this time?" Jason seemed to be reacting better than Tim to the news, even letting out a light laugh. It was a typical, caustic Jason response.

"That's not all." Dick ignored his comment. "She said she's Damian's twin."

Tim let out a short whistle, processing the idea like a complex calculation. "Tell this story from the beginning, Dick. Why did she show up now?" He finally managed to rejoin the conversation. It took a while for the shock to pass, but now he had his usual rational demeanor.

Dick rubbed his hands over his face, trying to recount the night and organize the information. "Apparently, she doesn't even know Bruce is her father. And he doesn't know about it either."

"Damian also never mentioned having a sister."

"Damn. Hiding one kid for a decade is something, but two?" Jason stared at the floor as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, a strange sensation taking over the room. But seeing the melancholic expression on Dick's face, his curiosity grew even more. "What else do you know, huh Dick?" He questioned him, sensing there was something much deeper behind this, and his brother just gave him an enigmatic look.

"She said she came here to see Damian. That she found out where he was because of a letter he wrote to Talia..." Dick suddenly froze, pulling a little box from his pocket as if it were a dangerous bomb. "While we were talking, she said a man had helped her get here. He gave her a map and asked her to deliver a present to Bruce, but she gave it to me to deliver." He handed the beige little box to the two, but it was Tim who took it.

Whatever it was, it was very well wrapped.

"Is it right to open it?" Tim asked. "I mean, it's for Bruce, isn't it?"

"I already opened it." Dick said bluntly. "I thought it might be a trap, I was careful."

"Give it here." Jason took the small box from Tim's hands. It was the same size as an engagement ring box, perfect for carrying in a pocket. He pulled the lid off and took out a card, freezing when he read it.

"What does it say?" Tim was curious, taking the card from his hands and reading it out loud:

'I sent your daughter home as a demonstration of my benevolence. Merry Christmas, Batman. Signed, H.S.’

"Holy shit," Jason exclaimed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "That bastard figured out Batman's identity."

"Even worse: he knew about her before we did." Tim added reflectively, his voice barely a whisper. "That means he knows much more than just Batman's identity. He might know other things, including our identities. He probably suspects we are also vigilantes."

"I want to hear the whole story properly." Jason's intensely serious voice broke the silence that had settled in the room, determined to fully understand the appearance of this girl and how she got involved with Hugo Strange.

Dick took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before speaking. "Alright, here it is. Minutes ago, Alfred and I woke up because a girl showed up at the manor claiming to be Damian's sister. She told me that she had a map of Gotham and a letter addressed to Talia from Damian. Alfred brought Bruce to her, and then I went upstairs to call Damian, but I discovered that he's out on patrol. And now we're here."

Tim interrupted, "Wait, so Damian's been in contact with Talia and didn't tell us?"

"That's what it seems like," Dick confirmed, rubbing his temples. "The girl didn't even know Bruce was her father. She mentioned that a man helped her get here and gave her a map along with a present for Bruce."

Jason leaned forward even more. "And this man was Hugo Strange."

"Not xactly, he could have sent someone else." Dick nodded. "The present was that card. Strange knows about her and about Bruce being Batman. He sent her here as some twisted gift."

Tim, processing the information, asked, "Did she say anything about why Strange would do this? What does he gain from sending her here?"

"She didn't seem to know much about Strange's intentions," Dick replied. "She just wanted to see Damian. But it’s clear that Strange knows a lot more than he's letting on. He must have some larger plan in mind."

Jason clenched his fists, his anger palpable. "So, this girl is just a pawn in his game. We need to figure out what his endgame is."

"Agreed," Dick said. "But first, we need to make sure she's safe and find out everything she knows. We also need to talk to Damian and see what tell us about all this."

Tim nodded, adding, "And we have to stay vigilant. If Strange knows this much, we can't underestimate him. He could have more moves planned."

Jason stood up, his determination evident. "We need to get to the bottom of this before anyone gets hurt."

"But what about Talia? Did she just let her daughter go out there, be deceived by a stranger, and then simply come here?" Tim pointed out. "And you, Dick? Are you going to tell Bruce?"

Suddenly, the sound of someone tapping on the window glass was heard. The three brothers turned their heads to see Damian, clad in his Robin attire, asking to come in. "Open up already, you idiots."

Tag list:

@lafrone @sylum @mileskisser @belowbreadcrumbs @riddle-me-im-sirius

@rafa-the-beautiful @shehrazadekey @fairuzwhat @bedeater @arianapjs

@idonthaveanameforthisacc @azulawayne @nciolisa @lovelywritersgarden

@spideybv28 @faimmm @formula-space @cherry-peach-flavored

🍒

@nebuluma

Credits for the divider: @cafekitsune

2K notes · View notes

fuxuannie · 7 months ago

Text

❥﹒ken sato x gender neutral reader

✦. synopsis — romantic headcanons about our favourite baseball player!

✦. love mail — i finished the movie and i loved his character development, simply the sweetest thing <3

✦. tags — SPOILERS, fluff, dadgirl kenji, kenji sato x reader, i have not written in several months, i wrote this w my brain off ( ´͈ ᗨ `͈ ) aka i was just SPITTING whatever brain rot came to mind

I imagine Kenji to be the clingy, but doesn’t want to be type. He loves you, so much, so dearly. But affection isn’t his strong suit, especially not after what happened with his family. He shut out emotions for years, at least towards others. So this feeling of love, a nostalgic one, tends to clash with the walls he’s put up. He’ll hold you in his arms, burying his face in your shoulder, only for hours later to cringe at himself. He’s talked to you about it a thousand times, and he’s listened to you reassure him twice as many. He adores your patience with him, it's something he’s never really had.. especially with so much pressure on his shoulders.

Explaining his identity was surely no easy feat, you thought dating the most iconic and popular baseball players was the hardest thing? Imagine dating Ultraman, who came home to you every other week with some new injury. You always wondered why the reason was so simple for such a complicated wound, “I spilled boiling water on myself,” He explains with burn marks that are far more severe than expected. “I fell down the stairs”, he’ll say after landing in the hospital.. It didn’t make sense. And now that it does and you know the true reasons, your concern is far worse. Though he doesn’t mind the extra attention you give. ;)

Meeting his dad for the first time was.. nerve-wracking. You know how Kenji talks about him, and you weren’t sure what kind of impression you’ll make. But here you were, sitting on a couch and fiddling with your thumbs until you hear a doorbell. Before Kenji could even stand, you rushed to your feet and practically sprinted for the door, only to open it slowly and gently to reveal the kind old man standing outside. “Hello.” Cut to maybe an hour later, you’re laughing at old pictures of Kenji as he sits next to you and an arm wrapped around your shoulder. The two had a long path of forgiveness and understanding ahead, but Kenji appreciated that you brought him and his father together.

Thought the dad was scary? Imagine his daughter. As expected, the moment you walk into the room - distress. Emi’s starting to cry, an unfamiliar presence is in the room and it scares her. You’ve done a few babysitting jobs here and there, and she was really just like a child. Kenji apologized for her outburst and transforms to calm her down, opening the lid and picking her up under her arms. “No no, don’t cry.” His voice soothes her, and almost immediately - she’s okay again. It’ll take a few minutes, it really isn’t long until she trusts too you. Kenji found it adorable, how you played with her so casually.. many would be terrified, and rightfully so - but to him? It just displays your kind heart. My God did he love you.

Remember first headcanon? Right, to add to that, he’s not very good at vulnerability either. He’ll love to comfort you when you cry, or hold you when you need him. But if the roles were reversed? Absolutely not. He’s uncomfortable and you can see it, one look into his eyes and it’s like looking through glass.. he hates being open about his true feelings. Even if it’s with you.. the walls he’s built for 20 years aren’t easy to break, you know? But if you’re patient, and you take your time and say the right words – he’ll crack. And like a dam breaking, the water flows in an uncontrollable wave of sadness. He’ll sob, he’ll break, and he’ll need you more than anything. He doesn’t know how to feel about breaking down, but the way you hold him in your arms and whisper sweet nothings to comfort him, he could get used to it.

But on a lighthearted note, he loves dates! Most have to be in his home, because Emi can be clingy (got it from his dad), but you don’t mind. It’s sweet, he’ll have you play baseball with her or all you do is cuddle ontop of her, it’s the cutest little thing. But other times, when you go out– it’s just the two of you. And upon special request from Kenji for Mina to babysit her while you're there, you two get alone time. and it’s everything to him. The smallest affection has his heart racing like a teenage boy again, wrapping your arm around his, holding his hand, kissing him? Goodness, you’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even know it. You and Emi are his world, and he’ll do everything to protect it. Other days, you, him, and and his father go out to the home in the woods for some personal time. You get to talk about his childhood with him and you talk about yours. There’s such a tender and unforgettable atmosphere when you’re with them. And you truly feel like you belong.

Overotectiveness, he was full of it. He’s lost so much, and all he wanted was for you to not go either. Nothing, nothing could stop his rage at the idea of you being hurt. You, Emi, anyone else important to him. He’ll take on the world for his family, and by the will of his parents he has. The pain he’s endured, the scars you scold him for so much are for you. If one threat escapes the city, that’s one likely chance he loses you. So he does everything he can to handle it. You’ve never gotten hurt, but the idea of it is enough for him to strive to be stronger.

While recovering from the explosion, you never left his side. It pained you to see him so still, lack of life. He’d usually be pacing back and forth in the room, rambling about something, and when you’d call him a nerd or dork, he'd run to you and playfully attack you with kisses. His arms around you tightly as you two would laugh your worries away, you didn’t have that privilege. You’d either laugh alone or not at all, the pain all too much. When he wakes up, best believe you’re there, and you just cry at the sight of his arms opening. You know his body is far too unstable for a hug, so you squeeze his hand. How grateful you are to feel him squeeze back.

With Mina and Emi gone, the house feels a little more lonely.. but Kenji’s adjusting. Especially because you moved in! He’s able to spend more time with you in bed since he didn’t have to tend to Emi, which was a nice plus. He woke up earlier than you (force of habit.) and he’d just.. stare. Maybe it was a little creepy, but seeing you sound asleep in his arms gave him such joy. He loved the little domestic moments he shared with you, it had him appreciating all the smaller things in life. Like sharing a meal with you, or watching movies together. You made him love the simpler aspects of living.

#♡ — 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 #kenji sato #ken sato #kenji sato x reader #ken sato x reader #ultraman rising x reader #ultraman rising

2K notes · View notes

long-live-astronerd-ghost-king · 11 months ago

Text

DPXDC prompt: Valentine's day spirit. Superbat edition.

When Phantom sets foot on the Justice League base many years later, he expects anything but not Flash pointing finger at him and screaming about "legendary child who made Superbat canon".

~~~~

Being in Metropolis because of a ghost hunt right in the middle of a battle between Lex Luthor and Superman was not the best outcome, especially considering that Jack had his three-year-old son with him. But without such a combination of circumstances, they would never have found out that "Ghost!" "Daddy, no!" Ectoblast that Jack shot at the target of their hunt touches Superman and..really hurts him.

There were two sides to Danny-the ghostbuster's son and the astronerd. It is clear which half of him did not have a chance to win.

Danny threw his space rocket toy aside and grabbed father's arm. In the next second, boy had already sunk his teeth into Jack's fingers, forcing him to drop weapon. Youngling quickly jumped off and picked up ectoblast and then ran towards Superman. "Fly away! I'll hold him!" Danny stood up to try to cover up ghost (or alien?) in case Dad took not one but a whole bunch of shooting things with him again.

Jack: Get away from my son, ghost. Superman: Sir, I'm sure this is some kind of misunderstanding, I'm not a ghost. Jack: Danny, come to me, he's trying to hide his identity and manipulate us. Danny: No. If the heroes are being attacked, then someone must protect them too. Jack: But he's a ghost.. Danny: Alien or ghost is not so important, Daddy. He's in pain, and he's protecting this city, not haunting it. It's wrong to try to catch him for experiments. I forbid you to do that. Jack: Danny, champ, you're wrong.

Lex: Hah, what an interesting substance. Despite the other aggregate state, or rather its absence, it is so similar to kryptonite. Superman: Lex, is this a portable lab? Now is not the time, in case you haven't noticed. Lex: There is always time for science. I think my colleague will agree, right? "Similar to kryptonite?" Jack muttered to himself.

Jack: So Superman wasn't my target. And we are not colleagues. There is only one insanely rich man with questionable moral values with whom I am ready to do work, and your surname is clearly not Masters. Lex: It's a pity, but still, if you want to carry out the delivery of your wonderful weapons or exchange experiences, then call this number. Luther quickly shoves a business card into Fenton's hand. Jack*throws it away*: Come on, son, let's go back to the hotel, you've skinned your knees.

~~~The Evening. The Roof of the mentioned hotel~~~

"My friend Sam is also very frightening. And she also likes dark.“ The boy paused for a minute of thinking. “You want to kiss your goth friend?" "W-What makes you think that, kid. We’re colleagues, I respect him very much and.." "So you want to. It’s okay, I’d like to kiss Sam too but I’m afraid she’s gonna hit me. You have the same problem?" "It’s a little more complicated for adults." Kal begins to explain but stumbles upon Danny’s completely unimpressed look. Yeah, this boy apparently has heard 'kids would understand when they grow up' lectures at least thousand times. "But you’re basically right."

~~~~

When Batman himself comes to their hotel the next day as a representative of the Justice League to make sure that Mr. Fenton has no desire to harm Superman in the future and to tell that Superman is not going to press charges because of the ectoblast that injured him, Danny refuses to leave the room.

Jack: Oh, Danny, I thought you dropped your space rocket yesterday, it's a good that Alicia's Christmas present isn't lost. Danny: Well, dad, I left it on the roof of a bad bad man, yeah, but Uncle Kal returned it last night and we talked for a while. Jack: About what? Space, my little star? *Father immediately assumes that Danny would like to ask about everything real alien*. Boy*blushes and shakes his head negatively*: No, not about it.

Jack: Then what it was about? Danny: Secret superhero things. I can't tell you. I agreed to withhold that information as part of a pinky swear. Batman: And what about me, young man? You can tell me, right? Batman couldn't resist talking with such a cute kid. The boy thinks only for a second before hurriedly trying to push his father out of the room. Danny: Dad, come out for a minute and don't eavesdrop. I'll tell you when you can come in. The big man laughingly obeys. Lil child checks the reliability of the closed door and runs up to Batman. Danny: And so, Mr. Batman, first promise not to laugh or hit Uncle Kal. Batman: I promise? Danny: Good. This is very important information. Batman: I'm listening.

Danny: He thinks you're terrifying and wants to kiss you. And since he is afraid that you will hit him for this, I recommended him to appease you with a pie cooked according to his mother's recipe. Well, you know, since you love sweets and his parents' farm has the most wonderful apples in all states. He rarely cooks himself, but he will try for you, so even if he doesn't succeed, pretend that you liked it, please. Batman:...

Batman: Would you like to work in intelligence for the Justice League when you grow up? Danny: Actually, I want to be an astronaut. Batman: Our base is located in space. Danny:

Danny: Hmm, then I'll think about your offer.

Batman: Great. It's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Fenton. You can count on a job recommendation from me. Do you want anything as compensation for your consultation? Danny: Actually, yes. Mr. Batman, tell me honestly, are you a bat on a frugivorous diet like Giant golden-crowned flying fox or you are a Vampire Bat? Sam says that such a big bat can only be a vegetarian and uncle Kal said your son was more than happy to steal strawberries from his garden with Superboy but..

~~~

Batman tries to behave naturally for a week. However, the sweet tooth inside him still makes him clamp Superman in the corner and question him. "Where the hell are the pies you promised to cook for me, Clark?"

#dpxdc prompt #dpxdc prompts #dpxdc crossover #dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc #dc x dp #superbat

2K notes · View notes

bruciemilf · 1 month ago

Text

an au where Izuku is an Inko/Enji accidental pregnancy would be so fucking funny if you consider the possibilities.

First of all, Inko and Enji would hate eachother bad. Collage rivals to frenemies to fuck buddies to Oh Fuck We Have A Child Together to Co Parents.

Rei is kind of happy about it. No attention means no harm. Also, it’s so very clear. Enji doesn’t need to scream he’s in love with Inko’s existence. She can tell by the passion in his hatred that he is.

“I hate Inko. I hate her bunny teeth, I hate her golden freckles, I hate how much better she is at math than me. I hate her.”

And Izuku isn’t aware of it, — most 3 year olds aren’t necessarily passionate about adults and their superficial complications. Loving was the easiest thing in the world. Kacchan makes it easy.

“…Deku, who’s that huge guy bickering with your Ma?”

“That’s mama’s wallet.”

“Her boyfriend??”

“That’s what I said!”

Let Enji have beef with 4 year old Bakugou right now. More than that, lock him in a room with Mitsuki and see what happens.

Enji still needs to be a bitch and a bad person at first. He still needs the bared teeth, the ruthless ambition, the undying thirst for potential. He needs to become what he has to kill, so something better can survive.

That being said. Inko fully expects him to completely erase himself from their world after Izuku’s diagnosis. “Does he still want to be a hero?” “…He always will.” “What’s the problem, then?”

Natsuo needs to cook this man alive the SECOND he learns he has a half brother. “Well. Fifth time’s a charm, huh?”

Inko and Todorki siblings. Right now.

Enji: I do not show favoritism. I disappoint my children equally

That being said Izuku comes back from school with tiny bruises on his knees and small, minor burns on his hands, and Enji is very ready to pull up and throw hands with some 5 year olds.

“You’re gonna have to learn how to punch.”

Baby Izuku, gently punching his leg: POW! .. I’m sorry :(( did that hurt :((((

Incredibly funny if Enji had a child obsessed with All Might. He literally reveals his secret love child to the world just so Toshinori can’t say Izuku is his.

Toshi had no intention of doing that and believes Enji is deeply insane

Baby Todoroki and Baby Izuku. That’s it

Izuku at his first day in UA: Hey, please let’s not tell the class we’re half siblings

Todoroki: Ok

Todoroki a minute later, turning to Izuku: Mom said its okay to punch Bakugou if you let me

#to be extremely clear I’m not erasing rei from the narrative. she and enji are married publicly and it’s a transacational arrangement #I mourn the friendship they could’ve had. maybe in this world it happens.#todoroki enji #midoriya inko #midoriya izuku #bnha au #shoto todoroki #bnha #my hero academia #mha #text posts

604 notes · View notes

gyeomsweetgyeom · 5 months ago

Text

[12:41 pm]

(cw: f!reader, a child, pregnancy complications, "Mommy" and "daddy")

"Mommy is tired?" dad!Jaehyun heard his little girl ask.

"A little bit, princess. The baby is getting bigger so Mommy just needs to lay down more, but she's not sleeping," Jaehyun explains in a sweet voice, pushing her unruly hair away from her face.

This was tough to explain to a 4 year old. Your first pregnancy had been a breeze compared to this one. Your first pregnancy almost five years ago came with some nausea that plagued you for the first few months, labor was long and arduous, but there was nothing that really hindered you from going about life as normal as possible. This pregnancy wasn't the same.

This time around you came down with gestational high blood pressure, which at your last appointment didn't look to be getting much better, so your doctor had put you on bed rest. You were doing your part by taking your medication daily and staying off your feet, but man was this a pain. You hated laying around and doing nothing, especially when your need to nest was nagging at you. You hated it, but you also knew that you wanted to avoid the induction being too early.

Jaehyun grabbed some food from the fridge and played it for you, lunch time. A healthy meal that he himself knew didn't sound super delicious, but he was being just as cautious as you were, if not more. "Let's take Mommy her lunch, princess," Jaehyun told his daughter.

She squealed excitedly, running to the bedroom with her Belle costume swishing around her legs. She pushed the door open and ran to the bed, climbing up onto the foot of the bed before settling beside you. Jaehyun smiled at the sight of his two girls. You were sat up against the headboard, folding laundry- which you had insisted on doing, Jaehyun didn't want you lifting a single finger, but you were stubborn.

"Lunch time, my love," Jaehyun smiled, walking over to you and handing you the plate. He tried not to laugh as your face scrunched up into a look of disappointment and smidge of disgust.

You stabbed the fork into the food and sighed before bringing the food to your mouth. If the bed rest worked, you'd be back on your feet in a week. Your doctor wanted to see if the bed rest would prove useful paired with the medication she'd put you on. You couldn't speak without the medical knowledge she'd possessed, but your blood pressure was going down and staying consistent. Your legs weren't as swollen and when Jaehyun took your blood pressure each morning it wasn't as high and remained consistent.

"I gave you your medication this morning right?" Jaehyun asked while holding up the pill bottle.

You hummed in agreement, swallowing your food, "as if you'd let me forget. I took it with a whole glass of water and ate it with my avocado toast. Hey, have you not been doing her hair? She looks like the brush hasn't touched her hair since I brushed it after her bath last night."

Jaehyun looked away, avoiding your gaze. Doing his daughter's hair wasn't a skill he had perfected yet. So yes, you were right, a brush hadn't touched her hair since last night. On the other hand, everything else had been taken care of. Your daughter didn't spend the whole day in her pajamas, she was dressed in real clothes, even if her Belle costume covered it up, she had brushed her teeth this morning, already eaten two meals today, and Jaehyun had her practice writing her name. On all levels, besides hair, he was killing it.

"Bring me the brush and some rubber bands please," you asked him sweetly, using your hand to tame the hair on the little girl's head.

He raised a brow, "finish your lunch and then I'll get you what you asked for."

You rolled your eyes, stabbing the fork into the food more harshly with a look that asked 'happy?' Your daughter turned her eyes away from the show on the TV and rubbed your belly, placing a small kiss on the apex. "Sister is making you tired, Mommy?" she asked, laying her head on your stomach.

You sighed tiredly, "yeah, princess. We don't want sister to get here too early so the doctor says I have to rest."

"But I want sister here already," she tells you with a pout.

Jaehyun takes the now empty plate from you while you brush your fingers gently brush through some of the tangles in her hair. "If the baby comes early, she won't be healthy, princess. We want her to be healthy right?"

"Yes," she sighs out, "Mommy, can you do my hair? Daddy doesn't know how."

Jaehyun rolls his eyes as he hands you the things you asked for, watches as his daughter willingly lets you comb the tangles from her hair gently, and watches as your fingers work deftly to braid it away from her face. He loves it.

He presses a kiss to your stomach, not trying very hard to keep the words that slip from his lips low and quiet, "if you want to give us a surprise and come out as a boy, that's fine. I'll still love you. Save me."

When two similar slaps to his arm come at the same time he can't help but laugh, if he's surrounded by girls that act like you and are the perfect mix of your genetics, he'd die a happy man.

#kpop imagines #kpop au #kpop scenarios #kpop reactions #nct #nct imagines #nct fluff #nct timestamps #nct x reader #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun fluff #jaehyun blurb #jaehyun timestamps #dad!nct #jaehyun drabbles

844 notes · View notes

yandereunsolved · 8 months ago

Text

Thicker than Dragons Blood - ,, yandere Daemon Targaryen pining over Rhaenyra's friend

tw(s): yandere themes, suggestive themes (slight nsfw), grooming, dubcon, purity culture, misogny, stalkholm syndrome

✧ It all began the day that both you and Rhaenyra met in the nursery. Without the ability to speak, only to wail and babble, the two of you were instantly the closest of friends. There was no place where she went that you weren't either. You balanced out her reckless and bratty behavior. She wasn't the best friend to you, but you were stuck to her hip. You always took the fall for her so that she could keep her reputation untarnished. In those moments, you forgot your standing as a child of a noble—a Lord or Lady of a house standing strong. You always gifted her little things that you found as reminders of your bond. She paid you back through adventure and gossip. Occasionally, she would gaslight you if you heard something bad about her, but who wouldn't? She couldn't lose her best friend.

✧ In the back of those red-tinted memories was Daemon. Whenever he happened to be at the Red Keep, he always kept a close eye on what transpired between the both of you. At first, he saw an opportunity to stake his future claim as king by marrying Rhaenyra. Although his eyes always wandered to you. There was something about you that was just so innocent and corruptible. As you grew, so did Daemons intrigue with you. It soon ignited into a fiery infatuation, burning brighter than any flame in Old Valyria ever could.

✧ His interest, a word far too shallow to explain his attraction, was not unnoticed by your father, the head of your house. Daemon had many talks with your father. Your father did your best to sweet talk Daemon, but obviously he was able to see through it. He didn't need any convincing. That's how he became your tutor. He would spend all his free time dragging you away from Rhaenyra, forcing you to learn whatever he felt like teaching you that day. He wanted to cause a rift in your relationship with her. He was also beginning to feel possessive over you. Why has his neice caught your favor and not him? He could not allow this seemingly 'platonic' relationship with Rhaenyra to further escalate.

✧ The content of his teachings would seem less than savory to most. You had just barely risen past the age of a blooming maiden; that makes you fair game, correct? When you were in your younger years, he never taught you anything that could cause rumors to spread. After all, rumors in the Red Keep spread faster than a dragon's fire. He needed to make sure that you were old enough to keep your mouth shut. He needed to make sure that your age wouldn't be a problem. An age gap wouldn't cause rumors, but a child noble engaging in intimate acts like an adult prince? Unthinkable. He wouldn't ruin his reputation because of that.

✧ However, no gap in age or experience could stop him once you were old enough to be considered of age. He began teaching you the finer things in life, like how to please a man and how to please yourself. You were naive. You didn't know more than how a babe was made. You didn't realize everything was so complicated and embarrassing. He always stifles your moans during your private 'tutoring' sessions. He encourages you and tells you how good you are being. He speaks dirty words in your ears in High Valyrian. He gives you an extra reward if he can see you recognize some of the words in his teachings. It's an addiction for him. He can't get enough of your body and your figure. You had grown into yourself. It was a sight no other whore's body could even begin to match. The gods must have gifted you to him after everything he has done for the kingdoms.

✧ He gives you 'homework' and does more than just scold you if you don't complete it to his liking. Most of the time, he just enjoys watching you. Even after all his teachings, you are still so inexperienced. He hasn't taken the final step with you. He wouldn't take your full maidenhood yet, no. He simply couldn't. Not for any moral reasons. He just wanted you to keep your virtue a bit longer. That's one of the things that attracted him to you in the first place. He would have immediately taken any other slut, but you weren't that. You are a god(dess) among men. You deserve a romantic night filled with passion. A night where he can put a babe in you, fertile or not.

✧ As you began drifting away from Rhaenyra due to your tutoring sessions with Daemon, you were confronted. She clung onto you with tears in her eyes and asked why you didn't care about her anymore. She silently begged and pleaded for a good reason. Then she became enraged. She slapped you and demanded to know once again why you were drifting from her.

"Is it because of my uncle? Is your knowledge truly worth more than our lifelong partnership?"

You couldn't tell her the truth. You knew what you were engaging in with Daemon was scandalous. If you told Rhaenyra she may hate you, or even worse, use it to blackmail you so you are always by her side. You made up some flimsy excuse. You just said that you were insecure about always being near her, and Daemon said that she didn't like you anymore. That part about Daemon was partly true. He has been whispering lies to you about your relationship with Rhaenyra for years now. For better or for worse, you both are still as close as you were during your younger years, if not even closer now.

She finally calmed after you made your excuse. She didn't question its validity. She was just happy to finally have you back. She made you promise to stay away from Daemon as much as you possibly could. So, you did. Who were you to disobey the command of a princess, your closest companion?

✧ A sense of shame and dread fills you. You don't need a tutor anymore. After an hour-long argument with your father, he finally relents. He threatens that if their house falls out of the Targaryens good graces because you refused to be tutored by Daemon, he'll sell you out to a pleasure house. He didn't know how hard that hit you. You felt impure. You enjoyed what you did with Daemon. Why is that wrong? You were taught only to find pleasure in your future spouse. You found pleasure in him, and look where it got you. A strained relationship with your best friend that you had to fix, and your father threatening to sell you out to a whore house.

You feel like you are being attacked from all angles. Daemon begins to stalk you to get your attention. That's what you can call it, right? Stalking? You swear he's following you, even when he isn't. You thought you heard the guards speaking about reporting back to him. Something just feels more off about him whenever you get near him. Your mind began to repress all the memories of your intimate moments together. You just felt so confused, so lost, and so paranoid. Nothing felt right. You could barely remember your own name. At least you'll be able to find a suitor soon. You'll be able to put this all behind you. Not if Daemon has anything to do with it.

✧ After a few months, everything seems to be back to normal. There are no more of those weird tutoring sessions; you have rebuilt your relationship with Rhaenyra, and you even have some decent choices for a future spouse. You did have to carry on the bloodline as the eldest, after all.

Daemon, however, was far from 'normal'. Not that he ever was. Over those few months, people could notice the changes in him. He became more unhinged, erratic, and easily angered at the tiniest of mistakes. Behind closed doors, he was drinking all of the spirits he could get his hands on. He was spending triple the amount of time at brothels that he usually did. He forgot about everything else, except for the problem of the bronze bitch in the back of his mind. You were nothing like her. You were like a precious piece of jewelry made out of the finest gold and precious metals that were melted down by a dragon's breath. All he knew was that he needed to court you.

Not even commanding the Nights Watch could tame the beast within him. He flew Caraxes to contemplate. He would eye over where, somewhere off in the distance, you were in the castle. You were probably spending time with his neice, or gods forbid, another man, one of his men that he commands.

He's just never wanted anything more than you. He knows you aren't his kin or his blood. He knows that marrying you would be an impossible task. It would mean decreasing his chances of taking the throne. You had something, though; you had the Targaryen spirit in you. He could feel it every time he touched you. He could feel the heat simmering just beneath the skin. You were worthy of his seed and worthy of carrying his kin. He could always bribe one of his family members to use as a surrogate in case you have male genitalia or are infertile. Your babies would still be pure Targaryens that way. It just disgusts him to have to think of impregnating anyone but you.

✧ You had a tournament in honor of Rhaenyra finally being old enough to be courted. It was one that would end on a much lighter note, as opposed to the last one, which ended in her mother's death. It was partly your tournament as well. Well, that is what Daemon thought of it as. He would fight for you, and you alone. He understands that voicing this would be improper. You do see it in the way he glances at you while fighting in the rounds he is participating in. When he is not, he's staring into your soul. His eyes never leave your figure. You feel queasy; something is even more off about him now. Your ex-tutor didn't have any feelings past merely using you as another one of his flings; you tried to assure yourself. Only when the last round of the tournament was to commence did he ask for your favor instead of Rhaenyra's.

The crowd was shocked; some gasped, while others questioned the meaning of this. Was Daemon choosing you over Rhaenyra due to the infighting over who was to be the true heir of the Iron Throne? Was he simply being contrary, as always? Or did he want your favor because he harbored more than platonic feelings toward you?

It was unheard of, as it was customary for Targaryens to only ask for the favors of their family members.

He did the tournament. His actions made clear the message he intended to send; he did it for you.

Rhaenyra wasn't pleased. She threatened her uncle behind closed doors to stop hitting on her best friend. He laughed it off. He taunted her.

"As if there is anything you can do about it. They want me. They crave my touch."

✧ You only tried harder from then on to separate yourself from him. You purposefully avoided him, and it only became harder to do so. It was as if he had memorized your schedule by heart. Little notes and gifts began to be left on your bedding. They weren't signed, but you had a suspicion that it was Daemon's doing. You tried to express your concerns to your mother and father, only to be given a dismissive response. You tried to confide in your siblings, but your female one(s) only giggled and swooned over him. Your male one(s) simply huffed and waved you off, half-heartedly saying that they'd offer you some protection against the prince if the time came.

✧ You try to confront him. He admits that the gifts were from him. He doesn't admit the extent of his infatuation for you yet. You already seemed adamant on avoiding him. Scaring you off wouldn't do him any good because he still doesn't have a strong hold over the council or his brother. He promises to stop gifting you things and back off if you just do one thing with him. You reluctantly agreed without knowing what he was planning. If you knew it was to ride on Caraxes with him, then you would have simply walked off and not given his compromise another thought.

✧ You were intimidated by dragons; dare you say fearful of them. They always seemed to be able to pierce one's soul with their eyes. You refused to be near Rhaenyra's dragon, Syrax, for that exact reason. Now you were within ten feet of one, and you were practically trembling. Daemon was positively ecstatic underneath his facade of poised indifference. He would be able to exert control over you because of his title of dragon rider, if nothing else.

Syrax seemed like an innocent hare in comparison to Caraxes.

However, you surprisingly felt safe as Daemon placed your hand on Caraxes's scales. There was a certain vulnerability in Daemon's eyes that you had not seen before. He seemed to treasure these moments. Caraxes almost seemed to... like you? The dragon could sense his riders affection toward you. In turn, Caraxes felt the same need to protect you and be gentle. The beast even allowed you to scratch under his chin, a purr-like reaction emanating from his long throat. It was like nothing you had ever experienced before.

☾ The ride was breath-taking, both figuratively and literally. That's the only way you can describe it. It was the first time you felt safe around Daemon. He was in charge of making sure you felt comfortable in the air, his arms possessively at your sides as he controlled the reigns. He could feel your relaxed muscles against his toned chest. His heart swelled even further with an all-encompassing ecstasy that he had never had the pleasure of feeling before. Caraxes responded to both of you with a comforting roar, somewhere in between intimidating and reassuring. You had never felt true freedom in your life. For once, you felt it, even in the arms of someone you could consider an oppressor.

☾ You were aware of his wife. You knew that these strange feelings Daemon harbored for you had to be temporary. You at least admitted to yourself that he did hold some sort of romantic attraction to you. He admitted the least of it. Still, you fooled yourself into thinking they were temporary. Not just a fling, something more intimate but less binding than a marriage. Even with this knowledge, even after being introduced to Caraxes and riding him with Daemon, your hesitance was still fully rooted within your heart and mind—your soul. He took advantage of you before. You shudder at the thought. You enjoyed learning those things, but were you truly able to consent to them? You were of age. You push it away within your mind. It is the deepest reason for your hesitance, but you didn't want to think on it. Thinking of your tutoring sessions with Daemon only proved to fill you with heat and shame simultaneously.

☾ You chose to do your best to shake all of the invasive thoughts from your mind. You spent as much time as you could with Rhaenyra. She looked at you with such love and cowered behind you whenever things got too tough. From the shadows of the small council, one man in particular envied your relationship: Otto Hightower. He has taken to calling you 'Daemon's whore'. He has been the one since the beginning to spread whispers amongst those in the court about your loyalty to the crown.

Would you choose Daemon over Viserys?

That was a question many asked with their eyes and not their tongues. It was humiliating. You don't even want to associate with Daemon, and yet your time as his student has left your reputation forever scarred. Not to mention how many times you have chosen to state that Rhaenyra's mistakes were your own, for the sake of your friendship. Even with the whispers, it was not enough for Otto. He needed them to be screams. He needed everyone to see you as the whore you were! He has never grown soft towards you because of one simple fact: you threaten his entire plan for his family's ascension to the throne. Alicent has never been able to catch a Targaryen's attention, yet you are the best friend to one and the whore of another.

☾ It was a mistake for you to align yourself so closely with Rhaenyra. She ranted to you about what her fears were and how terrified she was at the possibility of not being the sole heir. You had to listen while Daemon plotted at Dragonstone. You hadn't seen him since the day you rode Caraxes with him. That was well over half a moon ago by now. You were relieved to finally be rid of his presence. Only you thought so. When the gods rose the moon high into the sky and nestled the sun beneath the cusp of the earth, he returned to you. That very night, after Rhaenyra had left your chambers, Daemon had snuck in. He surprised you and urged you to hush yourself.

You had no choice. He led you to the empty cradle, where the last heir passed after living for less than a day. There was a dragon egg in it. He whispered to you about all the things he wanted to do to you. He made a promise that one day your babe would be in the cradle, with his features and your personality.

It felt like a dream you would have after a fever. You still can't be sure it happened. After he left, the realm of dreams tugged you in once again. You woke up, and no trace of him was there. Daemon was getting bolder in his advances toward you. He still feared scaring you off completely, but he has to take what is rightfully his. He is the heir to the Iron Throne, after all.

☾ Years passed, and you grew older. Daemon was off fighting a war in the Stepstones; Alicent gave the king a male heir with another babe on the way; and Rhaenyra stuck closer to you than any tree sap could. Otto was less of a thorn in your side these days. As this time passed, you were plagued with tragedies every time you tried to take a lover. You were the eldest, and yet you were failing your house dearly. They tried their best to get you courted as well. Your entire family was just perplexed. Every suitor you were supposed to marry showed up dead before your wedding day. Were you cursed by the gods? It couldn't be Daemon, could it? It was so far away. He couldn't simply be orchestrating this while so far away.

It simply left you in tears every single time. Rhaenyra was your only solace. She grew more bratty and defiant of her father. She refused to marry that Lannister fellow. She rejoiced when your newest one came up dead. She couldn't help but smile. She didn't want you to get married and leave her. You both were meant to be companions. You are companions, the closest of them.

Still, your soul was aching, and your body was deprived of something it yearned for.

Were you really missing Daemon's odd behavior?

No, never.

Well, maybe.

☾ You didn't realize that perhaps you were even worried about him until he returned to the castle. It felt like a piece that had gone missing had finally returned. The king, his brother, was thankful for his submission and offered him one thing behind closed doors. What was that one thing you ask? Your hand in marriage. When Daemon strolled over to you and told you this, you were flabbergasted, even bamboozled. You couldn't just marry your best friend's uncle.

☾ You tried every excuse under the sun. You tried to say that you weren't up to the Targaryen standards of beauty; he said that you were created by the gods, so graceful and divine. You brought up the fact that you had no blood tied to Old Valyria; he stated that your soul was that of a dragon, more than worthy of his hand. You tried to reason with him by saying that he had another wife who he already struggled to take care of. That angered him.

"Don't ever speak about the bitch again, dear. Understand me?"

She died as you would learn later. Some sort of riding incident that led to her demise. You offered your condolences to Daemon. He laughed and said that he'd happily spit upon her rotting corpse. He didn't need to lie to you. He also wasn't compelled to tell the truth when you didn't ask for it. He'll make sure the whispers of him murdering his wife never reach your ears.

☾ Rhaenyra simply shrugged and thought that you marrying her uncle was at least a close match for her. She would still be able to speak with you. You would now be closer to her! She wasn't ecstatic, but pleased—maybe even smug. Whatever negative feelings she had toward her uncle being around you were clearly resolved. It only struck terror in your heart.

☾ Your family would help, right? No. Such a laughable thing. They were overjoyed. They also told you not to screw it up. Talks of the heirs you two would produce, the tie to the Targaryens bolstering your house's status, and many other reasons you didn't care to listen to.

☾ You were—are trapped. You were to marry a man that you couldn't make up your mind about. It could be worse. Every strange thing must have been because of the gods, right? If only you knew the lengths Daemon went to marry you. The people he threatened, the people he beheaded, the poisons traded in markets that aren't pure of heart but dark and foreboding. He finally felt at peace. So did Caraxes. Your family would be so perfect. He could already see you holding a babe in your arms that he had bred into you. Is this what you truly want? Or is that hesitancy in your soul still strong enough to pull you out of his hold and help you escape him?

#hotd #asoiaf #house of the dragon #daemon x reader #hotd daemon #daemon targaryen #prince daemon targaryen #the rogue prince #yandere daemon targaryen #yandere daemon #yandere daemon targaryen x reader #yandere daemon x reader #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere house of the dragon #yandere house of the dragon x reader

1K notes · View notes