#this is after his first fight with bode too

[loganjameshowlett]

SWALLOWTAIL

O4: LETHAL INSTINCTS

pairing: joaquín torres/ex-widow!reader summary: after being abducted at the auction, you and Joaquín must work together to try to escape with your lives. content warnings: graphic violence, less graphic death, implied attempted SA (though none depicted on page) word count: 5.8k+ series masterlist | previous installment | next installment

The first thing that comes to you is the buzzing of a lightbulb. Incessant, annoying, and the singular part of your surroundings that is breaking through what you quickly begin to suspect might be a concussion. Consciousness comes back to you in languid degrees. The buzzing bulb expands into the freezing temperature of the room, the soreness of your shoulders from your wrists being bound together behind the back of a metal chair. No gag in your mouth, so they must not be worried about your ability to scream. Doesn’t bode well. 

By the time your vision is reliably returning to you, you’re starting to wonder who ‘they’ are in the first place. 

The auction had been a trap for you and Joaquín. It had to be. And Eklund– whoever he is– wasn’t working alone. That woman’s voice, so frigid and self-assured as she stopped your lungs in your chest without so much as placing a finger on you… 

The bare, concrete wall across from you reflects the harsh, blue-white overhead lights back at you. The room is empty, save for you and the chair you’re bound to. There’s a drain in the middle of the floor and a steel-reinforced door to your left. 

You work hard to squash down the semi-delirious panic that wells up when you realize you have no idea where Joaquín is, or what has happened to him. Panicking won’t help you, and it sure as hell won’t help him. You try to construct a scenario in your head in which he cut his losses and got the hell out of that hotel after you dropped, but your head hurts too much to fill in the details, and anyway, you already know the stupid fool would die before abandoning you like that. 

You close your eyes and count to five, evening your breathing out into something steady. Your chest aches, as though your lungs themselves are sore inside your body from what that woman did to you. Your head hurts worse, in a way that’s making your vision fuzzy at the edges. You shift in the chair, and the scrape of metal against concrete floor sends your eyes rolling back up into your head. 

THE RED ROOM. 12 YEARS AGO.

Lady Sofiya’s office is cold. There are no windows, just an endless swathe of slate gray walls, concrete leaching away any human warmth that might have, at one time, existed in here. It’s only your second time ever having been in this room, the first being shortly after you arrived at the facility four years ago. You don’t remember much about those first days, except for a biting, constant fear and an ever present chill. You lie to yourself and say you are not afraid of her, or why you might have been called in before her. Widows are not afraid of anything. 

When she says your name, it is frigid but appraising, as though she is considering whether or not you are the choicest cut of meat at the butcher’s. 

“You are performing adequately in many ways,” she informs you. “Fluent in four languages. Consistently ranking first in combat training. Your strengths have become apparent to us.” 

You bow your head, half out of deference and half to avoid looking into her too-wide gray eyes. “Thank you, Lady Sofiya.” 

She regards you a moment, the silence stretching so long that you finally do look up into her face. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a bun so severe that the whole look is that of one of the bald, rubber training dummies come to life. Her eyes have narrowed in a very serious way, face drawing in on itself. You fight not to shrink back into your seat. 

“A widow ready for her first assignment is one who harbors no weaknesses,” she informs you. “And a widow who harbors weaknesses is no widow at all. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Lady Sofiya,” you respond with a decisive nod. It didn’t take long for you to learn the truth of your life after being brought to the Red Room— become a widow, or die. There was no form of failing out of or leaving this program that didn’t end with a gun to the back of your head. You all knew it, from the terrified most recent recruits, to the hollow-eyed graduates. The minute they took you, you were living in anticipatory death. 

“Do you know what your weakness is?” she asks, and this time your name in her mouth is sharp enough to cut. 

“I have no weaknesses, Lady Sofiya,” you reply automatically, fiercely, but the panic is cloying as it wells up in every part of you. You scramble to think of what weakness she could be thinking of, but you’ve been so careful here. You are sharp in mind and body, you are their little killer coiled and ready for release. You want to live. 

Lady Sofiya smiles sardonically at your response, like she knows it’s the only one you could possibly give. “You can trust no one in life, zvezdochka,” Lady Sofiya says, leaning over her desk to bring her face closer to yours. “Your closest confidant would betray you to live another day. The classmate to your left is a traitor willing to take your life. You are nothing to them but a way to hoist themselves up the ladder. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Lady Sofiya,” you assure her, though you don’t, not really. 

“Tell me about Annika,” Lady Sofiya says, leaning back into her chair. Your brows scrunch at the seemingly sudden change in subject. Annika, red-haired and cutthroat, brutal bared-teeth like a rabid dog. Annika, who hides a bright burning star of kindness beneath the blood and snarling, something this place hasn’t managed to snuff out of her. Annika, sleeping in the bed next to you in the dormitory. Annika, your only friend. 

You don’t want to tell her about Annika. 

“She bested me in combat royale two out of five times this week,” you say carefully. Maybe this is your weakness— that another girl could ever get the drop on you. But you’re promising, Lady Sofiya said so herself, and you can get stronger. You can bite harder. Maybe that is all this is. 

“I’m not interested in your battle royale statistics right now,” Lady Sofiya waves away the information. “I am interested in your fraternization.” 

“I… am not sure I understand,” you answer warily, judging that telling the truth about that might not end in a lashing for you this time. 

“You have what it takes to be a widow, malyshka. Some do not. Some– even those who bite for the taste of blood– are too soft. Malleable. Their brains are open to poisoning propaganda. Soft, malleable girls are a rot inside this place. They will try to take us down, they will use the skills they do have to attempt to deliver us to our enemies. But our girls, the ones who will graduate and change the world, they will do anything to keep this from happening, yes?” 

“Yes. Of course, Lady Sofiya,” you nod, trying to sound sure of yourself. But you still don’t understand. Propaganda and enemies, sure. But soft and malleable is what you would call every single one of you in the Red Room. You had to be soft and malleable, so they could splinter all your bones and build you back up in the way they wanted. 

“I will ask you again: tell me about Annika.”

And finally, you understand. You are a little star, a cold-blooded widow in the making, and Annika is a soft and malleable traitor that she wants you to send to the gun. And you do. 

NOW.

Someone is gripping your face tightly when you come to, squishing the soft flesh of your cheeks painfully into your teeth. You blink hard and fast, trying to chase down the elusive facts of your situation. 

The trap. The room. Joaquín missing. The pieces come back to you faster this time. 

You fight against the grip, and the fingers tighten like a vice. Someone– presumably whoever is attached to the hand– tuts condescendingly at you. “Now, now, Agent Swallowtail. It would do for you to behave.” 

You don’t recognize the voice, and you don’t think that it’s because of your concussion. It’s a masculine voice, caught awkwardly somewhere between deep and nasally. So, not Eklund’s politician-smooth tenor. He’s standing directly in front of you, head haloed in soft, buzzing light like an eclipse. All you can make out is the glint of his glasses, the sneer of his mouth as he talks. 

“Let me give you a little incentive,” he says, as though you’d mouthed off to him. His grip on your face prevents you from getting out any words at all. He lets go of your face so harshly that it knocks your head to the side and then grabs the chair behind both of your shoulders, wrenching you around. 

The movement makes you dizzy and sends your vision blacking around the edges again, and only in being spun like a top do you realize that you’re not in the previous room at all. The room is enormous and shadowy, a huge, dome-shaped space whose walls are sconced almost entirely in shadow. The floor beneath your bare feet– where did your heels go?– is made of metal grate, oddly and uncomfortably warm where it touches your skin. In the center of the room, a thick cylinder rises from the floor and meets the highest point of the ceiling, made of metal at the top and bottom. In the center, a murky blue liquid swirls behind glass like an oversized lava lamp, throwing off an unearthly glow. 

A few yards away from you, Joaquín lays slumped against the base of the cylinder. Thick shackles enclose his throat and wrists, anchored to the cylinder’s metal base. Your shoulders stiffen, and you fight the urge to start bucking like a wild horse until you free yourself from this chair or break your arms trying. 

Instead, you wrench your head back around, trying to get a good look at the mystery man. Furious red fills your vision, mixing with the fuzzy blackness now ever present at the edges. 

“What are you playing at?” You bite out, words slightly slurred. God, but this concussion might be worse than you thought. Troublesome. 

“What a predictable opening volley,” the man responds, patting you on the head like you’re a good little dog. You fight the urge to try to bite him, but only because the double vision that has been getting stronger the longer you keep your eyes open would make it hard to aim. “Do you know why I hitched myself to Carter Eklund’s cart?”

“I assume you’re going to tell me,” you deadpan, glaring up at him through a growing migraine. 

He gives you a patient, amphibian smile. “Carter Eklund is a man with a vision.”

He holds a hand up as if quelling imaginary protests from you. “I know, I know. How many dumb, misguided people across history have said the very same thing about a man they thought was greater than God? And how many of them turned out to be right? Well, I’m sure you know the number is low. But Eklund– something sets him apart from all the rest. Do you know what that is?”

You blink slowly at him, mouth set in a grim, unentertained line. You cannot believe you have honestly found yourself captive to a monologuing fucking henchman. This is the kind of shit that only happens to you when you get involved with Sam and Bucky’s nonsense. 

As he rambles on, you subtly glance around the room, trying to get a lay of the land. Though the room is cavernous, you, Joaquín, and this salamander parading around as a man seem to be the only people around. Or, no– the concussion is blinding you more than you thought. In your peripheral vision, you see at least two people in white lab coats standing in the shadows, facing a wall of screens and buttons, seemingly unfazed by the drama unfolding in the room with them entirely. Through the windows on the only doors in the room, you see the silhouettes of two guards. You assume they’re armed and make a note of it. 

“Not only does Eklund have a plan– a realistic, well thought out plan, not some vision of grandeur– but he’s already executed so many of the key steps. Right under the nose of every so-called hero on earth. You’re all already too late to do anything about it. So now here I am, firmly on the winning side of things, and I get to have some work-sanctioned fun.”

You straighten up at that last bit. There’s only so many things a scrawny, power-tripping creep like this guy could mean by ‘fun’, and none of them are good for a young woman currently tied to a chair and locked in a metal bowl. You square your shoulders and look him in the eyes. 

“Seems like what you got is a babysitting gig. They clearly think so highly of you,” you grind out. He looks at you, brows raised and mouth an ‘o’ of muted surprise, before his expression flattens. 

“Going right for antagonization, are we?” he asks, folding his arms over his chest. 

“You did enough of that by yourself.”

He packs a stronger right hook than you would imagine. Your cheek goes pins and needles for a minute before the pain sets in. The creep grabs you by the roots of your hair and forces your eyes back towards his. At your back, you hear the scrape of metal on metal– Joaquín’s shackles. He must be waking up. Hopefully, you think, he’s in better fighting shape than you are. You both need the leg up. 

Up this close, you finally catch a glimpse of a keycard hanging from the creep’s shirt pocket, complete with a photo of his ugly face and his name printed in block letters next to it: Dr. Anton Müller. You file the information away for later. 

Müller traces a finger across your cheekbone, admiring the flare of angry red his blow caused to blossom on your skin. You feel vaguely nauseous and completely furious under his scrutiny. 

And then Joaquín calls your name. 

His voice is raspy, dry, skipping over the center letters like a scratched record. You can read the confusion and panic in his tone from that one word alone. He’s hurt and he’s scared and the thought makes you seethe. 

“Get your fucking hands off her,” he commands, voice cut through with anger that overpowers its gravelly weakness. 

Müller turns a stomach-turning smirk on Joaquín, his fist tightening in your hair. His nails dig into your scalp in sharp crescent moons of pain. “Take stock of yourself, boy. There’s nothing you could do to stop me, shackled like a dog as you are.”

Disgust overpowers you at his words and you raise your chin and spit a glob of bloody saliva at him in response. It lands right below his eye with a wet smack, drawing out a furious yell. He twists his fist in your hair like he’s trying to pull your scalp off through sheer force. 

“You just made a huge mistake, little girl,” he whispers, bringing his face so close to yours that your noses almost touch. 

“No, you did.” Before he can absorb your words, you dart a leg out and kick him in the shin, full force channeled into the heel of your foot. He cries out, dropping to one knee, and you bring your leg up until your kneecap meets his crotch. It’s tricky, what with the possible TBI you’re nurturing, but you manage to gather your strength and pull yourself into a hunched over standing position. You whip around as fast as you can, and the creep takes a metal chair to the side of the head. He crumples faster than a wet cardboard box. 

Your chest heaves with labored breath, and you feel a little bit like you’re going to throw up from the exertion, but he is out like a light– you might’ve bought you and Joaquín some time. 

When you turn around, you see that Joaquín has pulled himself to his feet and come towards you as far as his shackles will allow. 

“Are you okay?” he asks urgently, hand outstretched toward you as much as he can manage. 

“That’s relative,” you grunt at first, hobbling over to him. Your entire body– most importantly your spine– screams in agony at the action, still contorted around the chair. When you look up, Joaquín’s dark eyes are flooded with fear and you soften. “I’m okay, I’ll be okay. And you?”

“Takes more than these fuckers to do me any real damage,” he says, and you oblige him with the smile that you know he’s trying to draw out. The distance and the darkness had hidden them, but up close you see a bruise already purpling across nearly half of his face. Similar shades are visible disappearing under the collar of his button down, and a cut bisects his bottom lip, crusted in blood. Your urge to reach out and touch him is denied by the cuffs holding both hands behind your back. 

“Do you know how to pick locks?” you ask instead. 

“Of course I do,” Joaquín says, somewhat indignant. 

“Grab a bobby pin out of my hair and get these fucking cuffs off me,” you instruct. Joaquín does as you say, freeing one of the bobby pins and making quick work of the cuffs. As they fall, your sore arms drop to your side, muscles screaming, and the chair clatters noisily to the floor. Immediately, you pull Joaquín down to the floor, putting a mess of collapsible plastic boxes and lab equipment between the pair of you and the door.

“What are you—?” Joaquín starts to ask, as you take the bobby pin from his hand and get to work on his own shackles. They are sturdier than your cuffs– you make a note to feel offended that they didn’t see you as as much of a threat as Joaquín later– and are taking you longer to pick than your own did. 

“There are guards outside the door. That noise is going to draw them in here, and they’re going to have guns,” you inform him, as the shackles on his hands fall to the floor. You get to work on the one clamped around his neck. 

Right on time, the doors burst open, two male voices calling for Müller. 

“Code purple! Code purple!” someone shrieks from the other side of the room. 

You roll your eyes as the thick metal collar falls to the floor. “Fuck, I forgot about the stupid lab assistants.”

You take ‘code purple’ to mean ‘dangerous captives have escaped’, because the guards start shooting almost the second they’re through the door. Sloppy. Around the curve of the giant lava lamp, you see the two terrified lab assistants duck beneath the cover of the console they were working at, covering their heads uselessly with their hands. At the first spray of bullets, Joaquín pulls you further down, positioning himself between you and the direction of danger. 

“You don’t happen to have a secret gun stashed somewhere in that dress?” Joaquín asks, glancing at you over his shoulder before going back to peeking around the boxes you’re hiding behind, trying to get a good look at what you’re up against. 

“Didn’t have enough pockets,” you answer distractedly. Though he’s joking, Joaquín is right– you need a weapon soon or you’re both going to be dead. You cast your eyes around the area, trying to find anything that could be even slightly construed as a weapon. You almost give it, and both of your lives, up as lost, when you sweep back over Müller’s prone form— and the holster at his hip. 

You lunge across the floor, keeping low to the ground in an army crawl over to Müller. A bullet flies over your head, lodging in the side of a plastic box. They’ve seen you, and their aim is going to get better on the next shot. When you reach Müller, you flatten yourself near completely to the floor, hoping to use him as a shield. You reach an arm over his body, ripping the gun clumsily from the holster. 

The headshot you aimed for is wide by several inches, ricocheting harmlessly off the metal wall. You’re starting to think this fucking concussion is going to cost you your life. Your movements are slow and sluggish– it’s an unbelievably frustrating thing, knowing that you are performing far below your usual capabilities and unable to do anything about it. Like being a prisoner in your own body. 

Laying beside the unconscious Müller, your body begs to just stop moving. To give in. Before you can muster the strength to deny this wish, the body besides you jerks with impact. You know before you look that the warmth spreading over your side is blood. Müller’s blood. A gut shot, blood darkening the fabric of his drab gray button down. Vaguely, through the woolen blanket of your concussion, you register Joaquín screaming your name. 

ZERMATT, SWITZERLAND. 9 YEARS AGO. 

Beyond the glossy wall of windows, dusk paints the sugar-dusted landscape of Zermatt soft and blue. The Matterhorn is still visible in the rapidly waning light, but only just. Down the sweeping valley, warm, yellow lights blink on inside picturesque chalets, a perfect storybook illustration. 

Inside, your hands are covered in blood. 

It wasn’t supposed to go this way; four months ago, the Red Room had placed you at Institut Le Rosey, one of the most highbrow, expensive boarding schools on the face of the planet. The job: befriend Perla Casamotti, get yourself invited on the Casamotti family’s winter holiday, and neutralize Perla’s father, a white collar criminal named Giorgio— more well-known as Verdetto, a man who trades in secrets and who finally came across the wrong one. 

It was supposed to be quick. You were supposed to take him out clean. 

You thought to catch him in his office alone one night, the man always working in that room when he was actually present at the chalet, in between his bouts of disappearing ‘on business’.  You had felt so smart only hours ago, devising your plan to enter under the guise of some simple question and incapacitate him. A shot of air between the first and second toe would simulate a heart attack and be virtually undetectable, unless someone really looks for it. Not the most creative way to neutralize a target, but the easiest one to get away with here. 

It was supposed to be a cinch, but then you’d shuffled into his office all shy and demure to ask if it might be alright if you got a midnight snack, and when you looked up through your eyelashes it was to see his leering face in front of you, his hands on you scalding hot through pajamas that matched with Perla’s, and–

Well. There are so many heavy, blunt objects in Verdetto’s office. 

He hadn’t expected you to be fast. Or strong. He hadn’t expected you to be cunning, for you to be anything other than shocked and overcome with fear and painfully, vulnerably thirteen years old in a stranger’s home. Your first hit was well placed, sending him tumbling to the floor like a bag of bricks. It may have even killed him, you’re not sure. The rest of your hits, frenzied and violent, certainly finished the job if it hadn’t. 

You are composed when you leave the office and walk down the stairs to the front door on silent feet. Bloody prints follow you across the hardwood, faded to partial and pink by the time you reach the snow. You walk five miles along the quiet edge of town and beyond, before one of Mother’s handlers appears, cold and appraising, on a snowmobile that reveals itself through a copse of trees. 

“It’s done?” Her voice is muffled through the helmet that she doesn’t bother to take off. 

His blood was hot and so plentiful, soaking into the shins of your pajama pants. You’d forgotten how to breathe for a moment or two, and the only thing that had filled the room was an awful, strangled, sucking kind of noise. You hadn’t even realized it was coming from you, at first. But it was gone as fast as it had come, slipping behind a mask of complete composure. You had to arrange your extraction, disappear from the house before Perla or anyone else saw you. Bigger fish to fry, and all that. 

You give her a short nod. 

“Get on,” she tells you, tossing you a helmet identical to hers. You catch it on reflex and shove it over your head, happy to have a reason to cover your face. She is steering the snowmobile back through the darkened trees before you’ve fully sat down. 

NOW. 

Blood is in your mouth, it’s everywhere, your hands dark and sticky with it, the warmth of it slick against the side of your face, down your neck. For a few delirious moments, you are thirteen again, dripping someone else’s blood in the snow, whatever shred of innocence you still had left behind in the house on the hill. 

And then you slam back into your body, your now body, which has evidently spent some time unconscious on top of the bleeding mass of Müller’s gut. Yet when your vision finally unblurs enough for you to see your surroundings, you are no longer next to Müller; a trail of blood glistens on the grate floor where Joaquín clearly dragged you back behind the boxes. 

You sit up, your back flush against the giant lava lamp, trying to blink away the dizziness at the movement. You have to fight very hard to not turn to the side and throw up through the grates. Joaquín’s back is to you, and he expertly uses the cover you have to protect himself while he picks off the guards. 

Joaquín notices your movement and ducks behind the boxes long enough to turn a reassuring look on you. 

“We just need to hold on a little longer,” he says, nodding as if to encourage the both of you. “They’re on their way. I know it.” 

“Who—? How could anyone be on their way?” you ask, one hand coming up to clutch your head. Your senses are getting sharper with every passing moment, but not fast enough. Your brain feels out of sync with the rest of your body. 

“Do you think Sam sent us into the auction without backup forms of communication? I had a panic button, you could call it, in the sleeve of my suit jacket. They never found it. I sent out an SOS some time before they brought you in here,” Joaquín explains, before ducking around the boxes again to take another shot. He’s been holding his own very well, you can see— the guards are pinned down at the door, unable to get around the lava lamp to where the two of you are vulnerable without getting lethally shot. They, of course, don’t realize that Joaquín would never shoot to kill. He’s as gallant and codebound as Sam. It’s only now that you notice he’s not using Müller’s pistol, but one of the guard’s rifles. He’s been busy while you were checked out. 

“Sam’s coming,” you say, the information taking longer to click through your concussion. 

“Sam’s coming,” Joaquín confirms. The thought of a rescue, of the broken and beaten pair of you not having to fight your way out of this place alone, has you reinvigorated. You rally all the strength and focus that you can muster and pick up the pistol abandoned on the grates in between you and Joaquín, willing your eyes to sharpen and focus just long enough to keep you alive to see Sam’s red, white, and blue ass come through that door. 

You duck and tumble across the floor to another nearby stack of boxes and half-unpacked lab equipment, hoping to give the pair of you an advantage with another angle to shoot from. You’re doing your best to only maim at the moment– hanging around all these deeply hero types while on this mission is evidently rubbing off on you– and you succeed in kneecapping a pair of guards as soon as they come through the door. They collapse in a twisted pile, cries of pain mixing with the incessant pelt of gunfire and shouts of command from the other guards. 

“Nice shots!” Joaquín shouts, turning to shoot a grin your way. You can’t help but return it, though it quickly drops. 

You watch what happens next trapped within the nightmarish manacles of being just observant enough to see what is about to happen without having enough time to try and stop it. 

Everything moves too fast: through the chaos, one observant guard notices your exchange and takes advantage of it; Joaquín, who should have been safe in his distracted praise of you, tucked as he is against the side of the giant lava lamp and mostly obscured by the boxes he has been ducked behind, suddenly becomes more vulnerable as the guard hurtles over his fallen comrades for a new vantage point. 

You see him moving, but he’s too fast for you to even yell out a warning before he takes aim and shoots Joaquín in the chest. 

The agonized wail that rips from your throat as you watch blood bloom across the rich white fabric of his button down is animalistic and not immediately recognizable to you as coming from your own body. Joaquín’s eyes widen, and the rifle falters in his grip as he clumsily brings a hand up to the wound. He lays it uselessly over his pectoral, blood waterfalling over the smooth brown skin of his hand. He slumps back against the cylinder, all the strength in his legs giving out, and all you can think is that you’re losing him, after the hell you’ve been through together this week, after he saved your life on that airfield an eternity ago and several times over since then, you’re losing him— 

You raise your pistol and shoot the guard in the head. 

He goes down quickly, dead before he’s even hit the floor. Three more follow suit as you put bullets between their eyes with ruthless, practiced efficiency. You put one of the guards you’d previously kneecapped out of his misery before you run out of bullets. Across the room, one of the lab assistants shouts, panicked, into a walkie. You shoot her, too. You feel nothing in the cavernous pit of your body except for a just, white-hot rage. 

In the lull between chaos, surrounded by dead bodies, hearing the tread of their replacements’ boots heavy and ever closer on the metal floor, you crawl across the grates to Joaquín. 

His lips are blue. You bring a hand up to his face, bearing the weight of his head, unable to draw your eyes away from the cadaverous color of his lips. 

“Joaquín,” you say, voice thick and choked with rage and expansive, drowning sorrow. “You’re gonna be okay, do you hear me? You’re gonna be okay. Sam’s coming— just hold on.” The urgency to do something– do anything– ratchets up your heart rate, but what is there to do? You bring your free hand to his wound, applying pressure that seemingly does little to staunch the blood flow. 

He blinks and drags in a shallow breath, the only signs of life. He opens his mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a thin trickle of blood, obscenely bright against his pallor. Instead, he lifts his hand with effort and brings it down on your wrist, grasping weakly. His blood is hot– burning– on your skin. 

The next wave of guards makes it to the door and you think that you and Joaquín will just die here, after all. Try as you might, you cannot bring yourself to remove your hands from Joaquín’s body in order to take up the rifle and defend yourself. You do have mind enough to make sure that both of you are fully obstructed by the stack of boxes, and you hunch further down over Joaquín’s prone body and wait for that protection to run out, too. 

But, though you hear the consistent fire of gunshots, the fact that you haven’t yet been shot means they are clearly being aimed at someone or something else. 

Only when a metal hand gently squeezes your shoulder and Bucky’s voice filters in through the ringing in your ear, saying “Kid, it’s over now,” do you realize why you haven’t been shot and that you are actually going to make it out of this fucking place alive. 

“Help him,” you demand, voice ragged. When you turn to face Bucky, his features are blurred by tears you didn’t know you were shedding. You can’t wipe them away without taking your hands off Joaquín’s wound or without letting his head drop to his chest. You won’t do it. 

Sam appears beside Bucky, more a shadow than anything in your vision. Whatever smartass little quip he was getting ready to deliver dies on his lips, and he grabs onto Bucky’s shoulder to steady himself at the sight of Joaquín. This way, all of you linked together by hands on shoulders, hands on bloody wounds, you hope that somehow you’re all channeling some life force into him. 

More people crowd around you, allies by the way nobody attacks each other, but you can’t recognize them— you can’t recognize anything beyond Joaquín’s rapidly paling face. 

I am going to live, you think. I am going to live and he isn’t. The injustice of the concept is unspeakable. 

“Please, Sam,” you croak. “He said– he said we just have to hold on until you get here.” 

You miss the way Sam’s heart absolutely shatters at your words. Bucky tugs you away from Joaquín, gently at first and then with more force as you resist him. 

“C’mon, kid, you gotta move if you want us to help,” he pleads, finally getting through to you. You let him tug you a few feet away, and a swarm of smartly dressed women with shaved heads descend upon him, working with urgent efficiency. 

“He has to be okay,” you say absently. You’re not sure if you’re talking to yourself or Bucky or anyone in particular at all. God, maybe. Anyone who might possibly be listening. “He has to be okay.” 

[imogenkol]

— LAST LINE / MUSIC MONDAY

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No pressure tags: @adelaidedrubman @kyber-infinitygems @voidika @sstewyhosseini @florbelles @shegetsburned @jillvalentinesday @jinfromyarikawa @simonxriley @aceghosts @marivenah @shallow-gravy @jackiesarch @roofgeese @chuckhansen @risingsh0t @loriane-elmuerto @shellibisshe @queennymeria + anyone else who wants to!

yeah I finished Survivor again so I’m back writing my worsties <3

Cal Kestis lay battered and unconscious in the dirt at her feet, his hand outstretched to where her lightsaber rested mere inches from his desperate reach. Imogen’s fingers twitched to call the weapon back into her hand, but she hesitated as she stared down at her old adversary. There would never be a better opportunity to end him than this. The echoes of battle sounded off in the distance, reminding her that the Empire could very well have the compass within their clutches soon. If she did not act, her path to Tanalorr will be lost.

Imogen’s teeth scraped together as her jaw set in a hard line. With her cybernetic leg, she firmly kicked Cal in his side. The impact made him flinch and blink awake in a daze. Imogen had little patience. She uttered a stern command. “Get up, Jedi.”

COME AS YOU ARE by BLAKWALL

Come as you are, as you were

As I want you to be

As a friend, as a friend

As an old enemy

Take your time, hurry up

Choice is yours, don't be late

Take a rest as a friend

As an old

Memoria, memoria

Memoria, memoria

note: I just really love this cover and it has been an Imogen/Cal song for ages. Them just constantly going back and forth from allies to enemies and the deep history they share from being a part of the Order but their upbringings were so vastly different.

[t4kalcvr]

WHEN THE WIND CHANGES

𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈 word count :: ( 12,736 ) genre :: fluffyyy, angsty, gore, && slow burn content contains :: stabbing/cutting, knives, bats, fighting, pretty much just regular bofurin behavior part two right here !!

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the wind carried dust here. that was the first thing you noticed.

it wasn’t unpleasant, just… constant. it pulled through the narrow side streets like it belonged there, brushing across the rows of old signage and iron shutters. it moved past the bus stop you’d stepped off at only twenty minutes ago, weaving between your hair like it had known you long before you arrived.

welcome to the town, it seemed to whisper.

you adjusted the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder, eyes tracking the way light filtered through the gaps in the shop awnings ahead. the air felt different here—cleaner than the city, quieter than what you were used to. buildings pressed close together, but not in a suffocating way. more like neighbors leaning in to chat.

you turned the corner and spotted the café sign exactly where kotoha said it would be.

“coffee + bread + peace” was scrawled in white paint across the windowpane, accompanied by a few drawn-on flowers that looked like they’d been added by a bored customer rather than the staff. the wooden door creaked slightly as you opened it, the bell above it chiming with a bright, high note.

the inside smelled like flour and something citrusy—maybe lemon zest?—and faintly of brewed espresso. a few customers dotted the tables, mostly older locals flipping through newspapers or looking out the window. the café wasn’t large, but it had that lived-in warmth. faded tile, a long wooden counter, shelves stacked with mismatched mugs.

and behind the counter, drying her hands on a dish towel, was kotoha tachibana.

“right on time,” she said, offering you a crooked smile. “that bodes well.”

she didn’t offer a handshake—just gestured with her chin for you to come around the back. you stepped into the space behind the counter and tried not to look too stiff, though your nerves prickled at the base of your neck. kotoha noticed. of course she did.

“relax,” she said, throwing the towel over her shoulder. “this isn’t tokyo. you’re not getting graded.”

you gave a quiet laugh. “i’ve just never worked front-of-house before.”

“well,” she said, opening a drawer and pulling out a small notepad and an apron, “you’re lucky. we don’t get a ton of customers unless it’s a fight weekend or the after-school rush. but you’re mostly working the morning and mid-day shifts with me, so it’s just sleepy people who want carbs and caffeine.”

you tied the apron around your waist as she handed you the notepad. it had doodles on it—stars, little knives, what looked like a frog with an eye patch. she noticed where you were looking.

“yeah,” she said dryly. “we get characters in here.”

you were about to ask her to elaborate when the bell above the door jingled again. kotoha glanced up, and something shifted subtly in her posture—not nervousness, but a flicker of awareness.

you turned, half out of instinct, and saw him.

he walked in like someone who didn’t want to be noticed but still managed to draw every gaze. tall. sharp features. his school uniform hung neatly on his frame—jacket buttoned, sleeves just slightly rolled to the wrist. a satchel slung over one shoulder, white headphones resting loosely around his neck.

but it was the hair you noticed first—white, almost silver under the café lights, cut in a clean style that somehow made him look more untouchable than elegant. like snow that hadn’t been stepped on.

you were trying to remember his name, you’d seen his face before—on a blurry photo on your brother’s phone, half-obscured behind a crowd of uniformed fighters and bloody knuckles.

ren kaji.

he approached the counter without glancing at either of you. his voice was low when he spoke, barely above the hum of the coffee machine.

“coffee. black. medium.”

kotoha was already moving to fill the order, but not without rolling her eyes. “still pretending you have no personality?”

he didn’t respond. just placed a few coins on the counter and waited, expression unreadable.

kotoha handed you the cup to pass over. a test, maybe. you stepped forward, setting the paper cup in front of him with a quiet “here.”

he didn’t look at you right away—just picked up the cup, glanced at the lid. then his eyes flicked to your face, brief and unreadable. not rude. not curious. just… sizing you up. like a fighter checking their opponent’s stance before making a move.

“new?” he asked.

you blinked. “uh. yeah. first day.”

he nodded once, barely perceptible. then turned and left without another word, the bell jingling behind him again as he disappeared back into the morning.

kotoha leaned her elbows on the counter, watching you. “that,” she said, “was the local ice cube.”

you snorted. “ren kaji, right?”

she raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. “oh, so you’ve heard.”

you shrugged. “just… stuff my brother’s mentioned.”

she didn’t press. but the way her gaze lingered on you for a second longer told you she was doing the math in her head. your name. your features. the vague familiarity.

she let it go. for now.

“don’t worry about him,” she said, turning to grab a tray of pastries. “he only gets chatty when someone bleeds on the sidewalk.”

you weren’t sure why that made you smile.

the café had quieted again. a late morning lull, sunlight falling in warm strips across the floor. the last rush of customers had filtered out half an hour ago, leaving only the sound of utensils clinking in the sink and kotoha humming under her breath as she restocked the pastry case.

you leaned on the counter, flipping the pencil in your hand. there was a question on your tongue — something small, something about the old coffee grinder that kept sputtering like it was holding its breath — but you hesitated before asking.

kotoha caught the look.

“you’re thinking too hard,” she said without looking up. “dangerous habit around here.”

you smiled, tapping the eraser of your pencil against the notepad.

“is it always this quiet between ten and noon?”

“pretty much,” she replied, sliding a tray of lemon scones onto the shelf. “except when the school lets out early. or when—”

the bell above the door interrupted her.

your gaze shifted. six figures pushed through the doorway in a chaotic tangle of voices, bruises, and swagger. they moved like a pack that had barely just survived something. and by the looks of them, they had.

you recognized a few of them instantly from your brother’s old texts and the way he’d talk about his squad when he thought you weren’t listening.

leading the chaos, all cracked grin and split knuckles, was hajime umemiya—the school’s top fighter and walking hurricane. bruised jaw, red-stained collar, eyes alight like he’d just had the time of his life.

he was already calling out before the door had finished swinging shut.

“kotohaaaa~! i saw the light of my life through the window, so i brought offerings!”

kotoha didn’t even blink.

“if the offering’s more of your busted ribs, i’m locking you out.”

umemiya made a dramatic show of clutching his chest. “my own sister, turning me away wounded? and after all we’ve been through—”

“you mean the group home and your weekly habit of bleeding on my floor?”

“exactly! sentiment!”

kotoha side-stepped him with ease, already grabbing cups and prepping the regular orders.

just behind umemiya came toma hiragi, who looked like someone had been dragging him out of a fight five seconds ago and he was mad it ended early. his spiked, pointed hair stuck out like he’d walked through an electrical storm, and the way he flashed his sharp teeth when he laughed was downright feral.

next to him, in complete contrast, was mitsuki kiryu—cool as ever, even with blood still drying on his knuckles. his long, pink hair was swept back, and his smile was soft, lazy, like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

“we live to see another day,” he said cheerfully, voice smooth, as he leaned on the counter like he came here just for the good vibes.

his chin piercing glinted faintly, and the two eyebrow piercings caught the light every time he tilted his head.

he looked like a guy who fought before breakfast and then came here for dessert.

“kiryu,” kotoha said, glancing at his hand. “are you bleeding or just decorating?”

“just a little bit of both,” he replied with a grin. “adds character.”

“stop bleeding on the napkin dispensers.”

“yes, ma’am.”

taiga tsugeura crashed into a chair, groaning dramatically as he held the back of his head.

“i swear, that guy came outta nowhere—”

“you elbowed a cop car,” kiryu noted helpfully, still smiling.

bringing up the rear was akihiko nirei, who looked like he was five seconds away from dissolving into a puddle of stress.

“can we—can we please not get banned from every café within a ten-mile radius,” he stammered, voice high and tight as he hovered near the door. “i like this one. it’s clean. and normal. and it doesn’t smell like hospital floors.”

“you’re bleeding on the floor again,” he added to umemiya, half-gasping, half-resigned.

“you’re welcome,” umemiya beamed.

as the rest of them settled into their usual corner of the café, one figure split off from the group—quietly, like it was nothing unusual.

suo.

he moved with that calm step of his, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed despite the bruising along his cheek. he passed right by everyone and came straight to you, eyes already softening the moment they met yours.

“you settling in okay?” he asked, voice low and even. “kotoha’s not working you too hard, is she?”

you blinked, then smiled. “not yet.”

he chuckled under his breath. “good. she means well, but she’s relentless if you mess up a milk foam pattern.”

you snorted. “noted.”

he reached over and adjusted the edge of your apron—slightly crooked from earlier—like it was the most natural thing in the world. and just like that, the café went completely still.

someone dropped a spoon.

“…what the hell,” taiga whispered, stunned.

“is he flirting?” kiryu asked with a lazy smile, like he was just enjoying the drama.

“maybe she’s like… an undercover boss,” nirei muttered, panicking slightly. “oh my god, what if we’ve all been rude to the boss’s niece or something—i’m gonna die—”

“she’s probably his ex,” hiragi said, fangs showing through a sly grin. “and this is their redemption arc.”

“no, no, time traveler,” umemiya said, serious. “i feel it in my heart.”

you tried to hide your laugh, but it almost slipped out. suo caught it. his smile lingered for half a second longer before he gave your shoulder a light pat and turned away to join the others like nothing had happened.

kotoha, halfway through steaming milk, had gone completely still.

her eyes flicked from you, to suo’s back, then to you again. she studied your face, quietly. your eyes. the curve of your nose. the way you stood when you were relaxed.

something clicked in her head.

not the whole picture. not yet.

but something.

“…huh,” she muttered under her breath.

you didn’t ask what she meant.

but you knew she was gonna be watching you for the rest of the shift.

a few minutes after the drinks were delivered, you slipped out the back door with the tray still in your hands, heart tapping a little too fast.

you figured he’d follow.

and he did.

the alley behind café pothos was quiet, shaded, the stone steps still slick from the last night’s rain. a few pots of herbs lined the ledge, kotoha’s quiet handiwork—some mint, rosemary, little seedlings of basil stretching toward the sun. the only sound was the soft hum of the city waking up and the faint clatter of mugs inside.

suo joined you without speaking at first. he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the same easy smile on his lips that he wore when he was holding back too much.

you exhaled slowly.

“you know they’re going to keep talking about it now.”

“yeah,” he said, watching a pigeon flutter onto the fence. “they definitely are.”

a moment passed.

“we should’ve just told them,” you murmured, “that you’re my brother. would’ve been easier.”

suo shook his head. “nah. not yet.”

you turned to him.

“i’m serious,” he said, softer now. “not because i’m ashamed or anything. it’s just… you know what kind of reputation bofurin has. you deserve to settle in here without people immediately labeling you as ‘suo’s sister’.”

you frowned.

“i’m not saying hide it forever. just—give it time. let them meet you as you first.”

you hesitated, then nodded. you understood. he always tried to protect you, even if it came off a little overbearing.

“you always do this,” you said lightly. “play the older brother and the secret agent.”

“someone’s gotta.”

you huffed a small laugh, and his smile returned. the quiet kind. the one that didn’t show his teeth but always reached his eyes.

you were about to say something else—something grateful, maybe—when his hand suddenly reached your shoulder, steady but firm.

“don’t look,” he murmured. “but sakura and ren are headed this way.”

your stomach jolted slightly, though you weren’t sure why.

“from the front?”

“yeah.”

he stood straighter now, hand still on your shoulder, tone shifting into something more serious. not urgent. just… protective.

“you’re safe now,” he said, louder, with intention behind it. “don’t worry about earlier. just head back inside and finish your shift.”

you blinked at him, half confused—half catching on.

he wasn’t speaking to you, not really.

he was speaking for them to hear.

as if he’d just come outside to deal with something dangerous. as if you were the problem. or the victim. or maybe both.

and from the corner of your eye, you caught a flash of them across the street, getting closer—

haruka sakura, with his half-white, half-black hair and mismatched eyes—one pale gray, one gold-bright like the sun had cracked open in it. he moved like someone who lived inside tension. unreadable. sharp without trying to be.

and next to him—

ren kaji.

headphones around his neck. white hair slightly windblown. shoulders squared but not stiff. unreadable in a quieter way. like nothing really got to him. eyes scanning every corner without a flicker of judgment. just… watching. calculating.

you swallowed hard, then nodded quickly to suo.

“right. thanks,” you said, voice pitched slightly higher like you were just another stranger brushing off a favor. “i’ll, uh… i’ll get back to work.”

he gave your shoulder a final pat, then stepped back toward the wall like he hadn’t just staged a full cover-up.

you ducked inside, face burning as the door swung shut behind you.

as you passed kotoha, she raised an eyebrow.

“…you okay?”

“yep.”

she stared.

you started reorganizing the sugar packets like your life depended on it.

outside, you could just barely hear the murmur of sakura’s voice, low and bored, and another voice answering—deeper, steadier.

you didn’t have to look to know it was ren.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the walk to café pothos was quiet, the way ren preferred it.

the breeze tugged at his hoodie sleeve. the sky above the city was bright but not glaring, a soft kind of warmth pressing into his shoulders. across the street, signs flipped from “closed” to “open,” and the rustling of late morning passed around him like water.

beside him, haruka sakura walked with that usual tension in his frame. eyes half-lidded. expression unreadable. the black and white split of his hair swayed in time with his stride, the corner of his gray eye catching the light like a cut of steel.

he didn’t say much.

he never did.

ren didn’t mind. silence was fine with him.

they were nearly to the café when he noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye.

someone slipping out the side door. fast.

not running—but definitely leaving. with purpose. or nerves.

a girl. apron still on. tray under one arm.

he watched as she stepped back into the alley, and seconds later, someone else followed.

ren slowed.

“…that’s suo,” he murmured.

haruka barely blinked. “and?”

“and he’s got his hand on her shoulder.”

ren didn’t usually assign meaning to things he didn’t understand. but the look on suo’s face—

too still. too careful.

like he was playing a role. or protecting something no one else knew about.

the girl—whoever she was—nodded like she understood something unwritten. said something back. then turned on her heel and slipped back inside without even a glance their way.

her face was a little flushed.

the tray was gone.

ren tilted his head slightly.

suo lingered behind a few seconds longer, then leaned against the wall like he hadn’t just been acting strange.

ren didn’t say anything.

but he didn’t stop thinking about it, either.

the bell above the door jingled as he stepped into café pothos, letting the warm smell of espresso and sugar rush up to meet him.

the first thing he noticed was how many people were already there.

umemiya, arms flung dramatically across the back of the couch, blood still crusted at his jaw, was laughing about something.

hiragi, slouched sideways in a chair, was flashing teeth and flipping a teaspoon between his fingers.

kiryu sat perfectly still, grinning vaguely at the ceiling like he’d just discovered nirvana.

tsugeura had his head against the table, groaning.

nirei was pacing back and forth between the trash bin and the register like the entire café was one misstep from disaster.

“there’s blood on this table,” nirei hissed as they walked in. “literal blood. someone’s gonna call the health inspector. we’re doomed.”

“you say that every week,” kiryu offered, eyes still half-lidded.

ren let the door shut behind them.

he scanned the room once.

then found her.

you.

standing behind the counter. organizing sugar packets like your life depended on it. head ducked, shoulders just a little tense. not uncomfortable. not embarrassed. just… off.

like you were trying really hard to be invisible.

suo wasn’t looking at you anymore. in fact, he was fully back in the booth with the others, acting as if nothing strange had happened at all.

ren narrowed his eyes.

his fingers drifted up to the bluetooth headphones resting around his neck. white. sleek. no cord. just a quiet presence, like everything else about him.

he didn’t speak. not yet.

but something was weird.

and ren kaji noticed everything.

“you okay?” kotoha asked, eyeing the way you were fidgeting with the edge of your apron.

you nodded way too fast. “yep. totally. i’m gonna go take their orders.”

she gave you a look. “you sure?”

“yep.”

you were not.

but you had to do something. standing around trying not to glance at ren kaji was making it worse.

you grabbed your notepad and stepped out from behind the counter, weaving through tables until you reached the two boys still standing near the front.

sakura stiffened the second you got within three feet of them.

his eyes widened slightly, the gray one twitching, the honey-colored one darting to avoid direct eye contact. his posture suddenly looked like someone who’d just been caught in the middle of a crime scene.

“hi,” you said, polite. “can i take your orders?”

before you could even offer options, sakura’s entire face went red.

“HUH?! WH—ME?!”

he pointed at himself like you’d just insulted his entire bloodline. “w-wait—i didn’t—I don’t know you!!”

you blinked. “right… i just meant if you wanted coffee—?”

“WHY WOULD I WANT COFFEE I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOU—WHY ARE YOU TALKING TO ME—”

he started sweating. “I’M GOOD!! KOTOHA USUALLY JUST—I MEAN—SHE—SHE DECIDES!! I DRINK WHATEVER!!”

“okay, okay—” you stepped back slightly, hands raised, trying not to laugh. “i’ll just—ask ren, then…”

sakura immediately turned around and muttered something about needing to go sit down before he exploded.

ren, in contrast, hadn’t moved. his bluetooth headphones sat around his neck, untouchable. he was just… staring. at you.

you tried to meet his gaze, but it was a little too direct. like he was watching your every breath for a secret.

“um… and for you?” you asked softly, pretending your pen wasn’t shaking.

he didn’t respond.

just stared.

again.

longer this time.

“ren,” umemiya called from the booth with a mouthful of cake, “stop acting like she stole your favorite manga. you’re making her nervous.”

ren blinked once. “wasn’t.”

“you so were,” umemiya laughed. “this is why you don’t get free samples. i’ll order for him. cold brew, oat milk, extra ice, no joy.”

you nodded, grateful. “got it.”

as you walked away, you glanced just once over your shoulder.

ren was still staring.

sakura had his head face-down on the table.

you stepped back behind the counter with your notepad in hand and your pulse doing laps in your throat.

kotoha was wiping a tray clean, but her eyes flicked up the second you crossed into her space.

she didn’t say anything at first. just passed you a small towel and gestured to the line of drink orders she was already halfway through.

you nodded and moved into place beside her.

but the silence was… expectant.

she finally spoke, voice low and even.

“…what did you do to sakura?”

you paused, hand hovering over the cold brew glass.

“what?” you asked, blinking.

“he’s in the booth with his head on the table. he hasn’t moved. looks like someone drop-kicked his pride.”

you stifled a smile. “i just asked him for his drink order.”

kotoha raised a brow. “that’s it?”

you nodded, pouring oat milk into ren’s coffee. “he exploded.”

“sounds about right,” she murmured. “he’s always been hopeless when a girl talks to him. but that was… worse than usual.”

you glanced toward the booth. sakura was still hunched over like a robot that had short-circuited mid-sentence. tsugeura was poking him with a straw and getting no response.

“maybe he’s sick,” you offered.

kotoha didn’t answer. she just turned, plated a slice of cake, and passed it to you.

“and what about ren?”

you blinked again. “what about him?”

“he stared at you like you’d committed a crime.”

“…i didn’t.”

“i know,” she said flatly. “but i’ve never seen him look at someone that long without saying a word. you’re either a ghost, or he’s trying to figure out if you’re a puzzle piece from a box he lost.”

you quietly slid the cold brew onto the tray.

“you sure you’ve never met any of them before?” she asked.

you kept your back to her as you reached for napkins.

“pretty sure.”

“mm.”

she didn’t believe you.

not entirely.

but she wasn’t pressing it yet, either.

“…you and suo have the same ears,” she said suddenly.

your hand froze midair. “what?”

“your ears. kind of stick out in the same way. and your jawlines are similar. your eyes are different, though. his look like he’s hiding a joke. yours look like you’re hiding a story.”

you turned slowly. “you’re really good at that.”

“working here means reading people,” she said, shrugging. “plus, i grew up with half that table. i know when something’s weird.”

you looked away, voice quieter.

“…so you think i’m weird?”

kotoha passed you a fork, smirking slightly.

“no. i think you’re hiding something. which is different. and more fun.”

you were about to answer when umemiya shouted from the booth.

“hey! pothos girls! we’re out of napkins and my cake’s lonely!”

kotoha rolled her eyes. “drama king.”

you reached for the tray. she handed it to you, fingers brushing yours.

“just so you know,” she said casually, “if you ever want to talk about whatever story your eyes are hiding—i’m a good listener.”

you smiled, small but sincere.

“thanks.”

“don’t thank me,” she said, flipping her out of her face. “you still have to serve a table full of sweaty fighters and one guy who hasn’t blinked since you walked in.”

you looked toward ren.

he was still staring.

you looked away just as fast.

you balanced the tray carefully as you approached the booth — cold brew, cake, napkins, and nerves all in one shaky grip.

the table was a mess of bodies and banter. umemiya was dramatically flopped across the bench like he’d just won a brawl against the entire concept of manners. tsugeura was arguing with hiragi over who bled more during the fight. kiryu was calmly sipping tea he didn’t order, looking like he hadn’t moved in hours. and nirei was still pacing nearby, muttering to himself about health codes.

sakura… had his face buried in his arms like the world was ending.

you stopped at the edge of the booth and cleared your throat gently. “cold brew, extra ice, oat milk, no joy?”

ren looked up.

not in surprise — just… acknowledgment.

you placed the drink in front of him and were about to pull your hand back when he didn’t take it.

he just stared at it. then at you.

then back at it.

you swallowed.

“it’s yours,” you said, a little softer.

“thanks,” he said finally, taking it without looking away.

you turned to set down the cake when umemiya clapped his hands loudly, grinning.

“look at her go. grace under pressure. how’s it feel, ren? being served by someone that flusters you?”

ren didn’t blink. “you’re loud.”

“i’m a people person.”

“you’re a hazard.”

“same thing.”

you were fighting a smile when kiryu chimed in without lifting his gaze from the steam rising off his cup.

“you’re handling us really well,” he said to you, voice low and lilting. “most people cry the first week.”

“not helping,” nirei hissed from somewhere behind you, still hovering. “don’t scare her, don’t scare her, oh god is that a hair on the cake?”

“that’s your own,” tsugeura grumbled.

you placed the last napkin on the table and nodded politely. “is there anything else i can get you?”

“yeah,” umemiya said, mouth full of frosting. “a new body. mine’s broken.”

“i’ll ask kotoha,” you said.

a low snort came from sakura’s side of the booth. he peeked up just enough to see your face again, then immediately slammed his head back down.

“don’t look at me,” he mumbled into the wood.

you turned to go, but paused when ren finally took a sip of the cold brew.

you glanced over your shoulder.

he was still watching you.

expression unreadable.

like he was trying to place a song he’d only ever heard in a dream.

you quickly looked away.

and tried not to run back to the counter.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the light had turned golden.

the kind of golden that made the windows of the café glow soft and syrupy, like the world was being dipped in warm honey. even the chipped mugs on the counter looked kind of magical in it.

you were wiping down a table with half-dried latte art when kotoha’s voice cut through the haze.

“alright,” she called out, hands on hips, “last call was twenty minutes ago. you’ve all had sugar and caffeine. get out.”

“but my legs are jelly,” umemiya whined dramatically, slumping across the booth like he was about to become part of the upholstery.

“my heart still hurts,” sakura muttered, face still half-hidden by the table.

“my brain is overheating,” nirei added, clutching his temple.

“you guys bled on the sidewalk and then bled on my floor,” kotoha snapped. “you think i’m scared of your feelings?”

“kinda,” tsugeura said under his breath.

“out.”

“you’re so cold,” umemiya mumbled.

“and i’ll be even colder if you don’t move.”

there was a slow shuffle of resistance — bags being slung over shoulders, empty plates reluctantly abandoned, cracked knuckles and mock groans filling the air.

you were about to collect the last mug when suo brushed past the others and walked over to your side.

you looked up, and he was already smiling — soft, familiar.

“i’ll wait for you outside,” he said simply, low enough that only you could hear.

your fingers curled around the handle of the mug. “you sure?”

he nodded once, calm as always.

then added, “don’t take too long. i don’t want you walking alone in the dark.”

you bit the inside of your cheek, a small warmth flickering in your chest.

“okay,” you said. “just a few more minutes.”

he nodded again, gave you a little shoulder tap, and turned to slip out the front door — just as ren stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, and caught the tail end of your conversation.

he didn’t say anything.

but his eyes followed suo’s back as it disappeared out into the dusk.

and then flicked right back to you.

silent.

searching.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the sun was gone.

the streets were washed in indigo, and the streetlights buzzed faintly overhead, casting stretched shadows across the pavement.

ren walked with his hands in his pockets, white bluetooth headphones hanging loosely around his neck. no music played — he hadn’t turned them on once since he left the café.

he could still hear the dull echo of laughter behind him. pothos closing for the night, kotoha’s sharp voice snapping at umemiya to stop leaning on the doorframe. usual stuff.

he should’ve tuned it out.

he usually did.

but tonight, something felt… off.

he passed the convenience store. the light inside flickered as he walked by — like it recognized him and was too tired to greet him.

his steps slowed slightly.

he wasn’t replaying what happened.

he didn’t need to.

it was still playing on its own.

the way suo had leaned in close to her.

the soft voice — the one he usually only used when someone was already bleeding.

the look — not just friendly. not teammate-to-stranger. something… older. deeper.

ren clicked his tongue quietly.

not jealousy. not suspicion.

just curiosity.

laced with a strange, brittle feeling he couldn’t name.

his fingers brushed the side of his headphone. he thought about turning on a playlist. drowning it out.

but the silence… was better.

he could still hear her voice in it.

nervous, trying not to stammer.

he remembered how she had fidgeted with the corner of the tray, how she’d flinched slightly when umemiya spoke too loud. how she’d tried not to meet his gaze — but did anyway.

for half a second.

a long half-second.

his breath fogged slightly in the cooling air.

he looked up. the wind shifted through the phone lines and bent the tops of the trees.

he kept walking.

slower now.

like something — or someone — had left a mark on the sidewalk behind him.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the morning air was sharper than yesterday.

sunlight cut through the mist like broken glass — clear and cold, almost too bright for how quiet everything felt. your boots tapped lightly along the pavement as you rounded the corner, expecting to see the café door propped open like always.

but instead — you heard it.

“get off me, freak—!”

kotoha.

you dropped your bag immediately and ran.

the alley beside café pothos was narrow and shadowed, light barely touching the cracked cement. and there — just ahead — were three high school boys, maybe second or third years, none of them from furin. their uniforms were scuffed, untucked, their laughs dry and mean.

you dropped your bag immediately and ran.

the alley beside café pothos was narrow and shadowed, light barely touching the cracked cement. and there — just ahead — were three high school boys, maybe second or third years, none of them from furin. their uniforms were scuffed, untucked, their laughs dry and mean.

two of them had kotoha by the arms.

she was fighting, but their grips were tight, deliberate — not just a dumb prank. they were trying to provoke something.

you didn’t stop to think.

“hey!” you shouted, your voice snapping like a whip across the alley.

all three heads turned.

that was enough.

you surged forward, ducking under one of their arms and slamming your elbow straight into his ribs. he let out a choked grunt and loosened his hold just enough for kotoha to twist free.

you shoved her hard. “go!”

“what—? i’m not leaving you—!”

“kotoha, now!”

your voice cracked with something you didn’t recognize.

she stared — a beat — then turned and bolted, yelling something over her shoulder. but you couldn’t catch the words.

because a hand had already grabbed your jacket.

the third guy yanked you back, knocking the air from your lungs, and the one you’d hit was getting up fast. they weren’t stronger, but they were faster now — pissed, careless.

“stupid,” one of them spat. “wasn’t even about you.”

you glared. “then get out.”

but they didn’t.

instead, one stepped forward, grabbing your chin to look you over.

you jerked your face away, teeth clenched, but he held on.

“feisty one,” he said, grinning.

you clawed at him, landing a kick to his knee.

but that’s when the guy you’d elbowed reappeared — this time, with a box cutter.

blade extended.

eyes lit.

he slashed without hesitation — a wide, shallow sweep.

you turned just enough — but not fast enough. the blade kissed your cheek, leaving a thin, burning line beneath your eye.

the blood came warm, trailing down to your jaw.

you didn’t cry out — just hissed between clenched teeth.

he grinned.

“shouldn’t’ve stepped in,” he said. “you’re real dumb, you know that?”

then the guy pinning you squinted.

tilted his head.

“…yo. hold up. don’t she look like that dude from furin? the smiley one?”

“suo?” the other said, laughing. “yo, she does. creepy.”

they both laughed.

and then the air shifted.

hard. heavy. final.

footsteps echoed — not running, but slow. deliberate.

a rhythm that said they had all the time in the world… because you didn’t.

“what the hell’s goin’ on back here?”

the alley changed.

six shadows appeared like they belonged there — like they owned the street beneath their shoes.

umemiya hajime stepped in first — tall, calm, coat loose, hands in his pockets, but his eyes locked sharp on the scene.

beside him, hiragi, all pointed hair and sharp teeth, grin wide with interest.

sakura was next, eyes mismatched — honey and gray — glinting with quiet fury.

then kiryu, pink hair swept back, cool as ever, piercings glinting like warning lights.

tsugeura, tense and wired, fists twitching.

and finally, ren kaji — lollipop between his lips, bluetooth headphones resting over his ears, white hair tousled like always. unreadable.

none of them spoke.

they didn’t need to.

within seconds, the fight was over.

hiragi slammed one kid into the wall, tsugeura shattered the blade underfoot, kiryu yanked another down without breaking his grin. one ran. umemiya didn’t even flinch.

you stood there, panting, blood on your cheek.

kotoha appeared again, rushing to your side. “you’re hurt—!”

“i’m fine,” you murmured, even though your legs wobbled.

then she paused.

eyes wide.

“…yo. hold up. don’t she look like that dude from furin? the smiley one?”

“suo?”

“…suo?” she whispered.

she stared at you now.

really stared.

your eyes. your jaw. your posture.

the blood on your cheek.

and it clicked.

“…you’re suo’s sister.”

the bell above the door jingled as she dragged you inside.

“sit,” she muttered, rushing behind the counter for the first-aid kit.

you didn’t argue.

your cheek was still bleeding — slow now, but sticky. the cut stung as the air hit it, and your pulse thudded in your ear, too fast, too heavy.

kotoha returned with a warm cloth and antiseptic, kneeling in front of you without a word. she didn’t ask if it would hurt. she didn’t have to.

you winced as she dabbed at the wound, careful but firm.

it was quiet — painfully so — until she finally spoke.

“…you okay?”

you nodded, swallowing. “yeah.”

she didn’t look convinced.

and she didn’t move away, not yet.

her eyes flicked up, scanning your face again — more intensely this time.

“those guys,” she started slowly, voice low, “they said you looked like someone.”

you went still.

“…suo.”

your breath caught — just barely.

kotoha leaned back on her heels, squinting. “they’re not wrong. you’ve got the same smile.”

you avoided her eyes.

“…i don’t know what you mean.”

she let out a soft, skeptical breath. not angry — just tired.

“you show up out of nowhere,” she said. “transfer in. suddenly start working here. and today, out there, you throw yourself in front of a bunch of idiots just to protect me without even blinking.”

she stood, arms crossing loosely.

“you’re brave. reckless. stupid, maybe. sounds like someone else i know.”

you gave her a tight smile. “maybe i’ve just got a type.”

she raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

you tried to deflect, standing. “thanks for patching me up.”

but before you could step past her, her hand caught your arm — gentle, not forceful.

“…you’re his sister, aren’t you?”

the silence between you turned solid.

you hesitated.

and then: “you can’t tell anyone.”

kotoha blinked. “why?”

you looked toward the door — as if suo might walk in at any moment, as if he could explain it all better than you ever could.

“it’s just better that way,” you said finally, voice quiet. “no one’s supposed to know.”

kotoha didn’t press.

she just studied you for another beat.

then let go of your arm.

“…fine,” she said softly, finally.

“but you better tell me why someday.”

you nodded once.

and the doorbell jingled again as the silence settled.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the sky was streaked orange and violet by the time you locked the café behind you.

the day had stretched long — from your morning shift to the alley fight to kotoha’s quiet confrontation — and you hadn’t even realized how exhausted you were until you saw suo leaning against the lamppost just outside, hands in his jacket pockets.

“you waited?” you asked, stepping toward him.

he smiled — calm and easy, like always.

“you think i’d let you walk home alone after getting your face sliced open?”

you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help the small tug of a smile. “it’s not that bad.”

his eyes flicked to the bandage on your cheek.

“sure,” he said lightly. “definitely not the kind of injury that turns our mom into a nuclear bomb when she finds out.”

you groaned. “you wouldn’t.”

“no promises.”

the two of you walked quietly for a bit. the streets were still, the occasional buzz of a cicada or the shuffle of a cat passing behind a gate the only sounds.

you glanced at him. “you’re really not gonna tell anyone, right?”

he shook his head. “not unless you want me to.”

you nodded, relieved.

but then he added, too casually, “that said — i’m assigning someone to watch you.”

you stopped mid-step, frowning. “what?”

“you heard me.” he gave you that calm, sunny smile that always meant trouble. “you’ve clearly got a talent for landing yourself in the worst places.”

“i was helping kotoha!”

“and bleeding. don’t forget that part.”

you groaned again and shoved his arm, but he didn’t budge.

“so what, you’re assigning a bodyguard?”

“something like that.” he lifted a hand to his chin, mock thoughtful. “maybe nirei? he’s soft. polite. he’d carry your bags.”

you snorted. “nirei would pass out if someone looked at us wrong.”

“true,” suo nodded. “okay, then what about sakura?”

you blinked. “haruka? he’d either ignore me completely or scream every time i speak.”

“…so like a very loud scarecrow,” he muttered.

you burst out laughing.

he joined in for a moment — that same lighthearted grin on his face — before his expression softened just a little.

“…joking aside,” he said. “i’ll probably talk to ren.”

you paused.

“ren kaji?”

suo nodded. “he’s sharp. serious. doesn’t say much, but he sees everything. if anyone can keep you safe without drawing attention, it’s him.”

you glanced down at your shoes.

suo smiled again, slower this time. “don’t look so shocked. you already caught his attention, anyway.”

“what?” you looked up quickly.

he shrugged. “he was the first one to notice you weren’t around when kotoha ran in. he didn’t say much, but he was the first out the door.”

your heart thudded — just once, loud and uncertain.

“anyway,” suo said, stretching his arms above his head as you reached your neighborhood corner, “no need to stress. he probably won’t talk to you at all. he’s a professional.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you’re enjoying this.”

“what? me?” he gasped, hand on his chest. “your loving brother?”

you punched his arm.

“ow.”

you stopped in front of your apartment and turned toward him.

“thanks for walking me.”

he smiled, soft now. “always.”

and then he leaned in, tapping just beside the bandage on your cheek.

“don’t make this a habit.”

you saluted half-heartedly, and he walked off down the street, whistling like he hadn’t just casually rearranged your entire week.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the back room of furin’s gym was quiet, lit only by the dim fluorescents overhead. a sharp contrast from the earlier commotion. bandages were rolled neatly on a shelf, the scent of disinfectant clinging to the air like something permanent.

ren leaned his back against the cool wall, arms crossed, white headphones over his ears but not playing anything. a lollipop stuck between his lips, turning slowly as he watched suo sitting on the bench across from him, absently tapping the heel of his palm against his knee.

“you wanted something?” ren asked, finally breaking the silence. his tone was flat, but not unkind.

suo glanced up with his usual easygoing smile, though there was something behind it tonight. something a little more serious.

“yeah. i’ve got a favor to ask.”

ren didn’t move.

suo leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs. “it’s about her.”

ren’s jaw shifted slightly, the lollipop rolling to the other side of his mouth.

“…the new girl?”

suo nodded.

ren’s brow ticked. “why?”

suo shrugged like it was no big deal. “just… want you to keep an eye on her.”

ren’s stare lingered.

he didn’t nod. didn’t agree.

instead, he asked, “you don’t ask for favors unless you’ve got a reason.”

suo’s smile twitched.

“so what is it?”

for a second, suo didn’t answer. then he rubbed the back of his neck, glanced off to the side, and said casually, “she’s new in town. kind of reckless. got mixed up in something stupid today. i figure, she needs someone with a level head around.”

ren didn’t buy it. not entirely.

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“you don’t ask me to babysit strangers.”

suo let out a quiet laugh. “i’m not asking you to babysit. just… be around. that’s all.”

ren was still staring. still unconvinced.

suo caught it and sighed through his nose.

“look, i’ll be honest,” he said, quieter now. “i trust you more than anyone else in furin. and for reasons i can’t fully explain right now, i just want to make sure she’s okay. she’s not exactly fragile, but…”

he trailed off, smile softening at the edges.

“i don’t know. maybe it’s a gut thing.”

ren’s gaze lingered for a few seconds longer.

gut thing, huh?

he took the lollipop out of his mouth and stared at it like it had answers. it didn’t.

but suo was serious. and that wasn’t something ren ignored.

“…fine,” he said finally. “but if this is some weird setup, i’m not babysitting.”

suo chuckled. “i wouldn’t do that to you.”

ren stuck the lollipop back in, pushed off the wall, and started heading toward the door.

“you already are,” he muttered.

suo laughed again. “thank you, ren.”

ren didn’t answer. just raised a hand over his shoulder as he walked out.

the door clicked shut behind him.

and outside, under the night sky, ren felt the smallest prickle of something unexpected:

curiosity.

and maybe, just maybe—

a strange sense that whatever this was?

it was going to change something.

the next day, ren showed up earlier than usual.

not by much — just ten minutes or so before the rest of the group. enough to avoid suspicion. enough to linger near the corner of the café, not really blending in, but not drawing attention either. white headphones snug over his ears, lollipop tucked between his teeth. same slouched posture, same unreadable stare.

from where he sat, he could see her through the window. already wiping down the tables with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows, hair pulled back with a loose clip that kept slipping. she laughed at something kotoha said — that soft kind of laugh that disappeared almost as fast as it came.

he didn’t move. just watched.

she didn’t notice him that first day.

too busy. too new. too distracted by trays and customers and the chaos that always came with lunch rush at café pothos.

but by the second day?

she hesitated near the window.

her eyes caught on him — only for a second. quick enough to register a stranger, someone who wasn’t quite a regular. maybe she thought she recognized him from the fight. maybe not.

on the third day, she glanced again. slower this time.

by the fourth, she paused while clearing one of the outdoor tables and looked directly at him. just for a moment. not rude, not suspicious. just curious.

and ren, naturally, pretended not to notice.

he stared ahead. lollipop spinning. music not even playing.

but inside, he was very aware.

she was starting to piece it together.

he could tell in the way her eyes would flick toward him when she thought he wasn’t looking. the way her brows furrowed slightly, like a puzzle was starting to form.

kotoha noticed too, in her own way. muttered something to the reader during their shift about a “favorite white-haired regular” and “weirdly loyal customers.” ren had half a mind to leave after that, but his job wasn’t done.

by the fifth day, he stopped pretending.

he stood a little closer when she brought out the signboard that morning. didn’t say anything — just held the door open without being asked. she thanked him, a little cautiously.

“you’re here a lot,” she said, watching him from the corner of her eye.

ren shrugged, unbothered. “good coffee.”

“you haven’t ordered anything yet.”

“still deciding.”

a beat.

“…it’s been five days.”

he smirked around his lollipop. “i take my time.”

she looked at him, half-smiling, not sure what to make of that. she didn’t press. didn’t call him out. but he could tell — she wasn’t buying it.

and for some reason?

that made him intrigued by her a little bit more.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the sun was just starting to mellow into gold, casting soft shadows across the café floor. the post-lunch lull had settled in, leaving only a few scattered customers and the occasional clink of ceramic cups being cleared.

ren had claimed his usual spot again — by the window, arms crossed, headphones on, white hair half-shadowed by the light filtering through the blinds. a lollipop shifted lazily between his teeth, gaze half-lidded and seemingly uninterested in anything.

until she stepped over, hands tucked in the pockets of her apron, a look on her face that was too amused to be casual.

“you really think you’re subtle, huh?”

ren blinked once. looked up.

“…huh?”

“don’t play dumb,” she said, smiling slightly as she leaned against the table, crossing one ankle over the other. “you’ve been showing up here every day for the past week. no coffee. no food. just sitting there. watching.”

he stayed quiet. unreadable.

“you’re not even lowkey about it anymore,” she added. “you held the door for me yesterday and tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal.”

ren shrugged, shifting his lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other.

“good manners.”

“creepy timing.”

he snorted at that, briefly amused.

“i knew,” she said, softer now. “the whole time.”

his gaze sharpened.

“but i figured,” she went on, “if you were gonna hover around like some poorly disguised guard dog, the least i could do was mess with you a little.”

his eyes narrowed just slightly. “why didn’t you say anything?”

she tilted her head. “and ruin the fun?”

he didn’t answer. just watched her — the smirk at the corners of her mouth, the sharp wit in her tone, and underneath it all, the fact that she was actively avoiding mentioning the obvious: suo.

she knew why he was here.

she just wasn’t saying it out loud.

“besides,” she added, tapping the edge of his table lightly, “you’re not bad company. weirdly quiet, kind of intense. but not terrible.”

he rolled the lollipop against his teeth again. “…thanks, i guess.”

“don’t let it go to your head.”

and with that, she turned and walked off, ponytail swaying slightly with each step.

ren watched her go, the faintest flicker of something warm settling in his chest.

he wasn’t sure if it was annoyance or something dangerously close to liking her.

later that day, ren had just stepped around the side of the building when suo fell into step next to him like he’d been waiting.

“yo.”

ren didn’t look at him. “how long were you standing there?”

“long enough,” suo grinned, hands in his pockets. “you two looked like you were getting along.”

ren rolled his eyes and kept walking.

suo followed easily. “so? how’s the watching going?”

“she already knew.”

suo raised his brows, clearly not surprised.

“said she figured it out day two.”

“makes sense,” suo nodded. “she’s sharp.”

“said she was messing with me.”

“also tracks.”

ren popped a new lollipop in his mouth, letting the wrapper fall into his hoodie pocket. “you didn’t tell her i’d be watching.”

“nope.”

ren shot him a look.

suo just smiled wider. “figured it’d be more fun that way.”

“you’re annoying.”

“and you’re attached.”

ren stopped walking.

“…what?”

suo kept going, calling over his shoulder. “nothing~!”

ren stood there, the sunset brushing soft orange across the street, the echo of her voice — you’re not bad company — still tugging at the edges of his mind.

he let out a slow breath, bitter cherry and amusement on his tongue.

“…damn it.”

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the next week came quietly — but not without change.

it started small.

day one: you brought him a glass of water.

“you look like you’re gonna melt sitting there all afternoon,” you said, setting it down on his table without waiting for him to ask. “figured you’d need something before you turn into dust.”

ren raised an eyebrow, removing one side of his headphones.

“i’m good.”

“sure,” you replied, already walking off. “but drink it anyway.”

he stared at the condensation trickling down the side of the glass before giving in. it wasn’t about the water.

it was the way you noticed.

day two: he responded first.

“you always open alone?” he asked, voice low but even.

you blinked, surprised he was the one to break the silence this time. “mostly. kotoha usually comes in around ten.”

ren nodded once, headphones still on but not playing music. he watched you wipe down the same table twice, more fidgety than usual.

“you don’t get bored sitting here?”

“i like routine.”

“this is your routine now?”

he didn’t answer. you took that as a yes.

day three: you made fun of him again.

“so what’s the deal with the lollipops? nervous habit?”

ren didn’t look up from where he was slouched against the windowsill, one leg bent, the lollipop stick angled lazily out of his mouth.

“keeps my mouth busy.”

you snorted. “you could try smiling sometime.”

he shifted the lollipop to the other side of his mouth. “i do.”

“right. once every lunar eclipse.”

“twice,” he corrected flatly.

that made you laugh.

it stuck with him longer than he expected.

day four: he walked you out after close.

“you know,” you said as you locked up the front door, “you don’t have to stay here the entire day. there’s gotta be better ways to waste your time.”

ren didn’t reply right away, just walked beside you as you crossed the street. the evening was quiet, warm wind brushing against your clothes and the scent of brewed coffee still clinging to your hair.

“it’s not a waste.”

you looked over at him, curious.

he didn’t say anything else.

you didn’t push.

day five: you offered him a drink.

“on the house,” you said, sliding over a cup of iced coffee with a straw. “you’ve earned it.”

“for what?”

“being slightly less creepy.”

“mm,” he hummed. “progress.”

you smiled faintly, fiddling with a sugar packet. “you’re not that hard to talk to, you know.”

ren glanced at you, expression unreadable as always, but something softened.

“you’re not either.”

and maybe you were imagining it — but you swore he smiled. just for a second.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

it was mid-afternoon, and café pothos was busier than usual — the after-school crowd trickling in, laughter and heat pooling inside the warm-toned space.

ren had his usual corner.

headphones over his ears.

back to the wall.

eyes occasionally flicking up every time you passed by the counter.

it wasn’t obvious — not to anyone who didn’t already know — but he was tuned into your movements like background noise he couldn’t shut off.

and that’s when it happened.

a couple of third-year boys from a different school sat at the high table near ren’s booth, talking low but not exactly being quiet.

“isn’t that furin’s hayato suo?”

ren’s eye twitched slightly at the name. he didn’t turn, just listened.

“yeah, looks like it. didn’t know he had a girlfriend though.”

“huh? wait, you mean—?”

ren shifted, gaze sharpening. he followed their eyes to where suo was crouched behind the counter, helping his sister restock supplies in the back shelf, both of you laughing quietly about something he’d said.

the boys chuckled.

“man, didn’t think he was the relationship type.”

“nah, makes sense. she kinda looks like him, though.”

“weirdly cute, honestly.”

ren blinked.

girlfriend.

cute.

he stared down into the slowly melting ice in his cup, jaw ticking for a half-second before he pushed his lollipop to the other side of his mouth with a dry click.

you weren’t correcting them.

you weren’t rushing to explain.

and suo, dumbass that he was, didn’t seem to notice the assumption either.

ren didn’t understand why it bothered him.

just that it did.

a minute later, you walked back out front with a new order slip and shot ren a glance over your shoulder — just a flicker of a smile, something you hadn’t even meant to send his way.

and still.

he looked away.

but not before you noticed the shift in his expression.

ren walked home slower than usual.

his lollipop was half-dissolved, the taste dulled. he hadn’t even noticed when he’d put it in his mouth — just that it was there. routine. automatic.

kind of like everything else lately.

he tugged his headphones lower around his neck, letting the city hum around him. the streets were mostly empty. muted orange light pooled on the sidewalks, fading into long shadows.

he should’ve let it go.

they were just some random guys. some offhand comment. background noise.

but the words kept replaying.

“isn’t that furin’s hayato suo?”

“didn’t know he had a girlfriend though.”

girlfriend.

he clicked the lollipop between his teeth.

you weren’t suo’s girlfriend.

…right?

you never corrected them.

you didn’t laugh or flinch or wave it off. you just kept moving like you didn’t hear — or maybe like you didn’t mind.

he ran a hand through his hair. it was a stupid thing to be thinking about. he didn’t care who you smiled at. not really. not even a little.

you were just someone he was keeping an eye on.

that’s all this was.

and yet—

he’d noticed it before. the way you talked to suo. a little too close. comfortable. protective, even. the way suo hovered around you when he thought no one was watching. the way your laughs weren’t the usual kind — they were familiar. layered.

something wasn’t adding up.

he wasn’t the type to poke around. he didn’t like drama. didn’t like guessing games.

but now?

his stomach wouldn’t stop twisting.

he stopped walking somewhere near the convenience store, lollipop grinding between his molars. he didn’t know if he was annoyed, or irritated, or—

jealous?

his jaw tightened.

“tch.”

he wasn’t supposed to be noticing this kind of thing.

he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about what it meant when someone else made you laugh — or why it made him feel like someone shoved a wedge of static into his chest.

he didn’t even know you like that.

you were just someone he’d been told to look after.

and now he couldn’t stop looking.

he shoved his hands into his pockets, lollipop cracking a little between his back teeth.

and still, even as he told himself that over and over…

he kept thinking about the way your eyes had flicked toward him after those guys said it.

like maybe you’d noticed something in his face.

and maybe… liked it.

his ears burned.

he bit down harder on the lollipop, until the candy split in half and the stick scraped against his teeth.

“damn it,” he muttered, under his breath this time.

he didn’t like you.

he didn’t.

and he definitely didn’t want to think about what would happen if you ever smiled at someone else the way you did at him.

you noticed it the next morning.

the shift.

it wasn’t loud or dramatic. nothing anyone else would’ve caught. but you’d seen ren kaji enough in the last week to know what his stillness meant — and this kind wasn’t his usual detached silence.

this wasn’t his “don’t bother me” quiet.

this was something else.

he didn’t look at you when you walked into the café. just sat there, headphones pulled low, lollipop in his mouth like always, gaze focused out the window like the sky had something more interesting to offer than you.

and maybe it did.

but it still made something in your chest twitch.

you greeted kotoha, tied your apron, got to work — but every time you moved behind the counter, you could feel him notice. brief flickers. eyes tracking. then immediately turning away.

you smirked to yourself.

so.

that’s how he wanted to play it.

fine.

you dried your hands on a towel, took a breath, and headed toward his booth — not to take his order (you already knew it), not to bother him really — just to exist in his space for a few seconds longer than you usually would.

he didn’t look up.

you leaned your elbow against the edge of his table, tilting your head slightly.

“you know,” you said casually, eyes sweeping the room, “if you’re gonna come in every day and stare at me, you could at least pretend to be interested.”

that got him.

his eyes finally slid up, slow and unimpressed. candy stick clicking softly between his teeth. he didn’t say anything at first. just stared — blank, unreadable.

but the edge of his jaw twitched.

you grinned.

“not gonna deny it?” you asked, resting your chin on your hand now, completely in his space.

he didn’t blink.

“…you’re annoying,” he muttered at last, voice low and flat.

but you caught it — the quick glance away, the faint flush across the bridge of his nose, the way he pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek like he was chewing down a stronger reaction.

you straightened up, satisfied.

“mm. and you are very bad at hiding things.”

his gaze snapped back to you, sharper now.

“i’m not hiding anything.”

“sure you’re not,” you teased, turning away before he could say more. “enjoy your drink, stalker.”

you felt his stare follow you back behind the counter.

and you didn’t look back.

but you smiled to yourself the whole way.

the rest of the day moved like honey — warm, sweet, and slow enough to stick.

ren didn’t talk to you again.

not after that moment.

he stayed seated longer than usual, headphones slipped back over his ears, arms crossed, head tipped lazily toward the window like he could sleep through the weight of your words.

but you saw it.

you saw the way his gaze trailed after you whenever you turned your back.

you saw how he stopped chewing his lollipop after you walked off — like he was thinking too hard to bother.

and still, he never said anything else.

you weren’t surprised. guys like ren didn’t flinch easily. and if they did — they sure as hell didn’t talk about it.

kotoha picked up on something, though.

she kept giving you side-glances between wiping down the espresso machine and calling out orders. once, she muttered something like, “you two have weird air today,” and you just shrugged, pretending not to notice the strange churn in your chest.

you didn’t see ren leave.

when you realized his booth was empty, a weird kind of disappointment slipped into your stomach — dull, quiet, but persistent. you brushed it off, went back to work, and stayed until the sky was streaked with deep lavender.

that night, when you were closing with kotoha, she leaned on the counter and eyed you.

“so.”

you didn’t look up from stacking the cups. “so?”

“you and ren.”

you raised a brow. “me and ren what?”

“weird air,” she repeated.

you snorted. “he’s always weird.”

“no, he’s usually emotionally distant. today he was…” she squinted at you. “tense.”

“he’s not tense,” you said quickly. then paused. “okay, maybe a little.”

kotoha tapped a finger against the counter. “did you say something?”

“…maybe.”

“did he react?”

“in ren language, yes.”

“so that means…?” she tilted her head.

“he called me annoying.”

kotoha broke into a small laugh. “wow. scandalous.”

you rolled your eyes, but the smile pulled at your lips anyway.

as you walked home alone that night, hands stuffed in your pockets, you didn’t expect to think about it again.

but your steps slowed a little as you passed the alley near the café. the one where ren used to linger with his back to the brick wall, one earphone in, lollipop in place, arms crossed like he belonged to the silence.

he wasn’t there tonight.

and the air felt strangely too quiet without him.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

ren found them exactly where he figured they’d be — sprawled out behind the gym building like they had no responsibilities in the world.

suo was leaning back on his elbows, eyes half-lidded in the sun, surrounded by taiga and kiryu who were mid-argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza, and nirei who was nervously laughing while pretending to clean his glasses for the fifth time.

ren stopped just short of the group and pulled his headphones down around his neck.

“hey.”

suo opened one eye. “ren. what’s up?”

ren crossed his arms. “i’m done.”

taiga paused mid-hand gesture. kiryu blinked.

suo sat up slowly. “done with what?”

“watching her,” ren muttered, staring off to the side, like if he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, this wouldn’t sound as stupid as it felt.

a beat of silence.

“ohhhh,” kiryu said, eyes lighting up. “he means your girl.”

“she’s not—” ren paused. jaw clenched. “she’s your problem.”

suo tilted his head, that same calm, unreadable smile sitting on his lips. “problem?”

“you assigned me to keep an eye on her,” ren continued. “but if she’s so important to you, maybe you should stop pawning her off.”

nirei immediately panicked. “w-wait, is this about her safety or something else or… or did she get mad?! is someone mad?!”

taiga leaned toward kiryu. “you think they fought?”

kiryu grinned. “nah. ren’s acting weird. definitely jealousy.”

“shut up,” ren snapped, eyes darting back to suo. “i just think you should look after your own girlfriend.”

suo blinked. then — laughed.

“girlfriend?” he echoed, tilting his head. “you think she’s my girlfriend?”

ren’s jaw tightened. “isn’t she?”

“nope.”

“then what the hell is she?”

“someone really important to me,” suo said easily, smile still there, not a single crack in his voice. “but she’d be annoyed if i was around all the time.”

taiga blinked. “wait, wait, wait… if she’s not your girlfriend and she’s important and you don’t want to say why…”

nirei gasped. “are you guys secretly engaged?!”

kiryu chuckled. “plot twist.”

suo just smiled.

ren narrowed his eyes. “you’re not gonna answer that?”

“nope.”

“you’re seriously not gonna tell anyone what your deal is with her?”

suo shrugged. “nope.”

taiga groaned dramatically. “come on!”

“hey, you’re the one who assumed she was my girlfriend,” suo added, nudging ren with a playful elbow. “interesting.”

“not interesting,” ren muttered, turning away with a scowl. “just confusing.”

kiryu leaned back on his hands. “you know what’s more confusing? why ren suddenly cares so much.”

“i don’t,” ren said immediately.

too immediately.

everyone stared at him.

suo, still smiling, finally stood up and dusted off his pants. “thanks for doing it as long as you did. really.”

“whatever,” ren muttered, turning on his heel. “you can explain to her why your random friend won’t be loitering at her work anymore.”

suo didn’t stop him.

but ren could feel his eyes on his back — quiet, knowing, and infuriatingly amused.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱

the café felt weirdly… quiet.

which was insane, because the same three regulars were still arguing about card games in the corner, kotoha was still humming off-key while cleaning mugs, and the milk steamer still hissed like an angry cat.

but still.

he wasn’t there.

you glanced at the booth by the window.

empty.

no long legs stretched out beneath the table, no white headphones pressed to his ears, no stupid lollipop stick between his lips like he wasn’t even enjoying it, just chewing through something to survive.

you tried not to let it bug you. really.

but by the third time you looked at that booth in the span of ten minutes, kotoha narrowed her eyes and went, “…he didn’t die, you know.”

you immediately turned around. “who?”

“uh-huh,” she said, already not believing you.

you grabbed your coat and pushed through the front door before you could think about it too hard.

you found suo leaning against a vending machine near the back of the school building, pretending to text even though the screen brightness was turned all the way down.

“hey.”

he looked up, surprised. “you okay?”

you crossed your arms. “where’s ren?”

he blinked. “…he has a name now?”

you ignored the jab. “he didn’t show up today.”

“wow, someone’s observant.”

“don’t be annoying.”

suo smirked and put his phone away. “you’re looking for him?”

you shrugged, noncommittal. “just thought i’d check.”

“sure.”

“…he usually drops by. without ordering anything. and glares at the menu for thirty minutes.”

“sounds like ren.”

“so where is he?”

suo straightened and rubbed the back of his neck. “i may have told him he was off duty.”

your stomach twisted a little. “off duty?”

“yeah. no more designated staring.”

“so you assigned him to stalk me.”

“don’t make it sound weird,” he laughed.

you stared at him.

“…okay, it was weird,” he admitted. “but it was for your safety!”

you sighed. “well. he’s gone now.”

“you sound disappointed.”

you glanced off to the side. “…maybe i am.”

suo blinked. then grinned. “no way. are you—do you like him?”

you said nothing.

suo clutched his chest like you had stabbed him. “you like—you like ren kaji?! mister ‘i wear headphones to ignore the world’?? mister ‘don’t talk to me or i’ll die’??”

you rolled your eyes. “he’s not that dramatic.”

“you’ve literally said he breathes like a sleep paralysis demon.”

“well yeah, but like—in a cool way.”

suo looked horrified. “oh my god. you like him.”

you tried to glare, but it didn’t stick.

suo softened slightly. “you know… it’s kinda adorable.”

“…you’re not gonna punch him?”

“i definitely am, but ren’s alright.”

you raised a brow. “you’re letting this go easier than i thought.”

“yeah, but—” his tone shifted just a little, light but serious underneath. “you still gotta be careful. getting attached to people in this town? it’s dangerous. you know that.”

you glanced down.

“…i know.”

“besides,” he added, poking your forehead with his finger, “it’s not like you’ve confessed or anything. for all you know, ren’s just confused every time you speak.”

you shoved his arm. “gee, thanks.”

“anytime.”

you went back into the café and not long after the chime above the café door rang again — a normal sound, familiar even. you glanced up from your spot restocking napkins at the counter, just as kotoha’s voice called out her usual cheery, practiced greeting.

“welcome to café pothos! let me know if—”

she paused mid-sentence.

you followed her line of sight, watching as three guys stepped in wearing beaten-up but unmistakable shishitoren jackets — the gritty symbol stitched on the back was faded in places, splattered with something that might’ve been blood or just dirt from the road.

kotoha’s smile didn’t falter, though her eyes sharpened slightly. “ohhh—shishitoren, huh? didn’t expect to see you guys here again so soon.”

you blinked, confused.

kotoha leaned over slightly and whispered near your ear, “quick history lesson: bofurin and shishitoren used to scrap a lot. got bad for a while. but recently, umemiya and their rep squashed it. peace and all that. they even came in last week for coffee.”

you nodded slowly, letting the information settle.

“so they’re not dangerous anymore?” you whispered back.

“depends on the day,” she muttered, then brightened again. “but for now—just treat ’em like any other group of guys with too much gel in their hair.”

you quietly laughed and turned to help her prepare a table — menus, water glasses, the usual.

one of the boys, tall with wide shoulders and messy hair falling into his face, leaned against the booth like he owned it. his buddy, buzz-cut and smirking, spun a spoon on the table while the third leaned a little too close to kotoha’s side of the bar, watching her every move.

you tried not to focus on them. just work. just keep your head down.

you placed the last cup on the table, took a step back—

clack.

something cold and heavy rested flat against your back. you froze instantly, breath catching.

metal.

a bat.

your hands hovered mid-air as the guy behind you leaned in, voice low and mocking right at your ear.

“quiet, sweetheart. don’t wanna ruin the surprise.”

you didn’t dare turn your head. didn’t need to.

kotoha had turned halfway toward you, hands full of mugs. her face shifted in an instant.

“what the hell are you doing?” she snapped.

the guy standing nearest the booth grinned, lifting the front of his jacket slightly. you spotted the tag — hastily cut, barely clinging. the seams were ripped.

“these?” he said, gesturing to their clothes. “yeah, we borrowed ‘em. beat the shit outta some shishitoren dogs last night. figured we’d come say hi.”

your stomach sank.

they weren’t from shishitoren.

they just stole their faces.

“and lookie here,” the buzz-cut one said, slipping a pocket knife from his sleeve with practiced ease and flipping it open.

your heart pounded as he crossed to you, casually slinging an arm across your shoulder like a friend — the knife flashing down by your side, hidden to anyone not standing in your exact spot.

kotoha moved.

fast.

she dropped a tray and made for another one, aiming to hurl it—when the guy with the bat pressed it harder into your back, twisting slightly. you flinched.

“ah, ah,” the knife guy clicked his tongue at kotoha. “try that and your little friend gets a new smile.”

kotoha froze. her hands clenched around the counter’s edge. her expression shifted from alarm to fire in seconds.

“you touch her, and i swear—”

“you’ll what?” he grinned. “ring up a bill for assault?”

the café suddenly felt too quiet. your breath trembled slightly as you shifted your eyes to kotoha, not daring to move your body, silently pleading.

she looked at you — really looked — and something in her expression cracked.

it was happening again. someone had found you. someone had recognized you from something.

“you really should watch your step,” the one behind you muttered. “your face… looks too familiar, y’know?”

your eyes widened, just a little.

they knew.

you didn’t say a word.

kotoha’s nails scraped the counter. she needed to act, but with a knife that close and you right in the middle, the odds were bad. her gaze darted to the door — the street — and then to her phone behind the register.

please, you thought, someone come in.

someone — anyone — from bofurin.

and soon.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HELP i rewrote this three times 😭😭😭 please dont flop !! this was lwk hard to write, but anyway PART TWO IS OUT NOWWW !!!!! PLEASE STAY TUNED!!!

not for you ? cant read part two ? look here for another read 📚 !

[wandixx]

Danny the Young Justice member

“Hey, like, hypothetically, do you think Justice League could pay me if I became hero full time?”

It shaped out to be pretty long and boring stake-out, with rest of Team scattered around but connected with Mindlink, so it seemed like best moment to ask. It wasn’t something Danny wanted to do, but it shaped out to be his only chance to get any future. He cried over it enough times already, so there was even a chance he won’t breakdown trying to discuss it out in the semi-public. He wanted to keep it as calm and rational as he could and hey, if something started to get too emotional, he could say he saw some suspicious movement and fly off to fight someone. Really, it was perfect situation.

“How hypothetical is this question?” Robin asked after a beat of silence. It was quiet and careful, like he was afraid to set him off if he said something wrong or he did it wrong way. It made skin on his back crawl. Danny knew he was a bit more volatile lately, but he really hoped special treatment would stop soon.

“Hypothetical”

“Okay, let’s say we don’t know it’s a lie”

“Unnecessary” Artemis coughed.

“C’mon it kinda was–”

“Can someone just answer my fucking question?”

“I don’t think so. Batman is the one doing most of the funding, and he is really stubborn about school and future. He wants us all to have chance at normal life outside of this hero villain business with regular job and stuff”

That didn’t bode well, but Danny hadn’t got this far by losing hope whenever first obstacle occurred.

“But I could be ready whenever disaster strikes or some villain attacks or really whenever it’s necessary and I wouldn’t need to escape any civilian stuff,” he may have gotten a bit desperate along this little rant, but he just pushed through “It always takes precious minutes and–”

“It doesn’t really seem to be hypothetical anymore,” Wally interrupted and he was lucky to be on different roof, because Danny, he sworn to ancients, would strangle him if redhead was any closer.

He was very adamant about not thinking about how his last ideas of surviving to adulthood started crumbling. He promised himself to not have breakdown in the open.

He wasn’t going to.

It was fine.

He would figure something out. He always did.

“Danny?”

“It’s fine Meg, don’t worry”

“Can we ask what brought this hypothetical on your mind? You’ve always were the most assured that you’ll stop being hero at some point and move on”

Bless Kaldur to always know when to ask best-worst question. Danny wasn’t going to cry, so he wasn’t going to answer.

“We can’t help you if we don’t what’s wrong,” M’gann said softly, like she was just trying to remind him.

Something small hit his lap. A tear. When did it get here?

“It’s fine. It’s just a stupid thought”

“Okay. Tell us when you’re ready”

“Something suspicious is going on, I think it’s what we’re looking for,” Everyone needed Conner on their squad to get conversation back on not emotional track.

As it turned out it was indeed what they were looking for, and soon Danny got to express all of his pent up aggression in only a bit misplaced way.

“That was harsh”

“Shut up, this one doesn’t have pain receptors”

“Phantom has a bad day, huh?”

“You’re about to have worse,” he growled and punched guy until he stopped grinning.

It was quick work after that.

“Danny?”

Only bad side of Mindlink was that he couldn’t act like he was losing connection. It would be useful right now.

“Danny?”

“Not now”

“In the Bioship then. Not a minute later, am I clear?”

“Crystal”

He started calculating a way to get out before. He used to do it all the time, at the beginning. It was easier when Team didn’t know about his human side and they were holding each other at the arms length, but still. He could–

Conner landed right behind him and put hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t restrain, it wasn’t assuring. It was just there.

Here came his plans of escape.

“So–” Artemis started as soon as the door of Ship had closed “– what the fuck is wrong with you lately?”

“We all know it’s not nothing”

“I’m being overdramatic”

“About what?”

Danny just slumped forward and his face in hands.

“Danny”

“I have to retake year. I’m not even half way through highschool and I’m already failing and I- I just can’t do better. It’s not like I don’t have time to study, and I do try sometimes, but just as often I’m just being dumb and messing around, and I knew I failed some other tests, but last one? Last one I was sure I’ve got it, I was trying, I was trying so hard and I still fucked it up and if I can’t make it even when- even when I’m trying my best, then what is the point?”

He took a moment to breathe, to rub tearing eyes. He still wasn’t going to cry.

“I’m already kinda good at this hero thing, so I could just keep it up. I don’t think I’ll make it to the end of high school, so no good job for me, but maybe I could. I could have something, you know. Something useful. Something good. Maybe I can have some life after all”

Someone rubbed his back but he didn’t raise his head to see who.

“I didn’t want to let accident destroy any more of my life than it did, but I don’t think I can”

“Well, impossible sounds right about the task for us. We’ve got you”

Well fuck. That’s about that in not crying department.

[lexirosewrites]

Steve ends up boding with Nancy that first night they sleep together and Barb disappears. He's so in love with her and they're having sex for the first time and he's never slept with someone he loved before and he ends up sinking his teeth into her mating glad without even realizing it.

Nancy is not happy about it. She likes Steve a lot but she promised herself that she would never be someone who mates before they graduate high school and become just like her parents. She wants to chase her dreams and make it as a female Alpha in journalism, but she also feels honor bound to Steve. She ends up biting him back to spare him the hurt of an unfulfilled bond.

Her parents are a little concerned they're both so young but they ultimately approve and Steve's parents are just happy to know he won't continue to be a burden after he turns 18 and graduates and it will legally be his Alpha's job to take care of him. With no access to one of the fancy bond removal specialists in New York or Chicago, Nancy resigns herself to the bond and taking Steve with her into her future.

Steve, on the other hand, is ecstatic. He loves his Alpha and can't wait for them to move out and start a family of their own. Nancy makes sure to treat him gently, even if sometimes it feels like she sees him as a stereotypical airheaded Omega. Even when he can feel the little pull of tension in their bond.

He's happy right up until it becomes clear that Nancy would rather be with Beta Johnathan Byers than him. He can feel it, see it, but refuses to accept it. When she comes to him after their first encounter with the Demagorgan and asks if he would be open to adding a beta to their bond, he's so relieved that she isn't just leaving him to say anything but yes, even if it's not really what he wants.

Again, they are both very sweet to him but it feels more like he's their pet than their partner. They hold him and cuddle him but they don't talk to him about anything of substance or make him feel important. He feels like a third wheel in his own relationship. But he has no one else to turn to with his old friends and parents out of the picture.

By the time the events of season two start to play out everyone in school has noticed that Nancy spends more time with Johnathan in the dark room than with Steve. Rumors start flying around about Nancy and Johnathan trying to push him out of the bond and Steve's social position falls even further. He's trying to be a good Omega, but it feels like every time he reaches out he's turned away.

That night at Tina's party Nancy and Steve fight. They were all three supposed to come together but Johnathan ended up going with Will instead. Nancy tried to insist that none of them go, but Steve insisted that they could have fun together and meet up with Johnathan afterward.

Nancy ends up drinking way too much and lays into Steve when he tries to help her. She goes on about them killing Barb and pretending nothing happened as well as how she never wanted to bond with Steve in the first place. Goes on about how he's ruining her life.

Steve goes near catatonic after that, rejection sickness setting in quickly. He gets in his car and drives, finds himself parked outside the Wheeler house where he spends most of his nights. He can't go back to his parents' house, doesn't have anywhere else to go, so he just curls up in the back seat of his car and passes out.

That's how Dustin finds him the next day. Nancy clearly didn't look for him, which hurts, but the smell of puppy distress coming off of Dustin is enough to pull him out of his distress long enough to help. His Alpha may not love him, but Steve loves kids and won't let anything happen to one under his watch.

After El closes the gate, it's like the three of them (John, Nancy, and Steve) all agree to pretend none of it happened. Nancy doesn't apologize, John doesn't explain, and Steve doesn't ask, but he also doesn't forget. His new pack bond with the kids is enough to keep him stable, but he knows now that his Alpha doesn't want him and spends almost every moment with them disassociating. They must feel it through their links (Steve to Nancy, Nancy to John) but they chose not to acknowledge it. They let Steve float because it's easier for them to pretend this thing between them isn't broken.

When summer hits Steve starts applying for jobs just to get out of the house. The three of them moved into a small apartment, a gift from Ted Wheeler, during Spring Break and Steve needs an excuse to get out of there. He hasn't even bothered to make a nest in their new bed. He doesn't think Nancy has even noticed, but John gives him pitying looks that he blatantly ignores.

With Scoops comes Robin. Steve instantly likes her, even if she bullies him relentlessly. At least she sees him. At least she can look him in the eye and tell him she thinks Nikes are lame and commiserate about the terrible sailor music on blast 24/7.

When they get sucked into Russian plots and drugged within an inch of their lives, they spill their guts both figuratively and literally. She tells him about being an Alpha who only likes other female Alphas and Betas and he tells her all about his failed bond. Tells her how trapped he feels.

When all is said and done, Ronin refuses to let him go back to Nancy and Johnathan. She bundles him up in one of those dumb tinfoil blankets the paramedics give them and bares her teeth at anyone who comes too close. She takes him home with her and when Nancy comes asking questions like she actually cares what happens to Steve she tells her to fuck off, and when that doesn't work she grabs her dad to force her off the property.

Once Steve recovers physically from the torture, Robin tells her she knows someone who might be able to help. Someone who could break the bond.

It's illegal in the state of Indiana to break a bond, but Eddie Munson isn't exactly a God-fearing, law-abiding Alpha.

------

Aaaaaaand that's where I'll leave it. Ran out of steam a little but rest assured that Steve and Eddie will fall deeply in love almost immediately and have a million babies after Eddie helps Steve get rid of his bond.

Sorry this is so Nancy negative. I love her so much but with Omegaverse dynamics she always turns so evil. To be fair, she is very young and was trying to do the right thing, at first. I could never hate you Nancy Wheeler!

i will give you one million dollars for a full fic of this😵‍💫

[luimagines]

Omg requests are open!!! Remember to take care of yourself! And 3 requests per person you are so generous!

Anyways how about.... The chain with a stressed out college modern student lmao (maybe they're studying to become a veterinarian, because that's what I'm going to college for this year lol👀)

Remember to take care of yourself and take your time💕💕💞

Oh goodness, this took forever to get to. Um... So how'd your school year go?! Did you start the second year already?

Masterlist

Content under the cut!

"GGAAHHH!!!" You yell into your hands, rubbing them over your face and into your hair, trying to not pull it right out of your scalp.

"....I guess they're dead." Wild shrugs unhelpfully, walking calmly past you.

Sky picks up your fallen book, giving you an amused, if concerned look. "Problem?"

"It's too much stuff." You groan, taking the book back. "You know, when I chose to be a vet tech I didn't think it would consist of overloading my brain until it felt like it was leaking out of my ears."

"What's a vet tech?" Wind hops to your side, peering over your arm to get a better look at your book. He has no idea what it says but there's a cute picture of a dog on the front. The book is also very shiny and colorful. He has no idea what it's about.

"A doctor." You say, deciding to put your text book in your bag. "But for animals."

"Think you can take a look at Epona at some point then?" Twilight asks from somewhere to your left. you can't even look at him, your head hurts.

"I guess?" You rub your temples. "I'm still learning and there's only so much my textbook has on horses. But I can try. I'd need some experience anyway."

Hyrule stops and calmly activates the healing spell on his hands. Your head ache goes away at once.

You turn to him gratefully. "Traveler, I'd kill to have that ability of yours."

He smirks. "It's rather convenient, but I thought doctors were healers. No killing for you."

You stick your tongue out at him. He remains unapologetic.

Time puts a hand on your shoulder. "If you need more experience with horses, you're always free to take a look at our horses at Lon Lon."

"For free?" You deadpan.

He meets you head on. "We only pay the professionals, not the trainees."

You pout harder. "I hate that. I get it. But I hate it."

He chuckles.

Four rolls his shoulders and checks your hip simply because he can. "So what's that book about? Animals?"

"It's my text book." You say, patting your bag where it sits safely tucked away. "It has all the information I would need for my classes and then some." You rub your eyes again. "I swear I'm going t have this entire book memorized before I get home. I had a test on Tuesday for crying out loud."

"It's admirable that you're still studying though." Four smirks at you.

"Studying, the only words that very blatantly describes the acts of students dying." You grumble.

Warrior laughs out loud an smacks your back, nearly sending you careening into the gravel trail face first. "I remember those days. I couldn't wait to get away from the desk and on to the field!"

"Yeah?" You say, relaxing a little more at the common experience. "What for?"

"Knight training of course." He shrugs. "Had to learn the laws like the back of our hands. Fighting came after."

"I remember that." Sky stretches his arms over his head. "Hated it."

"No time like the present." Legend shrugs. "You're on the field now whether you like it or not. Nothing like learning on the job."

Somehow, you don't feel like that bodes well for you. "Remember, I'm studying animals, not people."

"We're not all that different though." He pops his back. Legend looks at you with an unreadable gleam in his eye. "You might want to give a check up to Wolfie too, while you're at it."

You smile. "Dogs I can do. Horses will have to wait a little more."

Twilight throws something at Legend head, but you don't know why.

[warriorheart13-blog]

One Piece Benn Beckman x Reader: Reluctant Heroes

I love this man sometimes. He makes me weak for him

------------------------

Day by day

We have lost our edge

Don't you know?

Forgotten is the life we led

Benn Beckman was an enigmatic man. His face never showed a hint of fear or pain. It seemed like he was a stone wall, keeping his emotions locked up tight.

That was until he met you.

You slowly broke his walls that sealed away his heart and emotions.

Now it seems

You don't care what the risk is

The peaceful times have made us blind

Being the first mate of one of the strongest Emperors of the Sea didn't mean he was protected from the risks, although they were much lower. Beckman found the one thing he had been plagued by was his overwhelming affection and desire to make you his.

His protective nature when men got too close was always on guard. Keeping a watchful eye.

But sometimes, that watchful eye couldn't always be alert. And the worst had happened.

It was like a nightmare

It's painful for me

Because nobody wants to die too fast

It was during a skirmish with some pirate crew who thought they could take down Shanks. They were incredibly wrong, but they were very cunning.

They took you hostage, a sharp blade pressed against your throat. You struggled a bit before their captain yelled at you to stop moving.

Beckman was tense, gun aimed. Then he noticed it. Something that wasn't there before.

His hands were not steady. They shook with anxiousness and fear. This did not bode well for him.

Remember the day of grief

Now it's strange for me

I could see your face

I could hear your voice

Shanks had gotten you out of the situation, and Hongo had wrapped your neck up and kept you in the infirmary for observations overnight. In all the confusion, you didn't see the man with scars and silver locks.

Beckman had been fighting an intense battle with himself. He had never lost his edge like that. He never let his emotions get the better of him.

He could feel old fears resurfacing as he placed another cigarette between his lips. He was not getting any sleep tonight.

Can't look back

They will not come back

Can't be afraid

It's time after time

You snuck out to the deck, needing the cool air. The moonlight was beautiful, causing you to laugh softly to yourself.

You hummed a soft lullaby. One you knew from home.

Beck heard it from his room. The notes hit his eardrums in a soothing manner.

Then it hit him. He was in love with you. And he now realized he wasn't ready to lose you.

Once again

I'm hiding in my room

The peaceful times have made us blind

You knocked at Beckmans door gently. You knew something had been plaguing him since the fight.

He opened the door, only to widen his eyes at your form. You shivered from a breeze. He motioned for you to come in, closing the door after you entered.

"Darlin, Hongo will kill you if he finds out you snuck out of the med bay. But is there somethin' on your mind?" He said gently.

You sat on his bed, wrapping yourself in the worn comforter. The scent of faded cigarettes, aftershave, and the ocean reached your nose. "Yeah... you."

Beckman paused. He wasn't expecting that.

"Me? Im flattered doll. But im not worth being in that pretty mind of yours." He said, sitting next to you

So you can't fly if you never try

You told me, oh, long ago

But you left the wall

Out side the gate

So more than ever, It's real

"Something is bothering you Becks. You aren't your usual self..."

Benn let out a soft sigh. "Yer right. There's something bothering me...and its you. Im in love with you. So much so that i can even concentrate or focus. So much that i fear my past will come and swallow you whole. Im not someone worth being with (y/n)..." his gaze wandered around the room, not dare facing you.

"Benn Beckman, you are always worth it. Im in love with you, too. You are a constant in my life that i dont want to change." You said softly, gently placing a hand on his stubbly cheek.

He leaned into your touch. "Darlin (y/n), you have no idea what you do to me...the things i want to do to you..." he said in a low tone.

"Then how about we start with a kiss?"

"I think i can handle that." He leaned down, capturing your lips. The kiss was patient and sweet yet needy. He had been dreaming of this moment.

You pulled away as you both needed air. He looked at you with soft adoration in his eyes.

"Come on. Let's get you back to the med bay. I'll stay with you to protect you."

You giggled softly. "My Reluctant Hero..."

Song for the reluctant heroes

Oh give me your strength

Our life is so short

Song for the reluctant heroes

I wanna be brave like you

From my heart

[dontbelasagnax]

little longer than a drabble tatooine husbands drabble 🫶

"You know what your problem is?" If anyone else said this to Cody, he'd break their arm. However it's Obi-Wan. And he happens to deliver it with adoration and hearts dancing in his eyes. 

"What," Cody says in a drawl drier than the hottest day on this Force-forsaken scorched dustball of a planet. 

"You worry entirely too much, my dear."

Cody looks at him. It's a long look. One that ferments the longer it goes. "Right." 

"Mhm." He sounds so satisfied as he moseys into Cody's personal space that hasn't belonged to only himself in a considerable amount of time. "I believe I have the facilities to ease such a predicament."

Cody lets himself be nudged to lean against their kitchen counter. His hands find the soft woven tunic around Obi-Wan's unbelted waist. He'll allow himself to be distracted for this; if he's correct about where this is going. "You do?"

This close together, the wrinkles of Obi-Wan's face blur. "Yes," he says and warm lips meet Cody's. 

Cody's eyes fall shut. His husband has a gift because, yeah, the soft, insistent press of his body wipes the thoughts from Cody's mind. Easy as anything he gets lost in kiss after kiss. A thumb rubs warm, tantalizing circles just under the hem of his hastily thrown-on top. 

When Obi-Wan pulls away, Cody follows. Whiskers nuzzle his cheek instead. Words spoken are a quiet reassuring balm he would never ask for. "Rooh and the banthas are fine. They've likely wandered to graze." That in itself does not bode well but Obi-Wan continues, "No, the local Tusken tribe won't go back on their word and do anything untoward to the dears. They're more likely to return them to us. Our girls are just fine."

Cody exhales long and slow. He noses in closer as the tension releases from his body. A warm embrace. 

"Okay?" asks Obi-Wan. Both his hands are under Cody's shirt now, rubbing up his back. 

"Yeah." 

He feels Obi-Wan smile against his cheek. "Now then," lips purse and lightly kiss him, "come back to bed. By the time I'm done with you the girls will have returned and the Lars will be expecting us for lunch."

Cody follows Obi-Wan back to their rumpled bed, fighting back a smile. When his back meets the mattress and he has a lapful of Obi-Wan he lets it melt away into the joy of life thrumming through his blood. 

It's not always like this. They have their moods. The days when the past echoes too loud in the quiet of the desert. But he's here. He's alive. His joints ache and his hair is threaded with more grey than black these days. And, against all odds, Obi-Wan's here with his own hands worn with age that fit perfectly in Cody's.

The first sun starts to creep up over the horizon, filtering in through a slatted window, and Cody mind blurs to enjoy their lazy early morning lovemaking.

[starmapz]

shame on me - ch13: sacrifice || g. satoru

gojo satoru x female vessel!reader [canon divergent au]

❝gojo satoru is the strongest sorcerer. when you come along with power to match his own, his responsibility to the world gets the best of him and his first impression is poor to say the least. when he needs your help, by some miracle you're too kind to deny him. or maybe he's just manipulative enough to convince you. either way, you're stuck training his student, a vessel like you. what could possibly go wrong?❞

❦ cw ; mdni. 18+ only. contains explicit content. enemies to lovers. heavy angst. graphic descriptions of injury and death. major character death. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. fluff. anxiety. panic attacks. slow burn. eventual smut. p in v. oral (f! and m! receiving). praise. overstimulation. fingering. mating press. slight nanami x reader with love triangle themes but no competition. happy ending!

❦ additional tags ; gojo is a dumbass but very lovable. takes place after season 2. au where the shibuya incident still occurs, however gojo is not sealed and nanami and choso are still around. no major manga spoilers but contains themes and ideas touched on later.

❦ wc ; 11.7k.

series masterlist || main masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

The late afternoon sun paints the walls a golden auburn fitting of a king. The still air is tense but the silence that hangs over the heads of the group gathered in the room is more rigid still. The beautiful afternoon sun is so serene you have half a mind to wonder if it recognizes the gravity of the situation you’ve found yourself in.

At the head of the room, Yaga and an older man that had only been referred to as an ‘old fart’ by Satoru stand with stern looks as they wait for a debrief from Choso. Megumi had taken him for a breather when he’d begun to panic and no one seemed to dare speak while they awaited their return.

Glancing around the room, you’re almost surprised by how few people you recognize, but with the higher-ups out of the picture, Yaga and the older man seemed to have been trusted with directing missions now.

When Choso returns, he doesn’t seem any less distraught, lips pressed into a firm and fearful frown. He takes a breath as he stands beside Yaga, exhaling shakily while overlooking the small room crowded with sorcerers.

“Yuji and I were on a mission,” he explains, casting his gaze to the floor momentarily, “when Uraume and Kenjaku appeared.”

Uraume?

Do you know Uraume? You wonder to Miriko.

They have been around a long time if I am to assume it is the very same. They are an ally of Sukuna. I do not believe this bodes well for us.

Your heart pounds in your throat as you find yourself inadvertently backing into Satoru. His arms move from their spot crossed over his chest to rest on your shoulders, soothingly rubbing circles into your tense muscles.

Without his grounding presence, you’re sure you would have fallen apart by now. Of course, you knew this day would come, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less knowing that someone was using the body of the man who was once your world to kidnap your student.

“Uraume cornered me and Yuji chased Kenjaku. I didn’t think about- I should have- I should-” Choso stammers over his words, staring down at trembling hands before a tall blonde woman you don’t recognize reaches out to him. It seems to reassure him as he continues. “Kenjaku led Yuji into a big warehouse on the dock and lowered a veil. I tried to join Yuji so that we could fight together but I couldn’t get into the veil.”

You frown, letting out a long breath of your own as you consider who exactly the veil would be designed to let in, if anyone at all.

“That’s… all I know.” Choso’s voice grows strained as he all but scrambles to join the blonde woman at the sidelines of the room, to get out of the watchful eyes of the room.

“If Uraume’s around, we can assume this is a part of the plan to complete Sukuna,” Yaga states confidently behind dark glasses not entirely unlike Satoru’s. “We should still have one finger which will give us an advantage. Ino, can you check on it?”

The sorcerer you can only assume is Ino salutes and bounds out of the room quickly, leaving behind a tense room of what remains of the sorcerers.

Satoru had mentioned once that the Shibuya incident last year had thinned out the ranks of sorcerers fairly severely. Surveying the room, you wonder if this is truly what’s left of those who can fight Sukuna, as you’re not sure it gives you confidence for the battle given what you’ve heard about the monster of a curse.

“The next question we need to consider is the veil. Given what we know of the Shibuya incident, we can assume it’s likely meant to keep Gojo out.” All eyes turn to you and Gojo and you suddenly want to shrink into oblivion, but the attention diverts quickly to Yaga once more. “We may also want to consider the possibility of multiple barriers.”

“This also brings into question the choice of location,” the older man speaks up now. You can’t help but feel as though he looks like he’s about to croak from the way he’s hunched over a cane, a thought which you’re all too confident comes from spending too much time around Satoru.

“Where was your mission?” Someone you don’t recognize speaks up.

“Takahama.”

The room goes silent in consideration. “The power plant?” Megumi points out, arms crossed over his chest. “Makes sense if it was near the ocean.”

Something nags at the back of your mind. A doubt, a little twinge of worry that you don’t want to allow to spiral, yet the more you consider it, the more it feels like a distinct possibility.

“They’re not trying to keep Gojo out,” you blurt out, cheeks heating up at the sudden attention as all eyes turn to you. The air is rigid around you. “Choso couldn’t get in because they want everyone except Sato- Gojo- out.”

“You think they’re trying to kill him?”

You shrug. “I don’t know what their goal is but he can’t fire off his attacks in there without killing everyone and causing a nuclear meltdown.”

“He’d obliterate Takahama,” the blonde woman agrees.

A tall blonde man in distinguished robes takes a step forward. His hair is black at the tips and his eyes are sharp, devoid of the empathy evident in the rest of the sorcerers. Just the sight of him is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Don’t see why that’s a problem. Just evacuate the area. Not like it’ll kill Gojo,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

Your blood runs cold in your veins, agitation seeping from deep within you like the slow drip of coagulated blood. You consider him lucky you don’t rip him apart then and there when Ino returns to the door.

“The finger’s still there,” he reports.

“See? Feed the kid the last finger and blow the whole thing up. Boom, Sukuna problem solved.”

This time, he’s not quite as lucky. “How about I give you a taste of my technique instead?” You hiss, taking a step towards him.

His eyebrow raises in a silent challenge as he smirks. Confident asshole.

Satoru firmly pulls you back to him. “He’s not worth it, sweetheart. The Zen’in are all pieces of shit.” He whispers loud enough for the man to hear though your gaze never once leaves the Zen’in clan leader.

“Enough, all of you,” Yaga scolds, though the pointed look he sports is aimed at the blonde man and not you. “If you’re right y/n, then we have limited options. We need to figure out if we can get others into the veil.”

“Hold on, Kenjaku is inside the barrier, right?” Satoru finally speaks up, bringing a hand up thoughtfully to his chin.

Choso nods affirmatively.

“... was the warehouse near any kind of plant life?” Gojo’s voice is grave when he asks the question that he knows is dooming for the both of you. The question that will answer every subsequent one all with one response.

“I don’t think so,” Choso responds with a questioning tilt of his head, sunken eyes narrowing as he fails to understand the correlation.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach, your head woozy as you exchange a glance with Satoru, leaning further into his hold. His hands tighten on your shoulders, the deep frown on his face telling that the same wave of emotions was threatening to drown him as it does you.

“It’s a death trap,” Yuta gapes in disbelief, equally coming to the realization of just what Kenjaku and Sukuna have planned.

Your breathing grows faint, vision blurring as the world seems to spin around you. If not for Satoru’s firm grip on your arms, you’re almost positive you might have been on the floor by now. “Take a breath, sweetheart,” Satoru urges in your ear, his voice low for only you to hear in spite of all the eyes on the both of you.

As you cling to the string of hope that is Satoru’s strong grip, he goes on to explain his thought process. “They want it to be y/n and I’s graveyard. I can’t attack in a power plant without doing bad damage and y/n can’t use her technique without nature. I'd be willing to bet we’re the only ones meant to get into that veil.”

There’s also the fact that Kenjaku’s current host is Nanami and that’s a bridge you’re not entirely ready to cross yet, but you’re grateful at the very least that your boyfriend doesn’t rip the bandage off the wound that is Kento in front of a room full of your allies and the Zen’in.

You exhale shakily, standing straight with your back to Satoru’s chest. “How strong is Sukuna with one finger?” You wonder aloud, glancing around the room as you silently evaluate the team you have to support you. Half of the room is students, which doesn’t sit well with you. They shouldn’t need to be a part of this.

“He’s not overly strong, why?” The white-haired sorcerer tilts his head in an effort to get a look at your thoughtful expression.

“Then we kill Sukuna with nineteen fingers. If one isn’t a threat, then that can be a problem for later.”

A hum of approval ripples through the room, much to your relief.

“What do you propose then, y/n? It sounds like you have a plan.”

“Miri-” you clear your throat in order to cut yourself off, unsure of how widespread the knowledge of your technique is. “Merely-” you begin, a sad attempt at covering up the name of your curse, “-a guess, but I think I can kill him without hurting Yuji with my technique.”

“Not while we’re stuck in there,” Satoru tries to insist, not willing to entertain the thought of you using your technique without the ability to heal, especially on a being like Sukuna. He’s interrupted by the Zen’in again.

“Y’know Sukuna’s special grade, right sweetheart? What does someone like you think ya can do?” He sneers, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes narrow at you, trying to evaluate your skills as though your appearance was enough to go off of.

“Do you wanna find out?” You hiss back through your teeth, jaw clenched. When Satoru firmly grips your arms again, you actively pull against him this time, wanting nothing more than to clock the asshole.

“Zen’in. Y/n,” Yaga’s voice is stern as he scolds you both, an entire lecture held in just your names. “She’s special grade, Zen’in. Quit your whining,” the older man sighs, unwilling to put up with the interruptions.

The Zen’in’s brow twitches when he hears that and a swell of pride surges through you. You smile snidely at him as he huffs and leans back against the wall, averting his gaze as though he’d lost a battle.

Asshole, Miriko huffs in agreement within you.

“So, what? Do we just look for a way to dismantle the veil, then worry about Kenjaku and Sukuna after?”

“I- I’m actually a bit worried about that,” Choso hums uncertainly as he fiddles with his fingers. “Uraume mentioned something about locking Yuji’s soul away if they have enough time.”

Shit.

“It’s the perfect trap to pull in Gojo and I,” you sigh, resigned. You suppose at the end of the day, you always assumed something like this would happen.

From the moment you first met the white-haired sorcerer, you always figured he would be the reason for your demise. Yet, never in a million years would you have imagined it would be a freak accident which he had no part in orchestrating. Worse still, you can’t fathom the idea of being more afraid of losing him than losing your own life.

“Hey,” Satoru’s thumb and forefinger gently lift your chin, everyone else in the room completely forgotten as the blindfolded man keeps your gaze steady on him. “I know what you’re thinking. We’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out, together.”

“Together,” you repeat, clearly satisfying Satoru when he smiles.

“What do you need in order to kill Sukuna?” Yaga asks. 

Pulling from Satoru’s grasp, you take a breath, stepping forward with more confidence now. “I need Sukuna severely weakened.”

Glances are exchanged across the room. You know very well that’s not an easy condition to fill.

“How long can you two hold out against Sukuna and Kenjaku? Surely we can take Uraume while we figure out how to get through the veil,” the blonde woman beside Choso raises a finger pointedly in the air and you exchange a glance with Satoru.

“I’ll be fine,” he hums confidently. You have to resist rolling your eyes as an overly familiar phrase slips from his grin-laden lips. “I’m the strongest, after all.”

You don’t expect him to speak again. You expect that to be the end of it and for everyone to move out. Satoru Gojo loves to find ways to shock you, though.

“Besides, I won’t be alone.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile.

–

The world around you feels foreign. Like unfamiliar territory, never once charted to paper. It’s as though you’re on a journey through new lands yet to be discovered, yet this experience is without the wonder of exploration.

Each mile closer to the destination is another twist in your gut, another soar of uncertainty in your heart. Another fearful look shared with your boyfriend, doing his best to comfort you even with all the unfamiliar figures alongside you in the car.

Even your own clothing feels unfamiliar. A compression tank top adorns the top half of your body with stretchy, skin tight workout pants on your lower half. Robes cover the outfit that matches those of Satoru, an outfit you’ve never seen him in before.

White robes are tied loosely around his upper half with matching pants around his hips. A black compression shirt is barely visible beneath the robes on his torso, his defined abdomen a treat for prying eyes.

Yet, you can’t bring yourself to feel an ounce of happiness even at the thought of spending time with your most treasured partner.

Because each mile further brings you closer to what feels like a concrete tomb.

Satoru’s fingers glide gently over your knee, squeezing your thigh in reassurance but it does little to ease the growing fear.

“It’s okay, sweet girl. We’ll be okay. We’ll win.”

The look you shoot him is uncertain. He knows as well as you do that no words could possibly ease the anxiety you feel. You wonder if he knows that the reason you’re so scared isn’t even for your own sake either, it’s for him.

The pitious stares from Choso, the tall blonde woman known as Yuki, Yuta, Shoko, and Kusakabe all make you want to shrink into yourself.

Yet you can only imagine how Yuji feels.

It all feels like a cruel, inescapable nightmare. Like you’re chained to the negative thoughts of the past, chained to events that will scar you for a lifetime. Your past always did seem to catch up with you one way or another. You can only suppose that you’re not destined to find happiness, otherwise why would the world be so cruel as to tear it from you each and every time you found it?

You swallow hard, staring at your hands.

You are afraid, Miriko states matter-of-factly.

Your eye twitches.

Thanks, Miriko.

I apologize. I can feel your fear.

Sorry.

With a soft sigh, you shut your eyes and reach for Satoru’s hand in an effort to calm your nerves.

I need to bring something to your attention.

Satoru’s finger intertwine with yours as Miriko continues.

I did not have the opportunity to bring this up when I intended to, but I feel it is worth mentioning that when your mother and I found my second scale, the clans grew weary of us and sent their strongest after us.

The strongest. It couldn’t be… could it?

I believe you are smart enough to piece together what that means, she hums inwardly.

You’re kidding. The Six Eyes?

The one and only.

The irony that that same person would sit beside you four hundred years later, as your partner rather than your enemy.

That is not what truly matters, however. I fear history is repeating itself.

Your brow furrows, deep in thought as Miriko speaks.

Your mother had a partner that day. She fought the Six Eyes alongside him and he fell at her side.

Your eyes widen in disbelief. After four hundred years, everything had come full circle. Here you are, in a battle alongside the user of the Six Eyes, your mother’s same weapons sat at your side, in Satoru’s traditional clan attire that was likely worn back then by his ancestor as well.

Four hundred years apart, and yet the situation bears a horrible resemblance, coming entirely full circle.

Satoru’s on our side, this time. That’ll give us an advantage. You’re sure that Miriko knows you’re trying to convince yourself more than her. She hums inwardly, letting silence return to your mind.

Subconsciously, your grip on Satoru has tightened to a degree that he’s staring at you with concern.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is low, whispered softly for your ears only as Choso and Yuki mutter something between themselves, Kusakabe looks as if he’s half-asleep.

“Hm?”

“You’re squeezing me like I’m the enemy,” he hums with a teasing lilt in spite of the tense atmosphere.

Blinking in surprise, you look down to your intertwined fingers to see your knuckles are white, nails digging into his skin enough to make you wince when you loosen your grip and see the marks left behind.

“Sorry, Toru,” you sigh apologetically, smoothing your hand over the indents left in his skin.

“You’re fine, pretty girl. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you sigh, leaning closer to him to keep your conversation between you. “Just worried is all.”

“Everything’s gonna be alright, love,” he reassures you, kissing the crown of your head so gently that your heart hurts at the thought.

Love. It’s the first time he’s ever uttered the word.

Your heart races in your chest and you shift in your seat in an effort to get your heart to calm and your mind to quiet, but it’s all for nought.

Your bond with Satoru is something you don’t dare question. Intense, passionate, playful, caring, and burning with desire. It came so naturally once you started to get along that you could only wonder how you had let things get so far away from you both in the first place.

He’s your universe.

You should tell him. You should tell him so that he knows. You should tell him so that your past doesn’t repeat itself. So that history doesn’t repeat itself.

“Satoru, I-”

The words die in your throat as the car pulls to a halt and Ijichi announces your arrival. They sit like an uncomfortable lump in your throat, one that makes you want to claw and tear until it’s out in the open, until you can make it known.

It’s not too late, right?

“Alright, let’s go over what we know,” Kusakabe takes charge, jolting to a suddenly wakeful state.

It’s too late.

Kusakabe lays out the plan before you as you do everything in your power to pay attention, but at the end of the day, it’s not much of a plan. You don’t have enough information to go off of and the longer Sukuna is left unattended, the more sullen the situation becomes.

When it comes down to it the plan is throwing spaghetti at the wall and praying you and Satoru can hold out.

No matter how long you spent trying to convince your boyfriend that his stupid title didn’t define him, it always came back to haunt him, only now it haunts you too.

The strongest couple.

When you take a step out into the cool late autumn air, a shiver runs up your spine. The night is fast approaching and with it brings a layer of frost that you can only imagine will make the upcoming fight more tedious.

Concrete warehouse or not, you’ll be inside at least.

The veil before you extends several dozen feet high, a perfect half sphere. It’s positioned to perfectly avoid the ocean that laps and sullies the dock with its harsh salt water and border any grass or nature.

You grip the handles of your sickles in one hand, while Satoru’s fingers haven’t left their place intertwined with your other hand. Although he sports that ever-present nonchalant smirk, you can sense his uneasiness.

“I think I always hoped we’d have more time to prepare,” Satoru speaks up abruptly, confirming your suspicions of his uneasiness as Choso, Yuki, Yuta, Shoko, and Kusakabe all scatter in their designated directions.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” you tell him, examining the way those starry blue pools of his swirl with melancholy.

“I know, my sweet girl,” a pang of heartbreak blankets his tone as he averts his eyes, “but I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t change the fact that somewhere along the way your priorities shifted. Somewhere along the way you realized that Satoru had become your world. The stars in your sky, the tide in your ocean, and the love of your life.

You need to tell him.

“Toru, I-”

CRASH.

Like shattered glass, shards of ice fly in your direction and in an instant Satoru is in front of you. The ice stops and eventually falls short inches away from him as his technique activates like second nature.

“We need to go,” he mutters under his breath, pupils growing small as he focuses on the task at hand. 

Fuck.

His hand presses to the barrier and it relents in an instant, letting him pass through. You steel your resolve and follow after him, passing through shortly after.

You didn’t want to be right about the barrier, but it was too obvious what they’d set out for you. Obvious or not, it doesn’t change the horrible advantage they have over you in this location.

Before you, a jungle of steel and concrete plating and steel beams extends in every direction, towering over you. Two massive reactors can be seen a small distance behind the main building and the low hum of machinery drones around you.

Satoru takes the initiative, cautiously making his way around the side of the building in search of a door while keeping a careful eye on your surroundings. Rounding the corner behind him, you suck in a breath at the sight of a body slumped against the wall, sliced through so precisely you feel sick at just the sight of them.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Satoru pauses, numb to the sight of death. His lips are pressed into a tight line as he turns back to you.

“C’mon, keep moving,” he warns, surveying the area around you. Your grip on your sickles tightens at your sides as you hurry after him with one last uneasy glance at the pooling blood beneath what remained of the body.

A large pair of heavy steel doors stands at the end of the building like an imposing force to be reckoned with, as though it’s your first real opponent.

“Shouldn’t we take a less obvious entrance?” You query with a glance at the rest of the building.

“They won’t ambush us. They already have an advantage and that’s not Sukuna’s style,” Satoru replies with a frown. “He wants to win, fair and square.”

You nod slowly, subconsciously taking a step towards Satoru to feel the warmth of his body against you, but your movement stops an inch from his body. Right, Infinity. You almost had forgotten he had it.

Of course, he notices the way you seek the heat of his body, stopped prematurely. Cautiously, he leans down towards you, Infinity a thought of the past as he cups your face, carefully observing your crimson eyes and uncertain expression. “Will you be okay, sweet girl? Just remember to use the simple domain I taught you if you need to.”

“No- Yeah, yeah of course,” you shake your head, trying to shed your nerves. “I’m just… worried.”

With both Kento’s body somewhere within the power plant and Satoru standing before you, you can’t shake the horrible image your mind continues to conjure of both bodies limp before you with Sukuna standing over them. It sends a shiver straight up your spine. You can’t let history repeat itself.

“We’ll be okay, baby.” His tone is firm, reassuring. There isn’t a shadow of doubt in his mind, but he knows this doesn’t come second nature to you. His lips press to your forehead, lingering a moment as he breathes in your warm embrace. “Will you be okay… with Kenjaku?”

“I-” you hesitate a moment, exhaling. “Yeah. I’ll be okay.”

“Good,” he whispers against your forehead, “can’t have you going full lizard on me.”

“I take offense to that, Gojo.” Miriko speaks up from the back of your hand.

No matter how serious of a situation you find yourself in, Satoru never can resist cracking a joke. Strangely, you find yourself chuckling at your two companions, helping to ease your nerves.

Satoru’s eyes crinkle at the corners at the sight of your smile before wasting no time as he presses his palm flat on the door before him, ducking through the entrance as he enters the massive facility, holding the door for you to follow him.

Before you is a lobby with red flashing lights and hallways stretching out to either side with a set of doors lightly swinging at the end of the hall ahead. You swallow harshly at the sight of the blood-painted walls and sliced chairs, keeping your eyes fixed on the swinging doors in an effort to ignore the bodies that litter the halls.

Satoru seems unphased by the sight, confidently walking towards the doors that quietly swing back and forth in a subtle, small movement. Following after your boyfriend, you feel your blood run cold when he swings the doors open dramatically.

“Sukuna! Long time no see.”

You wish you had the same confidence as Satoru. You wish you found the same joy in fighting as Satoru did.

“Kenjaku, not a fan of the new look. It makes my girlfriend sad.”

You slide through the swinging doors behind Gojo, mustering every last ounce of confidence to face what you dread most. A massive warehouse stretches high and far on every side with several concrete and steel cylinders on either side of the facility storing the nuclear energy that likely feeds the two massive reactors you’d passed on the way in.

Standing atop one of the cylinders is, to your horror, Kenjaku. He’s adorned Kento’s body in a deep red pinstripe suit with a black button-up and yellow tie, while Yuji stands opposite him, wearing his usual school attire, however Sukuna’s tattoos adorn his face and his expression is smug and intrigued, a look that doesn’t sport the kind-hearted student you’ve come to know.

Although you’d mentally prepared, the sight of the three people you care for the most getting ready to face off is nearly enough to bring you to your knees and beg them to stop, but all you can do is remind yourself that it isn’t them.

It’s not Yuji. It’s not Kento. Neither of them would want this. You have to kill them.

The only positive is that Sukuna doesn’t appear to have been able to bury Yuji yet. He doesn’t sport the four arms you’d been warned about.

“Oh? Girlfriend, you say?” Kenjaku tilts his head and you swallow hard, biting down on the inside of your cheek as you stand at Satoru’s side in the matching clan attire.

“What a fun development,” Sukuna purrs with an amused grin. Your brow furrows at the deep chuckle that follows, “and here I thought you’d be the easy one to defeat, little Vessel.”

“Mmm, I thought I’d have you at your knees at the sight of me,” Kenjaku agrees.

You grit your teeth, muscles tensing under his sharp glare but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

“You know, I think the Vessel would suit me better than this skin, don’t you think Sukuna?” Kenjaku exchanges a sly look with the tattooed curse.

Your skin crawls at the way he speaks, so out of character for Kento that your chest tightens in pain at seeing him used in such a way.

“I’m ending this,” your words are low, intended only for Satoru, whose overenthusiastic smile shifts to concern.

“Are you sure? I can take Ken-”

“You can’t attack in here, Toru,” you point out in a whisper, glancing between the barrels of nuclear energy. One attack and it would end everyone in Takahana. “I can take Kenjaku. You defend against Sukuna, it makes the most sense.”

He hesitates a moment longer, but when he steels himself, the look he shoots Sukuna is one of amusement. He unties his robe dramatically, tossing it aside with bravado and leaving him in his black compression shirt and puffy white clan pants.

“Alright Sukuna, you always said I’d be first to die, so let’s see it.” Satoru leaps forward as the two bound off of the nuclear storage containers. Satoru’s expression is entirely too thrilled, too wild for your liking, but as your boyfriend still manages to use his technique to his advantage even in such a dangerous and confined space, you know this is what he was raised to be. He’s in his element. This is The Strongest.

Your attention turns to Kenjaku, who stares at you with a bored expression unfitting of Nanami. His leg dangles from the energy silo as he waits for you to make a move. Following Satoru’s example, you pull at the tie at the front of your robe, letting it fall to the ground as well. The cool air of the facility chills the bare skin of your shoulders as you prepare to face Kenjaku.

His eyes glint in the dull light that pours in through skylights on the ceiling. “Done wasting time, my dear?”

You inhale sharply at the sound of Kento’s sultry, honeyed voice calling you his dear. Your grip on your sickles tightens and you dart forward, using cursed energy to push yourself off the ground and into the air just as Satoru had taught you in the short month since you’d been learning to fight.

Landing on the silo alongside Kenjaku, he grins widely and full of malice as he ducks out of the way of your sharpened sickle attack. You reel backwards when he attempts to slice you with a blade similarly blunt to Kento’s, though you know it isn’t his given that you have it.

Narrowly avoiding the attack, he lunges forward with a grunt, the first of many misses that’s exchanged, however you quickly realize you don’t have the skills to face off against him alone. With each narrow miss of your skin, your sickles grow further and further from reaching him. Kenjaku has well over four hundred years of training and your month isn’t stacking up to him.

“Is that all you have for me, dear?” He taunts, voice lowering to a silky murmur as he taunts you with Kento’s voice.

Don’t let him get in your head. Keep trying, I will take over when I feel the time is right. Defend.

Heeding Miriko’s words, you very narrowly manage to avoid two more strikes from Kenjaku, breaths coming in heavy pants as you leap from silo to silo, taking care not to damage the barrels of nuclear energy. You can hear Gojo laughing above you, his form casting a shadow over you from where he stands atop the building windows now.

In the split second you’d spared a glance at Gojo, the blade Kenjaku wields hits you squarely at the ratio needed to critically hit your arm. You gasp in pain, adrenaline and shock spiking through your body like a drug as your sickle hits the ground.

Grab the sickle and find somewhere to hide for long enough that I can heal you.

You huff out groan, picking up the second sickle and throwing yourself down off the silo, using the hook of your weapon to swing yourself beneath one of the raised platforms built as a walkway between barrels.

Miriko takes over, wasting no time in growing your arm back before handing control over once again.

“Oh? And here I thought I’d have the pleasure of meeting your curse.”

“Tough luck,” you grumble, parrying an attack from the curse before just barely missing your target in retaliation. The crimson suit he dons has a hefty slash through the collar now.

“This is a new suit, you know,” Kenjaku hums in disapproval, taking a step towards you and effortlessly blocking an attack before laying hits on hard and heavy.

Three.

You recognize Miriko’s signal, brow furrowing as you focus on blocking hit after hit from the blade Kenjaku has. He hasn’t yet broken a sweat and you know he’s playing with you. Your power doesn’t match his at all.

Two.

The clang of steel is piercing and Kenjaku continues to back you into a wall, seemingly figuring he has an advantage.

One.

As your back grows steadily closer to the wall beneath the steel walking platform overhead, you charge your sickles forward, eyes flashing suddenly as your hair shifts to a dramatic silver.

Kenjaku’s eyes widen as you, no, Miriko, shove him back a step and leap off the wall, swiftly moving behind him and slicing at his dominant arm. It falls to the ground with a horrible splatter as blood pools from his arm.

His lip curls in irritation as he leaps back and picks his weapon up, not yet having noticed the very slow and far weaker decay than your usual attacks that’s been imbued into your weapon. If you can keep his attention pulled from his arm, you can win this here and now.

Never daring to back down, Kenjaku tries to get into a location that betters his advantage, leaping back atop the silo. Miriko bounds after him, following his moves with practiced precision as she leaps forward with eyes on Kento’s shoulder.

Her sickle collides with the cylinder beneath and you’re mentally grateful it only collides and doesn’t pierce.

“So you’re the curse?”

“And if I am?”

Kenjaku’s lips quirk up into a grin. “All the more fun for me.”

Their battle is a dance of elegant and well-timed attacks, blocks, and dodges in comparison to your battle just moments ago. Miriko moves with precision and ease, doing what she can to keep Kenjaku’s attention from the decay steadily crawling up his arm. If it can just reach his shoulder-

Kenjaku’s expression grows frustrated as his attention is drawn to the remaining portion of his arm. Shit, of course he would notice his arm hadn’t yet healed.

His lips quirk upwards in a smile. “Clever old curse, aren’t you?”

Miriko ignores his quip with no desire for chatter, watching as he manages to use the ratio technique barely an inch over the decay and slice off the rest of his arm, healing it as easily as Miriko had healed you now that her decay wasn’t in effect.

Rolling her shoulders, Miriko spares no time in launching attack after attack on Kenjaku, a flurry of missed attacks, until finally her chance comes.

Satoru crashes down from the skylight, spotting an opportunity to create an opening with his keen Six Eyes. Catching Kenjaku off-guard, he lands squarely on top of him, his ever-present Infinity blowing the cursed spirit within Nanami off the cylinder he was standing on.

Having spotted the white-haired sorcerer mere moments before he landed, Miriko made the quick decision to throw herself off the cylinder in her best guess at the direction that Kenjaku would be launched in.

Luckily, a thousand years gives you time to learn math and physics. As Kenjaku plummets down beside her, rolling a few feet and coming to a halt on his back, her sickle is square on his chest before he can recover.

“Still having fun?” She asks with a blazing fury behind her eyes as she plunges the weapon deep within his chest. He sputters and coughs and as Nanami’s pained expression reaches your eyes when Miriko hands control back over, you suddenly feel sick all over again.

No amount of mental fortitude could prepare you to say goodbye to Kento again. With a deep breath, you remind yourself it’s not him.

“You are a unique pair,” he groans out as the decay spreads through his chest and up his neck. You stand back, letting the sickle’s power seep into the man.

Regardless of the anger you feel for what’s been done to Kento, you can’t help the tear that falls down your cheek. The sympathy you feel for someone you’ve long said goodbye to already.

Somewhere beyond my domain, I am certain he is thankful for what you have done.

Thanks, Miriko.

You crack a small smile at the curse’s strangely comforting words as the cracks of decay spread up his face. His breathing grows ragged and increasingly strained until he’s gripping painfully at the sickle, slicing his hands open as decay spreads through his limbs too.

“You don’t stand a chance against Sukuna,” he rasps. “Not with 19 fingers.”

Your lip trembles as you tug the sickle from his chest and blood pours from the laceration. Even knowing it’s not him, the pained look in his auburn eye brings you to your knees beside him.

“Go to hell, Kenjaku.”

It’s the last thing he hears before his world goes dark. Your trembling hand caresses Kento’s cheek gently and you’re grateful you can have a proper burial for him now.

You swallow hard in an effort to keep your tears at bay as your fingers loop beneath the thread that keeps Kento’s head sewn shut. With each loop of thread that you pull, bile rises in your throat until your breaths grow ragged from the mental exertion.

When finally his skull falls open, you damn near wretch, swallowing down the bile just in time as your trembling hands pull the real Kenjaku, a disgusting brain with teeth, from Nanami’s skull. Liquid drips down your fingers and wrists, warm and slimy, as you set the brain aside.

“Never again,” you whisper, jabbing the sickle into the brain. It writhes and pulses when the sickle jabs it as though Kenjaku was trying to hide his ability to stay alive through a body’s death, but you knew better. You knew of Geto. It wouldn’t happen again.

With one final twitch, the brain falls flat as decay continues to spread.

Taking a deep breath, you stand up and spare one final glance at Kento, your heart twisting in pain at the sight of him, his whole body scarred, in a suit not belonging to him, with a weapon not his own and his head hanging open. Your lip trembles as you fight the urge to… you aren’t even sure. Cry? Vomit? Scream?

You don’t have the luxury of any of those.

With a deep breath, your gaze rises to the skylight where you can see Sukuna and Satoru’s shadows moving in a flurry of precise movements. You don’t want to join them, but if you plan on saving Yuji, you’re not sure you have an option.

Wiping a tear from your cheek, you leap up the cylinders, propelling yourself up through the skylight in a crash of broken glass as you lunge at Sukuna, hoping to catch him by surprise. His senses are too keen and he easily dodges, having sensed your cursed energy a mile away.

“Oh? Is your beloved ratio sorcerer dead?” Sukuna taunts with a dark chuckle.

You all know it’s a blow to your gut but you don’t so much as flinch, remaining steady and focused. “Don’t stop your fight on my account,” you reply evenly, glancing over to Satoru to see his skin marred with shallow cuts. Your lip parts in disbelief that Sukuna could ever land a hit on him, but they do seem to be healing.

Satoru’s gaze falls to you, keeping Sukuna in his peripherals. Though he doesn’t say anything, those big blue eyes soften and his eager, battle-ready gaze calms when he meets your eyes. Swirling within his irises is a glimmering reassurance that puts you at least a hair’s width more at ease as you return his gaze silently.

All attention turns to your opponent, grinning across from you. Of course, Sukuna knows more about your abilities than Kenjaku so you won’t be able to take him by surprise like you’d done previously. Sukuna is also more cunning and he knows Miriko better than you’d like.

“Let us see what one thousand years does to a death curse,” Sukuna hums, lunging at you in the same breath as he unleashes a rain of slices down. Satoru’s before you in the blink of an eye, a grin as wide as Sukuna’s spread across his features. His infinity protects you from each of Sukuna’s attacks but Satoru can do very little other than defend given the close proximity to the reactors.

You’re no match for Sukuna, but Miriko is. Your minds meld as you swap back and forth in a flurry of missed punches, kicks, and slices from both sides. Satoru’s six eyes help him manage both your safety, the safety of the facility, and his own as Sukuna unleashes more and more powerful attacks as though testing Satoru’s limits and abilities.

The king of curses’ slices cracks the concrete structure below you and you worry for the stored nuclear energy below, but you don’t have time to think about it when you miscalculate a movement and Sukuna’s slice hits squarely across your chest. You fall back onto the hard concrete with an unfortunate thump.

Blood spills from your mouth as you reorient yourself while Satoru takes over. You allow Miriko control as she heals you before managing to bound back up to Sukuna.

Your chest heaves as the battle rages. Your muscles burn with the intensity as Satoru tosses you around with his technique, both to move you out of danger and in an attempt to surprise Sukuna.

Yet as the sun falls below the surface of the horizon outside the veil, you begin to realize that something is wrong.

Sukuna’s attack launches you back in a flurry of limbs as you hit the concrete beneath and glass embeds itself in your skin. With a cough, you get to your feet as Miriko heals you from within. Satoru stands in front of you defensively.

“You know, this would be more fun for us all if you two would attack me,” Sukuna comments with an arched brow. He knows very well the reason that you won’t, but something else occurs to you as well.

He knows something you don’t.

Something is very wrong.

The veil should have lifted by now. The plan was to lift the veil and move the battle away from the power plant, but if Yuta hadn’t found a way to dispel it yet and defeating Uraume hadn’t done it, assuming they had been able to defeat them, then what kept it up?

Satoru takes a step back to exchange a knowing glance with you, clearly coming to the same conclusion. It’s Sukuna’s veil. The only way to break the barrier is to break Sukuna. That was his plan from the start. Whether it would be him or you, he planned on having only one side leave this battle.

“Fuck,” you mumble, taking a deep breath. You’ll have to adjust your plan. “Toru?”

“I know,” he responds gravely. He knows very well what needs to be done.

So, your strategy is adjusted on the fly. Miriko takes over and launches herself at full force towards Sukuna. His eyes widen at the thrill of what he considers a real battle as her sickle narrowly misses his arm.

Satoru moves to the sidelines, swapping his strategy to defend the power plant rather than you.

Each movement burns as your muscles scream for a break, unaccustomed to this kind of a workout, but each glimpse of Satoru is your reminder to keep going. Keep pushing.

Miriko strategically swaps positions with you at precise intervals, each swap burning into your lungs uncomfortably but you don’t- can’t- stop.

As Sukuna’s slices rain down in a tempest of pain, Satoru moves his body to block the nuclear facility while it rains over you in a flurry of agony. Your jaw slacks at the pain as you stumble over the concrete ceiling that creaks beneath you, holding on by a thread.

Miriko pulls control from you, working through the pain to heal you when she spots a single moment, a single opening.

A chance.

Sukuna and Satoru banter effortlessly while Sukuna pays attention to the sorcerer for just a moment too long. Miriko manages to get into his space, close enough to slash him if she can just manage to-

In an instant, Sukuna’s attention is returned to you and he bats the sickles away with a thrilled grin.

But at the end of the day if this is her only chance-

She has to take it.

Her hand connects with his shoulder in place of the sickle. His eyes widen, expression changing to one of shock as decay spreads through him from his shoulder just as quickly as it rises up your arm.

Sukuna flails backwards and Satoru takes the opportunity to slam into Sukuna with the full force of his infinity, blasting through the side of the buildings and forcing all of you to the small dirt area at the side of the building. It doesn’t offer much space until the edge of the barrier but it’s better than the potential of the roof collapsing.

Miriko heaves in each breath, making a constant effort to stave off the decay as it attempts to spread through your body. Your left hand dangles at your side, cracks trailing up to your jaw and blinding your left eye. Even for her, it’s intensely painful.

“Y/n!” Satoru calls your name, trying to reach your side only for Sukuna to raise his undamaged hand and throw a battering of cleaved slashes in the direction of a reactor and, in turn, Satoru.

Miriko? Even internally, your question is painful. You’re scared.

I apologize, y/n. I am uncertain of any other options.

Sukuna seems mostly unphased by the damage as he continues to attack Gojo, paying little mind to the heavily damaged Miriko who stands a small distance away, evaluating options.

I am truly sorry, y/n.

What?

Sukuna’s had a thousand years to perfect healing Miriko’s technique, yet it still isn’t an easy task. Regardless, the decay still lingers for enough time that there’s a chance. His movements are sluggish enough that there’s another opening.

“NO!” Satoru’s voice pierces the air like a siren, a warning that Sukuna is a split-second too slow to avoid. Miriko’s hand connects with the curse’s legs as she swipes low at him, pulling life from him in order to heal her own decay, however as the stone gray texture spreads up through his body beyond what Miriko can heal, she has to swap her technique again to damage you more.

She doesn’t dare disconnect her hand, her technique inversing itself as the decay spreads back through you and cracks through Sukuna’s lower right eye. He hisses and shatters your arm as he manages to back out of your grasp.

It could work, Miriko could split him and Yuji if she could just-

Decay wraps around your heart as Miriko’s focus wanes, cradling your vital organ like a baby but as she works to stave off the damage and keep you alive, your body collapses. Her breathing grows ragged, the shine in your eyes fading.

Satoru should take the shot. He should risk the facility and take the shot, kill Sukuna, but that’s not what the haze in his mind tells him as control returns to you and your body convulses on the ground.

“Nonono, no, y/n, no,” he breathes out, falling to his knees at your side. He hears Sukuna’s victorious chuckle behind him, ignoring it as he pulls you into his arms, his touch so gentle and delicate you would think you were a flower.

You are his flower. His world, his everything.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen, I told you we’d be okay. I- I promised,” he whispers, unsure if you can even hear him as your eyes glaze over. You’re breathing so faintly that fear spikes through him and his eyes go wide with horror. “Stay with me, baby. Come on, Shoko’s just outside, we- we can-” he hesitates, but he knows the barrier won’t let either of you through.

“This is pathetic to watch,” Sukuna hisses with a triumphant grin. Half of his body is still wholly covered in graying cracks and one arm hangs limp at his side. It’s healing slowly but at the end of the day it’s not worth it if you’re not there with him. It’s not worth it if you die and he still has to kill Yuji. Not after everything you’ve been through together.

“You don’t win this, Sukuna. You know that, right?” Satoru’s pupils are pinpricks as he stares at Sukuna, a crazed smile quirking his gorgeous lips up. The curse’s eyes widen, frowning at the sorcerer as he tries to decipher Satoru’s words.

The white-haired man laughs at the distraught and confused expression he receives, his grip on you intensifying.

“Miriko, are you still in there?”

Neither you or her respond, but your eyes flash alight with a glowing crimson that he recognizes as a sign.

“Princess?” His voice softens as he returns his full attention to you, holding you close to his chest, keeping that fading consciousness with him as you cling to life. “I should have said it sooner, but you’re my world. My everything.” He pauses, steeling himself to keep back his tears as he speaks. “I know I’ve said it before but I was a fucking dumbass and you didn’t deserve that and now…”

He shoots a sidelong glance at a confused Sukuna, knowing he needs to speed up his speech if he’s planning on keeping you with him and giving you the shot he knows you have to take as Sukuna is still immobile.

“Now I took everything from you, all over again. I… Don’t think I can live with myself for that. So just know that I’m sorry,” he pauses again, letting out a trembling breath as he cradles your face with his hand. “I love you, y/n,” he whispers, pressing his lips to yours. Your lips twitch in an attempt to respond, but you’re too weak.

Satoru Gojo has spent so long thinking he’s the strongest sorcerer, the strongest man, the strongest- well- everything. Yet in this moment, one where you’ve sacrificed your entire life to help him protect Yuji and still failed, one where somehow Sukuna is the one still standing while he cradles the dying body of the person he loves most, he feels hopelessly weak.

His lip trembles as it parts from yours, still brushing the soft skin of your lips as he whispers something meant for only you and Miriko.

“Now, Miriko.”

Life surges back through your body as Miriko grips Satoru tightly. His gorgeous blue eyes fade just as your crimson ones had and the curse within you doesn’t spare a glance back at him as she tackles the king of curses to the ground.

NO!

You scream as you try to pull control from Miriko, but your consciousness is lost in a haze, trapped behind a fog that seems endless. Where normally you would sit comfortably on Miriko’s ship, you’re now trapped in an endless pale fog. Its grip on you is tight and your consciousness falls to your knees, sobbing, begging, screaming.

You can’t feel pain in this form, and yet your lungs and throat sear. Your eyes burn. Pain tears through your body like claws ripping at flesh, threatening to tear you apart from within.

MIRIKO!

You scream for her, but she doesn’t respond.

MIRIKO, PLEASE! Not again, not- please- I can’t-

You can’t even tell if she hears you until suddenly the fog dispels and you’re in an unfamiliar environment.

Your breaths come in harsh pants as you take in your surroundings. The harsh iron smell of blood taints the air and you wrinkle your nose in an attempt to keep the rising bile down. Before you sits a pile of bones while a massive rib cage stretches overhead.

Atop the pile of bones, Miriko’s massive form ducks and weaves through slashes and slices, attacking Sukuna with everything she has. Within his innate domain, he’s at his full force with no need for domain expansion. This is a dangerous play.

“Y/n!” Yuji’s voice cuts through the haze as his footsteps approach quickly, splashing the thick crimson liquid at your feet up your body with each rushed step.

“Yuji?” Your eyes travel slowly from the curses to your student.

“Shit, you look bad,” he comments.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

He shoots you a wry smile, offering you a hand. “Are you alright?” He asks apprehensively as he pulls you to your feet. You’re certain he knows what’s happened, you’re certain he saw through Sukuna’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” you lie, but your voice breaks.

Taking a shaky breath, you spare a glance at Yuji. He looks fairly battered from his fight with Kenjaku and Uraume earlier, but he’s in better spirits than you in spite of everything.

It’s a tragic end to everything, really. To think that you and your student would watch everything and everyone you love get torn down and killed by your own hands and neither of you could do anything but watch.

What a cruel end.

History repeated itself after all.

Miriko cries out in pain as her arm is sliced off. She works to use the reverse cursed technique as she continues her mountain of attacks on Sukuna.

“We can beat him,” Yuji says suddenly, pulling your attention away. You shoot him a questioning glance, although you’re certain he can see defeat written plainly on your expression. “We can beat him and then maybe…” he trails off hesitantly. You nudge him in an attempt to get him to continue. “Maybe if we win, Shoko can…”

Heal Satoru.

It’s too late, you know it is. But if this is what your life was leading to, then fuck it. You’d be damned if it was the king of curses who walks out of this barrier and not Yuji. Even if Satoru and you are left dead, Yuji will live. He had to. Kento and Satoru wouldn’t die for nothing.

“What did you have in mind?”

“We just need to get close enough to hold him down for Miriko. I should be able to get to him if you can distract him.”

You nod solemnly, sparing a glance at the curses that now danced elegantly above the ribs that tower over Sukuna’s innate domain within Itadori.

Miriko slinks around a rib as she whips her tail at the curse.

You leap up the bone pile, letting Yuji throw you upwards until you walk along the long spine.

“Sukuna!” You call, but he pays you no mind. Without Miriko, you’re an insect to him. And you know that. Which is why you play dirty. After all, if he won’t respect you, then you needn’t pay him any respect. “Now, Gojo!”

Sukuna’s eyes widen as he takes in your words.

It’s not Satoru that attacks though, it’s Yuji that tackles Sukuna off the ribs and down into the pile of bones below. The pile clatters as Sukuna and Yuji disperse them and Miriko falls after him.

She moves with urgency as she wraps her snake-like body around the curse once, twice, three times, as decay takes its hold on Sukuna.

“You insect!” He hisses in disbelief as he unleashes wave after wave of cleaves into Miriko’s body.

You watch with anticipation as cracks scatter across Sukuna’s body, over the muscles of his tattooed arms and up his jaw, all the while Miriko falls apart around him with each powerful slash that slices through her scaly flesh.

To your horror, although his body is nearly entirely stone, it’s Miriko’s muscles that twitch and falter first and allow what remains of Sukuna to escape. He chuckles darkly, turning his attention to you.

“No,” you whisper, collapsing to your knees as you stare down at Miriko’s body, limp on the ground.

Sukuna’s skin slowly regains its structure, graying cracks fading and healing gradually as he grins at you. “Did you think you had won, little vessel?” He asks tauntingly.

Kento, Satoru, now Miriko too. They all lay dead at the hands of this monster.

Yuji uses the distraction to leap into action, eyes fiery as he goes hand-to-hand in combat with Sukuna while you sit helplessly and watch. What else can you do? Your technique is dead on the ground below.

Yet… you’re still here. Still using her technique to enter Sukuna’s domain. Your eyes train down to the pool of blood below, looking over Miriko’s body. She’s still in pieces, but she’s in fewer pieces than she was.

Your lips part as you realize all hope isn’t lost, Yuji just needs to bide his time. You silently fall to the pool of blood, letting the warm liquid cover your body as you find Miriko’s head. She doesn’t move when you set your hands on her snout, but her pupil shifts to you.

You don’t dare blow her cover, you don’t dare make a sound.

Her pupils roll over to watch Sukuna again, still distracted by Yuji’s flurry of punches. Sukuna gripes loudly about him using dismantle, his own cursed technique, against him, and you’re glad your training with him paid off.

Miriko’s muscles tense under your fingers and you realize she’s ready to strike, when suddenly the course of battle changes. You would recognize this feeling anywhere. It’s nothing, it’s everything.

It’s Satoru.

Infinite Void.

Your chest tightens as you search frantically for him, but he’s nowhere to be found. No, he’s turning the tides in your favor with whatever power he has left, just as Miriko had brought up months ago.

You frantically look between Sukuna and Yuji, both paralyzed by the domain. Beneath you, Miriko shifts. By all accounts, she shouldn’t be able to move. But unlike last time when Satoru kept only you safe from his domain and Miriko was unable to move, you now were keeping her safe within the innate domain as well. The three of you connected as one within the Infinite Void.

Your fingers tangle in the serpentine curse’s mane as she slinks forward, blood staining her white scales and silver hair.

Under usual circumstances, Miriko is the most angelic form of death, the most merciful end, and you’re her gentle and kind vessel. Covered in the blood of Sukuna’s domain with anger coursing through your veins, you’re the ruler of hell and she’s your most loyal demon.

You leap from Miriko, pulling Yuji away from her form as she wraps herself around Sukuna once more. Satoru’s grip slips just in time for Miriko to wrap around him once again.

“Six Eyes,” Sukuna snarls in disbelief as he unleashes cleave attacks against Miriko again. You watch in horror with Yuji as Miriko’s body falls to shreds once more with each slice through her scales, blood spurting from each laceration.

The difference between this time and last, however, is that Sukuna was already nearing death. And so even as Miriko’s grip on Sukuna slips, so too does his hold on life, and his hold on Yuji Itadori.

Miriko falls to the ground and as she does, she leaves behind a statue of what was once Sukuna.

“She did it,” you whisper in disbelief, taking a step towards Miriko. She shuffles in an effort to face you, red eyes flickering as she searches for you, but her eyes are glazed over, blood dripping from her lashes. She’s blind.

“Miriko?”

“I am sorry, y/n.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, swallowing down the bile rising in your throat as you rest your hands on her snout. She writhes under your touch, her long whiskers twitching as her tongue tastes the air.

“I promised him, you know.”

“Promised who, Miriko?”

“When you were recovering. I promised Gojo that should the time come, I would save you by taking his life.” She exhales heavily and you watch in horror as her detached foot twitches at your side.

Adrenaline, grief, fear, you aren’t sure which one it is that’s keeping you numb, but you don’t realize you’re crying until a tear wets your hand, slipping down to her scales. Your hands tremble as everything begins to crash in on you.

“That asshole,” you whimper, more tears falling down onto Miriko’s scales below.

“Don’t cry, little one.” The timbre of her voice changes as she rasps her breaths.

“Can’t you heal?”

She chuckles lightly, her snout rumbling beneath you.

“Take care, y/n. You make good company.”

“No, no, please. Miriko,” you beg, clutching at her but you feel the innate domain of Sukuna fading and the serpentine curse needs to sever the connection between Sukuna and Yuji before it’s too late.

You glance back desperately at Yuji, your chest heaving as you gasp for air.

“Miriko, you have to heal, please,” you beg, tears falling down your cheeks as you sob, falling to your knees.

When next you open your eyes, Yuji sits before you, alive, though his gaze is distant. Where once there was decay, he’s healed now. From within the innate domain, Sukuna must have healed him, expecting to win. The veil has dispelled but there’s no sign of the rest of the sorcerers.

With his knees pulled to his chest and a forlorn expression, your student stares at you with a clearly guilty conscience in spite of the fact that he has no reason to feel responsible for what’s transpired. You swallow your agony as you muster your most convincing reassuring smile, trying to be the responsible adult, but Yuji’s focus is already on something behind you.

Blinking away the disorientation of the innate domain, you feel your chest tighten when you whip your head around, seeing Satoru’s limp body splayed across the ground with his hair over his face. His hand loosely clutches your ankle, other hand still just barely holding the familiar hand sign of his domain expansion.

“Toru?” Your voice barely manages to penetrate the air, not even loud enough to call a whisper.

You scramble to his side, pulling him desperately into your arms. His body is decayed from his feet to just beneath his chest. Miriko must have spread the decay to him from your feet in an effort to potentially save him.

It’s moments like these that make you question whether ‘curse’ was the correct term for her.

Your lip trembles as Satoru’s figure lays limp in your arms. Your mind seems to move slower than your body as your entire frame shakes with your relentless sobs, barely allowing you an opportunity to breathe.

“Gojo-Sensei! Y/n! Yuji!”

Yuta’s voice is a distant sound, blanketed by the shrill ring in your ears with blurred vision as you hold your boyfriend close to you. You bury your head into his shoulder, gripping at him desperately.

Yuta bolts over to you, setting his sword aside as he falls to the ground beside you, although you don’t fully process that it’s him. In truth, you’re not sure you care. It doesn’t matter much at this point, because your love is gone.

In your peripherals, Yuta kneels at your side, looking over Satoru. Shortly behind him is Shoko, who kneels opposite you, healing his surface-level wounds.

“Y/n,” Shoko softly whispers, lost on you. She repeats your name once more, setting her hand over yours. Blinking tears away, you meet Shoko’s gentle gaze, her kind eyes and reassuring smile easing your pain just long enough to hear what she has to say. “Look,” she says softly.

You follow where she points at his torso, eyes widening at the spot where his shirt rides up as you see that slowly but surely, the cracks are healing.

“Is- Is he…?”

“He’s stubborn, is what he is,” Shoko smiles at you with sunken eyes. “Satoru, you dumbass,” she sighs, placing her hand an inch away from him in an attempt to speed up the healing process.

Yuji comes to join you after reuniting with Choso and Kusakabe, all waiting with bated breath to see if he would awaken.

You aren’t sure how long you wait when a muscle twitches beneath your fingertips.

“Satoru?” You whisper desperately, biting your lip as your heart pounds in your ears. His expression is so serene that you wonder if he was an angel in another lifetime. His skin is flawless, with the faintest hint of stubble on his chin that matches the color of his lashes and gorgeous white hair. You feel like you stare at him for an eternity, when it happens again.

His muscle twitches.

“Toru? I need you baby, please, I-”

His low groan cuts you off as one eye flickers open and you let out a gasp, relieved when he shifts in your arms, leaning into your warm embrace.

“You didn’t say it back,” he rasps as tears fall from your eyes like a river, relief coursing through you.

“Oh my god Toru, I love you too, I thought I lost you and I didn’t know what to do, you scared me, you idiot-” your words come out as a ramble when you hug him tight to you. The crowd around you has been long tuned out as you bawl into Satoru’s shoulder. The world slows for you, allowing you the moment to yourselves.

“Hey, pretty girl, I’m here,” he coos, hushing you softly as he reaches up to gently stroke your hair. “I’m here, my love.”

“I thought I lost you too,” you cry, voice breaking and betraying your relief. It’s all so overwhelming to love, to lose, over and over and over, that you clutch to him desperately as though you might lose him again.

“I promised you we’d all be okay,” he whispers, pushing himself up as he heals more. His lips brush yours softly before he kisses you languidly, savoring the moment as though it’s his last. “I meant it.”

Your mouth goes dry as your eyes remain shut and you breathe his living scent in, trying to bury your face into his shoulder again.

“C’mere, love,” he urges, shuffling to take your head in his hands. He lifts your face to his, pulling you into another tender kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs against your lips, eyes fluttering open. “And I should have fucking said it earlier,” he chuckles dryly, averting his eyes guiltily.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, voice growing even enough that Satoru’s heart flutters. You’d succeeded. He’d kept his promise. Everything would be okay and you had your way out now, you could finally leave the world of curses and sorcerers and it’s all he could ever want for you.

When your eyes open again, Satoru’s eyes widen. It’s the first good look he’s gotten at you since waking up and his lips purse, brow furrowing. “Your eyes…” he whispers.

Your head tilts as you sniffle, unsure of what he means, until it clicks. Miriko is dead. Your eyes have returned to their natural color. “Oh,” your voice breaks, your grip on him tightening. “Yeah. They were only red because of Miriko.”

Satoru sighs, understanding passing over his features as he solemnly drops his head. You embrace the moment of silence, each paying respects to the curse that likely saved the world and only a small crowd would ever know. “She’ll be back someday, you know. It might be a lifetime from now, but she’ll be back.”

“I think she severed the connection between Yuji and Sukuna and then herself and me. If she didn’t then I… I should be dead, shouldn’t I?”

Satoru grimaces. “You should be,” he answers. “I owe her one for trying to avoid my heart with her attack and bringing my girl back to me,” he whispers hoarsely, a bittersweet timbre to his tone.

Your heart jumps to your throat, pounding as he calls you his girl. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” You tell him suddenly, the words falling from your lips before you have time to process what you’ve said.

His brow furrows.

“I thought I wouldn’t be able to say that I love you back again,” you tell him, pinching his shoulder. He recoils, playful frustration passing over his features. “Gimme a break, I told you I shoulda said it earlier,” he grumbles, pouting.

You sigh, leaning your forehead into him. “Just… don’t you dare pull that sort of shit again,” you mumble. He huffs out a sigh, caressing you tightly against his toned form just as he regains movement in his feet.

“I promise, my love.”

You lift your head to look at him. His pout fades, replaced easily by a mesmerized smile, absolutely lost in your gorgeous eyes. “Shit, you have beautiful eyes. I mean you always did, but-” he shakes his head “-I had no idea they weren’t always red.”

Your smile doesn’t quite meet your eyes, after all, you still have a lot to process, but Satoru is just thrilled to be alive to see the way your lips curve so beautifully, the way a timid laugh slips through them as you hold back your grateful tears.

Thank you, Miriko. Thank you for keeping us all alive.

She doesn’t respond, of course, but you hope somewhere out there in whatever afterlife she’s experiencing, that she’s watching over you both.

series masterlist || main masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

❦ a/n ; wowowow i just want to say thank you as always for all the support and i'm sorry for the angst- this hurt to write </3 but i hope you all enjoy and stick with me for the next and final chapter full of fluff ♡

writing & format © starmapz. dividers © adornedwithlight and cafekitsune. do not repost, translate, or copy.

[sorrowful-wallflower]

Tragic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 705 words

James put on the last piece of his black suit, solemnly. He was already tired of seeing it. Tired of the reason he had to buy it in the first place. There was a lull in the war, and everybody who was still alive was attending funerals for their loved ones. James had been to seven funerals in the past couple of days, but this one, this one, hurt the most. He didn't even know how he was able to stand, let alone be able to attend. The floo roared to life as Sirius and Remus stepped through with sullen expressions. Everybody was hurting, and the only thing James wanted to do was run away with whoever he had left and never look back. "Ready, Prongs?" Sirius asked, holding back tears of his own. "No, but if this is the last time I'll be able to say goodbye, I don't want to miss it." They stepped back into the floo together, all three disappearing instantly and reappearing in the fireplace of Twelve Grimmauld Place. James cringed when he looked around at all the dark decor. It seemed like death clung to the walls, and he wished he could leave. He followed Sirius around the bleak house until they made it to the back garden, which was full of different members of the Noble House of Black. Walburga and Orion Black were standing next to a closed casket. James knew there was no body in it, given what the Daily Prophet had announced not even a week ago. Regulus Black, Heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, has been pronounced dead after a month-long search. A shiver went up James' spine every time he thought about the headline and black and white photo of Regulus standing with his parents. He took a deep breath before he continued to follow Sirius around. He knew it would not bode well for him to leave his side, especially with the Black's hatred of the Potters. James had no intention of dying today. At least not at the moment. Eventually, they walked over to the casket. James had to bite his tongue when he heard Walburga speaking with Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy. "It is so tragic. Regulus was so young and well on his way to great things that would have brought honour back to the Noble House of Black." "You wanna know what's tragic, Mother?" Sirius spat. "He's only dead because of you. You and your fucked up ideologies. Regulus was so desperate to please you that he followed your every whim and that's what lead to his death. You killed my baby brother!" Walburga opened her mouth, and James took that as his cue to sneak back into the house. He made his way to Regulus' bedroom, knowing it would be his only chance to find the box Regulus had hid. He told James about it before they left Hogwarts. ~~ "Yeah, I'll see you next week, Pads, Moony," James said sadly before he stepped into the floo to head home. "Bye, Prongs," Sirius replied sullenly. "It'll get better, in time." "I hope so. Goodbye." James threw the floo powder down and transported back to his house in flames of green. He wasn't two steps out of the fireplace before he heard him. "How was the funeral?" Regulus asked with a smirk as he leaned up against the doorjamb. "Oh, you know," James said with a wave of his hand before pulling his boyfriend in for a chaste kiss. "Lots of tears. Sirius got into a fight with your mother." "Why am I not surprised?" Regulus chuckled as he shook his head. They sat on the couch and looked around for a few minutes before Regulus pulled his leg up and turned towards James. "Are you sure you want to do this? I can do it alone." "I'm not letting you out of my sight again, love. I almost lost you once, and it nearly killed me. I'm not going to risk it happening again," James replied, determination flashing in his eyes. "Okay." Regulus pulled him down for another kiss before resting his forehead on James'. "I love you, Jamie." "I love you, too, Starlight."

[telomeke]

MY GOLDEN BLOOD – EPISODE 4 IS REALLY AN HOMAGE TO BAD BUDDY

I haven't seen anyone post about this yet, so I'm just going to dive right in… After watching Episode 4 of My Golden Blood, I'm absolutely convinced the writers were winking left, right and center at Bad Buddy. 😂

Yes, I know this sounds like more BBS brainrot talking, but there are just too many parallels in MGB Ep.4 for me to think otherwise. I also didn't notice any obvious BBS nudge-nudge wink-wink in Episodes 1 to 3, which makes the concentration of parallels in Ep.4 simply too much to be mere coincidence.

So what are these call-outs to BBS? Here are some I've found.

First of all – surprise! Guess who's your neighbor across the corridor:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [1‌/4] 10.28 – Tong points at Mark after discovering he’s staying across the corridor; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.2 [2/4] 4.56 – Pat and Pran point at each other after discovering they’re dorm neighbors (and across a passageway too)

‌

And looming large over the drama – big jocks with scent kinks:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 1.54 – Mark inhales the Golden Scent suffused in Tong's t-shirt; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.3 [3‌/4] 5.04 – Pat beams after inhaling some Eau de Pran in the music shop

‌

And then there's the laundry reference punchline:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 2.01 – Tong blames the fabric softener after Mark exposes how besotted he is with Tong's Golden Sex Pheromones; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.3 [3‌/4] 5.16 – Pat follows up his "You smell good" with a request for a bewildered Pran to do his laundry (not realizing that it's Pran's special sauce he really likes, rather than his detergent or softener)

‌

There's the gloaty mid-game clinch, more sensual than sporty (with white bandanas as a bonus):

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [2/4] 9.07 – Mark smirks as he tightly shadows Tong on the basketball court; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.4 [4/4] 3.44 – Pat smirks as his plan to waylay Pran with a full-body grapple on the rugby pitch pays off (explanation linked here)

‌

There's Tong's Friendship Checklist v. Pa's Love Guru Signs:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [1‌/4] 8.26 – Tong's Friendship Checklist; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.5 [2/4] 2.17 – Pa dispenses Love Guru advice, starting with the first of her Telltale Signs

‌

Sandwich desire as sublimation of lust for the sandwich-maker:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [1‌/4] 10.52 – Mark (who isn't supposed to be able to taste anything, nor even need to eat) asks a befuddled Tong for his sandwiches; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.5 [1‌/4] 2.01 – Pat unconsciously casts himself in the role of a romantic partner while munching on the sandwich he stole from Pran

‌

University project work based on an alliance uneasily forged – with one member also secretly undercover:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [1‌/4] 5.03 – somehow Mark, Tonkla and Tong end up in the same group project; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.4 [1‌/4] 1.20 – the Archi and Engine gangs discuss their joint project to resurrect the bus-stop they wrecked

‌

The Kiss that comes unexpectedly early in the series:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [4/4] 11.49 – Mark, unable to fight primal urges more powerful than he, plants a big one on Tong; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.5 [4/4] 12.16 – PatPran give in to their long-suppressed passions and break all BL records in the process

‌

Domestic BL boys go supermarket shopping:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 4.24 – Tong and Mark with their shopping cart on their way to the car; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.10 [3‌/4] 19.30 – Pran and Pat with their shopping cart on their way to the car

‌

Ketchup-laden sausage snackery that hints of duplicity:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 5.51 – Nakan nibbles on Tonkla’s sausage sampler, red ketchup dripping from his lips boding ominously for Tonkla’s storyline; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.8 [1‌/4] 3.24 – Pran smears ketchup on his lips with Pat’s morning wiener before going on kissy attack

‌

"Don't bother knocking; I was already waiting for you":

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 3.15 – Mark opens his door before Tong has a chance to knock; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.3 [4/4] 6.44 – Pat opens his door before Pran has a chance to knock

‌

There’s also drink-gifting across the divide:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 3.31 – Tong offers Mark a box of his favorite tomato juice in the corridor; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.2 [1‌/4] 10.26 – Pran crosses the boundary with Oishi Vitamin C Song Roy Percent green tea

‌

Big blasé boy invades his honey’s apartment and infringes on his personal bubble:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [1‌/4] 7.09 – Tong pleads with Mark for more personal space; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.4 [1‌/4] 13.21 – Pran pleads with Pat to end his apartment incursion

‌

And even song lyrics that echo each other:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [4/4] 12.28 – a clip from Mark’s theme; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.8 [3‌/4] 10.57 – a clip from Pat’s theme

‌

While dining in public – one gets all worked up over being noticed, while the other doesn’t care:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [1‌/4] 5.53 – Tong admonishes Mark for attracting attention; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.3 [1‌/4] 6.51 – Pat chides Pran for worrying about them being seen together

‌‌

A rendezvous in the library:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 9.15 – Mark fixates on the Golden Moistness of Tong’s lips, while a book on the library shelf captions their biological differences and the unspoken words between them struggle to be made clear; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.7 [2/4] 6.16 – Pran teases Pat in the South Technology Library with bodily closeness and innuendo between the lines

‌

"We have the same taste in books!"

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 9.36 – Tong blocks Mark’s attempted kiss with his favorite novel (that Mark also knows and tries to quote from), quite literally echoing how Mark’s pride and Tong’s prejudice continue to come between them; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.4 [1‌/4] 13.31 – Pat is delighted to find that Pran owns the exact comic book that he wants to read

‌

Food/drinks that look like they should be product placement, but really aren't: 🤣

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [4/4] 11.12 – Tong takes a sip of Mark’s juice; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.5 [2/4] 9.28 – Pran munches on toast with his favorite condensed milk on the tabletop

‌

Smirks and bare-bodied teasing:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [4/4] 8.28 – Tong and Mark re-enact the age-old gay men’s code of sidelong glances and knowing smiles in the shower room; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.7 [2/4] 2.57 – Bet Era Pat tries to turn Pran’s head with the help of water and shirtlessness

‌

Still on the same topic, resident hunk questions his life choices in the shower: 🤣

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 10.48 – Mark contemplates his existence stripped bare; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.5 [4/4] 6.31 – Pat tries to clear his mind even as he cleanses his physical self

‌

Egos unchecked, as pointed out by their less prideful counterparts:

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [2/4] 7.01; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.8 [2/4] 3.22

‌

They also have favorite t-shirts!

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 1.10 – Tong tells Mark about his favorite Pirates t‑shirt; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.4 [4/4] 11.03 – Pat discovers his favorite tee

‌

Crimson roses! (OK this one is probably just a coincidence): 🤣

(top) My Golden Blood Ep.4 [3‌/4] 0.58 – crimson roses on Tong’s favorite t-shirt; (bottom) Bad Buddy Ep.5 [4/4] 6.04 – a crimson rose adorns Pran’s favorite condensed milk

‌

If there were only a few parallels, I could chalk it up to coincidence (you know BL series do like to rehash tropes). But there are so many, and I think it can't be just chance anymore.

A lot of MGB Episode 4 was about Tong trying make new friends of strangers, when he already had a greatly-familiar and amply-qualified candidate (Mark) applying for the job.

And this echoes both Bad Buddy's Thai title (แค่เพื่อนครับเพื่อน, roughly translated to "I'm just a friend, buddy") and all of its ensuing Friend/Unfriend discourse, as well as BBS Pat needing to discover that the one he was searching for was right there beside him all along.

I’m guessing the writers of My Golden Blood recognized these links to BBS, and then went on to pepper the narrative with tons of other references as well.

Clown theorizing again! I'll see myself out... 🤣

‌

[sayruq]

In the early hours of April 7th the Israel Defence Forces’ (idf) 98th Division withdrew from Khan Younis, the second-largest city in Gaza, exactly six months after Hamas’s attack of October 7th. Israel had the sympathy and broad support of much of the West when it sent its army to war with Hamas. Half a year later, much of Gaza lies in ruins. Over 33,000 Palestinians have been killed, according to the Gazan health ministry. The uprooted civilian population faces famine. Israel has lost the battle for global public opinion. Even its closest allies, including America, are considering whether to limit arms shipments. Much of the criticism centres on Israel’s armed forces. Even after its devastating failure to prevent the massacres of October 7th, the idf has remained the most cherished institution in Israeli society. Holding fast to the vision of the idf as both effective and moral is essential to Israelis’ image of themselves. But it is now accused of two catastrophic failures. First, that it has not achieved its military objectives in Gaza. Second, that it has acted immorally and broken the laws of war. The implications for both the idf and Israel are profound.

Major-General Noam Tibon is a retired corps commander who on October 7th rushed to his son’s kibbutz near Gaza, single-handedly extricating his young family while Hamas was on the rampage. In hindsight, he says, the idf should have gone into Rafah first. He believes his former colleagues were “under the illusion that going first into Gaza City would break Hamas psychologically, by taking their symbols of government”. But, he argues, “all the talk of dismantling their brigades and battalions is rubbish. They remain a fundamentalist movement which doesn’t need commanders to fight until death.” The lack of enforcement of even these looser rules of engagement has been such that accusations that Israel has broken the laws of war are plausible. “The standing orders don’t matter in the field,” says one veteran reserve officer who has mostly been in Gaza since October. “Just about any battalion commander can decide that whoever moves in his sector is a terrorist or that buildings should be destroyed because they could have been used by Hamas.” “The only limit to the number of buildings we blew up was the time we had inside Gaza,” says one sapper in a combat-engineering battalion. “If you find a Kalashnikov or even Hamas literature in an apartment, it’s enough to incriminate the building.” Other officers reported a breakdown of discipline in their units, with multiple cases of looting. “I think everyone in our platoon took a coffee set,” said one sergeant. Soldiers have filmed themselves vandalising Palestinian property and, in some cases, put those videos online. On February 20th the idf’s chief of staff published a public letter to all soldiers warning them to use force only where necessary, “to distinguish between a terrorist and who is not, not to take anything which isn’t ours—a souvenir or weaponry—and not to film vengeance videos.” Four months into the war, this was too little, too late. “He should have acted much sooner to root this out,” says one battalion commander. The idf’s third failure is its role in Israel’s obstruction—until an angry phone call between President Joe Biden and Mr Netanyahu on April 4th—of aid efforts to Gazans. Officers have mainly blamed the politicians for this. But some acknowledge that even without a political directive, the army, which is arguably an occupying force in Gaza now, should have assumed this responsibility from the planning stage. Instead it acted only when the humanitarian situation became critical. That does not bode well for the future. The war in Gaza is not over. Israel’s next step is unclear. Mr Netanyahu says that a date has been set for an incursion into Rafah, Hamas’s last major stronghold (in private, Israeli generals deny this).

[wito-chan-bla-bla]

Return and imprisonment

You thought you were freed from the shackles of Satoru Gojo when you found out he was sealed. But fate, which has been giving you signs for so long, has decided that it no longer wants to help you

Warnings: not really, only yandere!Satoru and a little-little creepy

~

On the day when the whole world seemed doomed, because the great Satoru Gojo was sealed, you finally found your freedom.

While people were cowering in fear, you were finally able to breathe freely. The oppressive walls of his luxury apartment, which became a golden cage for you, could be destroyed without fear that someone would come for you. It was actually quite easy to escape all this time. The only problem was that your "crazy lover" will always find you.

You can hardly remember how long you were in his loving arms, so you can hardly remember why he chose you in the first place. When you asked him that one day, Satoru gave you a big smile, as if you weren't shaking with fear at the time, hugged you gently, kissed your temple, and told you that he would never find the perfect person for him that you were.

You met him quite a long time ago, back in high school, and he seemed quite normal back then. He immediately started talking to you a lot, but for someone like Satoru, that was normal. You didn't mind either, especially since Gojo was stronger, more experienced, and could teach you how to fight curses better and thus reduce the chance that you would die by your own stupidity.

But with every month - no, week - that you knew him, something started to feel wrong, terrible. Satoru has always looked at you a lot, but since when did he stop blinking? Since when did he turn his head horribly behind you when you decided to change the trajectory a little? Since when did he run into you again and again, even though you never had the same schedule for every day?

When you first asked him about it, you should have immediately run to the other side of the world after answering. Gojo was in a trance at the time, muttering that he had never seen a creature as perfect as you. When he blinked, seeming to recover, he just smiled and, to your confusion, which should have been a horror, replied that he was telling the complete truth.

You haven't noticed the hints of fate for too long. But it couldn't have been any other way. You come from the "village", you have never interacted with other sorcerers, especially those as strong as Satoru. After talking to his friends and reasonably judging that the "strongest" ones have their own oddities, you continued to communicate with Gojo…

And then were abducted and locked up for several years.

It happened suddenly, on a day that didn't bode well. You just opened your eyes and realized that this wasn't the school dorm you were living in, since it was quite expensive to rent an apartment, but an unfamiliar room that was too richly furnished for it not to be a dream.

And you thought it was all a dream for a while, especially after Satoru showed up. Yes, the strange feeling in your stomach was still trying to warn you of the danger, but Gojo was smiling so sweetly at you while carrying your breakfast tray that you thought it was fine.

And then reality hit you.

You were wearing the same clothes as last night. You felt the weight of the fork and the hands of the sorcerer, who placed his big hands on your blanket-covered knees. You could taste the food perfectly, and you could smell the sheets and tell exactly what they had been washed with most recently.

If this was a dream, it was too real. If it was a dream, it soon turned into a nightmare.

There were strange bracelets on your hands and feet that gave off cursed energy. It only took you one attempt to use your abilities to realize that you are now completely defenseless.

A scream, a tantrum, a tray thrown at Satoru... all this caused the sorcerer, who was frozen next to the bed, only a slight smile of a man in love. When you asked him in a shaky voice what you were doing here, Gojo opened his arms as if inviting you into a hug and smiled harder, now looking like the maniac he was slowly becoming over the years.

"You're safe here, my sweetcake."

 And with these words, you have lost any freedom.

At first, Satoru wouldn't let you out of the room, which was large but very limited. He kept repeating that it was all for your safety, that it was the only way he, the strongest, could protect you from "the evil of this world." He treated you as if you were a lover who responded to his feelings. He continued to act as if all your screams, all your pleas, all your curses at him were nothing. He pretended not to notice that you didn't want to be here at all.

Gradually, he allowed you to walk all over the apartment. And even though it was bigger and better than his bedroom, where you were forced to sleep in the same bed as the man who kidnapped you, you still didn't feel any better. There wasn't a single person you could talk to except Satoru, who would return from missions and continue to demand love from you as if you were his beloved wife.

You've wandered through corridors filled with paintings and expensive decor, you've explored every wall and found so many ways to escape. But every time you managed to escape, hurting yourself or not, Gojo found you, brought you back, locked you up. And it happened again and again and again.

You would never accept his tender but perverted love. But at the same time, you started to lose all hope. Your relatives didn't even know you were trapped. You asked your friends to turn their backs on you so they wouldn't get hurt. No one could help you because Satoru Gojo is "the strongest".

Gradually, you stopped trying to run away, to resist, just drowning in the arms of Satoru, who naively believed that you loved him in return. You might have loved him back if he hadn't kidnapped you, held you hostage, prevented you from communicating with other people, and threatened your loved ones and random strangers by telling that he would kill them if you tried to leave him.

 "We are made for each other, that's what my heart says, that's what my mind says, that's what my eyes say. So why do you want to leave me?"

 You have almost lost your identity, becoming the plaything of the caring but crazy Satoru Gojo, as fate seems to have decided to take pity on you.

On the day when the whole world lost hope, you found it.

As already mentioned, it was quite easy to escape from his home. He pretended to trust you. And even though he could always find you and teach you a lesson, he wanted to see if you really agreed to play by his rules and never, ever leave him. Once Gojo was out of this world, there was nothing to keep you in his apartment.

Grabbing the numerous jewels that the sorcerer gave you, you ran as far as you could until you felt a pain in your stomach. All the subsequent events were a blur, you wanted to cry and scream, tear your hair out on your head and thank the world that you can finally go outside, see other people's faces, breathe in fresh air, without being afraid that your loved ones will be brutally killed, and their corpses will be brought to you on the silver expensive dishes.

You were in such a hurry that you even forgot who you were asking for help. All you can remember is how you were able to start breathing again as soon as the restraints on your power were removed. You had a lot of money after selling your jewelry, and if something was missing, you could go back to Satoru`s apartment. And even if you hoped that he was robbed a hundred times, it is unlikely that all the most valuable things could be taken away at once.

After a few days of sitting at home and just enjoying the freedom, you were able to more or less leave the creepy apartment behind. You tried to erase from your memories the big bed where Gojo slept with you, hugging your body as if you were his cute little pet that can't resist. You tried to forget the big room where the walls were decorated with your photos, and the shelves were filled with things that were dear to you and suddenly disappeared for several months. You have tried to permanently erase from your mind those moments like Satoru would come home, give you a gentle hug and stretch out his cheerful voice: "I'm home, my sweet roll!"

  If only he was normal, if only he didn't kidnap you, if only he didn't say that he would kill anyone who tried to take you away from him, even if you wanted to escape... it would be a perfect, rich and happy life. But that wasn't the case.

But that's all in the past. Now you are completely free and are in another city. The war of sorcerers and curses is over, you are not going to help those who were afraid of Satoru Gojo and did not even try to help you. (And even if you wouldn't cross his path yourself, some invisible anger at the entire sorcerer society still lingers deep inside you.)

You planned to leave the country soon and start a new life somewhere far, far away, perhaps even stop being a sorcerer and become someone else. You felt lonely and insecure, but there was nothing you could do about it.

You couldn't go to the sorcerers because they would never help you and so have too many problems. You couldn't go to the police because they would just get killed, which is exactly what you were trying to avoid by staying peacefully in your prison and trying not to annoy Gojo. You could not go to a psychologist, because then you will also be asked to contact the police, assuring them that you are now safe, but this will be a lie that "ordinary people" will consider true.

So you were forced to deal with everything that was happening on your own, but at least not in the four walls that you can't leave.

You walked slowly out of the store, enjoying the freedom and the streets full of people rushing to their homes. You were planning to leave Japan in the near future, you just need to make documents and fly to wherever your heart wants. While you were gradually healing, cooking your favorite food and finally logging on to social media, watching and listening to what you like, rather than dying of boredom in front of the TV and radio that Satoru deigned to give you as "entertainment" while he was away.

So you went up to your floor, enjoying the weight of the bags in your hands, because Gojo didn't let you carry anything heavy, even if you were trying to forget yourself. You entered your small, poor rented apartment and felt that you were finally at home. Kicking off your comfortable, cheap shoes, you went to change into your own clothes, not the ones that belonged to the sorcerer, and began to prepare dinner, enjoying every second of what was happening, because Satoru forbade you to pick up anything sharp, for fear that you would harm yourself.

You calmly sliced vegetables, listening to the TV on out of the corner of your ear. It looks like it was some kind of romantic movie. You continued to cook, gradually immersing yourself in the plot, until it dawned on you that the main male character kidnapped the main female character and said that she should fall in love with him in a certain period of time. You opened your eyes in horror, remembering Gojo's beautiful face, which you wanted to slash with a knife, turned around, rushed to the console... and froze, noticing a familiar tall figure on the couch.

Your kidnapper always seemed big, but that was a little overshadowed by the fact that all the furniture in his apartment was designed to match his height and build. Now, sitting on a small, faded sofa, he looked like a giant. You almost dropped the knife from your hands in shock, but you clung to it just in time, even though you knew it was a normal weapon – even if it was filled with cursed energy! – it won't help you.

You staggered backwards until you hit the kitchen cabinet. A loud sound cut the room in two, and you almost lost consciousness. Your entire body was frozen, you wouldn't be able to move even if you were attacked.

You hoped, prayed, that this was all just a dream, a nightmare, one of the ones you saw every night after you left the sorcerer's apartment. You raised your hand to pinch yourself, but your trembling fingers couldn't catch your own skin. There were tears in your eyes, and you wanted to wake up screaming right now, right at this particular moment.

But it wasn't a dream, it wasn't a nightmare. No, no, no, no...

 Gojo reached for the remote and turned off the TV. He stood up and slowly turned to you with a big smile. He didn't look as angry or enraged as you thought. He looked like the same loving young man he always was.

–Hi… my little cinnamon roll.

You still dropped the knife, and Satoru hurried over to catch it. He picked up the sharp object and tossed it aside, shaking his head. Looking at you with loving blue eyes, he chuckled and said:

–Be careful, my cupcake! The knife is very sharp. What if it had fallen on your foot? I can't let you get hurt!

He opened his arms and wrapped them around you, pinning you to the kitchen counter. Tears came to your eyes, but not from happiness. You were disgusted by the smell of him, by his movements, by his breath on your neck. Gojo laughed deeply and pressed his lips to your neck. He pulled away, looked at your tear-stained face, shook his head, and started kissing your cheeks.

–Now you don't have to be afraid, – he murmured between kisses. – I will always be with you now, I will always protect you, my darling. You must have been so shocked that you ran out of my apartment here, afraid that someone would find you and try to kill you, right?

It would have been better if you had just died outside. You would die in fear, shock, but never, ever see Satoru Gojo again.

His embrace grew stronger, and you could hear that familiar mad laugh that sometimes came out of his chest when you tried unsuccessfully to escape and got stuck right in front of the sorcerer's feet.

–You're with me now, you're with me again. You're safe again, – you felt something being put on your finger. Ring. – I know you deserve so much more, but this is the ring I prepared for you as soon as I saw you the day you arrived at school, – he pressed his nose to yours, and you saw his eyes darken with emotion. His big hands grabbed yours. You are trapped in a trap from which there is absolutely no way to get out. – Will you marry me, my only ray of light?

Your answer was unimportant. Your answer was never important to him. He just wanted you to be forever in his arms, forever touching his body, forever smiling at him and swearing that you would never leave him. You were the only person he ever wanted to see around him... even if you didn't want to. But who are you compared to the one who is called "the strongest"?

If before you were a bird sitting in a golden cage, now you are a bird that has its wings broken forever.

[comfortless]

hi angel! i have to tell you that ‘All That You Don’t Want’ was incredible- such a lovely, sweet tale! i keep revisiting it! would you consider writing a second part? or even a role reversal?

Roach Head

lich! König x fem necromancer! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. abduction, injury, mentions of insects (reader is the world’s worst necromancer), forced proximity, pining, violence/regicide, major character death, questionable morality, fluff, smut, a lil angst.

notes: i am so sorry you have had to wait so long, anon. ): though… i doubt that i will ever write a continuation of ATYDW, take this sickly sweet… (almost) role reversal, instead!

wc: 6.7k.

It’s an odd thing that, after finally having the blindfold removed, the first thing you notice are the cobblestones beneath your bleeding palms. Not a single one is in disarray; not cracked or crumbling from being used as any other common footpath. No, each stone is in it’s place, lain complete with not a single splintering crack or a sharpness to it from being broken. All pristine and smooth beneath your stinging scrapes.

Just like the cobbles, the air feels untouched here. There’s no stink of manure or spoiled food from the cramped streets of the inner kingdom. There are no roars of fighting men nor the baying of beasts, a lack of giggling women batting their eyelashes to lure those with jingling pouches of coins into brothels. You can’t even detect a breeze. Twisting onto your side, your eyes catch on the extending limbs of sturdy trees, and oddly… not a single leaf flutters or moves. The air is still.

There is only the absence of everything.

You should think it a blessing after your abduction, after being thrust into the back of a dusty carriage drawn by two massive horses.

You could almost swear you had seen the devil in their dark eyes, hellfire deep in those dark pits and you had known assuredly they would be chauffeuring you straight into the darkest circle of Hell. That was, until a thick, rigid cloth was tied around your head, forcing you into complete darkness. Your assailants had done well to bind you and leave your aching body only capable of wracking with sobs against the hard wood at the bottom. Every jolt of the wagon had caused you to flinch, to scramble as best you could, resulting in an array of bruises and your still bleeding hands from fighting at the ropes.

There had never even been a chance to fight back; you never even saw them. Even now as you raise your throbbing head to glance about, there’s no sign of the men that have left you here, in this silent place. Your heart almost seizes in your chest when you realize you can no longer even hear the cantering and whinnying of those dark, stoic horses.

You know that nothing good comes from silence.

It’s one of the first things that you came to learn as a fledgling witch. Quiet rarely ever bodes well. The prey animals in the wood all scurry to hide amongst fallen leaves and well-packed nests the very moment that a predator draws near, and you, still green with your admittedly lackluster talent in reanimating were little more than a fawn in the eyes of any beast.

A groan leaves your parted lips as you force yourself to your knees, ignoring the incessant sting of bruises and how your vision blots from even the barest of exertion. Your binds must have been cut free when you were abandoned here, you realize, as you twist around to crawl.

That’s when you see it— the glory of what lies before you.

Rather than being dumped into some desolate street for the vultures to find and pick apart like any common carrion, the men with their frightening steeds had left you at the steps leading up to a beautiful castle of sorts. The stone bricks and marbled towers above you, spirals of darkened blue shingles descended into gilded turrets, the rampart casting a shadow over all that settles beneath. There’s a flag there, too, positioned just outside of the wooden door leading into the heart of it all. The rich, blue fabric is torn in places, the tassels frayed, bare white thread visible near the paling center making the crest practically invisible.

Something draws you to it, that singular rotting thing in this bright, sterile void. Your feet move quicker than your thoughts as you pad up toward the flag, eyelids squinting as your palm dances over the canvas. The strangest thing happens as you finally make out what remains of a wolf’s head amongst the rips and splintering threads— the wooden door begins to move. It’s not one of those fancy, well crafted ones with those mechanisms you couldn’t fathom in the King’s keep, this one has to be pulled open from the inside.

You watch, lips pursed as the door continues to slowly creek open until finally, you can make out the small courtyard beyond it. A fountain, long since dried up sits at its center, and even with what you imagine must be little care in such a desolate place, the plants are all in bloom; petals of vivid blues and gentle purples fill your vision.

Amongst them, stands a shadow of the purest black, from the opaque veil shrouding his head to the soles of his boots. The cloak he wears is heavy, finely stitched with that very same blue crest embroidered into its chest, the stitching in equal disarray as the flag adorning the stone wall.

You’ve seen specters before. They haunt the kingdom in every nook, crawling over the tops of buildings, invading your dreams with threats of what will come to you if you don’t reanimate something, give them any body to inhabit and puppet so that they might just have a taste of the pleasures of being human once more. Greedy, malevolent things that make you feel ill from a mere glimpse.

This one is entirely an unknown.

He does not crawl from your gaze with the gait of a wary spider, he stands rigid, daring even as those eyes like sapphire lock onto your form. Not a word is uttered between the two of you, yet you feel a pull, one that curls at the bones tucked into the flesh of your legs, pushing and pulling you past the threshold as though an unseen dog were nipping at your heels. You don’t fight it. Your bare feet cross over smooth stone and your stare remains wistful on the figure until he simply strolls away.

That’s it. That’s all it takes before you’re snapped out of your trance and the wooden door swings heavy and violent behind you, closing and locking without a hand to guide it. Then it’s back to the nothingness, the silence.

You should be very, very afraid. In a panic, even as your hands flatten over the wood and you realize that there are no handles from inside at all. You are entirely trapped here, short of finding a way to carve through it or climb up the rampart and risk snapping every limb on your descent. Thing is— you are not afraid, at least not enough to do anything so rash.

A calm settles here, electric and tickling as it feathers unseen through the cool air.

You stay in that courtyard for a long time, admiring every flower and shrub, some you recognize and others you do not. The empty fountain is not empty at all; you find that the marble ring is filled to the brim with riches— gold coins, shimmering stones, all twinkling beneath the yellow glow of the sun overhead.

Inside of the castle is more or less the same, each corridor bathed in the glow of soft candlelight, highlighting paintings in gilded frames that must have taken months to complete, treasures you have only ever heard of seated on polished wood and fine metals. Like walking through a dream. Though your hands itch to pocket something, anything to take back with you when you find the will to escape, to free yourself from the reality of your little shack at the corner of the market that you share with a dozen other witchlings, you don’t touch anything at all.

Following a branch to your right, vast and equally laden with treasures, eyes darting from one shiny thing to the next until the tightly woven, ornate rugs beneath the soles of your feet wind to an end and you instead find your footing on smooth stone tiles.

You find yourself in the throne room, where the specter sits, lofty yet misplaced upon the soft, rolling velvet. That pull, like a lead drawn too tight, pivots you forward, one foot before the other until you’re kneeling at his feet. The figure remains still, watching you with that somber, unrelenting stare even as you reach up to take his gloved hand into your own, kissing along each knuckle until the hand coated in blackened leather moves to cup your face.

This is no king, you know it in your very bones. The dark veil stained by teardrops tells you everything, of a life trodden by deceit and pain untold.

“I know what you are, hündchen.”

The voice startles you, a rasp, alive only in the way that fire lives, crackling and swaying with each lilt. You must have flinched back, the spell weaved around you broken with all of the subtlety of a lightening strike, your elbows dig almost painfully into the rough tiles below, eyes locked to the veil.

Your own voice doesn’t come for a time. When it does, it comes tight; meek and quivering, almost absent entirely as though your own body refuses to bring a ripple to the quiet that has engulfed you.

“Why have you brought me here?”

The feeling that curls up in the hollow spaces within your chest when this enigma pulls you to your feet with a sudden curl of his hand over your wrist feels familiar. It’s not unlike how you felt when accidentally resurrecting that old mantis found dried beneath your bed. It had attempted to chew through your hand, but being so small it hardly seemed a threat, just offensively waving it’s front legs at you until you scooped the critter up and locked it up tight in an old trunk. Some strange tide of wonder, and it takes a moment for you to push it down enough to realize that… the specter is still stood before you, his grip still tight, not saying a word.

Why it brings a swell of warmth to your face should have you questioning your taste in men rather than what he may or may not have done.

“Sorry, I just—“

“You are hurt, hündchen.” He interrupts, turning your wrist over to inspect the flecks of dried blood littering your palm. It’s not the worst injury you’ve ever had, in fact, you had very nearly forgotten it even existed— just a few scrapes from a rope tied far too tight.

You shake your head, biting back that surge of… something, that furry something that crawls from the fluttering organ behind your ribcage and down into the pits of your stomach. That feeling is also familiar, you felt it the first time you laid eyes on that pompous, boy-man serving as heir to the throne in the castle, at least, until he turned his head to look at you and your ilk with thinly veiled disgust.

If the specter sees scum before him, the veil does well to conceal it.

His eyes seem to only light up the more he appraised you, rubbing his thumb over your scrape with such a gentle touch that a shiver rips down your spine.

“I see…”

He guides your wrist back down to your side, delicately trails his fingertips up to your shoulder and… that’s it before he draws away and steps right past you. That’s all the touch you’re given and you find yourself, humiliatingly yearning for it. There should be nothing but contempt scraping at your skull and yet you feel treacherously endeared by this strange, strange faceless man living in this lonely castle.

The risk of this being some bewildering trap weighs heavy on your mind; you’re far more intelligent than some scrappy undead insect, begging to be tossed into a dusty crate, after all. You had heard of the way other lands treated necromancers: shunning them, chasing them from villages, and in far more dreadful cases— leading them to kneel before a headsman for decapitation.

You center yourself, force your mind to conjure up any evidence of some magical foul play only to be left with the knowledge that these feelings are entirely your own.

This man does not have the sticky aura of one dripping magic from his palms like thick globs of honey. He seems almost vacant, devoid of even anything making him human, while you stand transfixed and lacking even the sensible reaction of fear.

You can only find comfort in his gentle hand, in his stare like an unholy flame.

So, when he guides you to what is to be your dwelling you mouth does not part to argue. You’re led to a room larger than the entirety of the cluttered home you shared with the other witchlings. Everything within is worth more than even you, and something about it stings, sharp and sudden like ant’s venom seeping into skin.

From the canopy bed, draped over with thick velvet curtains to protect from the chill of a winter’s night to the neatly polished wood of varying furniture, it all feels so rich— so foreign.

“You didn’t have to prepare all of this for me… I don’t even… why am I here?” You’re rambling, searching every corner of the room with a flitting gaze as if some small patch of dust will provide you with the answers.

Your specter only laughs as he nudges you towards the bed, now your bed, the motion only sending another question to the forefront of your mind.

Were you bought? Meant to warm some peculiar stranger’s bed without even the grace of having the knowledge to prepare?

Perhaps your concerns should have drifted as to why you were not entirely opposed.

“Sleep.”

The simple command leaves you stifled entirely, all confusion and tentative excitement dispelled in an instant.

He wants nothing from you, only to extend a foreign cup spilling over with generosity to one who would not admit it was ever even needed.

You find yourself nodding your head, unaccustomed to the kindness of a forgotten thing like him. In truth, you’re unused to anything but bickering between the other ladies in the witch’s house, the cobwebs stretching without end caking the ceiling, the scuttle of crawling legs over your flesh as you pulled your threadbare blanket over your body to shield you from the cold. From stark poverty to this… it claws at your eyes, steels your mind— man or ghost, it mattered not; your heart sang while your mouth remains pressed into a stiff line.

When he leaves you, your body cloaked in the softest gown you’ve ever worn, burrowed beneath sheets of the finest silk, that unknown thing in your heart seems to spill over, rushing through your veins like honeyed wine.

You dream through the eyes of someone else that night.

A woman kneels at your feet with tears in her dark eyes. She hasn’t slept, the thick, dark patches just above where her cheeks rise make it evident, and she’s pleading with the you who is not you; this woman tells you that she wishes to go home, that she could never be a part of what you are or are not.

Even in dreaming you feel your jaw tighten, sure that your nails have splintered from the shooting pain in your fingertips as your hands tighten over the hard wood of your seat. The not you speaks for you, his voice coming warbled and distant. You can not make out the words, but seeing how this pleading woman’s face seems to morph into an expression of terror, you’re grateful to not know what’s been said.

Nothing becomes of her. You watch as she strolls away, unharmed. This other you, however, is. It’s the tingling of so many unseen legs parading through your chest; spiders in a downward course to burrow in the shadow of your belly. The discomfort rings out as you feel this body rise from its seat, out to the courtyard with a fountain. The flowing water subsided the clambering of spider limbs inside, just enough for this body to pull a ring from its pocket and cast it down into the clear water.

You watch the ring seat itself at the marble bottom, the gentle flow of water causing small ripples to crest over that tiny band of silver until you wake.

Confusion twists itself into curiosity as you free yourself from the sheets, padding out of your room still only adorned in the thin, white fabric of the gown. Morning light filtering through each window of the castle carves a path where the candles have long since been blown out. The only darkness here is with your captor, all tall and shadowy, and you find yourself considering the fact that perhaps you’ve been sucked down into some strange afterlife, one where you and this specter would remain in a silent stasis for all time. You find that you don’t entirely hate the idea, either.

Most of the rooms in the castle are dull. It’s not that there isn’t plenty to look at, but a cluttering of what’s expected, all gold and ornate, only proves to bore you. There is little mystery to be found in riches.

None of it is of importance, anyway. It’s him you’re seeking out, and oddly enough, you find your specter in the courtyard staring down at the cluttered fountain. He shifts in place as you take to his side, fingers curling into loose fists momentarily before he offers you a small greeting by way of running a hand along the back of your neck, petting you as though you truly were only a puppy.

You shiver beneath that warm touch, seem to melt against him before collecting yourself enough to straighten up.

“I did not sleep well,” he says quietly, the look in his eyes tells you that he dreamt through your own. He had seen the decay and filth of the king’s city, perhaps even those angry, little things that you brought back to bite and sting and pinch.

“I didn’t either.”

You recognize that faint, strange smell when you move just a step closer to him, like dust and forgotten things. Not quite rot, but similar, a comfort for you as it’s all your fate has ever allowed for you to know. Yet, this is not one of your reanimations. Only a man.

A man, only, like you; touched by the rot.

The realization crosses your face by way of a widened glance, a sharp intake of breath. It stings again when he turns away from you, drops his hand back to his side.

“Will you walk with me, hündchen?”

“Sure.”

It’s no less strange pacing along at his side than roaming about the castle with no idea where he is. The specter still feels worlds away, even as your arm brushes over his, your fingers occasionally ghosting over his gloved hand. While the vivid blue of globe thistles and hydrangeas entertains your vision, that patient stare of his remains trained on you, even as the quiet settles over the garden once again.

In a way, you feel as though you’re being courted, even as the questions remain scurried and fluttering in your mind. The ghost, the man, whoever he is, refuses to sate that curiosity of yours even as you bring it up to him again. Why? He only responds in an almost boyish laugh that pulls at your heart, infuriating and delightful all the same.

You share a meal, something you’ve no idea how he managed to scrounge together or had the time to prepare at all. He’s been at your side all morning, yet the fruit pastries and tea are served warm as you seat yourself across from him at some grand, oak table. That sparked tingle of magic does not feather off of him as it does with your sisters, but you know without a doubt that he must have it. You glower at him a bit, lips pursed and brow pinched as he sips at his tea, not beneath but through the fabric of his black veil.

“You will have to explain what’s going on at some point,” you huff, pushing your plate away as if to make a show of it. No more accepting his gifts, even if your stomach growls in protest. “Especially if you’re trying to court me.”

It’s cute how wide his eyes go at that, his cup of tea nearly slipping from his hand. The surprise wears off almost immediately, his eyes narrowing in what you imagine must be amusement as you’re left feeling a bit humiliated. Your gaze flits over to the candles adorning the table as you nervously drum your fingers against the lap of your dress.

“Court you?”

“The gown, the walk, the food… is that not what this is?”

“Nein, hündchen…” He pauses to sigh, setting the cup against the table with a dull thud. “It’s better that I did not.”

You think to question him further, but hold back the words bubbling in your throat, sullenly picking at the food on your plate instead. It feels like courtship, would look like courtship to anyone else, but then again… you’ve never quite experienced it for yourself, either. You’re no noble lady, and it feels a bit silly to imagine yourself roaming a place like this with him as your suitor. For all you know, he could be some king from a neighboring kingdom, only offering you respite out of pity after falling from that wagon.

More likely, all of this is just some strange dreaming.

When your lunch is thoroughly picked apart on your plate, the cup emptied, you shift out of your seat and offer him a curt little bow of your head and move towards the door.

— — —

Your days are filled with him— the drab specter you’ve taken to calling König, King, simple and befitting a name as you can give to one without one. No one else lives here, at least that you can see. Not even the rats or scuttling insects you were used to dare to take up residence within this castle. Yet, you remain taken care of and well-fed. You walk at his side every morning and part ways after minimal conversation in the evening. It’s so simple yet odd it almost makes you feel uneasy.

The dreams remain through the eyes of another. Some are combat, and you don’t care for those, looking down to see blood on steel and settling with the odd sense of guilt that you’ve killed someone, even when the you who is not you does not seem to pause. In fact, he often laughs in those dreams, drinks his wine from a golden goblet while he polishes the thick mace in his lap, trousers stained with blood that is not his own.

Others are dreadfully dull. You watch as knights with long swords and silver plates circle around you, your muffled voice shouting demands of what you can only imagine must be tactics and plans for a war you would only ever be apart of in the late hour with your eyes closed.

Your unease nearly doubles on the fourth night, when you wake with a start, pulled from a dream where you see that same woman from the first wailing over a bloodied corpse to find König looming over where you rest. The curtains of your bed parted with what little moonlight filtering inside bathing him in an unearthly, bluish glow. As usual, he doesn’t breathe a word, only stares as you slowly peel back your sheet to sit up and face him fully.

“Is something wrong?,” you ask in a whisper, rubbing your palms against your eyes as you force yourself to pull through the haze of sleep.

“Du bist schön wenn du schläfst,” he hums. “Even having a nightmare.”

“You said you were not courting me.”

“I’m not, hündchen.”

He offers you a hand that you readily accept, hardly having time to marvel over just how cold his skin feels without his glove before you find your cheek pressed to a broad chest. Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering with the urgency of a cricket’s song.

“You didn’t sleep well either?”

“Nein.”

“Maybe we could sleep together?,” you offer with a laugh that sounds stiff even to your own ears.

You expect some other quip about the status of your peculiar relationship, not a sigh, not the way König gently lowers you back into bed and climbs in to follow, not at your side, but rested with his head over the swell of your breasts. You’re almost certain your rib cage will bruise by the pounding in your chest this infatuation burdens you with.

He hums contentedly at the contact, props his chin up on the valley between your breasts.

“Warm,” he murmurs.

You reach to pull the blanket over you both without a word, staring up at the velvet curtain as you try to force yourself into a state of calm indifference.

It lasts for all of a single breath; König shifts, stroking over the fabric of your gown, bunching over your hip. His touch makes you shiver, too cold, as though he doesn’t have any body heat at all. Your arm settles over the expanse of his back, pulling him just a tad closer as you relax into the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Ja… I like this.”

“I do too...”

So, you sleep, so intertwined with one another that your body heat melts away the frigid touch of his own flesh with no discernment for where you end and he begins. Your dreams are absent in his presence, replaced by a solace you’ve never known as a comfortable stillness settles over you both.

When morning comes, an unhurried sun casting a dull glow through the arched window in the room, you’re pleasantly surprised to find him still here. You’ve shifted in the lack of dreaming, finding your positions opposite to when sleep had taken its hold; your head rests on König’s chest now, comfortably slow. He doesn’t feel as cold, though…

König does not breathe.

You hurriedly rise, throwing the covers off of you both and shove at him with a panicked urgency, desperately searching for any sort of reaction from him to ensure he hasn’t passed away in his sleep.

It’s not a corpse’s silence that you’re met with but an annoyed huff of breath as he grabs at your wrists and tugs you back down.

“Was..?” Your specter only sounds annoyed as he gazed down at you, keeping your trembling hands steady in his unyielding grip.

“You weren’t breathing! I thought…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you realize just how ridiculous that you sound. Of course he wasn’t dead. Even if he were a reanimation, no magic in the entirety of this kingdom would allow him to retain so much of his soul.

König only laughs at that, closes you in an embrace that sets your pulse racing again as he carefully maneuvers you below him. When he had become so familiar mattered not, you wouldn’t dare to complain. It’s achingly comfortable, brings a sigh from your parted lips as you fall back into that perfect, placid state of contentment.

“Hündchen… you worry too much,” he huffs, caging you in as he relaxes with his face pressed back to the divot between your breasts. “So many questions… too many concerns, ja?”

“I would not fret so much if you would just explain a few things.”

“Geduld.”

Though you do pout, make a show of your irritation by exhaling heavily, his tone harbors a calm finality. You’re not so sure that any reasoning for all of this would matter much at all anymore; whether it be a dream or some gentle corner of an afterlife you’ve found yourself tucked within, you only find that you never wish for it to end.

— — —

This dream is worse than any before it.

You feel your vessel’s emotions tenfold; a clamor of disquiet and rage, vicious and searing. The air is still and silent but heavy with the scent of iron. From the blurred view that you’re granted, the shapes of cadavers are easy enough to tell, all lain twisted in glistening pools of their own blood.

Your vessel isn’t moving, though you will your thoughts to encourage him to do so, he remains in place, a pillar destined to topple.

You don’t want to see it, yet waking eludes you.

The sounds of hurried footsteps fill the quiet, a shout to your right that you do not even have the capability to turn towards. Cursed are hissed, warbled and unfamiliar, only recognized by their venom. You know that this is the end, a brutal, grisly one for your counterpart and for these dreams in their entirety.

When wicked steel carves it’s way into your vessel’s middle, you feel how tightly he clenched his jaw to bite back a howl of agony, take the subdued, shooting pain spreading through him as though it were your own. Try as you might, you can not wake; forced to be a voyeur to this stranger that you’ve grown fond of’s gruesome demise.

The vessel’s head is tugged forward, forced to kneel at the feet of the brute who has buried a dagger into his side. A sneer paints the man’s face as your counterpart’s veil is thrown away, and you recognize it— that same shroud of black, stained with imagined tears as it falls to a small heap onto a bloodstained floor.

König.

You wake with a start in a haze of utter confusion, catching your breath as the truth of it all crawls down to settle someplace within you. A cold sweat settles over your skin, bringing with it the rise of slight goose pimples and an incessant tremble.

The specter is just as you had suspected in that brief moment between bonding and sleep, dead and long-forgotten; a corpse made man again. This isn’t some silent kingdom, but a well-preserved crypt.

It hurts.

You wash your face in the water of the small basin at the corner of the room, change from your bed gown into a dress of a drab gray. Even to yourself, mourning a truth that’s been glaring you in the face since your arrival feels misplaced and odd, but that horrible sadness does not subside.

At least, not until you pry your door open to find König waiting just on the other side. He cocks his head at you, gaze softening in a silent understanding as your hand is fitted into his own.

The morning walk is less quiet this morning, a single dove could be heard cooing, hidden beneath the green of some sprawling alder’s leaves. König speaks to, explains some without giving all away. He tells you what he can remember, the details of his failed courting of the foreign princess with dark eyes and a petrified stare, the plot against him that dwindled out into a curse that’s left him here, but never an estimate for how long.

You listen in a perplexed silence, clutching his hand just a bit tighter as each questioning cobweb is swept away with a low voice droning out a story better left untold.

When he finishes, with your free hand sifting it’s fingers through the petals adorning a hydrangea shrub, you think to tell him one simple truth: “I can’t bring you back.”

It startles you when he suddenly pulls you in, resting his chin atop your head and curling those broad arms over your shoulders. The embrace is tight, a certain desperation in his touch as though he almost fears the thought of you pulling away. Strange from a man you now knew had not even feared his own death.

“Nein. I just want to be understood.”

And you do understand, perfectly, as only one also touched by the rot could.

— — —

There’s never a night that you don’t find yourself asleep with König mere centimeters away, if there is any gap between at all, anymore. He feigns his breath until you’re fast asleep, takes to playing human enough to not worry you any further, even after you explain that it doesn’t, not any longer. Always, you wake to his head buried against your chest, listening to the fragile beating of your heart until you stir to wake him. Your hands rove over his veil, but never question what he hides beneath it. You already know without seeing— the wicked, sprawling scar from where his head was once wrenched from his body.

A necromancer and a lich, of all things. If the bards in the King’s city were to ever know, your story would be passed from tavern to tavern until it became little more than the stuff of myth.

The thought occurs to you when you wake, huffing a drowsy little giggle as you repeat your morning ritual, fingertips grazing over the dark fabric obscuring König’s face until heavy eyelids languidly part to focus his attention on that mirthful expression painted across your face.

“I have changed my mind,” he declares some moments later as he nuzzles in the divide between your neck and shoulder, unhurried and gentle as he always seems to be with you.

“Hm?”

“I will court you.” A statement that would make most with a better grasp on the disparity between what’s living and dead flinch back in horror. Though, where most would consider corruption, you only take it as further confirmation to your mutual devotion.

“You already have been.”

He falls silent at that for a moment, trailing a cold path of chaste kisses along your jaw, lazy and soft to a point you can feel the grin beneath his hood.

Finally, he hums in agreement.

“Then I should have you, hm?”

He drags a palm down your thigh to your knee, the pad of his thumb bunching up the fabric of your gown as he presses against you, tracing small circles.

Your mouth feels dry when you part your lips to speak once more. The words falter, engulfed in a far more desperate flame; someplace far off, in the back of your mind you can hear them echo, bouncing from cavern walls.

“Hündchen..,” he rasps quietly. Maybe he’s thought it too, that this should be far more innocent, but the way he furiously tugs your undergarments down to your ankles belies his interest far more than some ideal, ancient telling of courtship would ever allow.

“You want to..?”

König laughs, whether it’s at your words or the surprise on your face, you didn’t know. Despite your nudity, he doesn’t look at you down there, his eyes remain locked on your face. There’s something wild and uncanny about them, something bordering on madness. His breathing is heavier, as if he’s fighting back the urge to bury his head in your cunt and breathe you in, and you’re almost certain that after all of your yearning he could bring you to ruin from a puff of breath alone.

He echoes your question with barely contained amusement, until you breathe out your consent. You sound just uncertain enough to prompt him to pull away briefly, raising up to look you in the eyes as his own narrow in search of any signs of apprehension. Finding none, a heavy palm meets your chest to push you to lie down in full as his head dives between your thighs without hesitation.

The feeling of a wide tongue slipping over your slit prompts an immediate reaction— a sharp cry that has you slamming your palm over your mouth in an effort to not break the peace settled over this place.

Every lick is slow and deliberate, a far cry from enough stimulation to properly get you off. It’s as if he’s doing this to prepare you rather than bring you to ruin. His tongue thrusts into you at a languid pace, fucking you open with heady muscle rather than the cold touch of his fingers. For that you’re grateful, but it just isn’t enough.

König huffs another chuckle against your sex when you whine and buck your hips, desperately searching for a friction that just isn’t being supplied. His hands press against your hips to hold you in place, the pads of his thumbs circling against your abdomen as he tries to set you at ease.

“Be patient,” he mumbles as he raises his head, bottom lip slowly raking over the hood of your aching clit. You find it difficult to comply, but in a way you feel fortunate to even experience this much. Who else could say that they were being fucked by the tongue of a titan and be believed? His lips close around your sensitive bud, tongue languidly circling over it, kissing you there as gently as he can manage. The very moment a moan is pulled from you, breaking the silence of his concentration he tears back to lick far further down than you were prepared for, before climbing over you instead of allowing you a release.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue when your face is pushed beneath the veil, an urgent probing as he thrusts the muscle into your waiting mouth, sampling the mixture of your saliva and slick. A palm is splayed over your thigh, forcing you to open yourself to him despite the strain.

He proves he’s less patient than he pretends to be; that’s all of the preparation that you get.

A breath later you feel yourself speared open, the girth of his tip slipping into you with involuntary resistance. Your gasp is met with a keening groan from his open mouth, quickly stifled as he bites into the side of your neck. Each thrust is shallow, the head of his cock spreading you meticulously until you’re nearly in tears from your own impatience. His body temperature is far cooler than your own, and you feel as if you’re more of a mess than you’ve ever been prior as his own precum mixes with the arousal already freely dribbling past your swollen labia.

You kick your leg out, force your hips in a different angle to push him in deeper only to have his grip tighten and his teeth dig into your flesh. Again and again, until you’re a babbling mess beneath him.

“König… please..,” You manage to choke out, voice small and barely audible over the obscene sounds pulled from the wetness of your cunt.

Immediately, your pleading is answered with a slam of his hips, the thick cock forced to its hilt inside of your pulsing walls. König’s head lolls back, his free hand curling over your hip as he grunts. He isn’t making love to you, but fucking into you like a man possessed. A palm fitted over your mouth wouldn’t silence the obscene sounds of sex, nor the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as he pumps into you; each drag is pure rapture as he fills you entirely.

The repetitive spearing of your sweet spot brings you to a near-painful orgasm, trembling cunt only sucking him in further with each pulsing wave of bliss. The quiet is forgotten entirely as you whine out your praises between wanton moans and breathy cries.

He kisses you, proper and sweet when he comes. The thickness of his seed floods you, spilling out onto the sheets below as he fucks it back into you, his pace never slowing until the throbbing of his cock comes to an abrupt end.

The hand holding your leg in place retreats to gently brush your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye until you reach for his wrist to pull it down to kiss over his palm. He returns your kisses with a breathy laugh before pressing his forehead to your own, kissing from the tip of your nose down to your chin.

“I do understand,” you whisper against cool flesh.

“Ja… because you were made for me.”

You don’t disagree.

This morning is the first you’ve caught sight of a breeze, gently pushing at the curtains lining the bed, the first you’ve heard of any semblance of life beyond yourself. When your eyelids flutter shut, relaxation prying away any residual tension, you almost think you can hear the pounding of a second heart— one you can only think to wish together with your own.

[etoiline]

brothers

(read with tags and characters on AO3 instead)

(@paper-crane-castles drew art for this fic and I am melting right now, go see!)

“Safest way outta here,” Bode says, and Cal’s stomach churns as he looks at the Imperial sign on the escape pod bay door in front of him.

“Sure about that?” Cal says, looking over at the merc who’s just saved his life several times over.

“No,” Bode says with a shrug and a cheeky smile.

“Okay then,” Cal manages, but Zee calls him on the stress in his voice.

“You seem nervous,” the droid says. “I’m going with him.” She maneuvers her chassis over to Bode’s pod.

“After you,” Bode says, gesturing to the open door. Cal catches his concerned look out of the corner of his eye, but he’s momentarily frozen in front of his pod. BD chitters a query in Binary, and his little weight shifts onto Cal’s right shoulder as he beeps another question in Bode’s direction.

It’s that little shift that makes Cal rock back on his heels and trot to the other pod. If BD wants to stay with Zee, Cal doesn’t have to choose this solitary pod, and then Cal doesn’t feel so bad about his sudden need to not be alone. And if Bode is there, well…

Cal boosts his speed with the Force so he can slip between the pod doors as they close. Bode’s eyes immediately meet his, widened in surprise, his hands on the straps of Zee’s restraints. Their gaze holds for a moment before Zee raises a hand and waves. “Bode is being such a gentleman, securing my seat. But there’s plenty of room for you too, Cal!” she says. She waves a hand at the chairs across from her.

BD chirps and jets himself over to the small platform between the other chairs. Cal frowns. He knows exactly how many steps it will take to get from the door to the chairs, and how many jumps his younger self would need to boost himself over his Master’s dead body. Cal doesn’t want to take those steps. He knows, he knows, there’s nothing here to harm him, not this time. Bode’s right, these pods are the safest way to get out of the Lucrehulk without fighting their way through the Raiders and droids trying to steal Zee away from them again, but Cal can’t make himself move.

All Imperial tech is laid out the same way. Cal could walk the halls of this ship blindfolded and find his way to every refresher, even without the Force. One little escape pod is nothing. Zee is sitting in the exact same seat where Cal had huddled, Master Tapal’s broken saber clutched in his hands, Master Tapal’s broken body at his feet, and Cal lifts his chin, refusing to look at the floor. But he still can’t take that first step.

It’s Bode’s hand on his shoulder that jerks him out of that paralysis, soft words he can’t quite comprehend murmured near his ear, a gentle push on the middle of his back that has him almost falling forward towards BD, who lets out a sad bwoo before Bode catches his elbow with a gloved hand.

“Doing okay there, scrapper?” Bode says, and Cal can only nod. He lets Bode turn him, obeys when Bode tells him to sit, hearing only static as his eyes drift to the pod floor. The floor, which is pristine and white and not covered by a fast-cooling Lasat body.

Bode’s hands are sure, efficient, as he pulls the restraints around Cal’s unresisting form, repeating the motions he’s just done for Zee, who’s stayed uncharacteristically silent throughout all of this. Cal closes his eyes and imagines he’s somewhere, anywhere, else. Sorc Tormo’s fighting pit, even—that hadn’t frozen him so badly as this. BD thrusts his head under Cal’s fist, and he looks over and unclenches his hand enough to pat his droid, then drops his head to the pod wall, gaze drifting to Bode’s broad chest in front of him, focusing on the collar of his shirt, how it stretches as Bode’s arms move, at the shifting line of skin that shows there. Better that than Zee’s unblinking optics or the empty floor.

“You can do this, scrapper,” Bode says, tightening the restraints and grabbing Cal by the shoulders. Cal’s eyes drift up to Bode’s, and suddenly there’s nothing else in his view.

The mercenary kneels, and Cal blinks owlishly down at him and their suddenly entwined hands. He can feel the warmth through the well-worn leather, echoes of its use fluttering their memories at his psychometry. Cal’s glad they’re not stronger, grateful a carefully exhaled breath blows them away. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I swear you’re gonna be safe here with me,” Bode says, squeezing their hands together.

BD trills agreement at his side, confident and reassuring. The ghost of a smile pulls at Cal’s mouth.

“And with me!” Zee says, holding up a finger. Cal has to laugh, though it’s a strained one.

“Ah, there you are, scrapper,” Bode says, and Cal wonders if he really can feel the relief pouring off of Bode, or if he’s just projecting his own. He’s stuck on the smile the mercenary gives him, the flash of teeth bared in a grin.

Bode gives him one more squeeze, then gets to his feet, moving toward the pilot’s chair. Cal holds onto Bode’s hand a moment longer than he should, trapping the don’t leave me behind his teeth. It’s childish, he’s a Knight, for void’s sake, he’s safe and of course someone has to start the ejection sequence. BD butts his head into Cal’s thigh with a Binary whistle, and Cal looks down at his droid with a tremulous smile. “I know I’m safe, buddy. Thanks.”

“This Empire has not been kind to you, Cal Kestis, has it?” Zee says, for once the enthusiasm in her voice gone. Cal presses his lips together; there’s no need to tell her his life story, not when it’s carved into his face.

The pod jolts and Cal’s hands go to his restraints. Bode takes the seat across from Cal, buckling his belt with quick movements. Not a moment too soon—the pod jerks them sideways, and they’re high enough that Cal’s stomach seems to press into his throat as they fall, as BD clamps onto his arm, as the lights flicker, as the wind rushes by the pod, driving the scent of blasterfire and blood into his nose, as the too large form at his feet is pushed to the rear of the pod with the speed—Master Tapal had always said Cal would be able to look him in the eye one day but this isn’t the way he wanted to do it—

“Look at me, Cal,” Bode’s voice says, and Cal has to obey. He finds Bode’s eyes in the strobing light and stares at reality.

“You’re safe, scrapper, safer than a tooka kit in its den. Just a little while longer, yeah?” Bode’s voice is soothing, low, just audible over the escape pod engines, and Cal blinks, letting the words wash over him.

Another jolt, this one stronger than any of the others, has Cal raising his hands to protect himself, and BD slides off his arm with a startled beep. That first pod had driven itself deep into the mud, shattering the windows, and Cal had to climb out the back, stepping on his Master’s body to reach the hatch—the sob he’d let out then matches the one he can’t stop now—

Bode’s hands are on his—when did he get out of his seat? How long have they been stopped?--and Cal realizes Bode is speaking to him in that same calming voice, you’re safe, it’s over, whatever happened to you was then and this is now and you’re safe with me, scrapper.

Gloved hands release Cal from his restraints, and he falls forward, into Bode’s arms. BD hops on his back, chattering in Binary as Bode chuckles and lifts Cal’s elbows, helping him stand.

Cal lets himself stand there for a moment, huddled in the circle of Bode’s embrace, and Bode allows it. He’s still murmuring soft words into Cal’s hair, his comforting voice bringing back memories of the Temple and his Master after a particularly bad echo had left him voiceless with remembered screams. Cal does what his Master had done then, letting a tendril of his Force curl around Bode. He won’t be able to feel it, but it’s all the thanks Cal can manage as his muscles slowly start to obey his wishes after being locked up for so long.

“Brothers indeed,” Zee announces, and Bode stiffens, pulls away, giving Cal a crooked smile and a wink before turning to the droid. Cal keeps that light Force touch on Bode’s shoulders while the mercenary helps Zee out of her restraints, offering a hand to help her stand.

BD whistles a happy line as Bode ushers Zee out of the pod; thankfully it landed rather level, so there’s no giant jump outside the hatch. Then the mercenary turns and looks back at Cal, holding out his hand, beckoning.

“You’re safe now, scrapper,” Bode says, and Cal smiles for the first time since Dagan tried to drop a piece of machinery on his head.

Cal thinks safe and takes Bode’s hand as he exits the pod. He looks back at the gaping hatch, once, as they begin the limping trek back to Rambler’s Reach, and misses Bode’s shiver as Cal withdraws his fiery touch.

[moghraidhs]

because i cannot stop thinking about it, have a bikeriders fic :)

crossposted on ao3.

Johnny's awake when he hears the knock.

He's always been a light sleeper; since the war, light sleeping has turned into the occasional night of no sleep whatsoever. Betty had called it "insomnia", whatever the fuck that is. To him it just means staring at the ceiling until sunrise.

He gets out of bed. Betty's still fast asleep. The knock isn't heavy enough or loud enough to be a Vandal, so it must be something else.

Briefly, he thinks about that punk kid from Brucie's funeral. Mean look in his eyes. He could be standing on the porch right now, waiting with a knife in hand.

Johnny's vaguely surprised by how little the thought bothers him.

He goes downstairs and opens the door.

Benny stands on the porch, one foot already on the steps as if he was in the middle of leaving. Lit up in the yellow glow of the streetlights, he looks for all the world like a hallucination. A memory of the worst night of Johnny's life.

But it's cold outside, and Johnny had heard the knock, so this must be real. Right?

"Hey, kid," he says quietly, not wanting to scare away this maybe-hallucination. And doesn't that just make him the most pitiful man in the world, clinging on to the imaginary vision after he'd driven the real thing away?

"Hey," Benny says, and that's when Johnny realises two things.

1) This is real.

2) Benny's hurt.

His face is angled away towards the street, and one arm is pressed against his middle, almost protectively.

The sight makes something inside Johnny howl. He doesn't want to think about why that is. Refuses to even consider it.

All he says is, "Come on in."

The injuries look even worse under the ugly yellow-white light in the kitchen, but maybe that's just Johnny's thinking. Two cuts, one across Benny's cheek and the other at his hairline, both needing stitches. His knuckles are wrapped up, which doesn't bode well, but he can move his fingers okay so nothing's broken.

"Who was it?" Johnny asks as he awkwardly threads the needle he'd stolen out of Betty's sewing kit. She'd always teased him about his hands. Big enough to cover the whole state.

Benny's hands are big too, but there's something almost fine about them. Those long, slim fingers of his look like they were made for playing a guitar or working with animals or something. Not bikeriding and getting into bare-knuckle fights.

Shut the fuck up, Johnny tells himself harshly just as Benny answers.

"Couple of guys in a bar." He doesn't even flinch as Johnny starts cleaning up the first cut. "It's fine."

Of course it's fine. Johnny's seen Benny in a fight half a dozen times, knows he can handle himself and then some.

None of that does a thing for the side of Johnny that wants to know exactly who and where and then call the others so he can go take care of it. So this never happens again.

He's getting fucking sentimental in his old age, that's the problem. Twenty years ago, someone like Benny wouldn't have made a dent in him. Wouldn't have been allowed to. Real men don't do that shit.

Real men. Johnny's lived through a war, a dozen motorcycle club rumbles, and now another war, and he still doesn't know what the fuck that means. Honestly, he's tired of trying to figure it out.

All he's wanted for the past six months is for Benny to come back. And now he's here, all Johnny can think of is how not to fuck up and make him leave again.

So he swallows the questions and stitches Benny up, carefully as possible. Benny doesn't make a sound the whole time, doesn't even wince as the needle slides in and out of his skin.

A real man. Or maybe someone who's so used to being hurt he doesn't feel it any more.

Johnny doesn't like thinking that last bit, doesn't like the way it makes him want to tear the room apart. He finishes stitching and starts to tidy up. "Your ribs okay?"

Benny nods, even though his arm is still pressed across his middle, the set of his shoulders the only other sign that he's in any kind of pain at all.

The temptation to push the issue threatens, and Johnny gets up. "Want some coffee?"

They sit at the table and drink in silence. After, Benny takes out his cigarettes and offers Johnny one. Johnny lights both of theirs and selfishly uses the opportunity to get a better look at Benny up close. Beating aside, he looks okay. A little tired, maybe. Definitely thinner. Not that Johnny cares. Why the fuck does he care?

"You got somewhere to stay?" he asks halfway through the first cigarette.

Benny nods. "Motel."

"Good. That's good."

Where were you? Are you staying? Are we okay now? The questions tumble over themselves in Johnny's mind, demanding to be spoken.

He doesn't, of course. Being sentimental hasn't made him fucking stupid. He'd already fucked this up once.

A little bit of Benny is better than none at all.

They finish a couple of cigarettes each before Benny gets up to leave. Johnny walks him to the porch. He's surprised to see the sky turning pink-grey, dawn on the horizon.

"Thanks, Johnny," Benny says. He'd looked beautiful enough at night. Dawn makes him look like a fucking angel, wounds and all. Fallen angel, maybe.

He's just a man, though. And so is Johnny, which is why he can't stop himself from asking, self control and fucking sentimentality be damned. "So, you gonna be around now?"

Benny looks up at him, and just for a second Johnny catches what looks like surprise in his eyes. "You want me?"

He sounds almost vulnerable, and it's for that reason and that reason alone that Johnny ignores the thoughts those three words put in his head. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. You n' me, kid."

That gets him a lightning-swift, half-shy smile, which disappears almost as quickly as it came but leaves him speechless nonetheless. He watches as Benny walks back down the porch steps and climbs back on his bike. The growl of the machine cuts through the morning quiet, and then just like that he's gone, the street empty as if he had never been there at all.

The sun is coming up. Johnny smiles and heads inside.