#this is just one of them. one of the dark twisted things that lay in the corners of my mind

[luvendiary]

aftermath / f. weasley

fred weasley x reader

summary: after the battle of hogwarts, st. mungos is left in chaos. you -amongst your other duties- are tasked with taking care and rehabilitating your former classmate, fred weasley. a/n: i got carried away with this one. i'm sorry. i cornered my med-friends, and made them tell me everyhting about how their internships work. this might be the last fic out for a short while. idk. also, for the sake of any misunderstandings, i want to say clearly that there is in fact no beauty in war. the beauty is found in the humanity regular civilians show with each other (and not the polititians who do not care about the people). warnings: not proofread. no use of y/n. 11k words.

There was no beauty in war.

Most people could agree on that.

You however, found that, whilst this was true, there was a twisted sort of beauty in how it pushed people to be better.

Better for the sake of others.

You found it ironic how in such desperate times, St. Mungos was flooded with speeding healers. Not to get out, but to get to the people that need them.

You felt it in the air, amidst all the despair and sadness. Something full of light, heavy and somehow the lightest thing emerging from all of this. A sort of energy that propelled you forward. 

To keep on giving even when you thought you were empty yourself. 

No one gives what they don’t have, you had to remind yourself as you rushed through the halls of the hospital to attend to the newly ingressed patient.

After the attack on Hogwarts, St. Mungos had become a center for chaos. Injured people were being rushed in like ants to a nest. Rooms were at double their capacity, and some of the halls had been closed off so that the healers could work on the patients lying on makeshift stretchbeds.

You were not a healer, not by any means. You had been studying to become a healer for barely two years, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

No one can give what they don’t have.

It was like a mantra, repeating in your head over and over again. You would keep giving, until you were physically unable to. You gave what you could. Your hands. Your focus. Your body, moving even when your mind lagged a half-step behind.

“Room 9,” your supervisor barked beside you, brisk and commanding in that no-nonsense tone she had adopted since the war began. “Critical injury. Blunt force trauma, internal bleeding, possible paralysis. Triage reports loss of consciousness, delayed pulse. You assist, I lead.”

You nodded once, not trusting your voice.

As you reached the double doors, you could already hear it — the noise.

Voices. Too many. A sharp argument. A stifled sob. Shuffling feet. Someone swearing softly under their breath.

You pushed into the room and stopped dead.

Red hair.

Everywhere.

A sea of it.

Some standing, others pressed tightly together in the corner — pacing, holding hands, murmuring prayers. One woman, pale with grief, clutched the arm of a man whose eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. A girl with hair the color of flame had blood on her shirt. A boy with wide shoulders and a trembling jaw stood guard at the door like he couldn’t move if he tried.

Your stomach dropped.

You recognized them.

The Weasleys.

Your supervisor didn’t falter. She pushed through the gathered crowd like a current, cutting straight to the center of the room where a stretcher floated — and on it, barely conscious and covered in dust and blood, lay Fred Weasley.

You froze. Just for a second.

The air around him buzzed with unstable spellwork — holding charms layered clumsily by field medics trying to keep him together until someone more experienced could take over. His shirt was soaked dark at the ribs. His legs hung limply. Blood trailed from his temple into his ear.

He looked nothing like the boy you remembered from Hogwarts.

And yet, it was him.

Fred.

You could still hear the echo of his laugh from the back of Charms class. Still remember how he used to lean back in his chair until Flitwick told him off. Still remember him and George — always George — like a matched set.

George.

Your eyes searched the crowd — and landed on him.

He was standing near the stretcher, face pale beneath the grime, a hand braced on the edge of the bed as if holding his twin there by force of will.

And as soon as he saw you, he stilled.

Recognition flickered behind his eyes.

You hadn’t spoken much at Hogwarts — but enough. Enough to know you were in the same year. Enough to know what Fred’s absence would do to him.

And George must have known you were here to work, because his eyes widened and he mouthed one word:

Please.

Your throat tightened, but you nodded. Then turned to your supervisor.

“I’ll clear the family.”

“Do it fast,” she replied, already lighting the tip of her wand and muttering diagnostic spells. “He’s bleeding into his abdomen. If we’re lucky, the lung’s only partially collapsed. We need space.”

You moved quickly. Efficiently. Gently laying a hand on Molly Weasley’s shoulder. She flinched, eyes wet and wild.

“I need you all to step into the hallway,” you said, your voice low and firm. “We’re going to take care of him. I promise.”

Arthur helped his wife up. Ginny followed, reluctantly. Bill put a hand on Ron’s shoulder to guide him out. You murmured reassurances, not lies, but not quite truths either.

George didn’t move.

“George,” you said firmly, stepping close. Your eyes said everything your mouth didn't have time to. 

We’ll do everything we can. 

His jaw clenched.

“You need to let us work.”

His gaze flickered to Fred. Then to you.

You didn’t say anything else — you just looked at him, steady and calm and holding your fear back because he couldn’t bear yours too.

Finally, he exhaled shakily and let go of the stretcher.

And as he walked out, his fingers brushed your wrist. A silent plea. 

Then the door shut behind him.

And you turned back toward the stretcher.

Fred lay deathly still, face slack, breath shallow.

Your supervisor was already working, wand moving in tight, efficient arcs.

“Hold this,” she ordered, conjuring a steadying brace over Fred’s side.

You moved forward — and didn’t hesitate.

Fred Weasley was bleeding.

And you were going to make sure he didn’t die.

The days that followed the battle blurred together like smoke.

St. Mungo’s never truly slept anymore. The halls remained full, even as the chaos started to ebb. Some patients were discharged. Others were moved to long-term wards. The air still buzzed with grief, and those who worked there, yourself included, were stretched thinner than a helping flashcard for a final exam.

Healers walked like ghosts between rooms. Some hadn’t changed robes in days. Others wept silently into their sleeves when no one was watching.

You didn’t cry. Not because you weren’t exhausted. Not because you weren’t grieving. But because you couldn’t. There was no time.

After the surgery — after the bleeding was stopped and the enchantments sealed his ribs — he had been placed in a shared ward, but eventually moved to a private recovery room. Too many people knew him. Too many stared.

It became your job to monitor his potions. His pain levels. His progress.

And his silence.

He hadn’t woken up in the first three days.

His vitals were stable, but his body was worn down — more than you’d realized at first glance. When you changed the bandages across his chest, you saw the bruising from the wall that had collapsed. You saw the way his legs twitched when touched, like the nerves weren’t quite reconnecting properly.

You wrote down everything. Monitored spells. Adjusted doses. You were careful. Steady.

You also started talking to him.

Soft, pointless things. How the tea was always too bitter in the staff lounge. How the lift on the east wing kept jolting between floors. How the portraits in the hallway outside his room complained about the groaning at night.

You weren’t sure why you did it.

Maybe because silence made the wounds feel bigger. As if they hadn’t closed yet.

You were also the one who received the Weasleys when they came to visit. You kept them informed. Made sure they had water. Chairs. Tissues.

Molly Weasley cried every time she saw him. Arthur held her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him. The others came in shifts. Bill brought books and read aloud. Ron sat with his head in his hands. George never stayed long.

He lingered outside the room more than inside it. Sometimes you’d pass him in the hallway. He’d look at you — hollow-eyed — and nod. Not with familiarity. Not even with trust. Just… desperation translated into hope. The silent plea that you wouldn’t let him die.

And you hadn’t.

Fred Weasley didn’t wake on the fourth day either.

You checked his legs for movement, gently rolling the damaged joints. You administered Skele-Gro and Stabilizing Draughts. You wiped the sweat from his brow and replaced the charm on his sheets to keep them cool.

You didn’t expect the change when it happened.

It was early morning. You were doing your rounds, charting his numbers on a clipboard. Your fingers were halfway through counting his pulse when you saw his eyes flutter open.

Just a sliver. A twitch.

Then more.

He blinked blearily up at the ceiling.

You froze — your breath caught somewhere between shock and relief — before leaning forward immediately.

“Fred?”

He blinked again. Swallowed. His voice rasped like it had clawed its way out of gravel.

“...Great,” he said with effort. “An angel.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob, your hand pressing lightly to your chest as your heart knocked against your ribs.

“You’re awake,” you said softly, as if saying it too loud might undo it.

“Only halfway,” he croaked, squinting up at you. “The ceiling’s still spinning.”

“It’s your brain. And the concussion.” You smiled in spite of yourself, voice tight as you checked the charm readings again. “Don’t try to flirt.

He closed his eyes, a pained crease forming between his brows. “Shame.”

That was enough to do it.

You turned your face away, biting down on the sudden stinging in your eyes. It wasn’t the flirting — not really — it was the life behind it. The voice you hadn’t heard in days. The tone that meant he was there, even if battered.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you said quickly, the words leaving you in a rush as you turned and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind you with trembling fingers.

You heard him mutter something along the lines of “funny”.

You didn’t make it far. Just to the alcove near the nurse’s station — barely out of sight. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, breathing through it. You gave yourself sixty seconds. No more.

And then you wiped your face, straightened your robes, and floo-called the family.

When you stepped back into Fred’s room a few minutes later, he was still awake — barely — and trying very hard to sit up with a determined frown on his face.

“Oh, no you don’t,” you said, sweeping forward to place a firm hand on his shoulder. “If you strain the spellwork on your spine, I’m going to put your bed on a permanent incline.”

You noted the tension immediately — the way his fingers twitched against the blanket, the way his head turned slightly, looking for you. Like he was trying to catch his bearings through a fog. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m doing my work,” you replied.

Fred narrowed one eye at you, already slipping lower on the mattress. “You always this bossy?”

“Only with idiots who have the patience of a tea kettle.”

You could tell he was trying to suppress a smile as he turned his head away from you. 

“You got a name, or should I keep calling you ‘angel’?” he said after a while.

You raised an eyebrow despite yourself and moved to the side of the bed.

“You should try resting instead of flirting,” you said, voice neutral but not unkind. “The nerve damage in your lower back was extensive. You’re straining already.”

His smirk cracked for just a second. You saw the flicker of pain behind his eyes before he blinked it away.

“So angel it is?”

You didn’t answer, instead you checked his vitals in the silence and gently charmed his pillow higher so he could lie at a better angle.

That’s when the yelling started down the hall.

You didn’t need to look.

You met them in the hall before they could burst through the door. Loud. Red-haired. And utterly frantic.

“Is he—? Can we—?” Molly Weasley’s words tangled together.

You held up a hand gently, but firmly.

“He’s awake. Talking. A little weak, but aware.”

The hallway seemed to exhale.

You continued quickly, before the relief turned into assumptions. “But—he’s not ready to go home. The impact did extensive damage to the lower part of his spine. He… can’t feel or move his legs right now.”

Silence.

You gave them a moment, then said gently, “He’ll need extensive rehabilitation. Magical therapy, possibly nerve regeneration. It’s going to be a long process.”

Arthur nodded, face pale but steady. Molly clutched at his sleeve.

You looked toward George last.

He stared at you. Jaw set, unreadable.

“Is he in pain?”

“No. We’re managing that.” You paused, then added, “He’s in good spirits.”

George swallowed. Then gave the smallest, sharpest nod you’d seen all day.

You turned to the door and opened it, stepping aside so the family could filter in.

And for the first time in days, the room wasn’t quiet.

It was full — of laughter, of tears, of hands touching shoulders and kisses to foreheads and Fred’s voice muttering, “Bloody hell, stop fussing, I’m not dead.”

You stepped back into the hall and let them have their moment.

But even as you turned away, you felt eyes on you.

And when you glanced back, Fred was looking straight at you over the shoulder of his mother.

He smiled.

You didn’t smile back.

But the tears still came.

You waited until his bruising had faded.

Until the swelling in his ribs had gone down and he could sit up without gritting his teeth. You waited until the bandages were gone, until the spells holding his bones in place no longer hummed faintly beneath his skin. Until his vitals held steady even when he laughed too hard at something George said.

And only then did you bring up the next step.

“So,” you said one morning, casually flipping through his chart. “I had a chat with your attending healer. We’re ready to begin rehabilitation. If you’re up for it.”

Fred, who had just finished muttering something rude about the texture of his breakfast porridge, perked up immediately.

“Rehab?” His eyes lit. “As in — out of this bed rehab?”

You nodded, lips twitching. “That’s part of it, yes.”

He beamed like you’d just told him the Canons were naming a stadium after him.

“Well, then what are we waiting for?”

You took a small step back as he hastily shoved aside his blanket like he was about to sprint a marathon. Of course, his legs remained stubbornly still beneath him.

He caught the look on your face and sobered slightly. “Right. Okay. Bit overconfident. But still—anything’s better than being trapped in here.”

You hesitated.

“It won’t be easy,” you said carefully, gently. “The spell damage to your spine was severe. The initial stages may not feel like progress.”

Fred gave you that same lopsided grin he’d been perfecting since he was fifteen. “I’m stubborn by genetic design.”

You arched a brow. “That’s not a medical trait.”

He winked. “It’s about to be.”

The first few days were surprisingly smooth.

He cracked jokes through the posture tests. Mocked the magical resistance bands. Named the spell-laced chair that helped him sit upright (Bertha).

You helped guide his hands when his grip shook. Stabilized his torso when he swayed too far to the left. Every time the faintest spark of sensation returned to his feet, you both looked at each other like you'd just seen magic for the first time.

But then came the harder days.

The ones where nothing changed. Where the spells didn’t tingle. Where the potions tasted metallic and useless. The days where Bertha wouldn’t budge no matter how hard he strained.

By the second week, the shine had dulled.

“Is it supposed to feel like this?” he snapped once, his voice uncharacteristically sharp as he flung the charm-assisted brace to the side. “Like I’m trying to move a mountain with my bloody eyelids?”

You didn’t flinch. But you didn’t reach for the brace, either.

You just said calmly, “Yes. That means you're doing it right.”

He exhaled hard, head falling back against the cushion. “Then why does it feel like I’m going nowhere?”

He didn’t look at you when he asked. That was new. He always looked at you.

You watched him closely. The sweat on his brow. The tension in his jaw. The way his hands — the parts of him that still worked — kept curling into frustrated fists.

“You’re not going nowhere,” you said softly. “You’re moving. It’s just slower than you want.”

“That’s rich,” he muttered. “You try sitting still for sixteen hours a day while your body forgets how to function.”

Your mouth opened — then closed again. You didn’t say anything. Not about your own long shifts. Not about the way your legs shook sometimes after standing too long in surgery. Not about the ache in your own spine from sleepless nights bent over charts.

Because that wasn’t what this was about.

This was about him.

So instead, you bent down, picked up the brace, and set it gently back on the table.

“I’ll come back in an hour,” you said, voice neutral. “We can try again. Or not. Your call.”

You turned to leave, hand on the doorknob.

Before you stepped out, his voice caught you — a little hoarse, a little small.

“I’m trying,” he said.

You looked back.

“I know,” you replied.

The next few days were measured in breaths he didn’t want to take.

Fred was trying — he was — but trying meant facing failure every morning and calling it progress. It meant forcing himself to smile through clenched teeth. It meant hearing his own voice crack when another spell failed to stimulate the nerves in his legs. It meant pretending it didn’t matter when it did. So much.

You never pushed. Not once.

You offered, instructed, encouraged — and when he got short with you, snapped at his own body like it had betrayed him, you simply nodded.

You were kind.

That made it worse.

He would’ve rather you yelled. Got mad. Shoved it back in his face that he was being impossible.

But you never did.

One afternoon, he threw the cane you’d helped him balance with across the room. It hit the far wall with a clatter and dented the plaster. He didn’t say anything after. Just stared at the space where it had landed, jaw locked, chest heaving.

You crossed the room silently, picked up the cane, and leaned it against the table.

Then you walked out.

Not angrily. Not in defeat. But like you knew — finally — he needed a moment where his failure wasn’t seen.

He hated it.

He hated how empty the room felt when you were gone. How quiet everything became. Not the good kind of quiet. Not peace.

Absence.

When you came back twenty minutes later, he didn’t look at you right away. Just muttered, “Sorry.”

You paused at the door.

“I know you are.”

That was all.

You didn’t ask anything of him. Not even an explanation.

He didn’t mean to say it — he really didn’t — but it broke loose before he could swallow it back.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Your eyes lifted, surprised, but you didn’t come closer.

He leaned back against the padded chair, exhausted and sweaty from a session that had ended in nothing but anger.

“I know I’m being… hard to work with,” he muttered, lips twisting bitterly. “And you shouldn’t have to put up with it. But you being here—” He broke off, swallowed. “It’s the best part of my day. The only part that makes me forget I can’t bloody walk.”

Silence.

He had never been a fan of silence, but he hated it now.

You walked over — not with pity, never with pity — and knelt in front of him. Carefully, deliberately. Not looking away even when he did.

“I’m not leaving.”

He looked at you then.

“I was never going to,” you said. “But I’ll give you space if you need it. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to feel this.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Guilt. Relief. Something close to breaking.

You reached for his hand — not in sympathy, but as an anchor.

“I’ll stay,” you said. “If you keep trying.”

His fingers curled around yours, slow and tight.

“I will.”

You smiled.

“Deal.”

It changed after that.

Not all at once. Not with any dramatic shift.

You started staying longer.

Not just for rehabilitation sessions or medical charts. Not just for leg stimulations or potion rounds. You came by in the late afternoons too — when the ward had quieted and the other healers were in the break room, feet up and heads back. When the sun filtered through the windows, making Fred’s bed feel less like a sickbed and more like a quiet place to sit. To talk.

Sometimes you brought your lunch and sat cross-legged at the end of his bed. He made a game of guessing what you’d packed.

“Leftovers,” he’d say without even glancing. “Smells like disappointment and cold peas.”

You’d laugh, show him the curry your father had made the night before.

“Wrong. Smells like love and spices. Try again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow I’m bribing someone in the kitchens to sneak me biscuits. I can’t keep living like this, angel.”

Once, you caught him staring at your sandwich until you tore it in half and offered him a piece.

“I don’t need charity,” he said, but took it anyway. “But I will need your father’s recipe.”

“Don’t push it, Weasley.”

Some days you’d come in later, after shifts, just to sit for a few minutes while the potions settled in his system. He noticed the lines under your eyes then. The way you stood like your spine was one wrong move away from collapsing. The way your fingers ached as you rubbed your temples.

“You’re working too hard.”

“Says the man who got crushed by a castle.”

He didn’t laugh — not right away. But his eyes crinkled. The corner of his mouth pulled.

Touché.

You told him once that your parents were worried. That your mum had written three letters in one week, asking if you were eating, sleeping, “seeing anyone — not romantically, just to talk to.” You rolled your eyes and said you were fine.

Fred looked at you for a long moment.

“You can sit with me,” he said eventually. “Whenever you need to not talk.”

You blinked.

“I mean, I’ll probably still talk,” he added, teasing again. “But you can ignore me if it helps.”

You didn’t ignore him. Not once.

He started keeping track of things. Not medically — emotionally. Like how many cups of tea you’d had that day (he scolded you if it was more than four), or what color robes you wore most often (he claimed blue made you look intimidating, “but in a hot, terrifying way”).

You began bringing small things to help pass the time.

A deck of cards. A soft, squishy ball you could toss back and forth. He caught it with both hands at first, awkward and slow, but determined.

He missed often.

You didn’t laugh. Just tossed it again.

After a few days, he got faster. Grinned when he caught it one-handed and tossed it right back with a bit of flair.

“Finally,” he muttered. “Some dignity.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

He started calling it your game. Insisted no one else was allowed to play it with him.

“It’s catch Fred. I’m pretty sure everyone has played it at one time or another.”

“When I get out, I’ll patent it and it’ll be our game.”

You showed him how to roll his shoulders without straining the rest of his torso. Sometimes, while you were talking, you’d adjust the pillow behind his back or check his leg splints mid-conversation — like it was second nature now. He’d murmur thanks, barely even noticing.

Sometimes he did notice. Like when your hands lingered a second longer than usual, or your eyes lingered on the way his freckles crept over his collarbone.

He’d glance at you.

You’d pretend not to see.

Once, during one of your evening check-ins, you found him asleep. The ball you’d brought rested at his feet. Your book — the one you’d been reading aloud on breaks — lay open beside him. His head lolled slightly toward the light, mouth parted just slightly.

You didn’t wake him.

Instead, you sat beside him in the darkened room and read aloud anyway. Just a page or two. Quiet and slow.

When you marked the spot and stood to leave, his voice broke the stillness.

“Keep reading.”

You froze.

Turned.

He didn’t open his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I sleep better when I hear your voice.”

You sat back down.

You kept reading.

And slowly, day by day, the ward stopped feeling like a ward.

It became a halfway place. A sort of purgatory between what he’d lost and what he was still learning to become.

You were part of that, now. The part that tethered him when nothing else did.

“I think if I ever walk out of here,” he said one rainy evening, as you were playing chess, “you’ll have to come with me. I would have left a part of me here if not.”

You didn’t answer right away.

He turned his head then, eyes meeting yours.

You stared at him for a moment, his gaze unwavering. 

“Check, Weasley,” you said finally.

He grinned, staring at you through squinted eyes. 

George came by more often, now.

Not regularly. Not in any predictable rhythm. But he would appear — sometimes at dusk, sometimes midmorning, sometimes at the tail end of visiting hours — like he was still trying to get used to the idea that his brother was here. Alive. Whole in ways that defied all logic, and broken in others that logic couldn’t mend.

You always tried to give them space when he came.

You’d tidy up, pretend to be busy reorganizing potions or updating charts that didn’t need updating. Sometimes you’d quietly excuse yourself — “I’ll just step out,” — but Fred would shake his head lightly.

“You don’t have to,” he’d say.

But for George, you did.

At least at first.

The first few visits were painfully quiet. George would sit by the window, arms crossed tight across his chest, as if keeping something inside from shattering. Fred would make a comment here or there — light jokes, like pulling thread through scar tissue — and George would answer in monosyllables.

Once, when Fred made a joke about his potions tasting like troll sweat, George huffed a laugh.

It startled both of them.

Later that week, you came in to find George already sitting at the edge of the bed, one foot bouncing, staring at the game ball in his hands.

You opened your mouth to quietly leave, but Fred’s voice cut through.

“Angel,” he said simply. “Stay. Don’t ruin my progress.”

George looked up at you then. There was something almost unreadable in his expression. Like he was trying to figure out what you were to Fred, and what Fred had become since he last saw him whole.

You offered a small nod and sat in the chair across the room. Didn’t say anything. Just watched.

They talked.

It was light, and strained at times, but better. George complained about the shop. About how everything felt wrong now — too quiet, too easy, too hard, all at once.

Fred asked if he’d replaced him yet.

George rolled his eyes. “You’re irreplaceable,” he muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Fred grinned.

You looked away after that. Not because it hurt — but because it felt like something sacred.

But George noticed. He turned toward you after a pause, his voice low.

“He talks about you a lot,” he said, almost like it was nothing. “Says your tea’s awful. But you make up for it with good aim.”

Fred scoffed. “Don’t let her ego inflate. She already thinks she’s smarter than me.”

“I am smarter than you.”

George chuckled — a sound more whole than the last.

He came back more after that.

He started bringing things from the outside — magazines, Honeydukes bags, ideas for their next invention written on scraps of parchment…

You still gave them space. But less now.

Sometimes, George would stay while you worked on Fred’s stretches. You’d press on tight muscles while Fred tried not to flinch, as George recounted his day at the joke shop whilst bouncing the foam ball against the wall.

You always stayed a bit later after his visits. Not because Fred had asked you too. He wouldn’t, not knowing how thinly you were spread. But you knew he needed it. He never said anything, but the way he looked after you was confirmation enough. Eyes tired but steady.

“Thanks for staying.”

You shrugged, not looking up from the chart. “He’s your brother.”

“He’s half of me,” Fred said, and the weight of those words settled in the room.

You looked up then. You nodded, once. 

George started talking to you more.

It was subtle at first — a nod that lasted a little longer, a quip aimed your way instead of just Fred. He didn’t speak to many people at the hospital, and you knew why. The weight of everything sat on his shoulders in a way that no one else could truly understand.

But he spoke to you.

“You always come back,” he said once, catching you outside the room as you wiped your hands on your robes after a shift.

You glanced up, startled. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

George tilted his head, thoughtful. “No. I just… don’t know how you do it.”

You offered a tired smile. “I ask myself that every day.”

His eyes flicked over your face — searching again, the way he always did — before nodding once, as if satisfied.

“Fred’s different with you.”

Your stomach fluttered, unsure of how to respond.

“I mean that in a good way,” George added, shifting on his feet. “He’s... lighter. You’re good for him.”

“I don’t know if I’m good for anyone lately.”

“Tell that to the guy in there who throws a fit when you’re ten minutes late with his lunch.”

You snorted. “He’s dramatic.”

“He’s a Weasley.”

Fair enough.

After that, George started sitting closer when he visited. Sometimes he’d bring two coffees instead of one — and hand you one without comment. Other times, he’d walk with you partway through the ward when he was leaving.

You never spoke about Fred directly. But it was understood between you.

Then one day, you walked into Fred’s room late.

Only by fifteen minutes. But late nonetheless.

You looked like a wreck.

Hair half-pulled back, smudges beneath your eyes, and your usually straight posture had curled in on itself like a wilted stem. You didn’t even try to smile when you walked in — you just dropped the chart on the side table, rubbed your face with both hands, and sank into the chair by the window.

Fred watched you from the bed, eyes narrowed slightly.

“Rough day?” he asked gently.

You made a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan.

“My mentor snapped at me in front of the full staff. One of my patients yelled because the bandages were too tight. Another cried because they didn’t want to do another round of physio. And my parents floo-called to tell me they think I should take a break. For my ‘sanity.’” You mimed air quotes. “And then I spilled pepper-up potion on my sleeve, so now I’m itchy and jittery.”

Fred raised a brow. “That’s it?”

You let out a shaky breath, a helpless smile threatening your mouth. “That’s all before lunch.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Fred reached to the side of his bed, fiddled with something out of sight — and produced the little foam ball you two used for catching practice.

He lobbed it gently toward you. You caught it on instinct.

“Ten points to the decaying healer.”

You looked up at him — half annoyed, half charmed. “You’re a menace.”

He shrugged. “Your words. Personally, I think I’m a delight.”

You tossed the ball back at him. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to hit you harder.”

“I’m lucky you come here at all,” he said, quieter this time.

And something in your chest pulled tight at that.

Fred watched you for another second, then patted the bed beside him.

“Come on,” he said, “five throws each. Winner gets bragging rights. Loser has to admit I’m objectively better looking than Lockhart.”

You snorted. “I’d rather be hexed.”

But you joined him anyway — perching at the foot of the bed, legs dangling, tossing the ball lightly back and forth. The rhythm settled something in you. Predictable. Easy. Safe.

After a while, your shoulders started to loosen.

You didn’t win the game — mostly because he cheated with a well-timed distraction — but you didn’t care. Not really.

And later, as you leaned back in the chair with your eyes half-closed, Fred watched you.

You didn’t see the way his expression softened. How his smile dropped into something quiet and sincere. How his thumb absently traced the edge of the ball in his lap, like he was holding something fragile. 

He didn’t say it yet.

But he was starting to fall for you.

Perhaps he had been falling for a while now.

Hard.

Rehab had been brutal.

Fred had tried to put on a brave face. Had thrown out his usual snark when the mediwitch asked him to try the support bars again. But he’d barely lasted a minute before the tremble in his arms turned into a full collapse, knees buckling beneath him as his legs gave way.

You’d caught him before he hit the floor — arms tight around his waist, easing him back into the chair. But it had taken everything in you not to show what it felt like to watch him fall.

He didn’t say anything as you helped guide the chair back into the room.

Didn’t look at you when you adjusted the angle of his brace.

Didn’t thank you when you handed him water.

So, you gave him space.

You finished the notes in silence. Asked if he needed anything. When he shook his head, you stepped out — quietly, gently — and told yourself it was what he wanted.

You didn’t expect him to knock on the ward’s glass an hour later.

It was late. Past curfew. Most patients were asleep, and the halls had gone still.

You looked up from the chart you were reading and blinked in surprise.

Fred was sitting in the wheelchair at the door to the staff wing. Alone. Slouched slightly, with a blanket thrown haphazardly across his lap. He looked tired.

“I told the nurse I had to pee,” he said when you opened the door. “Then I bribed her with a Honeyduke’s chocolate bar from my drawer.”

You stared at him. “Fred—”

“I know. But I needed air.” His eyes flicked up to yours. “I needed you.”

The breath caught in your throat.

You stepped out into the hall.

The light was dim. The usually fluorescent lights, now a bit softer on the eyes. 

You sat on the floor across the halfway, knees pressed up to your chest. He wheeled his way next to you.

He rested his forearms on the armrests, silent for a long beat.

“I’m not angry at you,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “I didn’t think you were.”

“I wanted to be. When you stepped out earlier.” His jaw flexed. “It’s easier to be angry at someone than it is to admit I’m… failing.”

You shook your head. “Fred—”

“I know. I know it takes time. I know I’m lucky to be alive. I know it could be worse. But sometimes I sit in that bed and I feel like… like my life has been cut in half and I’m meant to smile through it.”

He swallowed hard. His hands were clenched tight in his lap.

“And then you walk in and ask me what kind of soup I want, or throw a bloody ball at my head, and for a few minutes, I forget how broken I feel.”

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him.

“I don’t want you to go when it gets hard,” he continued. “I know I’ve been an arse. And I’ll probably keep being one. But if you stay... I’ll try. Even when I want to quit.”

You moved then — slowly — standing from your chair and walking the short distance to him. You crouched beside the wheelchair, resting your hand lightly on his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly.

His hand turned beneath yours, fingers curling around your wrist.

You stayed like that for a moment — quiet and steady — before you stood up and opened the door to the healer’s ward once again.

“Tea?” you offered with a small smile.

Fred snorted. “You’re an angel.”

You didn’t feel like it, not with the heavy bags beneath your eyes. “Your words, not mine.”

He drank. You did too.

And when you finally escorted him back to his room, he didn’t ask for help to the bed. He shifted himself, slowly but determined, and gave you a look that made your chest feel too full.

“Sleep well,” you said at the door.

“Only if you promise to come back tomorrow.”

“When have I not?”

You hadn’t slept much.

The night before replayed in your mind on a loop — the words he said, the way his voice had cracked just slightly, like he’d been holding that weight in his chest for too long. The way he’d looked at you like you were something steady. Something safe.

It haunted you, in the best and worst ways.

You’d turned it over again and again in your head — what he needed, what he wanted, what might help even if it didn’t feel like help at first.

By the time morning came, you’d made up your mind.

You found your senior healer in the apothecary wing, elbow-deep in the delicate task of rebalancing nerve-healing draughts. You waited until she was done pouring and cleared your throat softly.

“I think Fred Weasley might be ready to go home,” you said, voice quiet but certain.

She looked at you over her spectacles. “You think so?”

“He’s physically ready. The wounds are closed, and he’s managing his pain. The paralysis won’t change overnight, but he’s stable. Emotionally…” You hesitated. “He needs to be around his people. Somewhere familiar. I think it’s the next step in his recovery.”

She was silent for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Bring it up. If the family agrees and we can organize home support, I’ll sign off.”

And just like that, the idea was real.

You had no idea how Fred would take it.

He’d said he wanted you to stay. That he didn’t want to face the hard parts without you. And yet… you couldn’t ignore the spark that lit in his eyes whenever George showed up. Or the fact that no matter how steady you were, there were things family could give that you couldn’t.

So, you walked back through the familiar halls, ready to talk to him.

You didn’t expect the smell of burning toast.

The closer you got to the room, the clearer the sound became — clattering, muffled curses, and something that suspiciously resembled a pan hitting the floor.

You paused in the doorway.

Fred was sitting in his chair, grinning like a madman, a lopsided apron tied around his waist. George was by the counter in the little kitchenette of the room, waving a dishrag like a flag and coughing dramatically.

“I said keep an eye on the toast, not burn it!” Fred barked, laughing.

“I was multitasking!” George wheezed.

There was a bowl of eggs that had definitely once been scrambled, but were now a strange rubbery texture which you were sure was not edible to anything with a pulse. A pan full of what may have once been tomatoes sizzled on the stovetop, and there were suspicious splashes of something orange on the wall.

You couldn’t help it — you burst out laughing.

Fred looked over and caught you in the doorway. His eyes brightened immediately.

“Just in time for breakfast!”

“Did you set something on fire?” you asked, stepping in and surveying the kitchen.

“Technically no,” Fred said. “Everything was contained. There was a brief emotional fire when George forgot the salt—”

“Emotional fire?” George scoffed. “You threw a spoon at me!”

You were still laughing as you shook your head, brushing a stray curl back from your face.

“I was actually coming to talk to you about something,” you said, glancing toward Fred as you moved to open the window and let some of the smoke out.

Fred turned toward you, wiping his hands on the apron. “This sounds serious.”

“It’s not bad.” You leaned against the windowsill. “I think you might be ready to go home.”

George froze, halfway through peeling a very sad-looking banana.

Fred’s smile faded. Not immediately, but gradually, like sunlight slipping behind a cloud. “Home?”

You nodded, keeping your voice steady. “You’re strong enough. We’d set up home care, rehab would continue with a specialist visiting daily. Your family’s willing. It’d… be a change of pace. Maybe help.”

Fred was quiet.

You could see the gears turning behind his eyes.

“I thought you said you weren’t going anywhere,” he said, not unkindly.

Your throat tightened, but you managed a small smile. “I’m not. You are. And I think it'll help you. You need a familiar space. A burnt breakfast every morning if that’s what it takes.”

He looked down at his hands.

You didn’t press.

Instead, you gave them a soft nod. “I’ll let you two talk. Take your time. I’ll check back in later.”

You stepped back, gently shutting the door behind you.

You didn’t go far — just outside the room, where you leaned against the wall and tried not to feel like the rug had been tugged from beneath you. It had been your idea. You knew it was right. And yet… it ached.

Inside, you could hear their voices, lower now, more serious.

You couldn’t make out the words, but you could imagine.

And still, even through the ache, a small part of you smiled.

Because for all the setbacks and scars and late-nights… Fred was alive.

And he was loved.

And you had helped him get here.

That, you reminded yourself, was more than enough

The last night in the ward was a quiet one.

Too quiet.

You had made your rounds as usual, marking notes on your clipboard, double-checking potion times, restocking bandages. Most of the long-term patients were asleep or sedated. Those who weren’t were staring blankly at the ceiling, or out the windows, waiting for morning.

Waiting for something to change.

Fred was scheduled to go home just after breakfast. You were told the Weasleys would be arriving early. Arthur had insisted on it, claiming Molly wouldn’t sleep a wink until they had him under their roof. George had promised pancakes. Ginny had apparently insisted on bringing tea from her personal stash.

You’d smiled when you heard all of that.

You weren’t smiling now.

You stood outside Fred’s room with your hand on the door for a good thirty seconds before you pushed it open.

He was already awake.

Sitting in bed, propped up on one elbow, staring down at his lap. His hair was slightly damp from a recent wash. The tray of food you’d left earlier sat untouched on the small rolling table near his side.

The air felt strange. Still, but tense. Like a storm brewing in reverse.

You tried to keep your voice light. “That porridge must be particularly bad today for it to be untouched.”

He didn’t answer.

You stepped in, setting your clipboard down gently. “Mind if I do your check-up now?”

He just shrugged. A single shoulder, lifted without effort or interest.

You moved quietly. Checked his vitals. His pulse. Asked if he’d been feeling lightheaded, any sharp pain, nausea. He gave one-word answers or nodded. Didn’t meet your eyes once.

You tried again, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Tomorrow, first thing, you get to breathe real air. Try not to miss the smell of antiseptic too much.”

Still nothing.

You exhaled softly. “Alright. I’ll just—”

“I’m angry.”

The words came suddenly — not snapped, but solid. Firm.

Your hands stilled over the cuff you’d just fastened around his arm. You looked up, heart slipping sideways.

“I can tell,” you said quietly.

Fred’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“I talked to my senior. I had to—”

“I didn’t say ask her. I said me.”

The silence stretched.

You straightened slowly, lowering your hand and giving him your full attention. “My work is to take care of you. To do what’s in your best interest. You’ve been needing this — your family.”

He finally looked at you. There was no humor in his eyes now. Just something sharp and tired and burning underneath.

“I meant what I said,” he told you. “About not walking out of here whole.”

You tried to diffuse it with a small smile. “Technically, you're not walking anywhere. Not yet, anyway.”

But the moment the joke left your mouth, you wished you hadn’t said it.

Fred didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he turned his face away. “You always do that.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make it easier for you. Easier for me. Like if we don’t say it out loud, it won’t hurt as much.”

There was a long, full pause.

You crossed your arms, pressing your lips together for a moment. Then said quietly, “I am sorry you’re angry. But I’m not sorry for doing what was best for you. That’s my job, Fred.”

He let out a humorless breath. “I don’t need a specialist. I don’t need more strangers in white coats. I need you.”

You looked down at your hands. “I can’t be with you all the time.”

“I’m not asking for all the time,” he said, frustrated now. “I just don’t want it to be work for you. Because it sure as hell was not just rehabilitation for me. ”

You felt your chest tighten.

“I don’t want to go back to waking up without anyone to talk to,” he went on, voice quieter now. “Or being told how to feel about everything. You… you just sat with me. Even when I was a mess. Especially when I was a mess.”

“I only did what anyone would’ve done—”

“No, you didn’t.”

The words cracked like a whip.

You looked up. His eyes were glassy, but there were no tears. Just weight.

“No one stayed the way you did,” he said. “George tries, and I love him for it, but he’s grieving too. My mum walks in and sees me as a boy again. The rest of the world looks at me and sees someone who should be dead.”

His hand clenched on the blanket. “But you… you looked at me like I was still me. Even when I wasn’t sure I was.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You stepped closer, sat gently on the edge of the bed.

“I’m scared,” he said after a moment, the anger softening into something quieter. “And I don’t want to be scared alone.”

You reached out and, for the first time that night, let your hand rest on his.

“I’ll visit,” you said. “I’ll owl before I come. I’ll check in. I’ll bring that ridiculous throwing ball if you want me to.”

Fred sniffed. “I hate that ball.”

You gave a small smile. “I thought it was supposed to be our game.”

He chuckled. “Alright,” he said. “But I’m holding you to it. You’ll come by.”

“Regularly.”

“And you won’t make it weird.”

“When have I ever?” you replied, though you avoided his eyes as you smiled.

Fred laughed again, for real this time.

You sat there in the soft glow of the moonlight slipping in through the high window, your fingers still resting against his knuckles.

You’d get up in a moment. You’d finish your rounds. He’d leave in the morning.

But just for a moment longer, you both let yourselves sit with the anger. With the ache. With whatever was happening between you two. With this thing that didn’t demand answers, just presence.

It took you two weeks to go.

Not for lack of invitation. Fred had owled the day after he left St. Mungo’s — his handwriting barely legible, the ink smudged in spots like he’d pressed too hard. He said the house was loud, chaotic, smelled like cinnamon and broom polish. Said George had already stolen his pillow and Ginny threatened to hex his tea if he kept bossing people around.

He signed it simply: "Still waiting for that visit. Don’t make me throw the ball at myself."

You had smiled, reread it three times, then folded it neatly and tucked it into your coat pocket like it was something fragile.

But still, it took you a week.

Because seeing someone in a sterile room under white sheets was different from seeing them home.

Because something about crossing that threshold — stepping into his world instead of him being tucked away in yours — felt… enormous.

But you went.

The walk up to the Burrow was just as strange and crooked as you remembered from childhood stories. Smoke curling from the chimney. Gnomes scampering under hedges. Someone laughing somewhere near the garden.

The front door was already open when you reached it.

You raised your hand to knock anyway.

“I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you again.”

Fred’s voice floated from the sitting room.

You turned, startled, and there he was — wheeling into view from the corner, dressed in a soft jumper, his hair slightly mussed like he’d been trying to fix it and given up halfway. He looked better. Healthier. Not completely healed. His movements were still stiff, one hand resting over his leg like it didn’t quite belong to him, but the color in his face was warmer. There was light in his eyes again.

“Still dramatic, I see,” you said.

He smirked. “Only on Mondays.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Then you’re lucky.”

You stepped inside slowly, blinking at how the house seemed to breathe. It wasn’t just lived in — it was loved in. Blankets strewn on couches. Socks tucked half under the coffee table. A plant hanging sideways from a bent curtain rod.

You smiled. “It looks like it’s about to collapse.”

“It almost has. Several times,” Fred said cheerfully. “Mum says if the magic ever gives out, we’re going down with it.”

He motioned to a chair. You sat, smoothing your coat. He watched you carefully, without saying anything for a minute too long.

Then, “You look tired, angel.”

“Work didn’t stop when you left.”

“I’d like to think I was more than work.”

You smiled, then looked away, your fingers curling together in your lap. “I wasn’t sure if I should come. I didn’t want to… overstep.”

Fred tilted his head. “Why would you think that?”

“I’ve seen people leave St. Mungo’s and never want to look back. Sometimes they don’t want reminders. Or… witnesses.”

Fred’s expression softened.

“You’re not a witness,” he said. “You’re a person I want around.”

Your throat tightened slightly.

Before you could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.

George appeared, hair damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He paused when he saw you, one brow raising like he wasn’t expecting you so soon.

You waved. “Hi, George.”

He gave a nod that wasn’t unfriendly, just slightly cautious. “Hey.”

Then he looked at Fred. “Mum’s finishing lunch. You want to come into the kitchen?”

Fred glanced at you, then back to his brother. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

George didn’t say anything for a second, but then he nodded again and turned to go.

“See? I’m a reminder.”

“He’s just figuring you out,” Fred said. “You scare people. In a good way.”

You huffed. “I’d say the ward lights wash me out. Make me look sick rather than scary.”

“Intimidating,” he deadpanned. “Truly terrifying.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, softer: “I missed you.”

You looked up, your throat suddenly thick again. “It’s only been two weeks.”

“I know.” Fred gave a small shrug, his fingers picking absently at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. “Still felt too long.”

The moment hovered before you offered a soft smile, one he returned, a little lopsided, a little shy. For all his wit, for all his easy humor, Fred could still be earnest in a way that tugged at something deep beneath your ribs.

You leaned back in your seat. “The owl helped.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “I kept it. It’s still in my coat pocket.”

Fred leaned back on his chair. “I knew I would grow on you eventually.”

“Hard not to, Weasley.”

There was a pause, but this one was comfortable — filled with the low hum of magic in the walls, distant clinking from the kitchen, and the occasional thump of someone moving overhead. You watched as Fred’s gaze drifted to the window beside him. Sunlight spilled in, catching the faint auburn in his hair and warming the pale skin of his cheek. He looked peaceful, or as close to it as you’d ever seen him.

You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to ask how he’d really been sleeping, maybe to admit how strange it was to be here and feel like you’d never left — when George’s voice rang out again.

“Oi, you staying for lunch?”

You startled slightly, blinking as you registered the words.

Fred looked smug.

“I was getting to it,” he called back.

There was a muffled snort, followed by the unmistakable clatter of a spoon hitting the floor. Someone — possibly Ron — swore loudly in the background. You could just barely hear Molly’s exasperated “Language!” echoing from the kitchen.

Fred turned back to you. “So? Are you staying?”

It was a loaded question, as if there was more on the table than just food. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Fred’s eyes didn’t waver.

“You know you’re not.”

You glanced toward the kitchen, where you could still hear soft chatter and the scrape of chairs.

“I didn’t bring anything,” you said, a little lamely. “Not even dessert.”

The Burrow became a second home before you ever realized it.

At first, you had thought your visits would taper off — that Fred would settle into his recovery and you’d fall back into your usual rotations, long days at St. Mungo’s, long nights collapsing into bed. But somehow, your feet always found their way to the crooked path leading to the Weasleys’ door.

The first time you arrived uninvited — with an old book under your arm and half a plan to read it in Fred’s room while he ignored the pages and made sarcastic commentary — no one batted an eye. Molly had handed you a mug of tea, murmured, “You’re in time for supper,” and Arthur had already started setting another place at the table.

From then on, it just… kept happening.

You were there for Ginny’s birthday in August. She roped you into a backyard Quidditch match you had absolutely no business participating in, and you nearly tripped over a garden gnome during takeoff. Fred hadn’t stopped laughing about it for a week. You threw cake at him in retaliation. George joined in for the second round.

You were there when Bill brought his daughter to visit and introduced her to the whole family for the first time. Fleur had insisted on brushing her hair while you held her, and Fred had whispered, “You’d be terrifying with one of your own.”

You’d arched a brow. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

He’d shrugged, trying not to smile. “Blame the baby. They bring out my softer side.”

And then there was the summer afternoon that stuck in your mind long after it ended.

It was late July, the sky a pale, hazy blue, and the garden buzzing with lazy bees and bursts of laughter. Someone — likely Percy — had enchanted the radio to play soft jazz, and you were lying on a blanket in the grass with your shoes off and your head tipped back to soak in the sun. Fred sat a few feet away, sketching patterns in the dirt with his wand and occasionally flicking it toward unsuspecting gnomes. His legs were stretched out in front of him, slightly stiff but stronger — the kind of stronger that came from months of stubbornness and sheer grit.

“Reckon I could walk to the shed,” he mused aloud.

You turned your head toward him. “That shed is a death trap. Pick a different goal.”

He looked over at you. “Fine. Walk to you, then.”

You raised a brow, amusement curling in your chest. “That the new benchmark?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully, then grinned. “It’s always been the benchmark.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it.

That was the summer you started leaving a toothbrush at the Burrow.

You stopped knocking when you came in. Molly started calling your name when she needed help peeling potatoes. Ginny nicked your nail polish. Arthur grinned every time you brought up something Muggle-related just to watch his eyes light up with curiosity.

And Fred… Fred started asking if you’d be there tomorrow before you’d even said goodbye for the night.

By autumn, your jumper was hanging on a hook by the kitchen door. Halloween arrived with carved pumpkins bobbing in the orchard and enchanted skeletons that chased Ron around the kitchen. You helped Molly string bewitched cobwebs over the windows while Fred supervised from just outside the kitchen, providing you with the most useless kind of commentary. George charmed every apple in the bobbing barrel to shriek like banshees, and you caught Fred watching you laugh.

Somewhere, as the weather became colder, the space you took up in the house shifted— from guest to something else entirely. Not official or labeled. But known. When Fred was too sore to come down for breakfast, you were the one Molly handed the tray to without being asked.

When Christmas came, you received a handmade jumper with your initial stitched in gold thread.

When New Year’s arrived, they asked you to bring your family.

You hadn’t expected it, honestly. You’d mentioned your parents once or twice, but never in detail. Still, the invitation came in the form of a cheerful note from Molly, complete with a floo address, a time, and a subtle but unmistakable, “We’d love to meet the people who raised you.”

Your parents came. It was awkward at first, your mother clutching a tin of biscuits like a peace offering, your father blinking at the enchanted cookware, but quickly swept into the warmth of the Burrow like they belonged there. Arthur cornered your dad to discuss plug sockets. Your mum helped Ginny in the kitchen and was thoroughly impressed by her wandwork with icing.

And you?

You found Fred near the edge of the living room, watching the chaos unfold with a fond sort of exasperation.

“You made it,” he said, straightening when he saw you.

“Of course I did,” you said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He was standing — with a fair bit of effort — but standing nevertheless. He leaned slightly against the frame of the door, a cane in one hand and something careful in the way he held himself. 

You blinked at him, taking it in. “Fred…”

“It’s New Year’s,” he said casually. “Figured I’d start it standing.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you crossed the room slowly, until you reached him. Your hands snaked around his waist, steadying him without making it obvious. 

He glanced down at you, expression unreadable for a moment, before a quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Hi,” you said softly, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“Hi.” His voice was warm. Steady, despite the cane in one hand and the slight tremor in his knee.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You could hear George laughing behind you, the low thrum of the wireless switching into something slow and familiar. Fred’s fingers twitched at his side, his eyes flicking briefly toward the center of the room where Arthur had just pulled Molly into a waltz that was more affection than grace.

“Dance with me?” he asked.

You blinked. “Are you sure?”

He tilted his head, mock-offended. “Are you saying no?”

“I’m saying your Healer’s going to be very cross with you if you faceplant into the soup.”

Fred snorted. “Good thing she’s off-duty tonight.” His voice dropped just a little. “And mine, apparently.”

You stared at him for a second longer, then held out your hand.

He took it without hesitation.

You helped him into the center of the room. His free hand found your waist with surprising familiarity, and your arm curled lightly around his shoulder, careful of the still-healing muscle beneath his jumper.

The music was slow. A string-heavy tune that didn’t require any real movement, just soft swaying and shared breath.

Fred leaned in slightly. “You’ll have to do most of the work.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you murmured.

That earned you a grin.

You swayed together, the world narrowing a little. Not in a dizzying way, but rather in a peaceful one. Like all the noise of the Burrow, all the flying candles and floating paper stars and loud Weasley laughter, had dropped to a quiet hum.

“This is nice,” Fred said eventually, his chin brushing your temple.

“It is.”

“Mum’s probably getting suspicious.”

You blinked, drawing back just enough to see his face. “Suspicious of what?”

He smirked. “That you’re not just performing healer duties anymore.”

You laughed, quick and involuntary, your forehead pressing briefly to his chest. “You think?.”

He hummed.

“What makes you say that?”

“You keep showing up for one,” he whispered back.

You laughed and carefully ran your fingers through his hair. You decided against reminding him how he would owl you every time you went more than two days without visiting. 

“I think the way you kept making mistletoe appear under every door during Christmas and kissing me, might have tipped her off as well.”

He grinned down at you. 

You bit back a smile. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Fred pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I know.”

The music faded, replaced by a more upbeat tune, and someone behind you — George, by the sound of it — whooped loudly and dragged Percy into a clumsy two-step.

You started to step away, but Fred’s hand held firm at your waist.

“Don’t let go just yet,” he said.

“So you like me too,” you teased, but didn’t pull away.

Fred gave you a look, one of those crooked, lopsided half-smiles that always seemed to undo you a little. Mischief around the eyes, affection under the surface.

“I’ve been told it’s fairly obvious.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? By whom?”

“Mum. George. Ginny. That one weird mirror upstairs that whispers truths when you walk past it too fast—”

You snorted. “That thing’s cursed.”

“Cursed and correct,” he said, grinning.

Your heart tugged, just a little, at the ease of it all. The comfort. The slow, stubborn way he folded you into his life and refused to let you back out.

“And here I thought you were just using me for my medical expertise,” you said lightly.

“Oh, absolutely,” Fred said, mock-serious. “The way you check my bandages? Riveting. Can’t get enough.”

You stayed there with him in the middle of the room, just swaying a little to music that no longer matched your pace, his cane braced lightly against the side of your foot, your arms looped around each other like muscle memory.

And then, with the timing of someone who’d clearly been lurking and waiting for it, George called from across the room: “Oi! Should we start planning the wedding now, or are you still pretending this is about physical therapy?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “It’s intensive therapy, George. Leave us be.”

You giggled, pressing a hand against Fred’s chest and helping him reach for his cane.

“Do you see what you’ve done?” you murmured.

“I do,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

Fred took the cane from you with practiced ease, but didn’t move right away. His hand lingered at your waist, thumb brushing a small, absent pattern against your side.

“C’mon,” he said at last, nodding toward the doorway. “Let’s go before George ropes Percy into a conga line again.”

You smiled and moved with him, matching your steps to his pace without thinking. You’d long since stopped counting it as effort.

Just as you reached the edge of the room, he paused, fingers still laced loosely with yours.

You turned to look at him.

He was already watching you.

“Thanks for showing up,” he said. 

You tilted your head, sneaking your arms around his waist once again. This time, stepping on your tippy-toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“When have I not?”

That made him smile. He pulled you closer by the waist and pressed a kiss on your jaw, which tickled you.

“Happy New Year, angel.”

You didn’t say anything back. Not because you didn’t have a thousand things you could’ve said, but because in that moment, none of them needed saying.

[sshnzsr]

strangers.

warnings: cannibalism (don’t like it? don’t read it), murder, death, manipulation, toxic relationships, self-blame, unhealthy obsession, lmk if I missed anything.

wordcount: 1.3k

masterlist | strangers - ethel cain

The basement air hung heavy, thick with the stench of smoke and damp rot. You woke again, if waking was even the right word anymore. Your body lay still, cold, sprawled across the concrete floor, yet your mind churned, trapped in a haze of regret and bitter irony. A small silver tray sat nearby, the food on it untouched. Mold crept along the edges of the bread, the meat congealing in its own grease. You never ate it. You couldn’t. Not when you knew what he was capable of.

The doorknob twisted, a sound that sent a shiver through your lifeless form, though you had no nerves left to feel it.

The door creaked open and there he was. His silhouette filled the frame, sharp jawline catching the dim light from the single bulb swaying above. His dark hair fell just so, framing those piercing eyes that once made your heart race for all the wrong reasons.

He looked handsome, disgustingly so and the thought made your stomach twist, or it would have, if you still had one to twist. How could you still find him beautiful after everything?

It made you sick, this lingering pull toward him, this love that refused to die even when you did.

He stepped closer, his boots heavy against the floor, each thud echoing in the hollow space. You watched him through eyes that no longer blinked, your thoughts a jumbled mess of love and loathing.

You were nothing now, just a body, a thing for him to use.

And yet, you couldn’t stop the memories from flooding back. those fleeting moments when you thought he loved you, when his touch felt like salvation instead of a trap.

You’d been warned, hadn’t you? Don’t talk to strangers, they said. But Sunghoon wasn’t a stranger, not really. He’d smiled at you, listened to you, made you feel seen when no one else did. And you, desperate for love, had fallen right into his hands.

Now, here you were, or what was left of you. Your body, stiff and unyielding, was his to do with as he pleased.

He knelt beside you, his fingers brushing against your cold skin and you wondered what he saw when he looked at you.

Did he see the girl who loved him, who believed in him? Or did he just see meat? The thought made you laugh, a soundless, bitter thing in the confines of your mind. Tough, you thought. That’s what he’d find when he tried to take a bite. Not the weak, spineless girl he’d manipulated, the one he’d mocked for being too soft, too trusting. No, your flesh was tough now, rigid with death, hard to chew, harder to swallow.

You found a grim humor in that. All your life, you’d never been strong, never resilient. But now, in death, you were giving him trouble, making him work for every piece of you he took.

Sunghoon’s knife glinted as he pulled it from his belt, the blade catching the light. He hummed softly, a tune you didn’t recognize, as he began his work. The sound of the knife slicing through you was distant, like it was happening to someone else. You couldn’t feel it, not physically, but each cut carved deeper into your soul. You wondered what he thought as he ate. Was it good? Did you taste as sweet as he’d hoped? You wanted to ask, your voice silent but screaming in your head.

“Do I make you happy now, Sunghoon? Is this what you wanted?”

You thought back to your life, to the girl you’d been. You’d tried so hard to be good, hadn’t you? You’d followed the rules, loved with all you had, even when it hurt. You’d given pieces of yourself to people who didn’t deserve them.

Your mother, who never noticed when you were drowning.

Your friends, who turned away when you needed them most.

And Sunghoon, who saw your desperation and used it like a weapon.

You’d wanted love so badly, you’d let him destroy you for it. And now, here you were, dead and still loving him, still wanting to be enough for him. It was pathetic and you hated yourself for it.

He took another bite, his teeth working through the tough meat of your arm. You imagined him grimacing, struggling to chew and it made you laugh again.

Tough. That’s what you were now.

Not the fragile girl he’d broken, but something harder, something that fought back even in death. You wondered if he’d get sick from you, if your body would turn in his stomach, make him retch and regret. The thought was oddly satisfying. You had no grave to turn in, no headstone to mark your name.

Your grave was his stomach, your body churning inside him, making him ill. It was a twisted kind of justice.

You thought of your mother and the ache was sharp, even without a heart to feel it. She’d never know what happened to you. You’d run away, chasing Sunghoon’s promises and now you were gone. She’d be left with questions, with grief, with a sick feeling in her gut that something terrible had happened. You hated that you’d never see her again, that you’d left her with nothing but silence.

Crime scene photos, a cautionary tale. No funeral, no closure. Just a girl who loved too much and paid the price. That’s all you’d ever be.

Sunghoon paused, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked at you, or what was left of you and you wondered what he saw. Did he feel anything? Did he ever love you, even a little? Or was it always hunger, possession, control?

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cold skin and whispered, “Baby, if it feels good, then it can’t be bad.” His voice was soft, almost tender and it made you want to scream.

How could he say that? How could he make this sound like love, like something beautiful? But maybe, in some sick way, you believed him. Maybe you wanted to believe that this was love, that being consumed by him was the closest you’d ever get to being wanted.

“And I never blamed you for loving me the way that you did,”

you thought, your words echoing in the void of your mind. You didn’t hate him, not really. You hated yourself for falling, for staying, for letting him twist your need for love into something so ugly. But even now, as he tore you apart, you couldn’t stop loving him. It was pure, unconditional and it broke you all over again. You wanted to be good for him, even as he destroyed you. You wanted to be enough.

He kept eating and you kept watching, your thoughts spiraling into the dark. You were gone, but you were still here, haunting this basement, haunting him.

You’d never leave, not really. You were in his blood now, in his bones. You were the sickness in his stomach, the ache in his chest. You were the girl who loved him, even when it killed her. And as the smoke curled through the air and the bulb flickered above, you laughed one last time, a silent, bitter sound.

Tough, you thought. Let him choke on you.

[mono-red-goblin-party]

What You Can't Have: Part Two

Part One | AO3

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: In an attempt to save your floundering music career, you accept the lead role in Mr. Right, a reality TV show with a massive following. All you have to do is fall in love with one of twenty perfect guys, and you'll have everything you've ever wanted. There's only one problem, and his name is Joel Miller. Your cameraman is infuriating, unfriendly, and entirely off-limits. So why can't you stop fantasizing about him?

Tags: AU, smut, medium angst, slow ish burn, no use of y/n, jealous!joel, dad!joel, extremely inaccurate production details because I want them to fuck

Chapter-specific content warnings: Smut :), masturbation, mentions of oral sex

Word count: ~3.5K

A/N: This is my first published fanfic, so please let me know what you think!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter Two~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I thought that pleasing you would save me, Was the perfect girl you made me, Watched as you grew jealous Of the palace where you caged me”

--“Wishing Tree”, Glass Slipper, Track No. 8. Music and Lyrics by You

You wake the next day in mid-afternoon, your body heavy from the sleepless night. Light filters in around the edges of the hotel room’s blackout curtains. You would love to roll over and get more rest – filming doesn’t start again until tomorrow – but there’s a meeting with the production team in an hour. Dream Girls don’t sleep through “story development” meetings, so you pull off your covers and head to the bathroom to shower.

You turn up the heat to near-scalding and step under the water. You take a deep breath and try to sort through your feelings about last night.

You had the chance to talk to a little more than half of the Suitors during the cocktail party, and you realize that you genuinely enjoyed yourself. Casting did a great job this season, you think. You already feel at ease around Henry, and Lucas – the soap bubbles guy – has an un-self-conscious charm that you know will translate well on screen. Plenty of the Suitors are just the type of guy that Mr. Right fans – who go en-masse by the title of Righteous Nation – will adore.

You wonder if any of the guys are interested in you, or if they all just want to be on TV. It’s not like you can begrudge them for wanting the same things you do, but the thought stirs up a pang of loneliness all the same.

Focus. You’re not here for a boyfriend. You close your eyes and angle your face to catch the spray of hot water.

It’s impossible to sift through your conversations from last night without thinking of Joel. He’s the opposite of the Suitors, you think, wholly uninterested in playing nice. But he’s honest.

And he’s so very good at what he does, even if it unsettles you to be studied so completely.  You feel exposed to him. You think of Joel’s steady gaze panning over your body, registering the effect he has on you. His voice, slow and deep, always entirely unaffected.

Heat pools inside you.

Joel is shuttered up so tight. What would it feel like to lay him bare?

The image comes to you at once. Joel’s body beneath your hands. The broad swell of his chest. His hot skin against your own.

Your nipples stiffen under rivulets of water. You feel a twist of shame – you shouldn’t be thinking of him like this – and then, coursing inside you like a river un-dammed, a great rush of desire. You close your eyes, surrender to the fantasy, and oh, it feels good to just let yourself want him.

Joel’s tongue lathing over your nipple.His cock, fuck, your hand stroking his cock. Feeling him harden for you.

You picture Joel’s dark gaze on you, his eyes lidded with pleasure as you lower your mouth to him, hard and leaking for you. You want to run your tongue over him, to know what it sounds like when he moans from want. Joel impatient, thrusting up into your mouth when you finally wrap your lips around him.

You moan, fingers finding your clit. You feel yourself slick with need, so sensitive already at the thought of him.

Fuck, you want him. You want him stretching out your throat. Coming down it.

It’s the thought of him emptying into you that brings you off, your orgasm claiming you all at once. The sharp release sweeps through you, leaves you slumped against the shower wall, dizzy with pleasure.

You reach for the faucet and still the rush of water. The ragged sound of your breathing fills the silent room as cool air settles on your skin.

Slowly, your mind clears. You pause for a moment to lock the fantasy deep inside you. Then you turn the water back on and lather shampoo into your hair. You have a meeting to get to, and Dream Girls show up on time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You learn several key pieces of information from the story development meeting. First, that Joel Miller gets a cinematography credit for Mr. Right. This means he has to sit in on the story meetings so he can… cinematograph? to the best of his abilities. Eliza explains this to you in a whisper when Joel arrives ten minutes late, curls damp from the shower, looking sinful in a flannel with the top few buttons loose. You’re only half listening, the rest of your attention lost in the hint of Joel’s bare collarbone. Your attraction to him feels different now that you’ve let it taste control. Greedy.

Given the deranged state of your inner monologue, it’s probably for the best that Joel doesn’t acknowledge you as he enters. He claims a seat near the back of the room and scowls as Tess Servopoulos, executive producer of Mr. Right, levels a death glare in his direction.

Your second takeaway from the meeting is that Tess Servopoulos is terrifying. And a little hot. She shakes off Joel’s interruption, steering the conversation back to the issue at hand, and your final learning point of the day: production is extremely displeased that you didn’t kiss anyone last night.

Tess dims the lights and has an editor project a clip from the cocktail party. Your stomach leaps as you recognize Joel’s work. You’re in the terraced garden behind the Mr. Right Villa, sitting with Mike, the paramedic who had you listen to his heartbeat, at the bottom of a set of stone steps. Joel made you change positions twice for this shot, and now you understand why. Above you, the staircase ends in a floral archway, almost like a wedding arbor. You are yet to say a word, but the message is clear. This is the start of something.

You watch yourself hand Mike back his stethoscope. It’s his turn to listen to your heart. This piece of flirtation was Eliza’s idea. The video cuts to a close-up of Mike’s hand on the chestpiece of his stethoscope. He holds the instrument to your bare skin, right at the edge of your neckline. You watch as his pinky slides ever-so-slightly beneath the strap of your gown.

Your face heats up. You don’t even remember Mike touching you, but the footage is deliberate, thick with tension. You steal a glance and Joel. He’s watching you, expression unreadable in the dark room. Your eyes connect for a moment, and he shifts his gaze back to the footage.

On screen, Mike takes off the stethoscope.

“Your heart is beating really fast,” he says.

You give him a soft smile. Your Dream Girl smile.

“Well, I’m really happy that you’re here.”

Another suggestion from Eliza. You watch yourself reach off camera to pick up a small, heart-shaped love letter.

In the world of Mr. Right, love letters are the currency of survival. Every week you’ll give out less and less of them, eliminating the Suitors who don’t receive one. The Love at First Sight Letter – the one your onscreen self is currently pinning to Mike’s blazer – is the first of the season.

Giving the letter to Mike was Eliza’s call. Mr. Right is at its best when the Dream Girl is torn between Suitors, she explained, and your scenes with Henry have enough “fangirl worthy” chemistry that Righteous Nation will love him no matter what. By offering the letter to Mike, you set up someone else to root for.

Mike accepts, of course. You watch as he pulls you in for a hug, then takes your hand to lead you back to the party. The video ends. Tess flips on the light. Deliberately, she shifts her attention to a stocky, red-haired producer in the front row.

“Jacob,” she says. “This guy is one of your Suitors, right? Is he morally opposed to kissing beautiful women?”

The producer – Jacob – swallows. “Yeah,” he says, “I mean, yes, he’s my Suitor, but no, he likes kissing. I think.” Jacob pauses to collect himself. “Mike is on the shy side,” he continues. “I think he wanted to make a move, but didn’t want to presume anything.”

Tess is having none of it. “Shy is what gives us bad TV,” she says. “For all Mike knows, he might be proposing to her – ” Tess gestures your way “– in six weeks. Is he planning to kiss her before then? You need to get it through this guy’s head that the Dream Girl pinned Mr. Right’s most competitive love letter to his chest last night. He’s not presuming anything.”

Jacob nods. “I’ll fix it.”

“Good.” Tess says, turning her attention from him. “Now you.”

It takes you a second to realize it’s youshe’s focused on.

“No one in Righteous Nation is going to watch your season if they don’t think you’re into the Suitors,” she says, “and there’s no way they’ll believe you’re too shy to kiss someone on camera. All they have to do is one Google search, and they can see you half-naked.”

Her tone is matter of fact. She’s trying to make you understand, not humiliate you.

“Next time,” she continues, “just make the first move. Okay?”

“Okay.” You nod.

Tess turns away, satisfied, and the team transitions to a discussion about which Suitor should get the first solo date with you, a topic which involves a surprisingly small amount of your input.

You turn your thoughts back to Mike. Why didn’t you kiss him last night? Sure, you barely know him, but he’s objectively a very hot man. Is Tess right, are you camera shy? You can’t let this mess you up again.

Dream Girls kiss their Suitors, you tell yourself. No matter who it is that’s watching.

~~~~~~

Your sneakers brush against the fifty-yard line. You’re on the field in SoFi stadium, an arena reserved for the fiercest of competitors: the L.A. Rams and, today only, the Suitors who’ve been chosen for your first group date. A dozen feet in front of you, Joel crouches down on one knee. His brow furrows as he concentrates on a wide-angle sweep of you, framed by the stadium. You’re sure it’s going to be breathtaking.

Joel’s attempting to maintain an unimpressed attitude today, but the t-shirt he’s wearing is royal blue. L.A. Rams blue. When you pointed this out to him on the drive over, he grumbled something about laundry day, but he’s been fighting off a tiny smile since you got here, which you suspect to be the Joel Miller version of weeping with joy.

Joel nods at you to signal he’s done with the shot, then rises to his feet. A few plastic strands of turf stick to his jeans when he stands, and you smile to yourself when you see him tuck them in his pocket. 

Joel Miller loves football. You shouldn’t care. It’s not like you particularly enjoy football yourself. But it’s the only personal fact you know about him.

Across the field, the stadium tunnel opens, and your Suitors run out to greet you. There are fourteen of them in total, everyone who made it past the opening night elimination, except the guy going on a solo date tomorrow. Henry leads the pack with his long legs, the cameras panning to follow him, and sweeps you into a long hug when he reaches the center of the field. He pulls back, hands lingering around your waist.

“I missed you,” he confesses, barely loud enough for the cameras. 

Have you missed him? You’re spared answering when the rest of the Suitors catch up. You take a few minutes to greet them all.

All the Mr. Right dates are split in two parts: a casual daytime activity, and a formal evening one. Today’s daytime portion is a sort of glorified football practice for the men, led by two Rams players. For once, you’re not the main affair. Maybe it’s the lack of pressure, or maybe it’s the athleisure you get to wear – a black sports bra and bike shorts – but you decide you like this date.

Eliza has you film a quick interview about your very authentic love of football, then relegates you to the stands. Joel comes along. He trails his hand over the front-row, VIP seats, a relaxed smile playing across his face. He catches you watching him and scowls.

“Can’t believe these are the same damn chairs as the rest of the stadium,” he says, sinking into the one beside yours.

“Come on,” you say, “I promise I won’t tell anyone you have emotions. You can be excited about the best seat in the house.”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “I ain’t that eager to be sitting next to you, Cinderella.”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever you say, Miller.”

You prop your feet up on the railing in front of you and shift your attention to the field, where your Suitors are practicing snapping the football. When it’s Lucas’s turn, he bends over and backs up until he’s grinding on one of the Rams players. Producer Jacob sprints on the field to intervene.

Joel shakes his head as Lucas is dragged away for an interview.

“Reckon I just saw Aaron Donald die inside.”

“Is that Ram Number One?” 

 “He’s number 99.”

You shrug. “How am I supposed to know? It’s not like he has his jersey on. Seems like a missed opportunity for him and Ram Number Two – ”

“Quintez Cephus.”

“ – yeah, I knew that – to get their names out there.”

“Sure, you did,” Joel grumbles.

You grin. “So, what number is Quintez Cephus?”

Joel hesitates. “Two.”

You let out a delighted laugh. “Really?”

Joel turns his head to glower at you. “You’re worse than the humper.”

“Watch your tone, Miller. That humper might just be my future husband.”

Joel snorts. “You deserve each other. Can’t wait for the wedding.”

“Oh, are you under the assumption we’re inviting you?”

“That’s low, Cinderella.” Joel shakes his head solemnly. “Use a man to film your proposal, then ice him out.”

 You shift to face him. “I’m hardly usingyou to film me.” 

“Oh yeah?” Joel’s eyes flash dark when they meets yours. His voice burns smooth like a shot of whiskey. “You using me for something else?”

Joel’s lidded eyes on yours. Your tongue, sliding over the head of him. Your slick fingers on your clit.

You flush automatically. Joel studies your reaction.

On the armrest, his littlest finger grazes along the bare skin of your wrist. A shiver of desire runs through you.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. He drags his gaze over your exposed body.

You part your legs ever so slightly, and his breath hitches. His eyes are molten when they return to yours.

Then Joel freezes. A second later, you hear it.

Someone is calling your name.

You’re in public. In front of half the Mr. Right crew. On a date with your fourteen non-Joel boyfriends.

You tear your eyes from Joel’s and get to your feet, leaning over the railing, putting space between the two of you. Your heart pounds in your ears.

Mike is jogging over from the field. He raises a hand to you in greeting. You scramble out of the stands to meet him. You can’t make yourself look at Joel, but you hear him jump up to follow you, his soft cursing as he fumbles to switch on the camera.

You get to the bottom of the stairs just as Mike arrives, and you have to brace your palms on his chest to keep from crashing into him. He beams at you for a moment.

“Hi,” he finally says.

You return his smile. “Hi, back.”

You drop your hands from his chest. You see something flit across his expression – a familiar uncertainty for him, you realize.

No one in Righteous Nation is going to watch your season if they don’t think you’re into the Suitors.

Tess’s warning pierces through the heady cloud of your desire.You reach out and take one of Mike’ hands.

“Don’t think I’m not happy about this,” you say, ignoring Joel’s presence with everything you have, “but shouldn’t you be out there tackling the other Suitors?”

Mike laughs. He tells you the men have been paired up to practice receiving, but Jasper – his partner – got pulled away for an interview. Convenient, you think, recognizing Eliza’s work. Now Mike is here to recruit you as a substitute. 

The two of you jog back to the field, trailed silently by Joel, and Mike tosses you a ball. You catch it – you’re okay at that part – but it quickly becomes clear that Mike will be getting no receiving practice, because you’re terrible at throwing the football. Eventually he breaks into a laugh, coming close to help you. 

“Stay back,” you warn him, holding up your non-football-bearing hand. “My aim is probably contagious. You risk defiling the legacy of SoFi stadium by approaching.”

Mike doesn’t stay back. Instead, he laces his hand with the one you’ve extended and tugs you close to him.

“I’ll take my chances,” he says.

He’s so close to you now. His skin is glowing from the training exercises, blue eyes scanning your face.

Joel is watching somewhere behind you. You’re so aware of him, your body screaming with it. 

“I was thinking,” Mike says softly, “that we’re not getting too much practice in, are we?”

You shake your head slowly. “Not at all.”

In your periphery, Joel circles into view, finding a better angle. You force yourself to ignore him.

“So,” Mike continues, “I hope you won’t mind if I distract you.” He lets go of your hand, reaches up to cup your face, and pulls your lips to his.

He smells of sweat and laundry detergent. His mouth is gentle on yours. The kiss is brief. It feels like an introduction. 

Mike is smiling when he pulls back. He raises his fingers to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’ve been kicking myself for not doing that earlier,” he murmurs. His eyes find yours, seeking reassurance.

You stand on your toes and lean in to kiss him again. When you part, he gives you a silly grin.

“Hi,” you say.

His smile widens. “Hi, back,” he replies.

You let yourself spare a glance over his shoulder to check your sightline. Joel watches you, expressionless, through the screen of his camera. When he lifts his eyes to yours, his gaze is indifferent. A knot of tension flickers in his jaw.

You drop your eyes. You’re still holding the football. Mike follows your gaze. 

“I can teach you how to throw that,” he offers. “If you’re interested. Your arm is pretty good, and aim is easy to fix.”

You let him. He’s working on your body positioning when Jacob interrupts, taking Mike off the field for his interview, dodging Lucas and Solomon tackling each other on the way back.

Joel lowers his camera as the two of them walk off. He stands apart from you, watching Solomon moaning on the ground for the cameras.

“So,” you ask him, “what do you think? Am I Rams material?”

Joel doesn’t turn to look at you. His thumb taps the handle of the camera. When he responds, his voice is flat.

“Save it for the Suitors, Cinderella.”

Whatever intensity had a hold on him in the stands, it’s long gone now. Maybe you imagined the whole thing.

Joel spends the rest of the football date treating you with clinical detachment, watching blankly through his camera as you shake hands with Rams One and Two, as you cheer on the sidelines of the annual Suitor Scrimmage, as Lucas wraps his hands around your thighs and hoists you on his shoulders for a victory lap. You don’t know what else you expected of him, so it’s silly that you still feel a sting of disappointment.

During the evening date, Henry pulls you aside to re-do the limo exit he messed up on night one. He’s brought two vials of sand with him, each attached to a leather cord. One is from San Diego, the other from Santa Cruz. A piece of his home and a piece of yours.

“I want us to have a reminder of our outside selves,” he explains. His dark eyes are earnest, tan skin glowing against the soft linen of his button-up.  “We’re meeting each other in this crazy way, but it’s the real world me that has a crush on you. I want you to remember that.”

He lowers the San Diego necklace over your head. You place the Santa Cruz over his.

You regard him for a moment, and suddenly Mr. Right feels so simple. Henry has always been up front with his feelings. He’s not some fantasy – he’s exactly the guy you came here to meet. You tug on the leather cord of his necklace and pull him close for a slow first kiss. You don’t let yourself care who is watching.

[kk095]

Olivia’s Unfinished Story

*Happy Friday, everyone! I wanted to try something a little different this time around. I hope you enjoy!*

Her name was Olivia.

She was the kind of woman you might overlook in a crowd- slim, fair skinned, with straight, light brown hair that she kept neat and cut to her shoulders. Her bangs sat just above a pair of green eyes that always seemed to be watching, not out of shyness, but observation. At 5'8, the twenty-eight year old carried herself with quiet poise, a strange mix of bookish awkwardness, and buttoned-up grace. Her wardrobe was sensible- cardigans and slacks, modest blouses, neutral tones. It wasn’t that she lacked style; she simply didn’t think anyone was looking closely enough to warrant the effort.

By day, Olivia worked a corporate job in a beige office on the twelfth floor of a building with too much glass and not enough personality. Her cubicle was tidy. Her emails were prompt. She was the type who remembered birthdays, who always signed her messages with "Best," and who brought her lunch from home in reusable containers labeled with masking tape. Her coworkers liked her well enough, though they never really knew her. She existed on the periphery- reliable, polite, self-contained.

But at night, in a small apartment with a flickering desk lamp and chipped mugs of tea, Olivia became someone else. She wrote under the name "S.R. Quinn," a pseudonym she guarded like a secret lover. Her stories- twisting, cerebral mysteries filled with unreliable narrators and haunted minds, had attracted a quiet, devoted following online. Some of her readers speculated about the author's identity, but she never gave herself away. Olivia preferred it that way. Her characters said all the things she couldn’t. They unraveled in ways she never allowed herself to. Writing, for her, was a kind of release- a hidden doorway she stepped through every night.

She lived alone, but it never really felt lonely. Her walls were lined with shelves full of books, and her laptop bore the fingerprints of a thousand edits.

She had routines: the same route to work, the same booth at the quiet café near her apartment, the same brand of peppermint gum always tucked into her bag. Sometimes, on the subway, she would look at the people around her and wonder who among them led secret lives, too. It comforted her to think she wasn’t the only one pretending.

There were things she still wanted to do. A novel half-finished. A mystery not yet solved. A character she hadn’t quite figured out.

She had no idea she would be the latest patient in our emergency department. Last night, that’s exactly what happened to Olivia.

The trauma bay lights cast a sterile glow across her pale skin, and her chest bucked beneath gloved hands performing deep, violent chest compressions. The monitor beside her beeped incessantly in arrhythmic protest, displaying a jagged line of ventricular fibrillation. Beneath it, a stack of empty syringe caps and torn vials spilled from the tray, scattered among crumpled wrappers and used IV bags.

She lay supine on the table, stripped barefoot and topless, her bare chest glistening with conductive gel under the harsh overhead lights. Her green eyes were wide open- glassy, unblinking, eerily serene. The endotracheal tube jutted from her mouth, hugging her pale lips, secured tightly with tape, and the soft hiss of the ambu bag filled her lungs with each squeeze. Her pants remained on, the dark fabric in contrast to the table. There were no bruises, no blood, no visible trauma. Just a stillness that didn’t belong in a room like this.

The rhythm of chest compressions played like a grim metronome, gloved hands stacked over her sternum, pushing deep and fast. Each thrust drove Olivia’s chest down in sharp, unnatural motions, her ribs caving beneath the pressure. With every compression, her chest recoiled slightly, the skin pulling tight before collapsing inward again. The force rippled outward through her torso, making her belly tremble faintly.

The defib paddles were pressed against her bare chest. “CLEAR!” Dr Lindsay called out.

Her back arched as the jolt surged through her, then fell limp again. No change. Someone stepped up to resume CPR. The rhythmic thud of gloved hands on her sternum resumed, tilting her motionless face slightly with each thrust.

After that unsuccessful cycle of CPR, the paddles pressed back down against her bare chest, gel smearing beneath them. “CLEAR” Lindsay called once again. A sudden jolt of electricity surged through the writer’s body. Olivia’s back arched sharply, her spine lifting off the table in a stiff, unnatural bend. Her legs jerk in response- one foot kicking upward involuntarily, the other twisting inward, toes curling hard. For a split second, both feet hover awkwardly in the air before crashing ungracefully back down to the table. Her soles, flushed pale from poor perfusion, land heel-first, the deep, wide, soft wrinkles of her size 10 soles visible before her body goes slack again, motionless except for the rhythmic force of compressions that resumed after.

Another shock was delivered. A gasp escaped Olivia’s lips, though it was more of a reflex than a sign of life. Another cycle CPR ensued. A dose of epinephrine. Gloved hands moved with rehearsed precision, voices sharp, clipped, and clinical.

“Still in v-fib, Linds.” Nurse Nancy informs, shaking her head. “No pulse.” Dr Jen the resident chimes in.

“I’m shocking again. Re-charging the paddles to 360. CLEAR.” Lindsay responded, Heather halting CPR and stepping away from the table.

KA-THUNK! Olivia’s body jumped. The flat, lifeless gaze remained on her face. Her expression was untouched by fear or pain, frozen somewhere just before the end.

The next shock came and went. Her body jerked with unnatural stiffness, like a puppet pulled by unseen strings. For a breathless second, she froze midair- fingers curled, toes flexed, then collapsed on the table once more, as if gravity remembered her all at once.

Chest compressions resumed, but not for long. For a moment, the room stilled- hands hovered, eyes glanced to the monitor. A flatline stared back at everyone, unbroken and absolute.

“No cardiac activity on the monitors.” Jen the resident informed, calm and even, like they’re noting the time of day.

Nancy leaned in, shining a penlight across both of Olivia’s eyes. Nothing. No flicker, no constriction, no reaction whatsoever- just the blank, glassy look of fixed and dilated pupils.

A quiet pause passed.

“She’s been down forty minutes.” Lindsay speaks, voice low but certain. “Let’s go ahead and call it. Time of death, 1:11am.”

The ambu bag was detached from the ET tube and set beside Olivia’s head on the table. Chest compressions stopped for good. Heather shut off the monitor, muting the flatline. The paddles were placed back on the crash cart, the ECG leads peeled away, electrodes discarded in silence.

Olivia had written dozens of stories. None of us knew that, of course. Not Heather peeling off her EKG leads, not Dr Lindsay logging her time of death, not Dr Jen placing the sheet over her body. In life, she had been anonymous. In death, she remained so.

But somewhere, tucked into online archives and under a username no one could now trace, there were worlds Olivia had built. Complex characters. Tangled mysteries. Paragraphs people had read and re-read and bookmarked to revisit. She had more to tell. But last night, her story ended right here in our emergency department.

[skmhlml]

Cough cough*** mmm new one here I think. On a journey to ask crk writers shadow milk cookie x shy jester themed reader hc smutt or not but I would like smutt..

Shadow Milk Cookie x Shy!Jester!Reader | General + NSFW Headcanons

❗️MINORS DO NOT INTERACT❗️

CW: dubcon themes, semi-fluid anatomy, Corruption Kink, Degradation/Praise Mix,

▾Made by @daisybutlittle

🧿 Your laughter is quiet. Nervous. The kind that feels like it’s hiding something—and he noticed that instantly.

🧿 The Spire of Deceit, his twisted little kingdom of illusions and lies, had never known genuine innocence until you were dragged (or wandered) in.

🧿 When Shadow Milk Cookie first lays eyes on you, something stops. The chaotic glee in him slows to a stillness. You’re like a cracked mirror of himself—another jester, but one he can’t read. “A clown that doesn’t laugh? My, what kind of joke are you, sugar-doll?”

🧿 He toys with you at first. Tries to make you cry. Tells you awful truths in riddles. When you flinch but stay— when you keep smiling— he realizes you’re something rarer than truth: a jester who still hopes.

🧿 And now? He needs you.

🧿 You become his pet project. His new “audience.” He dresses you up, coaxes you into performances, calls you his “little echo” or “quiet twin.”

🧿 His cruelty turns into something deeper. He starts unraveling around you. He speaks more gently when no one’s watching. He lingers near you while you sleep, quietly humming lullabies with a cracked voice.

🧿 When you smile at Candy Apple or Black Sapphire? Oh, he snaps. He won’t hurt you—but he will hurt them. “Don’t you know how much I adore you, little puppet? You’re mine now. I̸̘̞̓͒̑’̸̖̂͜ͅl̵̼̩̤̀̓͑͠ͅĺ̵̩̋̓͝ ̴̡͓̓̐̔͋r̶̛̜͈̄i̵̛̱̖͈p̵͚̀ ̸̹̭̯̗͐͒͗̉t̸͙̚͠h̶̩̘͊e̴̠̰͊̇̈́ ̴̤̆̿̀s̴̛̘͎̥̓̈́̽m̵̼̩̐̓́͝ͅi̵̲̘̼͕͛̏l̵̞̅̑e̷̳͍̍͘s̶̳̈́̂̚͝ ̷̥͎͍̀̅ͅo̷̯͖̥̥͝f̷̨̭̠͌͊̔f̵̧̢̫́́̎̚ ̵̺̹̙̜̋̆̈́͝a̶̡͚̐ṇ̴̃̓͌̄ͅÿ̶͈̳̮̝́͒͠o̶͈͖̬͑n̷͑̏͜e̴̗͆̈́̅̅ ̵̪̦̩̓ë̸̙͇́̎̍͝l̸͉̿͂ś̵͈̙͕̄͠e̵̢̯͉̞͗ ̵̥̞̫̊͌͋̊y̶͐��̻̞o̴̢̜͇͋̀̍u̷̥͙͔͒̅͋̌͜ ̷͚̓̍͝o̴̗͔̎ͅf̸̺̪̈̿̓̂f̸͍̚ẹ̶̈ṟ̶͙̽͒̅̒͜ ̴̧̡̠̈́̍ẗ̶͈̥̘́͌̅̉ͅh̶̥̯̓é̶̛͕̥͚̂m̴̛͍̲̥̭̒̄ ̶̳̹̰̃̍͆t̵͍̐͋ó̷̡̨̯̯.̵̞̌̐”

🧿 He lives to corrupt you. The way you squirm when he touches your jaw? When you whimper softly under his shadowy hands? It’s intoxicating.

🧿 He controls the scene like a stage—lights, shadows, velvet ropes. He binds your wrists in magical ribbons and performs with you like it’s the final act of a twisted play.

🧿 He knows cookies don’t reproduce. But it doesn’t stop his filthy mouth: “I’ll fill you so full, sweetling. You’ll drip cream down your thighs and beg for more. Gonna ruin my perfect little jestress~”

🧿 He dolls you up afterward. Cleaned, powdered, lips freshly painted. His doll. “You’re perfect now, my darling. All broken in. A real showpiece.”

🧿 Sometimes, he loses ͨₒⁿₜʳₒˡ. The act drops. His laughter breaks. And he fucks you like you’re the last thing tethering him to ˢₐⁿꜟₜỿ.

🧿 His claws dig into your hips. His teeth graze your neck. He needs you to say his name, to sob it like a prayer. He needs to hear it or he’ll ˢʰₐₜₜₑʳ.

🧿 He talks in his sleep. Murmurs things like “𝕯ₒⁿ’ₜ ˡₑₐᵥₑ ͫₑ,” and “𝖄ₒᶸ’ʳₑ ₜʰₑ ₒⁿˡỿ ˡꜟᶢʰₜ ˡₑᶠₜ.” You pretend not to hear.

🧿 If you ever tried to leave, he’d let you go… for one day. Then he’d come for you in the dark. Tie you in silk. Break you with kisses and make you beg to come home.

🧿 He never stops performing. Even when he’s inside you, gasping against your throat, it’s a twisted opera. He’s still trying to make you love him. “Am I funny yet, sweet jester? Do you love me now?”

🧿 When you appear in his life, it’s like a crack in the stage lights— A real person. A real presence. And it breaks him in a new way.

“You see me, don’t you? Not the mask. Not the tricks. Me.”

“Say you love me. Say it ˡꜟₖₑ ỿₒᶸ ͫₑₐⁿ ꜟₜ. S̸͚̈́̑͠A̷̼̣̹͐Y̶̪̣̐̕ ̸̛̝̹̬͋̋Ȉ̴͖̾͒T̵̛͓̘̻͐.”

🧿 His sex drive is intense and unstable. It’s not just about pleasure. It’s about keeping you, making sure that when you scream his name, it echoes through every cursed floor of the Spire.

🧿 He’ll lick the tears off your cheeks and call them candy glaze. His kisses are deep, messy, and filled with an edge of desperation. “You taste like mercy, little jester. I could drown in you. Should I?”

🧿 He doesn’t use ropes. He uses shadows. They coil around your wrists, your ankles, lifting you, spreading you, and presenting you like a gift.

🧿 The shadows purr with his mood. The more manic he is, the tighter they grip. The more vulnerable he is, the more gentle they become.

🧿 He tells you, over and over, while he’s deep inside: “You’re mine. M̸i̵n̴e̵, M̸̬̏i̴͙̽n̴̺̅ě̶̮, M̸̥̘̺͆͒̽̕i̴̺͛n̵̹͚̒e̵̱̓̎̓̋. No god, no kingdom, no vanilla saint can ₜₐₖₑ ỿₒᶸ ₐᵂₐỿ”

🧿 There are nights when he ♭ʳₑₐₖˢ. Fully. He doesn’t joke, doesn’t smirk. He trembles. Clutches at your hips like you’re all that’s left.

🧿 His voice goes hoarse. He cries into your neck while pounding into you like he’s trying to bury his madness inside you. “Please… just don’t leave. I can’t go ♭ₐͨₖ ₜₒ ♭ₑꜟⁿᶢ ₐˡₒⁿₑ.”

🧿 Afterward, he collapses against you, panting, murmuring nonsense like: “ỿₒᶸ ͫₐₖₑ ͫₑ ʳₑ ₐˡ. ỿₒᶸ ͫₐₖₑ ͫₑ ʳₑₐˡ. ỿₒᶸ ͫₐₖₑ ͫₑ ʳₑₐˡ…”

🧿 Aftercare is unhinged tenderness. He cradles you like a child. Feeds you sweets with trembling hands. Brushes your hair back and whispers lullabies he sang to himself during his lonely centuries.

[luc1ferian]

would you believe me if I said this was a roblox pressure meme?

[maskedbyghost]

Hear me out, possessive reader plays a prank, or maybe to see how it would work out and starts acting wayyy less possessive, to the point of being a normal partner..

I NEED SI REACTION

Anon, I love your fucking mind. I had the best time writing this, literally giggling and kicking my feet while imagining Simon spiraling because his crazy girl went "normal mode" on him and he couldn’t handle it for even a second. BASED ON THIS IDEA

You barely looked at him when the waitress called him handsome.

You just smiled to yourself and kept sipping your drink, didn’t glare at her, didn’t grab his hand and lace your fingers through his, didn’t scoot closer in your seat or wrap your arms around him like you used to, and Simon sat there blinking at you like he’d just been slapped across the face.

And then when you walked past a group of girls at the grocery store and one of them giggled and said something about his arms, you didn’t even flinch, didn’t even frown, didn’t even murmur something low and territorial under your breath the way you always did, and Simon actually almost tripped over the cart trying to get a reaction out of you, heart hammering so hard.

You used to get pissed if he so much as looked at another woman too long, used to give him that smug little smirk when you caught someone staring at him, used to lean into him and press your mouth to his ear and mutter "mine" so dark and low that it left him shivering for hours, and now? Now you were just... chill.

Way too chill.

He caught himself thinking insane things like maybe you were losing interest, maybe you were getting ready to leave, maybe you finally realized he wasn’t enough for you, maybe you were pulling away slow and silent to make it easier when you walked out for good, and by the time you got home, Simon’s brain was working overtime, replaying every interaction, every glance, every smile you had given that wasn’t just for him, every time you hadn't touched him when you should have.

You didn’t steal his hoodie when he tossed it on the couch.

You didn’t scroll through his phone and make snarky comments about the girls who liked his photos.

You didn’t pull into his lap when he sat down to watch TV.

You didn’t tell him to shower because he "smelled like other people," which he always secretly loved, even though he rolled his eyes and grumbled about it every time.

You just... existed next to him.

Detached.

Simon sat there on the couch while you scrolled on your phone, completely casual, legs tucked under you, not touching him at all, and he was spiraling so badly he almost convinced himself he could physically see the relationship disintegrating in real time, piece by miserable piece.

He thought about asking if you still loved him.

He thought about proposing on the spot just to lock you down before you could change your mind.

He thought about texting Johnny and asking him if it was normal to feel like your entire world was slipping out from under you because your girlfriend wasn’t being a possessive lunatic for five seconds.

Finally, when you stood up and stretched and said, "I'm gonna head to bed" without even glancing at him, without even saying goodnight or trying to drag him with you, Simon couldn’t take it anymore.

He launched off the couch and followed you, heart pounding like he was about to get left behind at the airport or something, stomach twisted into a knot.

You climbed into bed and flipped onto your side, facing away from him like it was nothing, like you hadn’t spent months curling around him like a vine the second he lay down.

He just stood there at the foot of the bed, breathing way too hard for a normal human being, feeling an honest-to-God panic attack brewing in his chest.

"Love," he said, his voice way shakier than he wanted it to be.

You didn’t even roll over. "Hmm?"

He swallowed hard, hands fisting at his sides. "You don’t want me anymore."

You snorted. Actually snorted. "What are you talking about?"

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. "You—you’re not even—you didn’t get mad when that girl flirted with me. You didn’t steal my hoodie. You didn’t call me yours even once. You’re acting like we’re—" his voice cracked and he cursed under his breath, "—like we’re normal."

You turned slowly, propping yourself up on your elbow, and the look you gave him was so infuriatingly calm he almost burst into tears on the spot.

"You mean," you said, so evenly it made his eye twitch, "like a normal girlfriend who trusts her boyfriend?"

He stared at you, chest heaving, entire body screaming at him that something was wrong.

"You’re gonna leave me," he said, absolutely sure of it, absolutely certain this was the beginning of the end.

You blinked at him for a second, like you were trying very hard not to laugh in his stupid, panicking face, and then you moved so fast he barely had time to react—you were grabbing him by the front of his shirt, hauling him down onto the bed, straddling his hips, and pinning him there with your thighs as your hands locked around his neck, firm but not tight, just enough to make him shut up and listen.

"Listen to me, you stupid, beautiful man," you said, voice low and furious in that way that made every nerve in his body light up, "you need me just as much as I need you. You belong to me. You hear me? You are fucking mine. I’m not going anywhere; I’m never fucking leaving you. I don't want normal; I want you wrapped around my fucking finger where you belong. Don’t ever doubt that again."

You leaned in closer, your nose brushing his, your hands still gripping his neck just enough to keep him pinned under you, and you added, your voice dropping even lower, smug and wicked, "And maybe I wanted you to lose your fucking mind for a bit. Wanted you to see how much you love it when I’m unhinged about you."

Simon just exhaled like he’d been punched in the stomach and kissed at the same time, his whole body sagging against the bed.

He groaned, almost whining, burying his face against your chest with a muffled, desperate, "Fuckin’ hell, don’t ever do that to me again, you psycho."

But his arms were wrapping around you like steel, holding you so tight, and when you laughed and tugged his hair gently, he actually sighed in relief, like his whole world had finally clicked back into place.

"You’re crazy," he muttered again, not even trying to sound annoyed, his voice almost grateful.

"You love it," you said against his hair, grinning wide enough your cheeks hurt.

"Yeah," he breathed, voice raw and low and real, "yeah, I fuckin’ do. I need you crazy. Need you to ruin me a little. Keep me yours."

You kissed the side of his head, smug and sweet and savage all at once, and Simon just kept breathing you in, letting that awful gnawing terror bleed out of him one slow second at a time until there was nothing left but you, your hands, your voice, your body wrapped around him like armor, pulling him deeper, anchoring him exactly where he belonged.

And he was fine, better than fine actually, and exactly where he needed to be.

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

i can't even explain how much i love this idea...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[pjmxtra]

over power! ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

paring: 니키 x fmr!

Warning: Smut! Reader is described as fragile, easy to break, reade has itty bitty titties •͈ᴗ⁃͈⊹ size kink, big dick riki

an: before any more people ask if I stole the fic I did not!! It was my old account l0vely4ly! I got t worded so went back to this account! Idk how to prove it but I have the other 2 fics I posted and will be posting them on here for you guys to enjoy! Mwah

The air between you was thick with tension, your close proximity only making it worse. Your breath came in quick, uneven puffs, but you refused to let it show that he had any effect on you. A teasing chuckle slipped past your lips as you tightened your grip around Riki’s wrists, straddling him with all the confidence you could muster. His broad frame lay beneath you, his toned arms flexing under your hold, but you pretended not to notice. Instead, you tilted your head, a smug grin pulling at your lips.

“See? I’m so much stronger than you,” you taunted, sticking your tongue out playfully as you wiggled your hips in victory. A low, almost imperceptible groan rumbled from Riki’s chest, his dark eyes flashing with something unreadable. He rolled his eyes at your childish display, yet the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips told you he was enjoying this just as much as you were.

“Whatever,” he drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. “I let you win, you know that, right?” His cocky expression made your nose scrunch in irritation. Huffing, you retorted, “No, I won fair and squa—”

Before you could even finish your sentence, the world tilted. In a blur, Riki’s wrists twisted out of your grip with ease, and in one swift movement, he flipped you onto your back. A startled gasp left your lips as your body met the plush mattress, the air momentarily knocked from your lungs. Your hands instinctively reached out to push him off, but it was useless—he was already caging your wrists above your head, his fingers wrapping around them with little effort.

Your heartbeat stuttered, your body suddenly feeling so much smaller beneath him. Riki loomed over you, his frame casting a shadow over yours, his weight effortlessly pinning you down. His long fingers, once restrained, now held you in place as if you were nothing more than a plaything in his grasp. His expression was unreadable, but there was an undeniable flicker of satisfaction in his darkened gaze as he took in the sight of you beneath him—wide-eyed, breathless, utterly at his mercy.

“Fair and square, huh?” His voice was a deep murmur, laced with amusement as he dipped his face closer to yours. His lips curled into a smirk, his head tilting as he studied your expression.

You fluttered your lashes, still trying to recover from how easily he’d turned the tables on you. The power dynamic had shifted so suddenly, so effortlessly, that it sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re a cheater,” you whispered, brows furrowed, a pout settling on your lips.

Riki only chuckled, his grip tightening slightly as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your skin. “Am i?” he murmured, his voice dangerously smooth.

You writhed beneath him, stubbornly refusing to accept defeat even as your strength dwindled against his grip. Your breath hitched as you twisted your wrists, but it was useless—Riki was bigger, stronger, and effortlessly holding you in place. A frustrated sigh left your lips, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “Let me go,” you whined, a last-ditch attempt at regaining control. “I already won, cheater.”

Riki only chuckled, low and mocking, his head tilting as he looked down at you like you were nothing more than an amusing little thing beneath him. His fingers flexed around your wrists, pressing them deeper into the mattress, his weight keeping you trapped beneath him. “No can do, pretty,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “I like it this way.”

A shiver ran down your spine as one of his hands moved, trailing down to the hem of your oversized shirt—his shirt. The fabric bunched beneath his fingertips, and your breath quickened, panic and anticipation tangling into something dangerous. His other hand remained wrapped around your wrist, keeping you caged, helpless, completely at his mercy.

“Riki,” you whimpered, jutting out your bottom lip in a weak attempt at garnering sympathy. “This isn’t fair.” His dark eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unyielding, amusement dancing within them as he took in the sight of you—pinned, squirming, utterly powerless. You swallowed hard.

He looked like a predator toying with his prey, dragging the moment out just to watch you suffer.

His lips curled into a smirk as he leaned in, his breath ghosting along the shell of your ear. The heat of him was suffocating, and then— “Yeah? What’s a pathetic little slut like you gonna do about it?”

A sharp gasp left your lips, the crude words sending a jolt through your body. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking anything, and Riki noticed immediately. His gaze flickered downward, catching the desperate movement, and his large hand landed firmly on the curve of your thigh. His fingers dug in, gripping.

You whimpered at the degradation, your body betraying you, heat pooling in your core. Riki chuckled at the sound, at how easily you crumbled under his touch. He shifted, his lips dragging along the curve of your neck, leaving teasing, feather-light kisses that had you trembling. You squirmed, another weak attempt at pulling away, but it only made him tighten his grip.

His hand moved to your face, his fingers tracing the shape of your cheek with deceptive gentleness. And then, without warning, he tilted your chin up and crashed his lips against yours, rough and eager. The force of it stole the air from your lungs, and when his hand came down on your thigh in a sharp slap, you gasped, giving him the perfect opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth.

The sounds that filled the space between you—breathless whimpers, the slick slide of lips, the faint rustle of sheets—only added to your growing desperation. When you finally managed to push him back, a thin string of saliva connected your lips, and your chest heaved as you stared up at him, pupils blown wide with need.

Riki watched, eyes dark, unreadable. Then, slowly, a wicked grin spread across his lips. “Pathetic,” he mused, his voice dripping with satisfaction. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Not when you were so wet for him.

He let go of your wrist, and your arm dropped limply above your head, the skin flushed where his fingers had gripped you too tightly.

Riki leans back against the headboard, his long legs stretching out effortlessly. He watches you with hooded eyes, dark and hungry, his fingers tapping against his thigh—a silent command.

Without hesitation, you crawl toward him, the sharp edges of your collarbones shifting beneath your skin with every movement. His sheer size overshadowed you, his frame broad and solid against the plush bedding, while your own body feels weightless in comparison.

His hands are on you the moment you settle onto his lap, large and warm as they trace the ridges of your ribs beneath your oversize shirt. He moves slowly, deliberately, lifting the fabric over your head.

His breath hitches as he takes you in—your delicate frame, the lace bralette barely concealing your small, perky breasts, the hollow space between your thighs as you straddle him. His fingers ghost over the jut of your hip bones, circling them like he’s mapping out something precious, something his.

“Stop being mean,” you moaned softly, barely above a whisper, hoping—praying—he would take pity on you. But Riki thrived on this—on control, on watching you struggle against the inevitable.

“You really don’t get it, do you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something possessive. His hands slide lower, gripping your waist with ease, thumbs pressing into your skin like he’s testing how much you can take.

“I could do whatever I want to you right now,” he said, almost to himself. His voice was flat, but there was something predatory beneath it, like he was marveling at how easily you crumbled. “And you couldn’t stop me if you tried.”

You whimpered—half in fear, half in want. You grind your hips instinctively, knowing what he wants before he even has to say it.

His touch is rough but reverent as he strips away your shorts, leaving you in nothing but lace and vulnerability. He takes his time, gaze dragging over every inch of you, savoring the way you look beneath him—fragile, breakable. His expression darkens.

Wordlessly your fingers find the hem of his shirt. You’re barely able to pull it over his head before he discards it entirely, revealing a body carved from sheer strength. Your smaller hands press against his abdomen, tracing the hard lines of muscle, feeling the power beneath his skin.

His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You feel the hard press of him through his sweats, a sharp contrast to your softness. His lips brush against your ear, voice dripping with control.

“You’re so delicate,” he breathes, rolling his hips up just enough to make you shudder. “So easy to ruin.”

A whimper escapes you, and he chuckles—low, deep, indulgent. His fingers tilt your chin up, forcing your gaze to meet his. His thumb presses against your lips before trailing down, tracing the column of your throat, pressing lightly against your pulse.

“You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches, and he smirks, already knowing the answer. His smirk deepens as he watches you struggle to speak, your lips parting, breath shaky. His thumb lingers at the base of your throat, pressing just enough to remind you of the difference in your sizes—the way his hand alone could encircle your fragile neck with ease.

“Use your mouth,” he murmurs, his voice a dark velvet command.

You swallow hard, feeling the weight of his gaze, the way he drinks in every little reaction from you—the way your ribs shift with each uneven breath, the way your thighs tremble despite barely moving. Your fingers curl against his stomach, gripping onto anything solid as you force yourself to answer.

“Yes, Riki. Want you to… ruin me.” you whisper, your voice small, a stark contrast to the overwhelming presence of him.

“Good girl.” The praise is low, rough, laced with something dangerous. There was no warmth in the way he looked at you. Only possession. He shifted, dragging his sweats down just enough to free his hard on. You froze. The size of him—it was almost intimidating.

You swallowed hard, already aching from how full you knew you were about to be. He grabbed your hand, wrapped it around his cock. Made you feel how hard he was. How ready. He didn’t ask if you wanted it. You already said enough.

His grip tightens at your waist, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you effortlessly, positioning you exactly where he wants you—like you weigh nothing at all. He’s toying with you, rubbing himself across your socked folds. He enjoyed the contrast, the way your tiny frame fits so perfectly against him.

His free hand trails down your back, fingers tracing the delicate bumps of your spine before gripping onto your hip, pressing his thumb into the sharp dip. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s figuring out just how much you can take.

His hands move lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, spreading them wider as he keeps you balanced in his lap. He lets out a low chuckle as he glances down at the space between them, his gaze flicking back up to yours with amusement.

“This little gap between your thighs…” he muses, running his fingers along the inside of your leg, barely touching, teasing. “So small… how are you supposed to take me, hm?”

You whimper, pressing closer, wordlessly begging for more. His fingers dig into your skin in response, a silent warning.

“Patience.” The word is firm, dripping with authority.

His other hand slides up your side, thumb grazing the faint outline of your ribs. His gaze darkens. “I can feel every inch of you.” He leans in, lips grazing over the thin skin just beneath your jaw, a barely-there kiss before he bites down, enough to make you gasp. “So breakable.”

Your fingers tighten around his shoulders, nails sinking into his skin, desperate for something to ground you. He’s all around you—his voice in your ears, his hands on your body, his heat sinking into your bones.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, each word a slow, deliberate promise. “And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

His words settle deep into your bones, a dark promise wrapped in velvet. Riki takes his time, reveling in the contrast—his sheer size against your fragile form, the way your thin body fits so easily in his grasp.

His dark eyes trace over you, drinking in the sight of your sharp collarbones, the delicate outline of your ribs, the soft expanse of your stomach. His lips curl into something possessive, something dangerous.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. His thumb trails down your sternum, pressing lightly against the hollow between your ribs. “So tiny… like you were made to be handled like this.”

A whimper escapes you, your body trembling slightly under his touch. You know he feels it—feels how easily he could control you, how effortlessly he could shape you to his will. His grip tightens in response, and he smirks.

“You like it, don’t you?” His voice is low, teasing, his hands guiding you down until the heat of him presses flush against you, sending a shiver up your spine. He doesn’t move any further, just holds you there, watching, waiting.

You let out a desperate little noise, shifting slightly, but he doesn’t budge. His fingers flex against your hips, keeping you still. “Say it,” he commands.

“I—I like it,” you breathe, barely above a whisper. His smirk deepens. “You like feeling small? Like knowing I can do whatever I want with you?” Your head nods instinctively, but it’s not enough. His hand is on your jaw in an instant, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. His fingers press in just enough to part your lips.

“Words, baby.”

“Yes,” you whimper. “I love it.”

A satisfied growl rumbles in his chest. “That’s my girl.”

And then he moves.

His hands guide you down, inch by inch, stretching you out, making you take every part of him. A broken moan slips from your lips, your fingers digging into his shoulders as your body struggles to adjust. The sheer size of him against your delicate frame makes your breath hitch, makes your mind blur with the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled.

His head falls back against the headboard, a low groan escaping him as he watches you struggle to take all of him, your tiny body trembling against his. His hand moves to your stomach, pressing down slightly, feeling the way he stretches you from the inside. His dark eyes flicker with something primal.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, almost in awe. “So small, yet you’re taking me so well.”

You can’t think, can’t breathe—all you can do is feel him, everywhere, inside and out. Your hands clutch onto him for support, your head falling forward against his shoulder as he finally starts to move, slow at first, savoring the way your body reacts to him.

The pace doesn’t stay gentle for long. Riki’s control snaps as he grips your hips and starts pulling you down harder, faster, setting a brutal rhythm that has you gasping for air. His lips are everywhere—brushing over your throat, your collarbones, your shoulders—biting, marking, claiming. Each thrust sends a shockwave through your body, his strength overwhelming, consuming.

“You feel that?” he growls against your ear, his hand pressing against your stomach again. “I’m so deep inside you… I can see the way you stretch around me.”

Your vision blurs, pleasure and pain mixing into something intoxicating. Your body feels weightless, completely at his mercy, lost in the feeling of being utterly dominated.

“You’re mine,” Riki breathes, his voice rough with possession. His fingers grip your chin, forcing your dazed eyes to meet his. “Say it.”

“Y-Yours,” you gasp, barely able to form words. Eyes rolling into your skull, mouth hung open.

A dark smile plays on his lips. “That’s right, baby.” His pace quickens, sending you spiraling, your body breaking apart beneath his hands. “And I’m never letting you go.”

Your breath comes in sharp moans, body trembling as his fucks himself ruthlessly into you. Riki doesn’t slow, doesn’t ease up—his grip stays firm, controlling every movement, every reaction, molding you to his will.

His hands, large and warm, slide down your back, pressing against the delicate ridges of your spine, keeping you flush against him. The heat between your bodies is overwhelming, a stark contrast between his strength and your fragility. His lips ghost over your jaw, brushing against your ear as he speaks, voice rough with control.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, his fingers pressing lightly into your stomach. “Feel how deep I am?” You were full—stuffed to the edge of what you could handle.

Your body shudders, head tilting back as your hands grasp at his shoulders, seeking any form of stability. His grip tightens.

“Look at me,” he commands.

It takes effort, but you meet his gaze—dark, hungry, filled with something possessive. His thumb drags along your cheek, his touch deceptively gentle as he watches you struggle against the overwhelming sensation of him.

“So small,” he muses, almost to himself. His hand slides back to your waist, fingers spreading wide, nearly spanning the entirety of your narrow frame. “Yet you take everything I give you.”

He thrust up into you with sharp, brutal rhythm. Each movement knocked the air from your lungs, sent sparks through your spine. His hands guided your body like you were nothing more than a doll—something soft and weak and pliable in his grip. He watches you with dark amusement, watches the salty tears falling down your face.

Riki doesn’t stop—he keeps you right where he wants you, controlling every movement, every sound that leaves your lips. His strength is overwhelming, his presence all-consuming. The way he holds you, the way he moves, it’s like he’s claiming you over and over again, leaving no part of you untouched, no space between you unfilled.

Your body trembles, struggling to keep up with the pace he sets, but he keeps you steady, his grip firm, unrelenting. His fingers press into your hips, guiding you effortlessly, making sure you take every bit of him.

“To fucked out, baby?” His voice is thick with something dark, something possessive, as he presses a hand to your stomach again, feeling the way your body stretches around him. “To full to even think huh.”

Your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut as the tension coils tighter and tighter inside you. His breath is hot against your skin, his lips tracing the slope of your neck, biting, marking, making sure you’ll feel him even when he’s not there.

“Look at me,” he commands again, his tone leaving no room for disobedience.

Somehow, you manage to lift your head, your dazed eyes meeting his. His gaze is molten, burning with something intense, something primal. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the delicate lines of your ribs before gripping your waist again.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice low and rough, his movements growing sharper, more desperate.

Your body is already teetering on the edge, every nerve alight, every part of you wound tight and ready to snap.

“I-I’m yours, Riki.”

And that’s all it takes.

A deep, satisfied groan rumbles in his chest as he finally lets go, filling you up to the brim. his grip on you tightening as he pulls you against him, holding you there as waves of pleasure crash over you both. Your body trembles in his arms, your mind blank, lost in the feeling of being completely his.

Riki keeps you close, his breathing heavy, his hands trailing soothing circles against your back as you come down from the high. Your small frame is limp against him, exhausted, spent. His lips press gently against your temple, a stark contrast to the dominance he held moments ago.

“You did so good for me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, laced with something almost tender.

Your eyes flutter shut, your body sinking into his warmth, completely safe despite the intensity of what just happened. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, as if he has no intention of letting you go—not now, not ever.

And as sleep pulls you under, the last thing you hear is his voice, a quiet promise against your skin.

“You’re mine.”

heyyy hope you enjoyed! my requests are open and i’m officially back! i just forgot my password sorryyy

[carnalcrows]

DAYS IN THE SUN

summary: You were never supposed to be anything more than the strange one. The wrong one. The boy in too-short sleeves and too-sharp stares, tucked away in a village that never wanted to understand you. But when your father goes missing, you don’t hesitate. And when you find him imprisoned by a monster— a beast with too many arms, too many eyes, and a curse so old it hums in the walls— you make a deal. You stay. And slowly, something unexpected begins to bloom between all the thorns.

pairing: the beast ! ryomen sukuna x belle ! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + penetrative), bottom trans male reader, transphobia (implied, not explicit), emotional hurt/comfort, mild violence, trueform sukuna, canon-typical blood, sharp-toothed tenderness, trauma, enchanted furniture, redemption arc, flower language, they kiss a lot.

word count: 7.4k

best viewed in dark mode

The village always woke before the sun.

You could hear it through the window of your father’s little workshop— boots on dirt, chickens fussing, someone slamming a cart too hard around the bend. You lay still beneath the quilt, blinking up at the ceiling beams and waiting for the ache in your chest to settle into something manageable. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not grief. More like a weight. A quiet hum of not-right-ness, of not-fitting-here-ness, stretching out from under your ribs and seeping into the corners of the room.

Downstairs, the smell of oil paints drifted up from your father’s studio. He would already be hunched over his latest canvas, humming absently, paint on his sleeves. He never asked questions about why you dressed the way you did or why you flinched when someone called you “girl.” He didn’t ask. But he saw you.

It helped.

A little.

 ⋆｡°✩

You dressed quickly— shirt, vest, trousers— clothes that always earned stares from the butcher’s wife and side-eyes from the baker’s daughter. They weren’t what you were supposed to wear, they said. Not feminine. Not proper. But they made it easier to breathe. That was enough.

With a worn book tucked under your arm and Megumi at your heels— scruffy, growling, loyal as ever— you stepped into the morning light.

The village square had already come alive. Market stalls groaned with apples and spices, men shouted greetings across the fountain, and the children had started their daily ritual of chasing chickens between carts. It should’ve felt like home.

It never did.

They all knew you— or thought they did. The painter’s ‘daughter’. A little strange. Bookish. Lonely. A poor excuse for a wife, someone had whispered once. Not fit for marriage. You carried those words in your spine, learned how to make yourself smaller in crowds, how to walk fast and smile politely, how to pretend you didn’t hear the things they said.

⋆｡°✩

“[Y/N]!”

The voice cut through the hum of the village like a blade. You stopped short.

Naoya Zenin swaggered across the square like it belonged to him— tall, smug, jacket unbuttoned just enough to show off. He had a musket strapped across his back, though no one could remember the last time he used it for anything other than posing. A few women tittered from behind the flower stall. Naoya winked at them, then turned his full attention on you.

“I was just telling my friends,” he said loudly, “you’d make the perfect wife. Sharp enough to be interesting, quiet enough to be trainable.”

The air in your lungs turned to glass.

You didn’t answer. You never did. It never stopped him.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” he offered, already reaching for your elbow. “We should talk about our future.”

Megumi growled low in his throat, teeth flashing.

You stepped back. “No.”

Naoya blinked, mock-offended. “Still playing hard to get, huh?”

“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I’m not interested.”

The words sat there, raw and final.

Naoya’s smile twisted. “Not interested,” he repeated, like the words were foreign. Then softer, closer: “What’s the matter with you, huh? Don’t you want to be taken care of?”

You didn’t answer.

There wasn’t a point.

You turned and walked away, boots crunching hard over the packed dirt. Behind you, Naoya whistled low— long and slow and mocking.

The only thing that stopped you from running was the book clenched tight against your chest.

⋆｡°✩

You spent the rest of the morning in your usual spot— a quiet bench beneath the oak tree behind the chapel, where no one ever looked twice at you. You opened the book. You tried to read. But the words swam. All you could think of was his hand on your arm. The assumption in his voice. The way no one ever corrected him.

No one ever looked at you and saw you.

Not yet.

Your father was already halfway through packing by the time you got home.

His old travel satchel sat open on the floor, its seams stretched from years of patched repairs. Brushes wrapped in linen were tucked beside ink pots and carefully sealed sketches. A bundle of warm bread from the baker's daughter— a rare kindness— rested on the table near a folded scarf.

“You’re leaving early,” you said softly, slipping into the studio.

He looked up from where he was fastening a buckle. His face— lined, sun-browned, familiar— softened when he saw you. “Storm’s coming. Thought I’d get ahead of it.”

You nodded, moving to help. “You’ll sell more this time,” you said. “People’ll see how good it is.”

He chuckled, gruff and quiet. “If they’re not too busy ogling Zenin’s new coat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you. It vanished just as quickly. He caught the shift in your face. Of course he did.

“Is he bothering you again?” You hesitated.

You didn’t like worrying him. You knew how hard he worked, how much he already carried. But the truth sat heavy in your chest.

“He thinks I’ll say yes if he asks enough times,” you said finally. Your father’s jaw tightened. “Let him try again. Next time I’ll—”

“It’s not worth it,” you interrupted gently. “He doesn’t see me. Not really.” He was quiet for a moment. Then: “One day someone will. Someone who sees you. All of you.”

You looked at him, and something unspoken passed between you. Not full understanding, but something close.

He reached out and smoothed your hair, the way he used to when you were younger. “Anything you want me to bring back?”

You thought about it. The markets were always full of junk— glittery trinkets, loud music, bad paintings pretending to be art. You never asked for much. But something tugged at you now.

“A rose,” you said.

He blinked. “A rose?”

“Yeah. Just… something alive.” He studied you for a second, then smiled. “Alright. A rose.”

You handed him his coat. Watched him fasten the last clasp. Watched him sling the bag over his shoulder like he always did before leaving. It should have been routine.

But something felt different. A heaviness you couldn’t name.

⋆｡°✩

The storm hit sooner than anyone expected.

By dusk, the sky turned slate gray and the wind howled like it wanted to rip the roofs off the village. You stood at the window long after the last candle burned out, watching the trees bend and sway. Your fingers twitched against the windowsill.

You thought of your father alone in the woods. You thought of wolves. Of ice.

You thought of the rose.

⋆｡°✩

The storm swallowed the path whole.

Your father’s horse had bolted hours ago, spooked by the thunder, and now he was stumbling through underbrush with frozen fingers and a soaked satchel, eyes straining for light. Branches clawed at his face. He could barely breathe through the fog and rain. But worse than the weather was the howling— not wind, not wolves, but something deeper. Something wrong.

Then he saw it.

Iron gates. Twisted and ancient, half-buried in ivy. Beyond them: a castle carved into the side of the mountain, black stone rising like a broken crown against the lightning. The torches at its doors flickered as if they had been waiting for him.

He didn’t question it. He was too cold to be afraid. Too tired to wonder.

The gates creaked open when he touched them.

⋆｡°✩

The castle halls were quiet. Not dead, but not alive either— as though the whole place were caught in a breath it hadn’t released in centuries. Paintings lined the walls, their subjects watching him with eyes that followed. Tapestries sagged, velvet faded. But the fire in the hearths was lit.

He moved slowly, half in a daze, whispering thanks to no one as he followed the warmth. A teacup clinked somewhere. He didn’t see who left the bread on the table, but he ate it. He didn’t question the clean towel. Or the blanket.

Only when he passed into the garden— hedges sculpted into monstrous shapes, thorns winding around marble statues— did he remember the rose.

There it was. Alone in the snow. Blooming bright red on a frost-bitten bush.

His fingers brushed it gently. He hesitated.

Then, with trembling hands, he plucked it.

The ground rumbled beneath his feet.

⋆｡°✩

A roar tore through the castle— deep and ancient and full of fury. He dropped the rose.

Something moved in the shadows.

It didn’t step so much as ripple— out of the dark came a form too big to be human, cloaked in heavy silk, horns gleaming wet under the moonlight. The man— if it was still a man— towered over him, four arms unfurling from beneath his robes, twin pairs of glowing eyes boring down. His skin was marked in black lines, sacred and savage, and his teeth glinted like knives when he bared them.

“Thief,” he growled.

Your father stumbled back, hand raised in defense, voice cracking as he tried to speak— to apologize, to plead. But the Beast was already moving, too fast for his size, fury radiating from him like heat.

He raised one clawed hand and the gates slammed shut.

“Your life is forfeit,” the Beast snarled, voice like splitting stone. “Or someone must take your place.”

And then he vanished, leaving only silence behind.

The castle looked worse in daylight.

Dark towers twisted against the gray sky like claws, their windows shuttered with old iron. You’d barely slept the night before— you’d begged anyone who would listen, searched every road, followed every clue— and now your horse was tied at the gate, still panting from the run. Your father’s satchel had been found tangled in the woods. The rose still sat in the saddlebag. It hadn’t wilted.

That was how you knew he was inside.

You shoved the gates open and stepped through.

Inside, the silence pressed close. The castle was too still, too warm. Fire crackled in the hearths without kindling. Curtains stirred without wind. Shadows stretched long across the stone. You moved carefully, hand on the book at your belt like it could protect you.

Then something moved.

You didn’t see him at first. Only a flicker of black silk. Then— a step, too loud. A shape too large. And out of the dark came a monster.

Four arms. Eyes like blood and gold. Skin covered in inked scripture and scars. He loomed, horned and massive, mouth curled in something far too cruel to be a smile.

You froze.

“So,” he said, voice like gravel and heat, “you came.”

You swallowed. “My father. You took him.”

“I spared him,” the Beast growled. “He stole from me. A life for a rose.”

“He didn’t know—”

“I don’t care what he knew.”

Your hands clenched into fists.

He stared at you, two pairs of eyes narrowing. “Are you here to beg, then? Scream? Cry?”

“No,” you said. “I’m here to take his place.”

The silence cracked like ice.

He looked at you long and hard. His gaze flicked over your clothes, your stance— your fear, buried deep under defiance. Something in his jaw ticked.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because he’s all I have.” You stood straighter. “And I don’t run from my choices.”

He stepped forward. You held your ground.

“I don’t want your tears,” he said slowly. “You’ll stay. One moon’s cycle. If you try to escape, he dies.”

You nodded once.

Then— impossibly— the corners of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. A test. “We’ll see how long you last, little thief.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

⋆｡°✩

The door didn’t lock behind you, but it might as well have.

The room you were led to was massive— too grand for a prison cell, but too cold to be called a home. Tall windows let in gray light. A fire snapped quietly in the hearth. The bed was too large, draped in dark velvet, untouched and unfamiliar. Someone had left food on the table— covered, still warm.

You didn’t touch it.

Instead, you sat on the edge of the mattress, hands in your lap, and waited.

The castle didn’t creak like old houses do. It… shifted. Whispered. You could feel it in the stone beneath your boots, in the air moving through the curtains like breath.

“Do you think he’s going to cry?” a voice whispered.

You jumped.

“Don’t be rude, he’s new,” another voice sighed.

You turned fast enough to make yourself dizzy— but no one was there. Just a candelabra resting on the table, its three wax arms flickering calmly.

Until one of them waved at you.

“Hey, sunshine,” the candle said brightly. “Welcome to the worst Airbnb of your life.”

You screamed.

⋆｡°✩

Ten minutes later, you were sitting at the hearth with a talking candle, a very agitated clock, a feathery swan-shaped brush that kept hissing at your shoes, and a teapot who somehow radiated more maternal energy than your actual mother ever had. The little teacup at her side bounced excitedly with every word.

“I—this isn’t real,” you muttered.

Gojo, the candle, winked at you. “Define real.”

“You’re all—cursed?”

“Correct!” Geto, the clock said miserably. “Trapped. Forgotten. Left to rot with that thing upstairs.”

“Watch it,” said Shoko, her bristles flaring slightly. “He’s always listening.”

Kaori Itadori the teapot poured you a cup of something warm and spiced, her voice gentle. “You’re safe now, dear. No one here means you harm.”

Yuuji bounced beside her. “What’s your name? Do you like books? Do you know how to sword fight?!”

You blinked. “…You’re a teacup.”

“Exactly!” he beamed.

There was a long pause.

You drank the tea.

It helped.

⋆｡°✩

Later, after the introductions had settled into something like peace, Gojo flickered closer and said in a conspiratorial tone, “So. Between us, what do you think of our dear master?”

You frowned. “He’s… a monster.”

Geto groaned. “Don’t antagonize him, Gojo.”

“Four arms,” you muttered. “And those eyes. He looked at me like—”

“Like he wanted to rip your soul apart and wear it as a scarf?” Shoko offered.

“Yes!”

There was a silence.

Then Gojo laughed, bright and unapologetic. “Don’t worry. That’s just his flirty face.”

“Flirty—?”

“You’ll see,” Kaori murmured, sipping from her own spout.

⋆｡°✩

You learned quickly that the castle had moods.

The halls rearranged themselves when they thought you weren’t looking. Windows that should’ve faced the gardens now overlooked cliffs. Stairs melted into ramps. Once, you turned down a corridor you swore led to the kitchens, only to find yourself in a balcony big enough to house half the kingdom.

You liked that one.

Sometimes, when no one else was around, you went back. Sat beneath the stained-glass skylight. Let the dust settle on your shoulders. Read until the words stopped swimming.

But you weren’t alone.

You never really were.

You felt him watching— not always, not obviously, but enough. A breath against the back of your neck. A shadow in the corners of your eye. Sometimes a faint growl echoing through the stone, like the walls were angry. You told yourself it was nothing.

But when you reached for the wrong door— the one at the end of the north hall, carved with unfamiliar script and choked in ivy— Gojo appeared out of nowhere.

“Don’t,” he said, suddenly very serious.

You frowned. “What’s in there?”

“Not for you,” Geto snapped, rolling up behind him. “Not for anyone.”

“You mean the Beast’s room.”

They both flinched.

“That’s not his name,” Kaori murmured from the end of the hall.

“But it’s what he is, right?”

Shoko sighed, fluttering down from a windowsill. “He wasn’t always.”

That made you pause.

You looked at the door again. Heavy. Silent. Waiting.

“He’ll kill you if you go in there,” Geto said flatly.

“He won’t,” Gojo said. “But you’ll break something.”

You didn’t go in.

Not that day.

But the seed had been planted.

And deep in the shadows above— just behind the balcony’s curve, Sukuna exhaled through his teeth.

“Curious little thing,” he muttered.

His claws curled around the railing.

“He’ll run screaming before the rose falls.”

But he kept watching anyway.

⋆｡°✩

You hadn’t meant to get lost.

The castle was different at night— colder, darker, the torches dimmed down to blue flame. You had gone looking for the library again, craving something quiet, but the halls kept shifting under your feet. The stone whispered under your boots, windows fogging over as if the castle itself had turned its face away.

Then came the thunder.

The wind howled through a broken pane and sent a gust down the corridor, cutting through your shirt like a blade. You hugged your arms to your chest and turned back— or tried to. Nothing looked familiar anymore. The paintings had changed. Doors sealed themselves. Your breath curled visibly in the air.

And then the torchlight vanished.

You stood in the dark, heart pounding, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. You weren’t afraid of shadows. You weren’t. But this was different— this was the kind of dark that watched.

You tried to move, but the cold sank deeper. Your legs felt heavy. The walls closed in.

And that’s when you heard it.

Boots. Heavy. Slow. Too many to belong to one man.

You turned, just in time to see the shape step into the hallway— tall, massive, horned, eyes glowing through the gloom.

He looked like death.

“S-Stay back,” you said, voice cracking.

Sukuna didn’t answer.

He moved forward, slow, shoulders wide enough to block out the torchlight behind him. Four arms moved with eerie synchronicity. His mouth curled in something unreadable.

You stumbled backward, spine hitting the stone wall.

“I told them not to let you wander,” he muttered.

“You—you were watching me?”

“I always watch what’s mine.”

That made you bristle, even through the fear. “I’m not yours.”

He cocked his head. “Aren’t you?”

You glared at him. “If you’re going to kill me, just do it.”

He snorted. “You’d be screaming if I meant to.”

You opened your mouth to snap back— but a shiver cut through you, violent and sharp. Your knees buckled before you could stop them.

In two strides, he was there.

One massive hand— too warm, too careful— caught your arm before you could hit the ground. Another tugged his cloak off in one motion and wrapped it around your shoulders. It smelled like ash and smoke and something older.

You blinked, stunned.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t leer or gloat. Just held you steady.

“Humans break too easily,” he said quietly.

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked again.

He looked down at you then— really looked, and for a moment, all the sharpness dropped from his face.

You weren’t sure who broke eye contact first.

⋆｡°✩

He brought you back in silence.

The cloak stayed around your shoulders. His hand never left your back. When you reached the door to your room, he paused. Said nothing. Waited.

You turned back toward him, heartbeat still thudding in your ears.

“…Why are you like this?” you asked.

He looked tired. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

A pause.

Then, softly— more a breath than a word. “Not tonight.”

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t expect him to knock.

The next morning, the castle was quiet again— no storm, no footsteps, no flickering shadows. You’d barely slept. Too many thoughts. Too much confusion. But when the knock came— low, firm, deliberate— you startled anyway.

You opened the door. He was standing there.

No cloak. No scowl. Just Sukuna, framed in sunlight, arms folded, like this was something he’d talked himself into and now regretted instantly.

“…Come with me,” he said.

You stared. “Why?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked.

You should’ve said no. You should’ve slammed the door and gone back to bed. But your feet moved without asking. You followed him.

The halls were quieter than usual. Even the castle seemed to be holding its breath. You passed by Kaori spinning in slow circles. Shoko raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Gojo and Geto were suspiciously nowhere in sight.

Finally, he stopped before a door you hadn’t seen before. Tall. Iron-bound. Carved with symbols that looked ancient.

He opened it with one hand.

The scent of old parchment and cedar drifted out.

You stepped inside— and froze.

It was a library.

Not just any library. A cathedral of books. Stacks that went up past the rafters. Staircases winding through shelves. A glass dome overhead flooding the space with morning light. It wasn’t just beautiful— it was impossible.

You turned slowly, staring.

“I thought you might be… bored,” he said.

You looked at him.

He wasn’t watching you. He was watching the ceiling. Like if he looked at you directly, something might crack.

“…You did this for me?”

“It was already here.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Silence.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it:

“You’re the first one who’s stayed.”

Something tightened in your chest.

You stepped further into the room, running your hand along the spines. Some were cracked with age. Others looked untouched. Languages you couldn’t read. Stories waiting to be discovered.

You turned back to him. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, as if trying to brush it off. “Don’t make it a habit.” But you smiled anyway.

And the moment stretched. You spent the rest of the morning there.

He didn’t leave. Didn’t say much. Just sat in the corner, arms crossed, pretending to nap while you read through half a novel out loud. Every now and then, when you glanced up, you found him watching— like he wasn’t sure how to stop.

You didn’t ask him to.

The castle started changing around you.

It was subtle. You didn’t notice it at first— a hallway that stopped shifting, a door that stayed unlocked. The room warmed. Curtains were drawn back. Kaori started humming again. Even Geto’s constant fretting softened into something bordering on hopeful.

But more than that, he changed.

Sukuna didn’t loom as much anymore. He didn’t snarl every time you asked a question. He still watched you— always— but it was different now. Less like a hunter. More like someone studying sunlight through stained glass, trying to understand how something so soft could still burn.

Some afternoons, he sat across from you in the library while you read aloud— never interrupting, just listening. His hands stayed folded. His eyes didn’t blink. But when you paused, he always knew how to fill the silence.

Other days, he took you through the gardens. Let you see where the snow hadn’t touched. Showed you flowers that shouldn’t have survived this high in the mountains. You learned his favourite place was a crumbled balcony overlooking the cliff’s edge. You stood there once beside him, the wind in your face, and he said nothing for a long time before finally muttering, “The world used to be so loud.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You didn’t need to.

And when you laughed— really laughed— at something stupid Gojo said one evening over dinner, you caught Sukuna staring again. His expression was unreadable, but his hands flexed on the armrest like he wanted to reach out and didn’t know how.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom happened by accident.

You’d found it while wandering— golden columns, frozen chandeliers, dust hanging like mist in the air. The moment you stepped inside, something in the walls shifted. Candles sparked to life. Music hummed faintly from nowhere. The floor gleamed beneath your boots.

He found you there later.

Didn’t speak. Just stood in the archway for a moment, watching. You turned.

“I didn’t mean to trespass,” you said. He shook his head slowly. “You didn’t.”

He stepped inside. The room felt suddenly smaller.

You met him halfway. The silence stretched.

The— tentatively, almost shy— he reached out and offered one clawed hand.

Your breath caught. You took it.

He led you in a slow, clumsy circle— one hand awkward on your waist, the other curled around yours far too gently for a man with talons. He didn’t know how to dance. You didn’t care. The music rose around you. Your pulse kept time with the rhythm. He didn’t look away, not even once.

And when your fingers brushed— when you felt the rough edge of his palm curl a little tighter around yours— something clicked in your chest so sharp it nearly made you stumble.

You didn’t know what it meant. But you didn’t let go.

It started with curiosity.

You hadn’t meant to go into the West Wing. You’d promised— really, you had— but promises meant less when the person you made them to refused to explain why. You’d grown used to the castle shifting around you, bending its rules in silence. So when the corridor appeared— unmistakable and unchanged— something inside you said, now.

The door wasn’t locked.

The air inside was colder than the rest of the castle. Not freezing, but still. Still like a room preserved in grief. The furniture was draped in thick fabric, dust curling in the beams of sunlight through the tall, cracked windows. A mirror stood against one wall— ancient, silver-edged, humming with a kind of magic that made your stomach turn. But it wasn’t what drew you forward.

It was a rose.

Suspended in a glass dome, nestled on a carved pedestal, petals impossibly bright against the gloom. It glowed faintly, pulsing with something warm and alive. A few petals had already fallen, curled along the base like fallen stars.

You stepped closer. You didn’t touch it. You didn’t need to. Just being near it made your chest ache.

You heard the growl before you saw him.

The roar shattered the stillness.

He was there— sudden and huge, fury pouring off him like fire, four arms tense, claws bared. He stormed into the room like it had betrayed him.

“What did I say?”

You stepped back, hands up. “I didn’t touch it—”

“You don’t belong here!”

“I just—!”

“You don’t belong anywhere in this castle!”

The words hit harder than they should have.

You stared at him— not at the monster, not at the claws, but at his face. At the panic buried beneath the rage.

“I didn’t mean to,” you said, softer.

“That’s what they always say,” he hissed. “Curious little things. Poking around. Making promises they don’t keep.”

You swallowed. “Who hurt you?”

He went still. It only lasted a second. But it was enough.

Then his eyes narrowed again, and his voice dropped to a snarl. “Leave.”

“What?”

“Get out.” You took a step back.

He didn’t shout again. He didn’t have to.

You turned and ran.

The forest was colder than it had been days before. You hadn’t meant to go far— only out, away, anywhere but that room— but the storm clouds overhead built fast. Within minutes, the path vanished beneath your boots, snow curling around your ankles, trees blurring into shadow.

Then came the howls.

Wolves. Closer than you expected.

Your legs burned. Your lungs ached. You tripped once— twice— the second time hard enough to scrape your palms. When the first set of glowing eyes appeared through the trees, you knew you weren’t making it back.

You raised your fists anyway.

They lunged.

And then he was there.

⋆｡°✩

Sukuna hit the wolves like a thunderclap— claws flashing, eyes burning, more fury than form. You couldn’t follow it all. Just movement. Just sound. Just teeth and blood and screaming.

Then silence.

He stood over you, chest heaving, snow melting where it hit his skin.

One arm was bleeding. Deep. Ugly.

You pushed yourself upright. “You’re—”

“Stupid,” he growled. “Running into the woods. You could’ve—”

“I know,” you said.

He winced. Dropped to one knee.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and caught him— your hands too small, your body too light, but he let you steady him anyway.

“Let me help.”

He didn’t argue.

⋆｡°✩

The fire in your room was still lit. You dragged a chair close, pushed him into it, and rolled up his sleeve— careful, gentle, still shaking. He didn’t flinch. Just watched you.

The gash across his bicep oozed, still fresh. You pressed a warm cloth against it and felt him tense.

“Why’d you follow me?”

“You ran.”

“You didn’t have to come after me.”

“You shouldn’t have left.”

The silence stretched.

You kept cleaning the wound. Carefully. Quietly.

“I thought you hated me,” you said.

He looked away.

“I thought you hated yourself.”

That got his attention.

“You’re wrong,” he said. Then, quieter: “I don’t hate you.”

You froze.

He exhaled, slow. “You’re the first person to look at me like I’m not something broken.”

You tied off the bandage. Sat back on your heels.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “Just scared.”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t look away.

⋆｡°✩

The fire burned low. The storm had passed. And for the first time since you’d arrived, the castle was completely still.

Sukuna sat in the chair by the hearth, his injured arm resting on his knee, cloak draped over one shoulder like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment. You sat across from him, the heat of your body still soaked into the cushions behind you. The bandages you’d tied were clean. The room smelled like ash, like rain-soaked fabric, like breath held too long.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“So should you.”

Neither of you moved.

The silence between you wasn’t cold. It wasn’t angry. It hummed with something else now— a weight, a possibility. His eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but they watched you like he was memorizing. Like he was letting go.

You stood.

He didn’t stop you when you crossed the room. Didn’t flinch when you reached for the cloak around his shoulders, or when your fingers brushed the edge of his wrist. He let you touch him.

“I don’t want to leave,” you whispered.

“I told you, you’re free.”

You looked up.

“I don’t mean the castle.”

For a moment, his expression flickered— something raw behind the bone and ink. Then he reached up— slowly, carefully— and pressed one hand against your chest. The warmth of his palm bled through your shirt.

“You shouldn’t want me,” he said.

“Too late.”

⋆｡°✩

When you kissed him, it wasn’t soft.

It was slow. Careful in the way only something dangerous could be— like you were both afraid the moment might shatter. His mouth was warmer than you expected, rough but patient. His claws ghosted over your ribs but never dug in. When you parted, breathless, you watched his eyes flutter open— and for once, they weren’t guarded. Just full.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

⋆｡°✩

The bed creaked beneath your weight. You let him guide you down with hands that had once shattered stone, now shaking as they touched your skin like it was something sacred. His lips followed— jaw, throat, collarbone— trailing reverent, slow heat. Your shirt peeled away. His claws never scratched. Not once.

When he saw you— all of you— he stilled.

You waited.

He leaned down, pressed his lips against the dip between your ribs, and whispered, “You’re beautiful.”

The ache that bloomed in your chest was too much to hold.

⋆｡°✩

He kissed every inch of you, like he was trying to rewrite the memory of how you’d been seen before. His hands mapped your hips, your stomach, your thighs, never greedy, only steady— like if he rushed it, you’d vanish. You clung to his shoulders, the ridges of his arms, the heat of his body as he moved against you, slow and sure.

It didn’t matter that you shook. He held you. Listened to the way your breath hitched, the way your body arched into his, the way you whispered his name like it was a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to hear.

When he finally entered you— gentle, careful, with your breath caught in his mouth— the stretch burned, but you welcomed it. He didn’t move until you pulled him closer.

Every motion after that felt like a promise. His pace was slow, hips rolling deep, deeper, every thrust grounded in reverence. His name slipped from your lips again, and he cursed low against your skin. One of his hands found yours and squeezed— not possessive, but grounding.

You felt him unravel above you. Felt the way his rhythm faltered as your legs locked around his waist. When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and his mouth at your throat.

He followed with a growl that shook through both of you.

⋆｡°✩

After, he cleaned you gently— like it meant something— and pulled you against him beneath the sheets. The weight of his arm across your waist was solid and warm. His other hands traced your spine like he didn’t want to forget the shape of you.

You lay there for a long time, chest to chest, breath to breath.

“I’ve never had this,” he murmured.

You looked up at him.

“You do now,” you said.

And he closed his eyes.

⋆｡°✩

The next morning, you found him in the garden.

The sky was pale with early light, frost clinging to the edges of the stone, and Sukuna stood alone near the edge of the rosebushes— still dressed from the night before, cloak loose around his shoulders, eyes fixed on something you couldn’t see.

You hadn’t spoken since. Not with words. But your body still ached with memory. You could still feel the weight of his hand on your waist, the rasp of his voice against your throat.

When he turned, you knew he’d already felt the shift.

“The mirror,” he said simply. “Ask it to show you.”

You hesitated.

Then you stepped forward, reached into the space between you, and the mirror bloomed to life in your hands.

Glass shimmered.

Your father’s face appeared in the surface— pale, shaking, trapped in a cage. Behind him, jeering voices. A man’s laughter that turned your stomach.

Naoya.

The world inside the mirror shifted, and you saw the asylum gates.

Your heart dropped.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Sukuna’s voice was quiet. “Go to him.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“You can.”

“I’ll come back.”

His eyes flicked away. “Don’t make promises you don’t mean.”

“I mean it.”

He didn’t argue.

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pressed the mirror into your hands. His thumb brushed your wrist, just once, before pulling away.

You held his gaze.

“You’re more than this,” you said.

His voice was barely a breath. “And you’re the only one who ever saw it.”

Neither of you said goodbye.

But as you turned and stepped through the gate, you felt something in your chest twist tight— like a thread had been tied between you, and you’d left it trembling in the cold.

The carriage was already waiting when you arrived.

They’d moved fast— too fast. Naoya had spun his lies like thread through every ear that would listen, his voice oiled with performance, face clean with practiced pity. “The poor painter,” he’d said. “Mad with grief. Imagining monsters. His daughter brainwashed.”

They never asked for your side. They never wanted it.

By the time you found your father, he was already bound and trembling, hands clutching the bars of the cage. His eyes lit up when he saw you— but the fear didn’t leave his face.

“He’s sending me away,” he whispered. “They won’t listen—”

“They will,” you said. “I’ll make them.”

You turned.

Naoya stood by the wagon with his arms folded, coat freshly pressed, a gleam in his eye that made your stomach turn. “Come to your senses?” he asked. “Or just here to cry some more?”

“I’m here to end this.”

Naoya smirked. “You don’t even know what you’ve been sleeping beside.”

You didn’t flinch.

Instead, you held up the mirror.

And the courtyard fell silent.

⋆｡°✩

Gasps rippled as the image bloomed— Sukuna’s face, sharp and monstrous, watching from the castle gate. Behind him, the castle stretched in shadow and stormclouds. His four arms moved with eerie stillness. His eyes glowed.

Naoya’s smirk faltered.

“You see?” you said. “He exists. My father told the truth.”

“But he’s a monster,” someone muttered.

“He’s cursed.”

Naoya recovered fast. “Then he’s dangerous.”

“He saved my life.”

“He’s bewitched you.”

“He let me go,” you snapped. “He gave me freedom when no one else did.”

Silence. Then someone shouted, “Even if it’s true— who’s to say he won’t come for us next?”

Naoya turned, voice rising with mock-heroism. “The time for talk is over. The creature threatens our home, our children, our future. If no one else will act—”

He raised his musket.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

They moved like floodwater.

Torches lit. Guns drawn. Blades rattling against pitchforks. You tried to fight your way back, tried to shout above the roar— but Naoya had planned this too well. You were grabbed, shoved, dragged toward the same cage your father had escaped from only minutes before.

“Lock them both up,” Naoya growled. “They can watch the castle burn.”

And as the mob marched toward the mountains, you kicked against the bars and screamed his name.

But the wind stole it from your lips.

⋆｡°✩

The castle saw them coming.

Long before the first torch lit the cliffside, before the wheels of the cart screeched against the stone, before the mob had even reached the gates— the castle knew. You could feel it in the air. The torches inside flickered low. The mirrors dimmed. The wind outside rose like a warning.

And the servants prepared for war.

Gojo lit every candelabra in the main hall like it was a funeral pyre. Geto barked orders no one listened to. Kaori shoved Yuuji into a cupboard and told him not to come out no matter what. Shoko, brush raised like a spear, muttered something about having waited centuries for a good excuse to stab someone.

And through it all, Sukuna stood on the highest balcony, silent.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared down at the torches approaching like they were stars fallen from the sky.

“He’s not coming back,” he said, to no one.

No one corrected him.

⋆｡°✩

You had never run so fast in your life.

Your father limped behind you, breath ragged, hand clutched tight in yours. You didn’t know how long the gate would hold. Didn’t care. The mountain path blurred beneath your boots, the wind howling past your ears, your lungs burning.

You saw the smoke before you saw the fire.

And then— through the trees— the castle.

And Naoya, musket raised, climbing the stairs.

⋆｡°✩

The servants fought like chaos incarnate.

Kaori tripped one man with a swinging teacart. Geto lobbed vases from the top floor with mechanical precision. Gojo lit half the mob’s torches out of spite. But it wasn’t enough. The villagers kept coming. Loud. Angry. Terrified of what they didn’t understand.

Sukuna met Naoya on the roof.

There were no words. Just a flash of steel, a snarl, the clash of teeth and blade. Sukuna didn’t hold back. But he didn’t kill him either. He let him fall once. Let him scramble back to his feet. Let him swing again.

He turned away.

And Naoya fired.

⋆｡°✩

The shot rang out sharp against the storm.

You saw it hit— watched Sukuna stagger, one knee dropping, blood already soaking through the silk. You screamed his name. But the castle was too high. The bridge too narrow. You couldn’t reach him.

Naoya raised the gun again.

But this time, the ledge gave way.

He didn’t have time to scream.

⋆｡°✩

You reached Sukuna just as he collapsed.

He was so heavy. So warm. You dropped to your knees and caught his face in your hands, blood slick beneath your fingers. His eyes fluttered open— unfocused, glassy, still watching you.

“You came back,” he rasped.

“Of course I did.”

“You… idiot.”

You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. “You’re not allowed to die. Not like this.”

“It’s too late.”

“No—”

“The rose…”

You looked over your shoulder.

The last petal falls.

⋆｡°✩

You didn’t feel the petals hit the ground.

You only felt his hand in yours— colder now, less steady. The weight of his body against your knees. The way his chest rose slower with each breath.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, “look at me.”

He didn’t.

“Sukuna, please.”

One eye opened. Barely. The glow had faded. The strength was gone. But he was still here. Just barely.

“I’m not ready to lose you,” you said. “I didn’t come back to watch you die.”

“You came back because you’re good,” he murmured. “You always were.”

“I came back because I love you.”

That stilled him.

Completely.

The breath in his lungs caught. His jaw twitched. You saw the disbelief flood his face like something painful. Like something he hadn’t let himself imagine.

“I see you,” you said. “I always have. You’re not a monster. You never were.”

He blinked.

Once.

Then the light left his eyes.

⋆｡°✩

The stillness that followed wasn’t real silence— it was a grief so sharp the world seemed to hold its breath. The castle groaned beneath you. The wind outside died. Somewhere in the distance, glass shattered.

You didn’t let go of him.

You bowed your head, forehead pressed to his. Your voice was too quiet to echo.

“Come back.”

Nothing moved.

“Come back to me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’m not done loving you yet.”

⋆｡°✩

The magic cracked like thunder.

It didn’t explode— it bloomed.

Light poured from the wound on his chest, golden and blinding. His body lifted, spine arched, arms outstretched as if something ancient had taken hold of him. You stumbled back— not out of fear, but awe— and watched as the lines on his skin unraveled. The ink melted. The horns splintered to dust.

He dropped to the floor— whole.

Still.

Then his chest rose.

He gasped like someone drowning.

And when his eyes opened, they were still him.

Sukuna. Just Sukuna. Not a Beast. Not a curse.

“...You stayed,” he whispered.

You launched into his arms before he could say anything else.

Later— after the villagers’ memories returned, after Kaori wept openly in the kitchen, after Gojo danced with the mirror for no reason at all— you stood beside him in the ballroom, chest pressed to his as the music rose. His hand in yours was solid. Strong. Warm.

You wore your best shirt. He still wouldn’t put on a crown.

You looked up at him.

“I still hate you a little,” you said.

He smiled, just slightly.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

⋆｡°✩

The castle bloomed again, slowly.

The halls brightened. The ivy peeled back from the windows. Rooms you hadn’t dared open now welcomed you with soft lamplight and warm air. The gardens thawed first— roses blooming in defiance of the season, red and gold and white, petals trembling in the breeze.

The servants were alive again. Whole again. Gojo wouldn’t shut up for three days. Geto complained about everything and still offered you tea every morning. Shoko took up smoking and refused to explain why.

You didn’t need a title. You didn’t ask for one. But the people came anyway— not to see a fairytale, but to see the man who’d saved their prince. Who’d kissed the curse out of a beast’s broken body and asked for nothing in return.

You stayed.

And he did, too.

⋆｡°✩

The night was warm. Summer had finally found the mountain. Fireflies gathered in the rose garden like floating lanterns. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, bare feet on cold stone, the wind brushing through your hair.

Sukuna stepped behind you.

His arms came around your waist, steady and slow.

You let your body melt back against his. His touch was different now— less cautious, more certain— but never greedy. He held you like you were something fragile only because he knew how hard the world had been to you.

“You’re thinking again,” he murmured.

You smiled. “That obvious?”

“Always.”

You turned in his arms.

Looked up at him.

“Do you still have nightmares?” you asked.

“Not when you’re here.”

You kissed him then— slow, sure, like you had nothing left to prove.

And when the stars came out, you were still there, tucked against him. Safe. Wanted. Home.

⋆｡°✩

The castle slept.

The rose never bloomed again.

It didn’t need to.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[starmocha]

Oh oh oh since we're sharing pregnant mc hcs, how about one where they got a bit carried away, they did it, she got pregnant, he "died", by some miracle she didn't lose the baby, she's an excellent, doting, badass mom. then when he comes back he finds the love of his life with a little 1 year old baby girl that could be considered mc's perfect clone except for the eyes. the eyes are his. IMAGINE THE ANGST THE HURT THE TEARS THE LOVEEEEE!!!!!

🫵 are you guys using my Caleb-addled brain to sneak around my “I don’t take requests” condition. /lh 😔 this is who I am now, I guess. I see Caleb, I cave… 🥺

Endless Summer

It was an ambush, another attempt on his life.

It was the thirteenth time in three months, as a matter of fact. Caleb had thwarted all of the previous attempts with ease, always on guard, untrusting of those who claimed to have vowed their loyalty to him as their colonel.

As you learned, you couldn’t trust anyone in Skyhaven, much less the Farspace Fleet. Dark secrets surrounded this seemingly elite entity and though it appeared like the place ran like a machine with perfect precision and efficiency, there was still an insidious side that Caleb refused to let you see.

It wasn’t just his life they were after. They were after yours as well, using you as the ultimate pawn to get to him. Little do they suspect, while you may be his greatest weakness, you were also his strength, his sole reason to persevere.

This was to be a fatal lesson for many to learn.

It was supposed to be a celebratory banquet, thrown in honor of the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel’s latest achievements. There were no deceptions by the hosts, but a traitorous group seized this opportunity to trap the young colonel and all doors within the banquet halls locked, keeping many of the guests hostages in the process.

Within the center of the room, Caleb calmly eyed all of the familiar faces that loomed overhead on the second floor as all around, innocent guests rushed to the exits, banging and screaming for help. He tried to push you away, get you to safety.

They were after him, after all. You didn’t need to be in the crossfires.

You didn’t have time to react, hearing that first gunshot that led the way for the onslaught of bullets.

Something in Caleb snapped that night. The barrage of bullets that came at him and you from all directions would have taken down anyone, but they all froze midair only because of his Evol freezing them in their track and keeping them suspended as if time had frozen at this very moment. He soon, however, learned it was merely a distraction.

Ca…leb…

The moment he saw the crimson blood seeping from your side, that knife pulled out quickly, and you were falling, eyes closing, as he ran toward you yelling your name. His Evol flared out of control, the gravity in the room suddenly immensely heavy, as dozens of men were pulled to their knees in futile struggles.

Open your eyes, he pleaded, his uniform soaked with your blood. His face twisted in pain, a million thoughts rushing through his mind, all of the memories of the past resurfaced in quick successions. All of those years of smiles and laughter that transitioned to pain and distrust only to slowly return to some semblances of the past were now coming to an end before his very eyes. He couldn’t lose you like this, not when he had promised that he would make things right again, to be the man that you deserved. Please…please…

You struggled to breathe, the pain unlike anything you had experienced in your life. As he watched you teetered closer to death, he was filled with wrath, an anger that could not be calmed by any forces in this world.

Caleb held his hand out, and a gun laying on the floor levitated before it rushed into his grip from across the room, and without a thought or any remorse or even hesitancy, he fired bullet after bullet into each man’s head, a clean shot straight through the center, not flinching even as the surrounding guests screamed and huddled to the floor, covering their ears from that violent, horrid sound.

When the last traitor fell, Caleb dropped the gun with a clatter, and his arms wrapped entirely around you, pulling you closer to his body for warmth. Your breathing had weakened even more, but he could still save you. He hadn’t failed you. Not yet, not ever. You were going to live. He would make sure of it.

Even if he now realized you were safer away from him.

Colonel Caleb, you had only slept for four hours last night, the robotic voice of an OTTO said with some semblance of concern in its artificial vocal. It levitated after its owner as the young colonel adjusted his uniform. The robot continued, explaining, An adult man of your age requires ei—

“I’ve slept enough,” he interrupted firmly, ignoring the robot, whose monitor quickly displayed a digitalized look of concern. Caleb had thought often of shutting down the robot and dismantling it, but he could never carry through, remembering that he had purchased this robot for you.

In this cold, monotonous so-called-home of his in Skyhaven, Caleb had few things that reminded him of you. A few plushies you two had won together sat on his living room couch, some snapshots you two had taken together at a photobooth, and perhaps a few furniture pieces you had ordered to be sent directly to his home. You had been in the process of bringing warmth and life into this place when everything came to an abrupt stop.

If he hadn’t taken you to that banquet that night nearly two years ago, Caleb wondered how things would have played out. You wouldn’t have gotten injured that night, but he feared perhaps it would just delay that same outcome. That night, he found himself at a fork in the road, forced to make a decision that would change the course of both of your lives.

Keep you by his side, where he had foolishly believed you would always be safe under his protection, or, let you go, let you believe that whatever had happened that night, he was the one who had died, finally taken away by Death himself. It was better to let you believe he had actually died this time, to keep you from searching for him, to keep you far away from Skyhaven—to keep you from him.

Since that night almost two years ago, Caleb’s nightmares had worsened. He relived the dreadful night, but he had also had other terrifying dreams so horrendous, he would wake up screaming in cold sweats, completely disoriented, unsure if he was trapped within another layer of the nightmare, or if he was truly awake.

“She’s safe, she’s safe,” he would often mutter to himself, an attempt to convince himself that he had made the right choice, that setting you free was the only way he could keep you safe. As long as you lived, he would bear the weight of his sacrifice, even if it meant never seeing you ever again.

It was sunny in Linkon, not a cloud in the sky, and the weather warm and inviting, but to Caleb, it was a place he had forbidden himself from ever stepping foot in again, out of fear that your paths would cross. In all of those times since he had distanced himself from you, allowed you to believe he was dead, he had managed to avoid any reason to step foot in the place that was once his home.

When his adjutant, Liam, had informed Caleb that his schedule required him to attend a conference meeting in Linkon, the young colonel stiffened, the atmosphere in the room stifling almost as if he was using his Evol. He suppressed his initial instinct to yell, knowing Liam was well aware of Caleb’s situation and had in the past made the necessary arrangements to prevent him from having any reason to step foot in that city.

It seemed he couldn’t stay away from Linkon forever, so he resigned to this situation, still remaining vigilant in his stance. Linkon was a big city, and there was no reason for your paths to cross. He would make do with this troublesome situation for the time being.

Now, Caleb had intended to return to Skyhaven the moment the meeting ended, and yet, against his better judgment, he found himself wandering down familiar streets, lost in memories of happier times. As he walked, before his eyes, he saw the silhouettes of him and you as children running down the street after school to your favorite little vintage grocery store.

Caleb, you dummy, you can’t use your Evol!

Don’t blame my Evol because you can’t run fast on those short legs, pipsqueak!

Caleb chuckled. He couldn’t help it. The memories of those years seemed so much more carefree. He often wished to go back to that time when the only things that weighed on yours and his shoulders were school or silly childish arguments.

As he approached the old grocery store, closed just a few years prior, he was surprised to learn that it was now under new ownership. The familiar place of his childhood was now a small trendy café, popular with college students and young couples.

To his astonishment—and, perhaps, also relief—the vibrant hydrangea garden in the back remained. Bushes of the white, blue, and pink flowers bloomed in the garden, showing that its new owner took well care of the plants. They looked like the hydrangeas of his childhood, of those long summer afternoons that never seemed to end as he and you made this place just another secret hideout only you two would ever know. As he walked down a beaten path, distracted, he was stirred out of his nostalgic thoughts when he felt something bumped into his leg. He peered down, surprised to see a little girl in a light orange dress, the same color as the sunset he used to see in his airplane when he was a pilot, was clinging to his leg. He looked around, not seeing any adult in sight to indicate they were the child’s guardian.

He furrowed his brows, a little in annoyance, as he was not prepared to suddenly be grappled with the responsibility of a lost child. He knelt down lower, and immediately, he startled as he took in the little girl’s appearance, a near perfect carbon copy of you, but the eyes—he stared into sweet little violet eyes that mirrored his own, seeing his shocked face reflected in these orbs. The girl looked up at him with curiosity, the wind swaying her short bob while a little yellow chunky cartoon airplane hairclip held her side bangs in place.

Suddenly, she started tearing up, breaking Caleb out of his trance and for the first time in a while, he felt panicked, unsure of what to do. The girl started to cry and Caleb immediately lifted her up, her head resting onto his shoulder as he rubbed her back and soothed her.

He shushed her gently, his caregiver instinct reignited after years of dormancy. “Why are you crying, sweetheart?” he asked her gently, his soothing voice a complete opposite to the tone he used as colonel.

The girl sobbed. She looked so young, Caleb realized, surmising that she probably had barely started learning to speak.

“Are you lost?” he asked in that same tender tone despite knowing the child would be unable to answer him. He continued, “You miss your mommy, don’t you?”

He rubbed her back again, wondering with trepidation if this child’s mother was who he thought it would be. For just a second, his heart stopped when he felt the little girl gripping the fabric of his uniform with her small hands. Quickly, he recomposed himself.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, his hand smoothed the back of her hair. “Let’s go look for your Mommy, alright?”

“Ma...ma…” the girl struggled to say. She rubbed her face against Caleb’s shoulder, and he smiled gently, unbothered that his once pristine uniform was now covered in a child’s snot.

“Okay, mama,” he repeated, “I’ll help you find your mama, sweetheart.”

When he was just about to turn around to head back to the café, he froze again, hearing a familiar voice he hadn’t heard in years. He could feel his heart beating against his chest, actually feeling every heavy thump as the seconds passed and the voice grew closer, a name cried out—the little girl’s.

The child in his arms wriggled, and cried louder, seeing her mother over Caleb’s shoulder. “Mama! Mama!”

Stiffly, Caleb knelt lower and gently set the girl down to her feet, barely registering as the child toddled passed him to her mother.

A completely different feminine voice called out, angry. “Were you trying to kidnap a child in broad dayli—”

Caleb stood up and turned around, his face pale.

“Cale…Caleb?” You stared in shock, feeling like you were seeing his ghost again. Again.

“Mama…Mama…!” Your daughter nuzzled her face against your chest as you held her. You broke out of your trance and instantly redirected your attention to your child. You quickly soothed her, well aware that Caleb’s eyes were locked on you, his face just as shocked as yours but for entirely different reasons. Once the little girl calmed down you passed her off to your companion, saying, “Tara, take her back to the café.”

Tara looked at you worriedly, her eyes darting to Caleb with suspicion. One look into Caleb’s eyes, seeing that same, perfect shade of purple, and the young woman quickly understood the situation. She nodded quietly and took the girl from you. “Come on, sweetie, auntie Tara is going to buy you a cupcake, okay?”

You waited until Tara and your daughter were out of sight. You couldn’t look at him. You wanted to look at him, to make sure your eyes were not deceiving you, to make sure that this was not an illusion, not a cruel, mocking figment of your imagination. But you couldn’t. You felt cowardly in that instance, being afraid of the truth. Afraid of his reaction. Of everything.

“You were…you were pregnant?” he questioned, feeling a wave of guilt washed over him.

Just hearing those words made you realized this was him. This was Caleb, the man you thought was taken away from you. Again.

Suddenly, you broke down crying and you looked up at him with tears running down your cheeks.

“Caleb, you dummy,” you sobbed, “You fucking dummy!”

He gasped, unprepared when you rushed at him and started beating his chest half-heartedly with your small fists as you continued to sob and curse him over and over again. He let you carry out your anger, let you punished him as you saw fit in this moment, but when the punches weakened, he gently grabbed your wrists, lowering them to your sides before his arms wrapped around you in comfort, his apologies immediate.

“Yeah,” he agreed in that ever familiar soft and gentle tone reserved only for you, “I am a fucking dummy.”

You sniffled against his chest, gripping tightly the lapel of his coat.

The afternoon passed slowly, initially tensed and awkward, but eventually all of the missing pieces of the puzzle fell into place, and you both struggled to come to terms with the picture of the missing years. You peered at the man to your side, seeing Caleb hunched over, his cap in his lap, looking much like a sinner struggling to come to terms with his wrongs.

“You didn’t know,” you whispered after a while, wanting to break this stifling silence. You reached for his arm, but he tensed before his shoulders slumped again.

“That’s no excuse,” he said, looking up at you. He started to reach for your cheek, hesitating at the last second, as if he was afraid that you would recoil from his touch. He started to pull back but you grabbed at his hand, guiding it to your cheek. He stared in shock as you nuzzled your face against his palm, and you gazed at him with glistened eyes.

“You’re not allowed to die again,” you scolded him. “Promise me that.”

He nodded numbly, his voice clear and steady. “I promise,” he said, repeating in a more hushed, firm tone, “I promise.”

He leaned forward, guiding your lips to his, his words still repeating in between breath. You let him drown you in his kisses, let yourself dizzied and relent to his feverish promises. When your lips parted, just a few centimeters, his warm breath grazed over your trembling lips before he pressed another kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I... will you…”

You looked up, seeing the struggles in his violet eyes. He appeared to hesitate again, unsure of what right he had to seek your forgiveness, wondering if he was overstepping the boundary between the two of you.

You gently coaxed him, seeing relief washed over his guilty features. “Will I what?”

“Will you…let me make things right?” he asked, “Let me…earn your forgiveness. I…please…”

He almost wanted to say, I can’t lose you again but the words died at his lips. He, of all people, had no rights to utter such words in your presence. He looked so defeated, beaten down to the point he no longer recognized himself anymore.

You took his hand, just like you always seemed to do, and you pulled him to his feet, to his surprise. He gazed at you questionably, his heart stopping at your words.

“Caleb,” you said his name so sweetly, “I want you to meet…our daughter.”

The summer air was warm even as the sky darkened, and stars after stars appeared above to illuminate the world below. The gentle breeze ruffled Caleb’s hair as he stared down at the sleeping girl in his arms. Maybe it was because she was still so young and impressionable, or perhaps she could already sense who he was to her, but the girl clung to him immediately, already feeling safe and protected in his presence.

His heart felt heavy, overwhelmed by guilt, a feeling of failure, and also of self-loathing, but as he gazed down at his daughter, another feeling stirred, just as intense but much more forgiving. He didn’t think he could feel such love as he did now as he peered down at the sleeping girl, nuzzled against him on his lap, peacefully slumbering away.

He wondered what she was dreaming of as he admired how much she resembled her mother. Hesitantly, he let his finger caressed her cheek, in complete, silent awe at how soft and delicate her skin was. He was almost afraid of hurting her, feeling a need to protect her just as he protected her mother. He looked up at you, his cheeks and ears reddening when he realized you had been laughing at his expense.

“It’s alright,” you told him amid your giggles.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“You deserve it, you big dummy.”

He let out a huff, in mock annoyance, but he agreed with you. “Alright,” he conceded, “I deserve it.”

“Do you want to begin your path to seeking forgiveness from us?” you asked him, a playful, teasing lilt in your voice, unmissed by Caleb as he raised a brow in curiosity.

“Just like that?” he questioned, confused by your leniency with him.

You nodded. “You still love me, right?”

“I’ve never stopped,” he said, his solemn words had you blushing against your better judgment, your heart quickening when he looked at you so lovelorn. You quickly composed yourself, returning to your mischievousness from seconds ago.

“You love her, right?” you asked, your eyes shifting to your sleeping daughter in his arms.

He sighed, mesmerized. “So much already,” he whispered, and again, you found yourself softening, touched by his sincerity.

“Okay, we’ll forgive you,” you answered, catching Caleb’s attention as he looked at you almost bemused by your easygoing attitude. “First step.”

“Which is?”

“You have to make us your specialty,” you said, laughing at Caleb’s look of complete bewilderment unfit for a colonel of his status. Clearly, you had blindsided him completely with this first condition. You clarified with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, “You have to make your braised chicken wings.”

He stared at you as if not comprehending your words. You laughed and leaned closer to him, your head resting on his shoulder. “I ate a lot of braised chicken wings while pregnant,” you said, reminiscing to that lonely period in your life without his presence. You reached over and brushed your daughter’s flyaway hair out of her face, continuing softly, “But they weren’t as good as yours.”

Caleb let out a huff of breath, a soft, resigned laugh as he readjusted his arm, letting it wrapped around you as he pulled you closer into his embrace. He leaned over and kissed the top of your head. “Okay,” he answered, “I take it she also likes braised chicken wings then?”

You leaned into him, nodding once. “She’ll love yours more,” you said, and then looked up, your heart quickening again as you gazed into his beautiful violet eyes, grateful that your daughter had chosen to inherit this sole feature from her father. Breathlessly, you uttered softly, your words for his ears only, “She’ll love you.”

“And you?” he whispered back, that same hesitancy still prominent in his tone. He looked at you expectantly as he asked, “Do you still love me?”

“I’ve never stopped,” you echoed his words back to him, continuing in that same hushed tone, “I’ll always love my dummy Caleb.”

“Alright,” he said, his voice resigned, holding you just a bit tighter, as if he was afraid this was a cruel, taunting dream he would wake up from.

As Caleb watched your eyes closed, he looked down, eyes darting from you to his daughter, and he wondered if he deserved any of this. In the warm summer night, surrounded by the blossoming blue and pink and white hydrangeas, he silently apologized for his mistakes, promising that for the remainder of his life, he would become a better man, deserving of both of you.

Just like the little boy from long ago, once he had made a promise to you, he would never break it.

He swore it on his life.

[littlelamy]

sports car

warnings: smut, mdni

lamy's notes: heavily inspired by sports car by tate mcrae! i know i said i'll post tomorrow but i just HAD to write something based on this song.

rafe cameron doesn’t ask, doesn’t even fucking hesitate when it comes to claiming what’s his. it’s in the way his gaze burns through you, stripping you bare under the flicker of shitty alleyway lights, his lips curling into that cocky smirk like he already knows how wet you are just from the way he looks at you.

in the alley? fuck, he lives for the filth. the sharp scent of damp concrete, the muffled bass from the club pounding in time with your heartbeat. he’d slam you against the wall without a care for the grime, his fingers already pulling your panties aside. “you’re such a dirty little thing, aren’t you? letting me take you out here where anyone could see?” his voice is a low growl against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as his fingers pump into you, wet and obscene. he’s rough, unrelenting, whispering filth in your ear as he makes you fall apart in the shadows.

in the back of his car? that’s practically his second home for this kind of shit. the windows fogged up, your moans echoing in the tight space as his hands roam every inch of you. his lips crash into yours, messy and desperate, his teeth catching your bottom lip just to hear you gasp. “you like being my little slut, huh? letting me fuck you like this, so fucking loud?” he’d shove the seat back, spreading your legs wide as his head dips between your thighs, his tongue working you over with a filthy precision that has you clawing at his shoulders. and when you cum, trembling and gasping his name, he’s grinning like the devil himself, proud and possessive. “you’re not done yet, baby. i’m not fucking done with you.”

then there’s the center of the room—the sheer audacity of him. some swanky event, his family’s fancy dinner, whatever. it doesn’t matter. he’d grab your wrist, dragging you away with a wicked gleam in his eye. “you think you can sit there, looking like that, and i’m just gonna behave?” he’d lay you down right there, the thrill of possibly being caught only making him harder. his hands are everywhere, tugging at your clothes, his mouth hot against your skin as he fucks you like he’s staking a claim. “let them hear,” he’d snarl, his hips slamming into yours. “let them fucking know who you belong to.”

with the windows rolled down? oh, he’s all over that. speeding down some dark, empty road, one hand gripping the wheel while the other slides up your thigh, fingers teasing under your skirt. “you’re such a needy little thing, can’t even wait till we stop.” and when you’re practically begging, he’d pull over, dragging you onto his lap in the driver’s seat. the car rocks with every thrust, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as you ride him, the cool night air rushing in through the open windows. “you feel so fucking good,” he groans, his lips bruising yours as he fucks up into you. “every inch of you is mine.”

on the corner of your bed, his hand wrapped around your throat, his voice a dark growl that sends shivers down your spine. “you’re mine. say it. fucking say it.” his other hand is between your legs, fingers working you open as he watches your face twist in pleasure.

on the beach, under the moonlight, he’d take you in the sand, the waves crashing around you as his body pins yours down. the salt air mingles with the sound of your cries, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he takes you hard and deep.

and when he’s feeling particularly unhinged? he’d sit back, watching with dark, hungry eyes as you touch yourself for him, his cock throbbing as he strokes himself in time with your movements. “you like putting on a show for me, baby? yeah, keep going. let me see how fucking bad you need it.”

he’s chaos, lust, and danger all wrapped up in one—and he’ll ruin you over and over until you’re begging for more.

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 11.9k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation a/n: dishin these chaps out series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

Himari is not having a good day. 

First, her burgundy patent leather Saint Laurent Nano Sac De Jour bag is ruined by the help accidentally dropping it on the dirty sidewalk, she lost her favorite lipgloss, and finally, probably the worst of them all, her so-called “boyfriend” isn’t acting very boyfriendly. Sure, he took her out just last night for dinner, and sure he fucked her good when they got back to her place, but he left before she even woke up. Treating her like she’s just a dirty hooker. He’s barely even responding to her texts, letting his ringing go to voicemail. She’s confused, annoyed, and extremely infuriated. There’s no reason for him to be acting like this all of a sudden; she’s his girlfriend for crying out loud.

So why is he being so secretive and mysterious all of a sudden? Why is he almost acting like he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

The sound of her red bottom heels pacing her living room is the only thing heard in the spacious environment. Biting her French-tipped thumbnail, eyes flickering to her cell phone that lays face up on the glass coffee table constantly. She has a right to act this way, she thinks to herself. Did she do something wrong? Did she make him mad? The sharp click of her red-bottom heels echoes through the pristine silence of her living room, the noise rhythmic but erratic as her thoughts spiral. Himari continues to gnaw on her perfectly manicured French-tipped nail, her polished demeanor crumbling bit by bit. As she keeps looking back at her phone, it’s like a silent challenge she can’t seem to ignore. The empty screen glares back at her, fueling her growing anxiety. She’s his girlfriend, after all. What could she have said wrong? She doesn’t remember doing anything to upset him. 

Her mind races, replaying every interaction over the past few days. The dinner last night, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. The fleeting moments of silence during their conversations, like he was somewhere else entirely. And this morning—no note, no text, no explanation. Just...nothing. She takes a seat and her nails dig into the leather armrest of her designer couch. Glaring at her phone again, willing it to light up with his name. But of course, the screen remains stubbornly dark.

No. This isn’t her fault. Satoru is the one being distant and evasive. He’s the one shutting her out. This is not her fault.  Her heel taps against the floor, her frustration bubbling over. Maybe he’s testing her, she reasons. Trying to see if she’ll chase him. What a bastard.

Her jaw tightens, her perfectly sculpted features twisted in a mixture of anger and determination. Twirling a piece of her long, lusciously healthy caramel hair. No, she decides, she won’t let him get away with this. She’s not some woman he can keep on the sidelines, only to toss a crumb of attention whenever it suits him. If Satoru thinks she’ll just sit here and wait, he’s gravely mistaken. She’s Himari Nakamura for god’s sake, her parents own Tenka Couture—one of the most, if not the most sought out and luxurious fashion brand in all of Japan. 

She grabs her phone and scrolls through her contacts, pausing at his name. Her thumb hovers over the call button, but instead, she opts for something more pointed—a text, again.

We need to talk. Don’t keep me waiting.

The message is curt, sharp, and dripping with the subtle implication that she’s losing patience. Tossing the phone back on the table, she exhales sharply, her chest rising and falling as she tries to reel in her emotions. But it’s no use. The uncertainty, the rejection—it’s eating her alive.

Himari’s gaze flickers to the ornate mirror hanging on the far wall, her reflection staring back at her with a mix of vulnerability and fury. She’s not used to feeling like this—out of control, discarded. Satoru has always been the one to chase, to charm, to reassure her of her place in his life.

So why now? Why does it feel like he’s slipping through her fingers?

A sudden, dark thought creeps into her mind, unbidden but insistent. What if there’s someone else?

Her stomach churns, the idea sending a fresh wave of anger coursing through her veins. No. That can’t be it. Satoru wouldn’t dare. Would he? The phone buzzes, jolting her from her spiraling thoughts. Her heart leaps, but when she sees the name on the screen, her hope evaporates.

It’s not Satoru. It’s his mother. She stares at the screen, her thumb hesitating over the answer button. What could she possibly want? She finally concedes, pushing her hair over her shoulder, and smiling. “Hello, Mrs. Gojo. What a pleasure to speak to you again.” She greets the older woman on the phone with a wave of politeness. 

“Ah, yes. Himari, are you busy right now?” Satoru’s mother, Akane Gojo, replies back. Her aged voice mixed with a hint of reluctance that makes Himari want to call her a bitch. She doesn’t—she’ll never. She’s not that idiotic. 

“No, ma’am. I’m not, may I ask why?”

“Well, I was wondering if you happened to know where my son is. My husband has been trying to get a hold of him all day and he isn’t answering. Is he with you?”

So, he’s not with his parents either. That’s even more shady. Just what the hell is he up to? “No, actually, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him since yesterday. I was starting to get a little worried.”

Himari hears the other woman sighing over the phone, muttering something about how her son is a headache. "Well," Akane begins again, her tone sharp with a tinge of frustration, "if you do hear from him, could you tell him to stop avoiding his family? It's unlike him to ignore us like this."

"Of course, ma'am. I'll let him know as soon as I can." Himari’s voice is syrupy sweet, masking her own irritation.

"Good. Thank you, dear." There's a beat of silence before Akane continues, her tone shifting to something more pointed. "And, Himari, I hope you understand how important Satoru's family obligations are. It’s important he doesn’t forget that."

Himari freezes for a moment, the subtle jab not lost on her. "Of course, ma'am," she replies smoothly, though her grip tightens on the phone. The call ends, leaving Himari staring at the blank screen, her mind racing. Family obligations. Avoiding his parents. Acting strange. All of it points to one undeniable truth: Satoru is hiding something. Her nails drum against the glass coffee table as she processes Akane's words. For a moment, she considers whether Satoru’s mysterious behavior has to do with the Gojo Group’s business dealings. But no, he’s always managed to balance that side of his life without much issue.

This time, it feels...personal almost. She stands abruptly, pacing the length of her living room once more. If his own mother doesn’t know where he is, then who does? 

Satoru, the wealthy, trust fund man that he is, has multiple places he calls homes. It’s proof of the fact that he has money, lots of it—more than what he knows what to do with. There’s the high-rise penthouse, where most people will find him. Next, the Next, the sprawling countryside estate nestled just outside the city—a retreat designed for privacy, complete with lush gardens, a pristine pool, and the kind of modern architecture that graces the covers of luxury magazines. This place, he rarely visits, but it’s there, waiting for him whenever he craves solitude away from the chaos of his social and family obligations. Then there’s the minimalist townhouse downtown, a sleek and understated property he keeps for the sake of convenience. Its location near the financial district makes it the perfect spot for impromptu meetings or when he wants to blend into the hustle and bustle of the city without drawing too much attention.

And finally, there’s the seaside villa. A true gem perched on a cliff with an uninterrupted view of the ocean. It's a home reserved for moments when life feels particularly overwhelming, a place where he can lose himself in the sound of the waves crashing below and the horizon stretching endlessly before him. Each property represents a different facet of his life: the penthouse for the public figure, the estate for the privileged heir, the townhouse for the businessman, and the villa for the man who sometimes just wants to escape it all.

Despite all these homes, none of them feel like home.

Lately, though, he’s been spending more time in places that aren’t tied to his wealth—places like a run-down apartment complex on the other side of town. It’s jarring, even for him, to walk through the cracked pavement and hear the hum of buzzing fluorescent lights in the lobby. But that’s where she is. Where they are. 

After seeing that place for the first time a few days ago, he automatically felt uneasy—maybe even disgusted. That is not the kind of place he wants his son being raised, where he wants you living. It’s a place for the unsavory group of people. Sure, it’s a little thoughtless of him to think these things because everyone has different situations, like you for example. But as stated before, he’s a spoiled brat to the core. So while he didn’t outwardly show it (at least he thinks so), Satoru hates the place you and his son call home. 

He’s brewing in these thoughts in his villa. Sitting on the white lawn chair, watching the pearly waves hit the shore and back. His phone’s on silent, taking pleasure in his solitude. For a second, he entertains the brief thought of being with his son and you instead. He can imagine the smile that grows on his face, watching the pretty sight in front of him. He can almost picture it clearly: the sight of you two laughing, Koji’s excited chatter, and the way your eyes soften when you look at him. It’s a nice thought, but he quickly dismisses it. You’ve made your choices, his choices for him. 

Still, the image lingers in his mind. Koji, smiling up at him, full of admiration. You, guarded yet warm, offering him a smile that could mean more if he allowed himself to lean into it. The waves crash again, louder this time, and Satoru snaps out of his reverie. His fingers twitch at the side of his chair, but he doesn’t reach for his phone. Instead, he forces himself to stay present. The world he’s created for himself is simpler when it’s just him. No obligations, no questions he doesn’t want to answer. But that image of you and Koji is still there, in the back of his mind. 

He doesn’t know why, sure he can imagine himself being with his son. But you too? The woman who lied behind his back for years, the woman who he doesn’t know would’ve ever told him if his best friend didn’t run into you? He sighs, a frustration that isn’t entirely his own settling in his chest. The villa’s quiet, but his thoughts are anything but. He looks out over the horizon, trying to push the feelings away, but they remain, a constant whisper in the back of his mind. What if things could be different? 

But there’s no going back now. The phone buzzes again, but this time, he ignores it. He can’t afford to entertain any distractions—not now. The solitude feels safer, at least for now. He’ll drive back in a few hours, but for now, he likes it here. 

“You look like you’d be a good mom.”

You falter, hands pausing around the pot of hyacinths. Giving your boyfriend a weird look, one of confusion and small disbelief. “Hah, what?”

He simply shrugs, watching you go back to fixing the displays of flowers. He’s half tempted to spout some cheesy line about how you’re prettier than the plants, but he’s already done that five times today. He watches you with that signature grin that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. “What? It’s true,” he says with a shrug, his pale blue eyes sparkling with amusement.“Yeah, you know—you got those like, instinctual mother thingies.”

“What even makes you say that?” You huff. 

“I’ve seen you with kids.”

“And?”

“Andddd,” he drags the words out, dramatically rolling his eyes. “I like it, looks good.”

You can’t help but snort, shaking your head at his ridiculousness. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No, really,” he insists, his tone softening just enough to make you glance up at him again. “You’re kind, patient—except with me, obviously—and you care. It’s cute.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. “You’re so weird to even be thinking about that right now.”

“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer and brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. “But I’m not wrong.” For a moment, his words hang in the air, and you find yourself wondering what it might mean—if he’s just teasing, or if he’s thinking about something more. The thought makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t quite name.

“You’re really something, Gojo,” you mutter, shaking your head as you turn back to the flowers, hoping he doesn’t notice the faint warmth creeping up your cheeks. “We’re nineteen and you’re immature.”

“Something amazing, obviously,” he replies without missing a beat, his grin widening. And just like that, the moment lightens, though his words linger in the back of your mind long after he’s stopped teasing. “And I’m not immature—at least not too much.”

You hum, rolling your eyes. “Debatable.”

He leans on the counter again, his head tilted as he watches you with that annoyingly familiar mix of mischief and curiosity. “Debatable? Come on. I’m the perfect blend of maturity and charm. Like... the top-tier boyfriend package.”

“Top-tier, huh?” you say dryly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite yourself. “Is that what you call forgetting our coffee date last week?”

“That was one time!” he protests, holding up a hand like he’s pleading his case in court. “And I made up for it, didn’t I? Flowers and donuts. And sex.”

“Uh-huh, right, right.” You dismissively respond. 

“You know, someday you’re going to look back at nineteen-year-old me and think, ‘Wow, I was so lucky to date this guy.’”

“Or I’ll think, ‘What was I thinking?’” you counter, though your smile gives you away.

Satoru laughs, his hand brushing against yours for just a moment as he reaches for the pot of hyacinths. “Nah, you’ll think, ‘Man, this guy’s been stealing my heart since day one.’”

You roll your eyes again, but the warmth in your chest lingers. Even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you wonders if he’s right.

You sigh this time, brushing your hand over the petals of the purple hyacinth. Its fragrance fills the space between you two, sweet and heavy, like the weight of the moment you’re trying to ignore. “You’re way too confident, you know that?”

“I prefer the term self-assured,” Satoru counters, but there’s something softer in his tone now. Less teasing, more genuine. He leans a little closer, his eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this moment. “And hey, don’t act like you don’t love it.”

Your fingers are still against the stem, and for just a second, the air shifts. His words hang between you like a thread, fragile and thin, threatening to snap. “You’re exhausting, Gojo,” you murmur, your voice quieter this time. But there’s no bite to your words, only a faint ache you can’t quite name. 

“And yet, you keep me around,” he says softly, his grin faltering into something smaller, more vulnerable. His hand brushes against yours again, deliberate this time, and your breath catches. His longer fingers interlacing with your own, bringing the back of your hand up to plant one kiss, then another, and another to your skin—slowly making his way up your arm.

“Sometimes I wonder why,” you admit, a half-hearted laugh escaping you as you shake your head. The pot in your hands feels heavier than it should, your grip tightening just slightly. Reveling in the warm feeling of his lips, a small breath of air leaving you.

He doesn’t answer right away, and when you glance up at him, you find his gaze steady on yours. There’s no mischief now, no playful grin. Just him. Just Satoru. “Maybe it’s because we fit,” he says finally, his voice almost a whisper. “Even if it’s messy or complicated... it feels like it’s supposed to be this way.” His lips are now on your shoulder, marking up to your neck; to which he spends extra time at.

Your chest tightens, and you quickly look back at the flowers, pretending to adjust the display again. “You’re talking like we’re some kind of fairytale, Satoru.” Your hand lets go of the pot, settling it back on its shelf. Cheeks beginning to heat up and you do your best to hold in the pathetic mewl that threatens to leave your mouth when he sucks just a little too sharp.

“Maybe we are,” he replies without hesitation, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes your heart ache. But fairytales don’t last, you think, the thought clawing at the edges of your mind like a dark shadow. You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you force a small laugh, pushing the heaviness aside.

“You’re too much,” you murmur, shaking your head again, eyes closing shut.

Satoru watches you for a long moment before leaning up to your ear. You feel his grin returning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Maybe. But you love me anyway.”

You don’t respond, but the silence that follows feels louder than it should. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you know this moment—this version of you and him—is fleeting. Like the flowers in the pot before you, it’s beautiful, but it won’t last forever, especially with how…different you two are. You don’t tell him that, though. Instead, you smile faintly, keeping your eyes on the flowers, and let the moment linger just a little longer. Letting him continue to worship your skin in kisses, reaching your lips in a magnetizing way that always leaves you begging for more. It’s your own way of letting yourself bask in the simplicity and intimacy of one another, pushing back the brutal thought that this could all change. 

Preparing yourself for the worst, the inevitable because you’re too afraid to admit to yourself that you’re already playing a dangerous game, already biting off more than you can chew. 

The weight of your unspoken fears settles heavily in your chest, threatening to suffocate the fragile warmth between you. Still, you cling to it—this fleeting moment of love—as if holding on tightly enough might make it last. Satoru reaches out again with his other hand, his fingers ghosting over yours, but this time it feels different. Less playful, more deliberate, like he knows something you’re too scared to confront. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, a reminder that he’s here now, that you’re here now.

But for how long?

You glance up at him, catching the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips twitch as though he’s searching for the right words. Or maybe he’s feeling the same quiet dread you are, that bitter knowledge that life has a way of pulling things apart, no matter how tightly you try to hold them together.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. His teasing bravado is gone, leaving only raw sincerity behind.

You force a smile, one you know doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Just... thinking.”

“About?” he presses gently, his gaze unwavering, his thumb moving across your cheekbone gently.

“Nothing,” you lie, your fingers brushing over the petals again, grounding yourself in their softness. “It’s nothing.” Satoru doesn’t believe you, you can tell by the way his eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he leans back, his shoulders relaxing as he shifts the conversation.

“Y’know,” he begins, his grin returning, though softer now, “if you ever get tired of the flowers, I’m always available for career advice. I’m an excellent life coach.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound thin but authentic. “Yeah? What’s your first piece of advice?”

“Marry rich,” he quips, winking, but the joke falls a little flat. “Meaning me, baby,” he adds, bringing you close by an arm to your shoulders, kissing your temple. You shake your head, but the laughter fades too quickly, leaving you both in the quiet again. The thought returns, sharper now, that this could all slip through your fingers.

And maybe that’s why you let yourself lean into him just a little more, let the edge of your shoulder brush against his. It’s why you kiss him back when he leans back into your lips. It’s not much, but it’s your way of holding onto this moment, even as the inevitability of its end looms over you like a storm cloud. Because deep down, you already know the truth: you’re playing with fire, and it’s only a matter of time before the flames consume you. 

You already know a man like Satoru Gojo would never stay with someone like you.

You jolt upright at the sound of your blaring, very annoying alarm. Quickly turning it off, you give yourself a moment to blanky stare at your sheets. Rubbing your eyes. Were you really just dreaming about that? Or no, it wasn’t a dream—but a memory. A distinct, longing feeling begins to pool in your gut. The kind that makes you feel numb and unresponsive, the kind you get when you just dream about some mystery man you fell in love with but can’t remember his face. You shake your head, trying to push the feeling away as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. The room feels colder than usual, the early morning light barely filtering through the curtains. It’s a struggle to move, the weight of that memory—no, that ghost of a feeling—pressing down on you.

Satoru.

What once was.

The way your chest tightens, the ache that feels both familiar and unwelcome, tells you everything. You can almost hear his voice, playful and warm, teasing you like he always used to. You can almost feel his touch, fleeting but deliberate, like he was trying to leave a mark without you noticing.

God, why now? For what reason? You’ve long been over him, haven’t you? No doubt he has, considering he’s more than likely dating someone right now. You wonder when—or if—he’ll tell you. He has to, right? Because if this woman will possibly be around your son in the future, you have to know who she is, just like she has to know who you are. And if she and Satoru perhaps get married in the fu—

You quickly stop your train of thought.

You run a hand through your hair, trying to shake it off. There’s no time for this. You have too much on your plate to sit here drowning in nostalgia. The rent. Koji. Work. Life doesn’t pause just because your subconscious decided to dig up a piece of your past you’ve tried to bury. But the feeling lingers, refusing to let go. You stumble into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face in the hopes that it’ll snap you out of it. For a second, it works. The chill jolts you awake, and you grip the edges of the sink, staring at your reflection.

“You’re fine,” you mutter under your breath. “It’s just a memory.” But your reflection doesn’t look very convinced.

Busying yourself with your other life and mom responsibilities proves to work, the thought of your dream this morning and Satoru in general being pushed to the back burner. You rather it be this way, it’s easier to function. 

“I’ll probably be a little late to pick you up from school today, Koji.” You tell your son, hand clutching his as you make the way to his school. The morning is colder, having dressed him in a puffy jacket, a beanie, scarf, and cute mittens you crocheted when you had the passion. 

He looks up at you, bottom lip jutting out into a frown. “Why?”

You sigh, not sure how to explicitly explain that you’ll be putting in an extra hour today at the cafe so you can scrounge up as much money as you can for the money due this Friday—in two days from now. It really feels impossible, but you’ll find a way. “Mama has to work a little longer today, I’m sorry.”

Koji’s frown deepens, his small brows furrowing as he kicks a pebble along the sidewalk. "It's okay, Mama. I can wait." His words are simple, but the way he says them—the way he tries to be understanding beyond his years—makes your heart ache. You hate this. Hate that he even has to think like this. He should be carefree, worrying about which dinosaur to play with or what snack he’ll get after school. Not whether his mama is working herself into the ground. 

You’re feeling extreme guilt again. Wondering and worrying that you’re making him grow up too fast. But tons of kids stay a bit later at school when waiting for their parents to pick them up, don’t they?  You force a smile, squeezing his hand gently. "Thank you, baby. You're such a good boy."

His face lights up at the praise—as always. He starts talking about what he’s looking forward to in class today. You nod and hum along as he chatters, trying to match his energy, but your mind is already elsewhere. Two days.

You’re running out of time, and no matter how many hours you squeeze into the day, it doesn’t feel like enough. You’ve thought about asking for help, swallowing your pride just this once, but the options are limited. The last thing you want is to open that door with Satoru, and there’s no one else who can offer the kind of money you need.

By the time you reach the school gates, you’re exhausted—mentally more than physically. Kneeling to adjust Koji’s scarf and beanie, you kiss his cheek and give him your warmest smile. "I’ll be there as soon as I can, okay? I promise. I love you."

"Okay, Mama. I love you too," he says, his grin wide and trusting as he hugs you tightly before running off to join his classmates. You stand there for a moment, watching him go, before turning and heading toward the café. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of your reality pressing down on you.

Two days. And not a second to waste.

But just because things never seem to go right for you, Mr. Ito comes out from the classroom, standing by his door. “Oh, Ms. Y/N? Good morning.”

Jesus Christ, can he just take a fucking hint. You’re literally walking away. However, you put on a facade of politeness and turn around to face him, holding back a scowl at his ever-present smile. “Good morning, Mr. Ito.”  

He spares a quick glance into his growing room of children before stepping away and closer to you. Instinctively, you take a small one back. “How are you today?”

“I’m great.”

“That’s good to hear,” he nods, clasping his hands behind his back. His eyes do a quick scan of you, and you could almost swear you see his smile widen—like he’s appreciating the sight. Dirty bastard. 

You suppress a shudder, keeping your expression neutral. This obviously isn’t the first time Mr. Ito has made you uncomfortable, but you’ve learned to play nice for Koji’s sake. After all, the last thing you want is to make things awkward between your son and his teacher. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ito, but I really need to get to work,” you say, shifting your weight to one foot, hoping he gets the hint.

“Oh, of course,” he replies, though he doesn’t move away. “I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am with Koji’s improvement with his behavior. He’s such a bright boy, and so polite too. A testament to your parenting, I’m sure.”

There’s something about the way he says it—too smooth, too rehearsed—that makes your stomach churn. You force a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you. Koji works very hard.”

“Yes, well, if you ever need to discuss his progress or anything else, my door is always open. Even outside of school hours,” he adds, his tone far too suggestive for your liking. 

Didn’t he already say this line before? Your grip tightens on your bag, but you keep your composure. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Ito. Have a good day.” Before he can respond, you turn on your heel and walk away, heart pounding. The nerve of that man. You’d always sensed something was off about him, but lately, he’s been crossing more lines, and you’re starting to feel trapped.

It’s not like you can pull Koji out of the school—this is the best option you can afford right now. And confronting Mr. Ito? That could easily backfire, making Koji’s time in class unbearable. As you walk to work, the weight of your problems feels heavier than ever. The looming eviction notice, the landlord’s constant pressure, and now, Mr. Ito’s thinly veiled advances.

Two days. 

You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus. You don’t have time to worry about Mr. Ito or anything else. Right now, all that matters is making it to Friday.

“Did you yell at her?” is the first thing Suguru asks. After not seeing his best friend for a week, Satoru would’ve thought he’d have something else to say. However, he can imagine he just wants to get down to the point after he sent the black-haired man a message about seeing you for the first time again. 

“No, I didn’t.” Satoru cooly responds, finger tapping along the glass rim of his overly sugar-infested coffee. Suguru takes a seat across from him, giving his friend an analytical glare. Satoru’s dining room, save for the weird tension of words having yet to be spoken. 

Suguru leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. "So, what did you do then? Stare at her like a creep?"

Satoru's lips twitch into a smirk, but there’s no humor in it. "I talked to her, obviously."

"Obviously," Suguru repeats, the sarcasm thick. He glances at the untouched plate of food in front of him. "And how’d that go?"

Satoru shrugs, the motion too nonchalant to be genuine. “She was...surprised. And emotional, but I can’t really blame her for that.”

"Emotional, huh?" Suguru raises a brow. “Did she apologize?” 

Satoru nods. 

"I’m guessing you didn’t hold back."

"Why should I have?" Satoru snaps, his voice sharper than he intended. "She’s lucky I didn’t do worse, she honestly deserves every single fucking thing I told her, and more.”

Suguru doesn’t flinch at the outburst. Instead, he lets the words hang in the air, his silence more pointed than anything he could’ve said. Satoru sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t yell at her, okay? I barely even argued. I just...listened and answered.”

"And what did she say?"

Satoru hesitates, his eyes drifting to the cityscape visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse. “She told me why she kept it a secret, how she felt, and whatever.” Satoru's jaw clenches, the memory of seeing you cry filling him with dread—like it used to way back then. He’s surprised he was that receptive to it, especially that quickly. Luckily, he held back the almost innate urge to bring you into your arms and comfort you. Because again, you don’t deserve his comfort right now.

Suguru pauses, letting his own curiosity win over. “Well…why did she do it?”

There’s a moment of still quietness while Satoru thinks over the other man’s question. Satoru’s gaze remains fixed on the cityscape, the towering buildings blurring as his thoughts churn. His chest feels tight, a cocktail of emotions he doesn’t have the energy to name swirling in his gut. Anger, hurt, guilt—they’re all there, fighting for dominance. “She didn’t give me a chance,” Satoru mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “She decided for me. Like I didn’t deserve to know. Like I wouldn’t have...tried.” He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. He’s never been good at this—this vulnerable, messy part of himself. The part that cares too much, that aches too deeply. “I’m angry,” he finally admits, his fingers drumming against the table. “I’m so fucking angry at her for thinking so little of me. But at the same time... I…I think I get it. It was the rejection she was scared of, the first failed attempt, she didn’t want Koji growing up like me, she…she didn’t think I was ready, either. She said she was trying to protect us all.” His words are low and hushed, even reciting them making him feel as if he needs to spill his guts. “She doesn’t deserve it, she doesn’t deserve my understanding, my empathy for her, she…she doesn’t deserve anything. I shouldn’t feel bad for her, I shouldn’t. But I do for some fucking reason, and it’s making me so fucking confused.”

Suguru doesn’t interrupt, letting him vent. Satoru’s words come faster now, spilling out like a dam breaking. “And now, I’m just...stuck. Stuck between being pissed off at her and hating myself for thinking she’s right.” He runs a hand through his hair again, tugging at the roots as if the pain will ground him. “Because she was right, wasn’t she? I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. I would’ve run. I would’ve hurt her in ways she didn’t deserve.”

The admission tastes bitter on his tongue, and for once, Satoru doesn’t try to mask it with bravado or a joke. “But now,” he continues, his voice softer, tinged with something vulnerable, “I just keep thinking about Koji. About all the time I lost. About how I don’t even know how to be a dad, let alone his dad.”

Suguru leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. “Do you want to be his dad?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His thoughts drift to Koji’s small, curious eyes, the way the boy had looked at him with a mix of wonder and wariness. The way they got along so well, so quickly. The way the boy was so excited to teach his dad about dinosaurs, to play with him, to his infectious laugh when Satoru lifted him high up in the air. “I don’t know how to,” Satoru finally admits, his voice breaking slightly. “But I want to try.”

Suguru nods slowly, his gaze steady. “Then that’s a start.”

Satoru exhales, the weight on his chest lifting just slightly. But even as the conversation eases, the storm in his mind rages on. Because no matter how much he wants to move forward, the shadows of the past—and the fear of screwing up—loom large. And the fact that he doesn’t know how he can get resolve things with you. How is he just supposed to co-parent and see your face so casually after what you did? 

Is he supposed to just remain cordial? Closed off? Or should he try to fix things? 

But what things even need fixing, there’s nothing between you two. There’s no “them” anymore. There hasn’t been for years. And if there were, shouldn’t that be your job? This entire situation is your fault. You should be the one begging on your knees for forgiveness, you should be groveling for the fact that you kept his son a secret. He’s justified, isn’t he? In being cold? Closed off? In letting you feel every ounce of the pain you caused him? 

The bitterness twists in his chest, a dark, venomous thing that urges him to lash out, to make you feel as helpless and raw as he does. For a fleeting, horrifying moment, the thought slithers in: You should be the one who’s grateful that he didn’t do anything extreme like try to take Koji away from yo–

What the hell are you saying? 

He feels convicted suddenly, wanting to punch himself for even daring to think such an evil thing. Is he that angry? Petty? Does he want to get back at you that bad that he’d threaten to take away your kid from you? The thought makes his stomach churn, the self-loathing hitting him like a punch to the gut. His grip on the edge of the table tightens, knuckles whitening. He’s not that kind of person. He’s not that cruel. No matter how angry, how hurt he feels, he couldn’t do something so vile.

He’s just not. But he just feels so conflicted and…unsure about everything. 

But the anger doesn’t vanish—it just twists into something deeper, more insidious. He feels so troubled, so lost in the storm of emotions that he can’t tell which way is up anymore. And yet... amidst all that chaos, there’s another image. One that keeps replaying in his head like a stubborn melody.

Because he could see it—see how your eyes lit up with a motherly joy after Koji called your name for attention, how you smiled instinctually when seeing your son, how your voice softened so perfectly it practically pulled him in too. He sees the way your face relaxed when Koji tugged at your sleeve, the way your whole being seemed to light up just from hearing his voice. The joy, the pride, the pure, unfiltered love that radiated from you—so natural, so raw, it made him pause.

And for a split second, Satoru forgot the anger, the betrayal, the hurt. He only saw you. You, as a mother. You, as Koji’s mother. Somewhere in the muddled mess of his thoughts, an ache blooms. Not just for the time he lost with Koji, but for the life he lost with you. Because no matter how hard he tries to deny it, part of him still remembers the way you used to smile at him like that. And the other part of him wonders if he’ll ever see it again. 

The war in Satoru’s mind is relentless, his thoughts ricocheting between anger and guilt, blame, understanding, and even longing. Every time he tries to land on a conclusion, another surge of emotions pulls him in a different direction.

Satoru clenches his jaw, his finger now still against the coffee glass. “I didn’t know about Koji.”

“No, but you knew about her.”

The words hit harder than Satoru wants to admit. He doesn’t respond, and Suguru doesn’t push, though the weight of his stare lingers. After a moment, Suguru sighs. “Look, man. If you’re serious about making things right, about stepping up and being a father, you can’t go back. Sure, you just met the boy, but it’s up to you and her to make sure you make up for the time you lost with him—to create even more memories with him. You have to prove you’ll be there for him.”

Satoru looks up at him, his eyes shadowed with something Suguru rarely sees in his best friend—doubt. “And if it’s too late?”

Suguru gives him a small, sad smile. “Then you make sure it’s not.”

It’s around nine at night, the convenience store’s ambience slowly drifting you into a sleepy state before you catch your head upright. It sucks having to force yourself to stay awake, already on your third cup of coffee today with two espresso shots. At this rate, you don’t know if you’ll be able to sleep, but it’s better that than not getting through your days at work. If anything, you can try melatonin again, even if that is just a blatant scam.

Scrolling on your phone through Indeed, Zip Recruiter, and LinkedIn. You hate seeing the same few jobs that say they’re hiring, but ghost you. Or the jobs that you seem completely too unqualified for that it makes you self-concsious. You’re aware you didn’t finish college, very aware. A part at you constantly eats away at your soul, mind running to the loud thoughts of “what if”. What if you finished college? What if you didn’t have Koji? You quickly push that idea away, feeling mad at yourself. You wonder if it’s bad of you to think about never being a mother—if other parents do that too.

It’s just a simple thought. You don’t regret Koji, you never could or would. Still, you can’t stop thinking at time about how life would be if you had a child later on in life. If you had a stable job, life, everything. Would things be better—different? Would Koji have been happier?

The thoughts gnaw at the edges of your mind as you sip from the coffee cup, the bitter liquid doing little to soothe the ache growing in your chest. The sinfulness hits you almost immediately, sharp and unforgiving. It feels wrong to even entertain the idea of a life without Koji, like some kind of betrayal to the tiny, beautiful soul who depends on you.

But you’re tired—so, so tired. And sometimes, when the weight of it all feels like too much to bear, those questions creep in, uninvited and insidious. They don’t mean you love Koji any less. You know that. Still, the mere existence of the thoughts makes you feel like a failure, like you’re not doing enough or being enough. You scroll through the endless job listings again, each rejection or impossibility hammering another nail into the coffin of your hope. A lump forms in your throat as you stare at the screen. Your hands tremble slightly, whether from exhaustion or the overwhelming sense of inadequacy, you’re not sure.

Again, you shake your head, forcing the thoughts away, but they linger like a shadow you can’t quite shake. Koji’s smile flashes in your mind, bright and pure, his laughter echoing in your memory. He’s your light, your anchor in the chaos. No matter how hard things get, you always find your way back to him. But even as you remind yourself of that, the doubts creep back in. Are you enough for him? Are you giving him the life he deserves? You hate that your answer feels so uncertain.

The soft hum of the convenience store's fluorescent lights pulls you back to the present. You set your phone down, closing your eyes for a moment as you press your palms against your forehead. You want to cry but know you can’t afford the luxury of breaking down, not here, not now.

The truth is, no matter how much you love Koji, you feel like you’re drowning. You’re just too good at treading water, keeping your head barely above the surface, to let anyone notice.

And so, you lose focus on your phone and exist in the present. You can’t change the past, but you can change your now, and your future. That starts with working hard, harder than you ever thought you could. The people who rise to the top, the people like Satoru, they fight for what they have. It’s a dog eat dog world out here, and you’d be damned if you let someone else best you. 

You’re the ruler in your own life, not Satoru, not money, not evictions, nothing. It’s you. It’ll always be you. You’ve been working since you were fourteen, practically emancipated because your own sorry excuse of parents couldn’t have been more bothered. 

That’s another thing that’s your driving force. Just like how you didn’t want Koji to grow up like Satoru, you didn’t want him to grow up like how you did either. You would never—ever—be like them. You pledged that, took an oath. Sure, things aren’t looking very good right now. But you’re strong, resilient, smart. You will get through this. For Koji, and for yourself. 

Hard workers get what they worked for. You’ll be there soon. Patience is a virtue, and slow and steady wins the race. 

Almost two hours have passed, once again putting in an extra hour. Right in the middle of ringing up some drunken college girls who came in for snacks, your phone in front of the register rings. You look down, it displays a number you know by heart. Mumbling a ‘have a good night’ to the girls who stumble their way out, you take the liberty to answer; not before you take a deep breath in, however. 

“Hello?”

“Hey.” 

“Um…hey. Can I help you?”

“I’m coming over tomorrow.”

You pause for a moment, the phone pressed tightly to your ear as Satoru's words register. It takes a second too long for you to find your voice again, the casual confidence in his tone throwing you off balance. “Tomorrow?” you repeat, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sudden swirl of emotions his call stirs. “Okay, why?”

He scoffs. “Because I want to see him,” Satoru says simply, as if his answer explains everything.

Your lips purse, a mix of frustration and anxiety bubbling to the surface. “Satoru, it’s not that simple—”

“It is that simple,” he interrupts, his voice calm but laced with a sharp edge. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. I’m not waiting any longer, I want to see my son.”

Your grip tightens on the phone as your free hand balls into a fist at your side. The words you want to say die in your throat, the late hour and your sheer exhaustion making it hard to form a coherent argument. “I…I–I have work tomorrow, he has school.”

“So I’ll come over when he’s out of school,” he counters, his tone softening slightly but still resolute. “Look, I’m not trying to fight with you. I just want to see my son. We’ll figure the rest out as we go.”

You glance around the empty store, the harsh fluorescent lights casting long shadows. The reality of the situation presses down on you, the fact that this is something you’ll have to get used to, have to allow. Because he deserves it. “Fine,” you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. “He’s off at 2:30, we get home around 2:40, you can be there by that time.”

“I’ll text before I get there,” he promises, though the nonchalant way he says it doesn’t do much to ease your questionable nerves. “See you tomorrow.”

The line goes dead before you can respond, leaving you standing there in the dim light of the convenience store, the phone still pressed to your ear. Tomorrow. You set the phone down, your hands trembling slightly, unsure as to why. It’s just the fatigue. Or maybe it’s the fact that Satoru is officially back in your life, his face will be a regular occurrence now. 

He’s here for Koji. That’s all. Don’t look into it.

When you slug back home, the first thing you do—after paying Sana—is count your money. Mr. Sato needs around four thousand dollars, you’re still fucking short. 

“Nine-hundred.”

“Thousand.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

A thousand short, plus another hundred for the utilities. And he needs it by Friday. It’s Wednesday. 

On a scale from one to ten of how screwed you are, you’d give yourself an eleven. It’s hard to even admit that to yourself, feeling your hot tears wet the green paper in frustration. Gritting your teeth so hard you can hear the creaking of your muscles in your ears, a ringing noise following after. You sit there, staring at the bills fanned out on the table like they’re mocking you. The tears won’t stop, blurring the numbers, but you know them by heart. A thousand short for rent, a hundred for utilities, and nothing left for groceries or the babysitter fees piling up in the back of your mind. 

You take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave. The frustration spills over, hot and suffocating, as you swipe the money off the table in a fit of anger. The bills scatter across the floor like fallen leaves, and for a moment, you just sit there, trembling in the silence. “Goddamn it,” you mutter under your breath, clutching your head as if that’ll stop the spiral of thoughts. You can feel the panic rising, the way it always does when you’re this close to breaking. How are you supposed to keep everything together when the universe seems hell-bent on tearing it apart? You can already feel your migraine coming back like an old friend, feeling its twisting and pulling on your brain. 

Koji’s soft footsteps break through the haze, his small voice pulling you back to reality. “Mama?”

You hastily wipe at your face, trying to compose yourself as you turn toward him. He’s standing in the doorway, clutching his favorite stuffed animal—a tattered little bear you bought second-hand years ago. His big eyes are filled with concern, and it breaks your heart even more. “Hey, baby,” you say, forcing a smile you don’t feel. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head, padding over to you and climbing onto your lap without a word. His tiny arms wrap around your waist, and for a moment, the world doesn’t feel as heavy. You stroke his hair, letting the quiet stretch between you. “Mama’s just tired,” you murmur after a while, hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions.

Koji looks up at you, his brows furrowed in a way that reminds you so much of Satoru it’s almost painful. “Are we okay?”

The question hits you like a punch to the gut, but you nod, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “Of course we are, baby. Don’t worry about a thing, okay? Mama’s got it all under control.” It’s a lie, but it’s one you tell for his sake. Koji doesn’t need to know how close to the edge you really are. And you’d never let him know just how close you are from sinking completely, he’s too young, too innocent. 

After a few minutes, he’s able to drift off to sleep in your arms, you stare at the scattered bills on the floor, your mind racing. Tomorrow, Satoru will be here. Maybe—just maybe—you can ask him for help. The thought makes your stomach churn, pride and desperation warring inside you. Are you even allowed to? What would he say?

But what choice do you have?

You need this place, no matter how ragged or disgusting Satoru—or anyone for that fact may think it is. It’s home. Home to you, and home to Koji. You’ve stopped caring about what others thought og you a long time ago. It still comes back, of course. Especially in your most vulnerable, most small of moments. And when it hits you, you realize how much you didn’t miss the feeling. You desperately wish you can just give absolutely zero fucks all day, everyday. 

That might be impossible.

As long as you just hold it down, you’ll be good—you think. 

For Koji, for Koji.

Walking Koji home the next day from school, you’re focused on checking the time of your phone; surprised when the young boy suddenly rips from your grip and runs forward. Instantly, you look up and call out for him in a hurry. “Koji! Do—”

“Papa!” 

Satoru, who’s waiting outside your apartment door, crouches down to your son’s height, arms held out with a wide smile on his face. Koji melted into his embrace, small arms wrapped around his father’s neck. Satoru hugged the boy, running a hand up and down his back slowly. “How was school, my big boy?” “Good! We learned about plants, and I drew a sunflower!” Koji exclaims, his words tumbling over each other in excitement as he pulls back slightly to look at Satoru's face. His little hands grasp Satoru’s jacket, his wide eyes sparkling with pure joy.

Satoru’s expression softens even further, a rare glimpse of unguarded tenderness crossing his features. “A sunflower, huh? That’s my favorite flower. Did you know they always turn toward the sun?”

Koji nods eagerly, his grin spreading even wider. “Yeah! The teacher said that too. I wanna show you my drawing when we get inside!”

“Of course. I can’t wait to see it,” Satoru says, ruffling Koji’s hair before standing to his full height, the boy still clinging to his leg like a koala. His gaze shifts to you, his smile faltering just a fraction as his expression becomes unreadable. “Hey.”

You stand a few steps away, your heart caught in your throat. Watching the two of them together feels like a punch to the chest—bittersweet and raw. You manage to swallow the lump in your throat and force a polite smile. “Hey.”

Satoru takes a step closer, his tone light but his eyes piercing. He simply nods in response. 

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. But there’s an ache beneath the surface, a mix of guilt, resentment, and longing you can’t quite shake. Koji looks happy, that’s all that matters. You step forward to unlock the door.  “I have my other job to get to,” you say finally, keeping your tone neutral. “Do you think you can watch him until his babysitter comes?”

Koji rushes in, but Satoru lingers, looking at you. “Who’s his babysitter?”

“Sana, she usually comes a few minutes before I leave, but if you’re here I can go earlier.” You walk in, arm brushing against his that sends an uncomfortable tingle down your spine—one you ignore forcibly.

He follows in, closing the door behind him. Standing a bit awkwardly around the living room, watching you hang your coat and purse up. “I didn’t know you worked two jobs,” he says, almost like he’s not sure if he should be voicing out this small curiosity of his. 

You pause mid-motion, fingers lingering on the hook of your coat rack. For a moment, you consider not answering, brushing it off with some noncommittal remark. But the weight of his gaze is palpable, pressing down on you until you finally sigh and turn around to face him. “Yeah,” you say simply, your voice flat. “Bills don’t pay themselves.” There’s an edge in your tone, one you don’t intend but can’t quite help. His eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, you think he might argue, but instead, he just nods, his expression unreadable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head as you move to the small kitchen area to grab a glass of water. “Tell you? What would that have changed, Satoru? Would you have swooped in and made it all better?”

His jaw clenches, his hands flexing at his sides before he crosses his arms over his chest. “Maybe I would have. But you never gave me the chance.”

You set the glass down harder than you meant to, the sound of it hitting the counter echoing in the silence. “You don’t get to say that,” you snap, turning to face him fully. “You don’t just show up now and act like you care about how I’ve been keeping things together.”

“I do care,” he shoots back, his voice rising slightly. “You think I wouldn’t? That I don’t give a damn about you—Koji?” The small correction doesn’t get missed by you.

“You didn’t care enough to stay,” you bite out before you can stop yourself. 

The words hang in the air, sharp and cutting. His expression falters for just a moment before his face hardens, a wall going up that you recognize all too well. God damn it. Why do you keep bringing up the past and your shitty breakup?

“That’s not fair,” he says, his voice low. “You made that decision for the both of us.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you can’t speak. The two of you stand there, the room thick with tension, until a small voice interrupts.

“Mama?” Both of you turn toward the hallway, where Koji stands in the hallway, tilting his head. Holding his colored paper of a sunflower in his hands. “Are you fighting?”

Your heart aches at the sight of him, his small frame dwarfed by the weight of the conversation he doesn’t understand. You put on a smile, crouching down to his level. “No, baby. We’re just talking, that’s all.”

Satoru steps forward, his face softening as he kneels next to Koji. “Yeah, buddy. We’re not fighting. Everything’s okay.”

Koji looks between you both for a long moment before nodding, though his expression still carries a hint of worry. “Okay,” he turns to Satoru. “Here Papa, my drawing.” 

The two move to the couch, Satoru listening with fascination as Koji talks and talks and talks. His father doesn’t seem to mind, however. Occasionally touching his cheek or pushing hair out his face as if to remind himself this is real, that this is his son. You look away and go to your room, locking the door as you begin changing into your uniform for the convenience store. In a few minutes, you’re out and putting your shoes on. Satoru and Koji are now discussing video games. 

“I’m heading out now, baby.”

“Alrigh—”

“Okay, Mama.” Koji cuts off Satoru, to which the latter is glad because why the fuck did he just almost respond to you? He knows you weren’t talking to him, he knows you wouldn’t ever call him baby again, but it just felt so natural and instinctual. 

Strange.

He watches you come on over to give Koji a hug and kiss, awkwardly clearing his throat in the seat beside his son; looking away like he’s intruding on something. And so you won’t see the odd flush to his pale cheeks. 

“I’ll watch him, don’t call the babysitter.”

You pause mid-motion, your arms still loosely wrapped around Koji. Slowly, you pull back, giving your son a soft smile before turning your attention to Satoru. “Are you sure?” you ask, your tone careful, guarded. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

Satoru scoffs lightly, waving a hand in dismissal as he leans back in his seat. “It’s not an inconvenience. I’m his dad, remember? I can handle one night.” His words feel heavier than they should, loaded with the unspoken history between you two. You don’t miss the slight edge in his voice, though he keeps his expression neutral.

Koji, oblivious to the tension, beams up at his father. “Can we watch that superhero movie, Papa?”

Satoru grins, ruffling Koji’s hair. “Of course, big guy. Popcorn too. But after you finish your homework.”

You hesitate, your eyes flickering between the two of them. It’s hard to argue when Koji looks so happy, his excitement practically radiating off him. Finally, you nod. “Okay,” you say, grabbing your bag and coat, walking over to the door. “Just... don’t let him stay up too late.”

“Got it,” Satoru replies, his tone almost flippant, though there’s a hint of seriousness beneath it. You linger for a moment longer than necessary, your hand hovering on the doorknob. There’s something about leaving the two of them together, about seeing Satoru slip so naturally into this role, that stirs something warm in your chest.

“Alright,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “I’ll be back around twelve.” With that, you step out into the cool evening air, the door clicking shut behind you. You exhale, trying to shake off the strange mix of emotions swirling in your chest—wary, relief, maybe even longing.

Inside, Satoru watches the door for a beat longer than he should. Then he shakes his head, turning back to Koji with a forced grin. “Alright, champ. Let’s see what homework you have today.” But as Koji chatters excitedly, Satoru can’t help but feel the weight of your absence pressing down on him, more than he’s willing to admit.

It’s around eight at night now. Satoru took the liberty of making some dinner for Koji, but after sifting through your bone empty pantry and refrigerator, he orders take out. The two are watching Spiderman: No Way Home. His arm is slung around his son’s shoulders, the two sharing a bag of fries. He can almost feel Koji starting to drift off, the sensation of his body sinking further into his side makes him smile subconsciously. However, that small, tender moment is broken when there’s a sudden pounding at the door. 

Satoru looks back over the couch, confused as to who the hell could be trying to see you at this time of night. A hookup? Boyfriend? No, no. Don’t think that.

He looks back down at Koji who’s giving him an equally confused, but tired face. “Is that Mama?”

“No, don’t think so, little man.” You said you’d be back by twelve, it’s only eight. That’s weird. “Stay here, okay? I’m gonna go see who it is.”

Koji nods, Satoru gently laying him on his side and grabbing a fuzzy throw blanket to tuck him in with. He stands with a small grunt, walking over to your front door. He peeks through the hole and sees a man he’s never seen before, Old, ugly, and hairy. He scoffs. The hell do you want? He unlocks it, opening up and coming face to face with the man. 

Mr. Sato regards Satoru with surprise and confusion, bushy brows furrowing. “Where’s Y/N?” he asks, tilting his head to try and get a look over his shoulder.

“She’s at work.” Satoru replies, on guard and a hint of firmness in his voice. “You need her?”

“Correct.”

“And who are you again?”

“The landlord.” Mr. Sato says, heavily huffing as he gazes back up at Satoru. His frown deepening when he feels his neck angle up. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Late.” Satoru simply mutters, arms crossing. “Gotta come back another time.”

“I can’t,” Mr. Sato gruffs. “I need to talk to her about the money now.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens at the mention of money, and a flicker of realization crosses his sharp features. He leans against the doorframe, casually intimidating, his sheer presence making the older man falter for a second. "Money?" Satoru repeats, his tone cool but laced with an edge. "What money are we talking about here?"

Mr. Sato straightens, trying to regain his composure despite the younger man's imposing demeanor. "Rent," he clarifies, his voice firm, though his eyes avoid Satoru's piercing gaze. "She’s late on payments. Again. I’ve already given her an extension, but this can’t keep happening. I gave her until Friday but something came up and I need it now.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow slightly, his posture shifting. Late on payments? He processes the words, his mind jumping to the extra hours you’ve been working, the tired look in your eyes, the way Koji’s jacket was patched up with care but still clearly worn. The pieces click together uncomfortably.

"How much does she owe?" Satoru asks, his tone still calm, though the intensity in his eyes makes the landlord hesitate.

"That's between me and her," Mr. Sato replies gruffly, puffing out his chest as if to assert some authority in this lopsided interaction.

Satoru doesn’t miss a beat, his expression hardening. "Well, she’s not here, so now it’s between me and you." There’s a beat of silence, tension thick in the small space.

Mr. Sato shifts uncomfortably under Satoru’s gaze, his confidence wavering. “Four thousand,” he finally admits, his voice lower. “I told her I need it by Friday, but things changed. She said she’d have it.”

Satoru lets out a slow breath through his nose, his jaw clenching as he processes the number. Four thousand. A drop in the bucket for him, but for you? It might as well be a mountain.

“If she doesn’t have it, I’m gonna push forward with the eviction, I already have possible renters lined up with a more stable income.”

Eviction? And from a place this shitty? Satoru’s jaw clenches, eyes raking over the older man. “Well, she’s not here.”

“Then let me call her.”

Satoru’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in his gaze as he steps fully into the doorway, his towering frame casting a shadow that swallows the smaller man in front of him. The landlord, suddenly aware of the shift in the air, takes a half-step back. "You’re not calling her," Satoru says, his voice low and measured, carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood.

Mr. Sato frowns but falters slightly, the confidence in his stance wavering. "Look, this isn’t personal. It’s business. If she can’t pay by the deadline, I have no choice but to move forward. That’s how it works."

Satoru tilts his head, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, but there’s no humor in it—just a cold, calculated edge. "Business, huh? Funny thing about business—it’s always personal when it’s someone else’s life you’re messing with."

"She’s late. I’ve been lenient," Mr. Sato protests, though his voice is quieter now, almost defensive.

Satoru’s smirk vanishes, replaced by an icy glare that feels like a physical weight. "Lenient? Let me tell you something. You don’t come here throwing around eviction threats like you’re some kind of god deciding who stays and who goes. That’s not how this is going to play out."

Mr. Sato scoffs with a scowl, arms crossing. “Listen here, I don’t know who you are, or who you think you are. I don’t give a damn about that. All I care about is having the money, right here,“ he holds his palm out. “Right now.”

Satoru chuckles lowly, but there’s no warmth in the sound—it’s laced with something menacing, something dangerous. His eyes, usually glinting with mischief, now burn with icy resolve as he steps closer, forcing Mr. Sato to look up at him again. "Who I think I am?" Satoru repeats, his voice soft but unnervingly steady, like the calm before a storm. "Let me make one thing clear—you don’t get to care about anything except what I tell you to care about. And right now, you’re going to care about backing the hell off." Mr. Sato’s scowl falters, his mouth opening to retort, but Satoru raises a hand, cutting him off before he can even start. "Because if you don’t," Satoru continues, his tone dropping lower, a subtle, menacing edge creeping in, "I’ll make sure you have a lot more to worry about than late rent. Understand?"

The landlord stiffens, visibly uncomfortable now, though he tries to hide it with a scoff. "You threatening me? That’s illegal, you know."

Satoru smirks again, but it’s colder this time, a predator toying with its prey. He leans in just enough that his towering presence feels suffocating, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Illegal? Oh, I know all about what’s illegal. But see, the thing is, I don’t need to do anything illegal to make your life a living hell. A call here, a visit there… You’d be surprised how quickly someone like you can lose everything they’re so desperate to cling to. You should really care about who you threaten, this is my son and his mother you’re talking about.”

The unspoken promise in his words hangs heavy in the air, and for the first time, Mr. Sato’s bluster cracks. He shifts uncomfortably, glancing around as though expecting someone to step in and save him. Satoru straightens, his piercing gaze never leaving the man. "Take the money," he says simply, pulling out wads of cash from his wallet—carelessly tossing them at him, "and don’t let me see you again. Ever."

For a moment, it looks like Mr. Sato might argue, but the weight of Satoru’s presence, the absolute certainty in his voice, crushes whatever resistance he might have left. With a grunt, he snatches the money, shoving it into his pocket. "This isn’t over," the landlord mutters, but his voice lacks conviction as he turns to leave, his shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of Satoru’s words. Satoru watches him go, the cold fury in his expression lingering even after the door clicks shut. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, the tension in his body slowly unwinding.

Not over? Satoru smirks to himself, shaking his head. "Senile bastard doesn’t know what he’s saying.” He turns back toward the living room, his eyes softening slightly as they land on Koji, still sleeping soundly. The weight of his own actions sits heavily on him, but he pushes it aside. There are more important things to worry about—like making sure you and your son never have to deal with scum like that again. But also, finding some way to talk to you about this eviction. 

Would you have ever told him? Would you have asked for help? Are you going to continue to keep secrets from him, even though they directly affect his son—affect you?

The sound of hurried footsteps, practically running footsteps, sounds throughout the long corridor. Ignoring and maneuvering out the way of the office employees who regard the person with confusion and annoyance. There’s a singular focus in their movement, a sense of urgency that prickles the air. The familiar, large doors of the office are in line of sight, to which the person rushes inside. The grand, imposing doors of the executive office burst open.  Usually, he’d knock and wait, but not this time. 

Inside, Yamato Gojo sits at the head of a polished, expansive table, his wife, Akane, poised elegantly at his side. Around them, a small group of sharp-suited businessmen turn toward the intrusion, their murmurs of surprise quickly silenced by Yamato’s cold, calculating glare.

The informant can barely get the words out, stumbling over. “M-Mr. Gojo! I have—there’s—I—!” Their face pale and slick with sweat. Words fail them at first, a garbled mess of syllables spilling out in their panic. Finally, they manage to force out, "M-Mr. Gojo! You need to see this!"

Yamato leans forward, his eyes narrowing as he motions for the informant to come closer, his long fingers curling in a beckoning gesture. The air in the room seems to thicken as the informant, trembling, hurries forward and hands over a tablet. Akane leans in as Yamato taps the screen, her expression calm and unreadable—at least, until her eyes land on the image.

The sound of shattering glass cuts through the room like a gunshot as Akane’s wine glass slips from her hand, crimson liquid pooling across the pristine floor. Her gasp transforms into a piercing shriek that sends a chill through everyone present.

Because on the screen, displayed in haunting clarity, is an image that chills the air in the room: their son, unmistakably, embracing a younger version of himself—while your figure stands to the side.

a/n: uh ohhhh

taglist is now closed

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[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 7 : Sweet Strawberry

Summary: You're not a soldier, you're just an omega. You shouldn't have to remind them of that, yet you find yourself needing to. Price makes it up to you in the best way possible.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, language, angst, panic, fluff, suggestive content, terrible flirting

A/N: Not entirely happy with it but it's done and I can move on from this one. I struggled so much with this chapter omg. Also, I just wanted to make it clear that I am not from the UK, I've never been to the UK, I'm simply going off of prior knowledge and what Google can tell me. So, if there's any inaccuracies, I am so sorry.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

You’re expecting the knock when it comes. You’d been standing in front of your door for almost five minutes, and you get it open almost before he’s finished, hand still raised. He gives no sign that betrays his surprise, if he feels any at all, instead he simply looks you over before turning on his heel and marching towards the door. 

You close your door behind you, slipping down the hallway after him. It’s raining again, though you had prepared for that, flipping the hood of your jacket up as you hurry after Ghost. He threatens to disappear in the darkness of morning, slipping between the street lamps like a specter. It’s not often you get to see the true danger in them, the threats that they pose, the things that make them good at their job. You can imagine how many on his opposing side have been caught unawares by the way he seems to flow with the darkness around him. 

You are significantly less graceful and quiet, feet slapping the wet pavement as you speed walk to keep up with the giant alpha. You can almost imagine the look on his face as you plod along behind him. If your lives depended on your silence at this moment, well, it wouldn’t entirely have been your fault. If he didn’t walk so fucking fast...

He’s at least courteous enough to hold the door open for you, though perhaps that was simply something that was deeply ingrained in him. Manners that become unconscious practice, even when you despise the person you’re with. He leads you down the hall towards the practice room again, unlocking it and flipping on the lights. He empties his pockets and removes his shoes and sweatshirt, before moving to one of the punching bags. 

You can already predict what your lesson today will entail. Your knuckles have almost completely healed since your little fit a week ago. You quickly strip off your jacket and toe off your wet shoes, moving to join him without having to be told. 

“Do you know how to wrap your hands?” He asks, holding out two rolls of hand wraps. 

“No.” You shake your head. It’s not entirely true. They had shown you once while you were with the CIA, but that had been weeks ago and you’re sure you’ve forgotten the right way to do it. Even if you tried, he’d likely sigh and do it himself anyway. 

He lets out a breath, pocketing one of the wraps before grabbing your right wrist. His hands are just as rough as you remember them being the day you punched Corporal Allen, calluses dragging against your skin as he meticulously wraps the fabric around your fingers. You watch him, trying to memorize how to do it in hopes that maybe, eventually, you’ll surprise him and manage it yourself. 

He finishes your hands quickly before wrapping his own. You flex your hands, trying to get used to the feeling of the wraps. They’re not too tight, shockingly. You had half expected him to choke your fingers until they’re purple just because. But, you also know Price will be looking for any mark or sign of injury as soon as he sees you at breakfast. The thought of him laying into Ghost for even a bruise as your stomach twisting, and not in a bad way. 

“Make a fist.” Ghost says, crossing his arms as he stands in front of you. 

You stare at his bulging muscles for a second too long, quickly curling your fingers as your face warms. 

He takes hold of your hand, inspecting your fist. “Not bad.” 

“I did grow up with brothers.” You murmur. 

“Did they ever hit you?” He asks as he turns you to face the boxing bag. 

“Only playfully.” You say, missing the subtle edge to his voice. “Dad would have caved their heads in if they ever tried.” 

You can’t see the way he’s staring at you as he stands slightly behind you, but you can feel his gaze as it lingers for just a second longer than you expected it to. You’re not sure if maybe he doesn’t believe you, or maybe he knows there’s more to the story. You’ve hardly spoken about your family since your arrival, but they seemed to accept the fact that they haven’t been your family for years now as a valid reason.

“Get into your fighting stance.” He finally says, moving around you as you take the stance you had perfected last training session. “Good.” He says, looking you over. “Now throw a punch at the bag.” 

You squeeze your fists, imagining Corporal Allen’s face on the bag before you throw a punch, barely managing to move the bag. 

“Punches like that are what will get you hurt.” Ghost says, extending your arm. “You can throw your weight, which is good. That’s why you were able to throw Allen off his feet. You’re asking for a broken arm, though. Keep your arm flat and facing downwards through the entire punch. Aim with the knuckles and twist your lower body for support.” 

He throws a punch at the bag, the sound of his fist hitting it loud, and you watch the bag swing back and forth violently. He could probably punch through you if he wanted to. Your pitiful punch wouldn’t even stun him. 

He stops the bag from swinging, having you throw repeated punches at it. He fixes your form and technique as you go, teaching you different kinds of punches. Your arms quickly get tired, and you know you’re going to be sore again. Maybe you should take up some weight lifting or something. You could ask Soap to help you. 

You go until your arms feel like they're going to fall off, your shoulders burning. “I can't anymore.” You whine, breathing heavily from the exertion of throwing punches for 30 minutes. 

“You have to learn to push through the pain.” He says, looming over you. “You think in a fight, everyone will just stop because your arms are tired? Or you're a little sore?”

He has a point. 

You take half a step back as he invades your space, leaning down close to you. “If they're out for blood, they won't even stop even as you're bleeding out in front of them.” His eyes are dark, biting into you, speaking volumes of his knowledge and experience. You wonder how many times he's been in that situation, how many times he's had to fight quite literally for his life. He steps away from you, moving towards the center of the mat. “Come on. I'll teach you some combinations.” 

You don't want to follow him. You want to curl up in a corner and nap for the next four hours. You don't doubt he'll find a way to force you, though, so you move to the center of the mat with a sigh. 

He teaches you different combinations, working through them over and over. You're sloppy, mixing up which punch is which, which move means what. It only gets worse as you get more and more tired, but Ghost is relentless. 

Finally after almost an hour and a half of training, he calls it. Your legs are shaking and you can barely lift your arms to unravel the wraps from around your hands. You sink onto the floor, laying out flat on the padding as you try to catch your breath. 

“Come on.” Ghost says, lacing up his shoes. “You'll have time to shower before breakfast if we get back now.”

“Wait. Just gimme a minute.” You breathe, not even sure you have the willpower to get up from the floor, much less the muscle power. 

He lets out a sigh before approaching you, bending down to slip his hands under your arms. “On your feet, soldier.”

He lifts you easily, far too easily. Your legs shake, nearly giving out as you're forced onto them. You pout, ignoring the ache in your bones as you're forced upright. 

“‘M not a soldier.” You murmur. 

“In here with me, you are. You want to learn to fight, you get treated just like everyone else I've taught.” He says, glowering down at you. “Now get your shoes on and let's go.”

Your brows pull into a frown, but you do as he says, slipping your shoes back on and your jacket. You had hoped perhaps he would have a little mercy, given your status and inexperience, but it seems you're not even being awarded that. You know part of it is his revenge for you invading his protective circle around Soap, for kissing Soap in front of him. 

The frown doesn't leave your face as you follow him back to the barracks, having to almost run to keep up with him. 

“You look tired.”

“I am. I had training with Ghost again this morning.” 

“How is that going?”

“It's hard.” You admit, sinking back in your chair. “He's hard on me. He sees me as a soldier, not an omega.”

“Have you brought this up to him?” Dr. Keller asks, crossing her feet as she relaxes on the couch across from you.

You nod. “Yeah. He said I have to push through it, because if I wind up in a real fight, they won't go easy on me.”

“Well, I can’t say he’s wrong about that. But, that’s still no excuse.” Dr. Keller tilts her head at you. “You could bring it up to Captain Price. He is your pack alpha, and he’s also Lieutenant Riley’s. I don’t doubt he’d bring it up to him on your behalf.” 

He would, but you don’t really want to stir the pot in that way. The last thing you need to do is become a tattle-tail. It’s quiet between you for a few moments, Dr. Keller shuffling her papers as you mark a clear end to that conversation. 

“How did you do on your assignment? I see you’re wearing a different sweatshirt this morning.” She says, eyeing you. 

You’re wearing Price’s sweatshirt, the one he gifted you. You’ve been wearing it almost every day, his scent still clinging to the fabric. Your face warms as she stares at you, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, but...I didn’t ask for this one. Price gave it to me after I told him about where my other one came from. I uh...I kissed Soap. And Gaz.” 

“Oh?” Her brows raise, and she writes something down on the paper. Your face warms even more as you watch her pen move with every letter. You can only imagine what she’s putting down. “Is that something you wanted? I know we talked briefly about it last time.” She says.

You nod. “Yes. I did want it. I...I also...kneeled...with Price...Did a couple times actually...” 

Dr. Keller’s mouth opens in surprise, her eyes shining as she looks at you. “You did? That’s huge! That’s an incredible development! Did you initiate, or did he?” 

“I did.” You say bashfully, sinking back further into the chair. “Both times.” 

Dr. Keller smiles at you, looking almost proud. “This is a big step in the right direction. How did it go? Were you able to relax?” 

You nod. “Yeah. It was nice. He was...gentle. He did it right.” 

“Good. How did you do coming down from it? I know it can be intense and difficult for some omegas.” She asks. 

You shrug. “Fine. I felt it a bit the morning after, but it wasn’t too bad. I fell asleep on him both times.” 

“Oh?” She lifts an eyebrow. “Did you stay with him?” 

You shake your head. “No, Gaz took me to my room both times.” 

“Good. That’s good practice, for when your heat comes. Shows how much trust they have in each other.”

You hadn’t really thought of that. There was a lot of trust involved in omega’s heats. Omegas have to trust their alphas to take care of them while they’re blind with insatiable need, but both alpha and omega have to trust a beta to keep them alive. Your heat will trigger Price’s rut and make him lose control for a while, and it will be up to Gaz to keep you both fed and hydrated. He’ll be the one to help you both afterwards as well.

“Have you started nesting yet?” Dr. Keller asks. 

You shake your head. “No. Don’t feel any drive to either.” 

Dr. Keller hums as she writes something down. “Well, it has only been two weeks. Though, perhaps if you can manage to ask for some things to make your space more comfortable, that might help ease you into it.” 

You chew on your lip, tugging at the sleeves of your sweatshirt. You know she’s right. Until you’re comfortable and feel safe enough, you won’t feel the drive to nest. You’ll need to nest before your heat arrives. Otherwise, it’ll cause issues for both you and Price. 

“When...when should I be worried?” You ask. 

“Hmm...” Dr. Keller looks at her calendar. “If you’re not feeling any sort of drive to nest by our next appointment, then I’d say we may need to consider using some exercises to help jump start it.” 

“Exercises?” You ask warily. 

“All easy things.” She reassures you. “Things like scent introductions, tactile explorations, and some bonding exercises might be helpful as well.” She writes something down on a sticky note. “I’ll explain everything in detail and you’ll get to choose whether you want to do any of it or not. No one’s going to force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, alright?” 

Tears prick your eyes at her words, and you furiously blink them back. It’s a little late for that kind of sentiment. Your presence here alone was thanks to a long line of people forcing you to do things you’re not comfortable with. It was easy to get lost in the excitement and the emotions of bonding with a pack, easy to forget that you would never have chosen this place had you ever been given the option to choose. 

You would have gone far from the military, far from this kind of life. It’s your duty to bond with an alpha, but what if you don’t want to? What if it’s all a front, and as soon as you’re claimed the curtains rise and suddenly everything is different? What if Price isn’t as kind as you’ve come to believe him? Just one squeeze too tightly around the back of your neck while you’re kneeling and everything would change. 

How easily he could take everything from you. 

“You want to talk about what’s going on in your head right now?” Dr. Keller asks, breaking the silence between you two.

You hadn’t even noticed you’d been staring off into space, lost in your thoughts. Of course she knows something’s changed. She’s spent years learning the ins and outs of omegas and all the secrets you can only imagine. She’s probably just as in tune with subtle changes as the four well trained soldiers that make up your new pack. Maybe even more in tune with them. 

You shake your head, keeping your gaze on the floor. 

“Remember nothing shared in this room leaves this room. It’ll always only be between us.” She says softly. 

You’re panicking. You can feel the pressure rising within you. You’re like a grenade and someone is about to pull the pin. You’re afraid you’ll spill everything to her, afraid you’ll let out things you’ve successfully kept buried for years and years. Things you’ve left behind, things you’ve had to move on from. Things you can’t afford to let out now. 

“I’d like to be done now.” You silently curse the way your voice shakes. 

Dr. Keller’s brows pull into a frown but she nods. “Okay.” She slips her papers into her notebook before standing. “Let me grab my keys.” 

You stand as she moves to her desk, grabbing her keys from the drawer. She leads you from her office, thankfully staying quiet as you walk through the rain towards the barracks. You’re still panicking, the turmoil inside you probably projecting the sour scent across the entire courtyard but you don’t care. You can’t. 

“Remember, if you ever need anything, I’m usually in my office.” Dr. Keller says as she drops you off at the door. 

You feel guilty as you hurry to your room, shoes squeaking on the tile. You feel bad for cutting the appointment off early, you feel bad for feeling the way you do. Later you’ll be grateful for Dr. Keller respecting your boundaries and not pushing, for following through with her promise and letting you be in control of the appointment. 

Right now you don’t care. Right now you can’t care. You’re too lost in your turmoil, the bitter scent of your distress seeping out from under the locked door. 

“...can ye talk tae me, hen? Let me know yer alright?” 

The soft voice coming through the closed door pulls you out from your burrow under the thin blanket. You blink blearily at your phone, trying to see the time. It’s just a little past the normal time you go to lunch with them. How long have they been knocking on the door? 

“Come on, lass.” Soap’s voice comes through the door again. “I dinnae want tae have tae kick in the door.” 

You force yourself out from under the blanket, pocketing your phone before quickly moving to your door. You throw it open, Soap’s eyes immediately scanning you as you rub tiredly at your eyes. You don’t doubt he’d kick in your door if he felt he had to. 

“Sorry,” You yawn. “I was asleep.” 

His eyebrows raise as he stares down at you. “Ye were asleep? Ye weren’t kidding about bein’ a heavy sleeper.” He leads you from the barracks, crossing the courtyard towards the mess.

“One time, when I was about two or three, my dad took us to some demonstration on base.” You say as you begin walking to the mess with him. “I fell asleep about halfway through and slept through a howitzer going off.” 

Soap lets out a laugh so loud it echoes in the courtyard. “Ye slept through a howitzer?” 

You nod. “Yup. My dad never let me live it down. I heard it all the time. ‘You’ll have to try hard to wake her, she slept through a howitzer once.’” 

Soap chuckles, leading you into the mess. “Ye are a deep sleeper.” 

You shrug. “I did say so. My phone will wake me up though. Alarms, calls.” 

“I’ll keep tha’ in mind.” He says as he guides you through the line, making your tray for you. 

You sit between Price and Gaz as usual, feeling a bit on edge still despite your nap after your appointment. You hadn’t gotten to sleep for very long, not nearly long enough to clear your head completely. You know they can tell, Gaz slowly shifting closer and closer to you, Price’s gaze flickering to you out of the corner of his eye every so often. Even Ghost’s eyes pass over you every so often as they sweep across the mess. 

You wonder if he feels responsible. 

You hope he does. 

Soap walks you back to the barracks after lunch and you spend the afternoon burrowed under your blanket again. You’re exhausted and sore after a long morning of training and your appointment. You wish you could sink back into sleep, let the emotions pass without you having to feel them, but you’re too awake now. Too aware of them as they prickle in the back of your mind. 

Dinner passes without incident, but you can’t ignore the feelings still stirring within you. You feel agitated and on edge, not even pacing your room helping you. You let out a breath before you put your slippers on, slipping out of your door. You make your way down the hallway, turning right instead of left like you would if you were heading for the rec room. The door is cracked open and you pause just before you reach it, suddenly feeling nervous. You shouldn’t really. There was no reason to be nervous, yet you can’t help the urge in the back of your mind to turn tail and race back down the hallway to the safety of your room. 

“You can come in, unless you’d prefer standing in the hallway all evening.” A voice calls from inside the office. 

Your face warms a bit at getting caught, but he could probably hear you coming down the hallway. He could probably smell you too. 

You push open the door, slipping inside before closing it behind you. Price stares at you from his desk as you stand there, shifting nervously on your feet. You feel agitated, on edge still. You’re worked up, and you don’t quite know why. 

“Everything alright?” Price asks, likely picking up on your nervous energy. 

Yes. You want to say, but then you’d have to come up with a reason as to why you sought him out, why you feel so worked up. You could just kneel for him. It’s what you should do, let yourself be eased into a peaceful state of mind. Let him take care of you. 

 “I don’t know.” 

The words are hardly more than a whisper, your voice trembling just as much as you are. Your chest feels tight, your breaths becoming shallow. You're not sure when he got up, when he even moved. His scent wraps around you, warmth encompassing your being as your face is pushed against his chest. 

“I need you to breathe for me.” Price says, pressing your ear against his chest. You can hear the steady thump of his heart, the air flowing in and out of his lungs. 

You close your eyes, trying to match your breaths to his. It's hard, your body fighting your attempt to regulate it. You close your eyes, focusing on the soft fabric of Price's shirt against your cheek, the warmth of his hand on your head as he keeps you pinned against his chest. It's not constricting or suffocating. It's grounding, keeping you from drowning in your own thoughts. 

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to as he holds you there, letting you calm down. You begin to slowly relax, your arms wrapping around his waist, fingers gripping the back of his shirt. 

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” He murmurs, lips brushing the top of your head. 

“I don’t know.” You whisper, still clinging to his shirt. “I’m just...I feel off. Ghost was being hard on me this morning and then I got upset during my appointment and I’ve just felt on edge all day and I can’t relax because I can’t get comfortable!” 

Price tightens his grip around you just slightly. “What do you mean?” 

You huff out a breath, squeezing your eyes closed so the tears don’t escape as the words leave you in a flood before you can stop them. “The blankets aren’t soft enough and the pillows are too thin and it’s too dark and I’m tired of smelling like bland soap!” 

Price hums quietly, squeezing you gently as a tear slides down your cheek. “Then we should do something to fix that.” 

“But I shouldn’t need it!” You cry, trying to push away from him, but he keeps you tight against his chest. “I’m supposed to be a good omega and adapt and learn to be comfortable where I am.” 

“That might be what you were taught,” He says, letting you push away from his chest, but he wraps his hands around your arms, keeping you in front of him. “But things don’t have to be that way. We should have taken care of something like this sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t even think of it. You shouldn’t have had to ask for it.” 

You blink up at him, genuinely surprised by his words. “I...what?” 

“We all have our own little comforts that we keep. Soap sleeps with a stuffed bear. Don’t tell him I told you that.” 

A small smile tugs at your lips at the mental image of Soap snuggling up with a teddy bear. 

“You deserve some comfort too.” He says, squeezing your arms.

“But, it’s not...regulation.” You say. 

“Doesn’t have to be.” He says. “You’re not a soldier. Even then, the only ones going in there are us. The only thing I can’t approve of is painting the walls. Unfortunately the prison grey has to stay.” 

You can’t help but laugh, wiping the tear from your cheek. “I suppose that’s alright. Just...as long as it’s not as dark and maybe a soft blanket or something. That’s really all I need.” 

He hums, staring down at you. You can’t quite figure out the look on his face, something shining in his eyes. “We’ll get it figured out.” He says, squeezing your arms again. 

“Get some shoes on. We’re going on a trip.” 

You look up from your book, staring at Price as he stands in the rec room. He’s dressed in civilian clothes, arms crossed as he stares down at you on the couch. You mark your place in your book, pushing yourself up to sit. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and unlike last week they had the day off, which means you do as well. 

“Are you going to make me hike through the woods for two hours again, sir?” You ask, pushing yourself up to stand. 

“No. We’re going into town.” He says. 

You blink at him. You haven’t been off base since you arrived, and you figured you probably wouldn’t be getting that opportunity any time soon. “Can I ask why, sir?” 

“We’ve got some shopping to do.” He says simply, turning and leaving the rec room. 

You stand there shocked for a moment before you’re following after him, slipping into your room to put comfortable shoes on and grab your phone and a jacket. You don’t even have a wallet to carry around to make yourself feel better. 

Price is waiting by the door for you, a car parked outside. You’re slow to approach him, suddenly feeling a mix of emotions. He’s doing this for you. He’d really taken your conversation last night to heart and now he’s going to go spend money on you that he doesn’t need to. 

“What’s that look for sweetheart?” He asks, standing in front of the door. 

“You don’t have to do this.” You say, staring up at him. He seems so tall like this, so...imposing. 

“Course I do.” He says, his gaze softening just slightly. “Should have done it sooner. You deserve to be comfortable too.” He says, turning to open the door. 

You follow him out, climbing into the car when he opens the door for you. He gets in the driver’s seat, the car rumbling to life. He drives to the front gate, passing off two ID cards to the guards. He passes one to you when the guard hands them back, the gate in front of you opening. 

“That’s your ID card. Gets you on and off base.” He explains as he drives away from the gate. “I doubt you’ll be leaving on your own, but just in case.” 

“Thank you, sir.” You say, slipping the card under your phone case for the time being. 

He glances at you, a small smile on his lips. “You can call me John, if you'd like. You don't need to be formal when we're in private.” 

“Yes, sir.” You make a face, biting your lip at your automatic response. “Sorry. Old habits.” 

“From the institute?” He asks. 

You shake your head. “My dad, actually. He was a firm believer in respecting authority figures. All ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ by the time we were old enough to know the difference.” 

“Sounds like my father.” He says, staring out at the road ahead. “Old grizzled military man.” 

“Do you still have contact with him?” You ask curiously. You don’t know much of anything about their families, their backgrounds.

“Not really. Beyond holidays, neither of us really make an effort to talk to the other. After mum passed, there wasn’t much to talk about.” He says. 

“She was the glue.” You say, watching the trees pass by the car. 

“Yeah.” He huffs out a laugh. “As betas usually are.”

“Do you have any siblings?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you. You know next to nothing about them, while they likely know your entire life story. 

“No,” He shakes his head. “Just me. You have a lot of siblings.” 

You nod. “Seven at the time I left for the institute. Could be more now.” 

“They never tried to keep contact with you?” He asks. 

“Nope.” You turn to look out the window. “The institute didn’t really encourage it either, because we were being prepared to join new packs. That’s hard to do when you still have bonds with your old ones. I think they might have forcibly ended some. I know there were some omegas that tried to keep contact, but it became less and less until eventually it just stopped.” 

Price’s hands tighten around the steering wheel just slightly. You wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been paying attention. Silence settles in the car as he drives, farmlands passing until the houses start getting closer and closer together. You stare at the buildings as he drives through town, a blend of historical and modern. 

“It’s beautiful here.” You say, watching people and cars pass by. 

“I suppose so.” He says, glancing at you. “I grew up in this area.” 

You turn to look at him. “You did? I didn’t know that. Then again, I don’t know much about any of you.” 

“You can ask us, you know.” He says. “We don’t have to be that secretive with you. At least not about ourselves.” 

He pulls into a parking lot, opening your door for you and helping you out of the car. You slip your hand into his, holding it as you cross the parking lot. You stare up at the store. ASDA. You’ve never heard of it before, though you suppose the stores would be different here too. 

Price drops your hand to grab a cart, the store bustling with people. You hang onto the edge of the cart, staying close to Price’s side. “We’re here for you.” He says, guiding you through the aisles. “Get whatever you want.” 

He’s led you to the homegoods section, your eyes widening at the entire aisle of blankets and bedding in front of you. You try to take it all in, but you feel a bit overwhelmed. There’s so many choices, so many options. 

“Pick out as many as you want. Don’t worry about the price.” He says, before you can protest. “We get paid decently, but don’t have many chances to use it. Let me do this for you.” 

You stare up into his eyes, the sincerity in them, before you nod, turning back to the wall of blankets before you. You study them, running your hand along them to find the softest ones, doing as he says and ignoring the price tags. You settle on a couple soft ones, grabbing a throw blanket as well that you can pack around to the rec room if you want to. He takes you to the pillow aisle, and you settle on a pair of fluffy pillows, as well as a couple decorative ones as well. 

“Here.” He slips a big plush strawberry into your arms before you leave the aisle, your cheeks warming as you look at it. “Makes me think of you.” 

You preen at his words, holding onto the strawberry as you make for the lamps and nightlights, settling on a cat shaped one that will sit on your desk and changes colors. You pick up a few other items before heading for the toiletries, finally setting the strawberry in the cart as you zero in on the soaps and body washes. You smell all the strawberry scented ones, trying to find the perfect one. 

“Why strawberry?” Price asks as you put a strawberries and cream scented body wash in the cart. 

“Compliments my scent.” You explain as he leads you to the shampoo and conditioner. “We had a scent specialist come to the institute one time as an activity. We all figured out what our scents smell like and what notes compliment them the best.” 

An arm wraps around your waist before you can look at the shampoo, pulling you back against a broad chest. Price’s nose presses into your neck and he inhales deeply. He lets out a content hum, his beard tickling the sensitive skin of your neck. “I think you’re right.” 

Your face burns hot as he presses a gentle kiss against the side of your neck before releasing you. You stand there for a moment, trying to calm the heat rushing through your body and focus on the shampoo. You hear him chuckle as you shuffle forward, your face still burning as you smell the shampoo bottles. 

You settle on one, holding onto Price’s arm as you continue around the store, picking up a few other items and a couple for himself as well before heading to the checkout. 

You hold on to Price’s arm as you leave the store, sticking close to him as he loads the bags into the trunk. You can feel the slight tension in his body, the way his eyes scan the parking lot every few seconds. You can’t even begin to imagine how hard it must be for him to relax, especially out in public. How fast his mind has to be running, how alert he is to everyone and everything. A threat could come out of nowhere, could come from anyone. 

It must be exhausting. 

“Hungry, sweetheart?” He asks as he buckles his seatbelt. 

“Always.” You answer, leaning on the center console.

He smiles. “What are you in the mood for?” 

You blink at him. Most of the restaurants you know probably don’t exist in England. “Fish and chips?” You offer, pulling up the one British food you’re confident in naming. 

“Fish and chips it is.” He says, turning on the car. 

“I have yet to have real fish and chips.” You say, settling into the passenger seat. 

“Well, I know the perfect place.” He says, pulling out of the parking lot. 

You don’t have to go far before he’s parking on the street and helping you out of the car. His hand settles on your lower back, guiding you down the street to a fish and chips shop. 

It's too early for the dinner rush, the shop mostly empty and quiet. Price orders for you before guiding you to a table, and you let him sit facing the door and front window. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. They seem so relaxed on base, though you suppose that's the place they feel the most comfortable. You can't even imagine the kinds of things they've seen, the horrors they've been subjected to. 

You don't want to think about the things they've done. 

Your eyes snap downwards as Price's hand slides across the table, closing around yours. You don't want to think about the things he's done with those hands. The lives he's taken, the people he's tortured. Will he ever turn those hands on you? 

They've given you no reason to fear them yet. They've all been kind, polite. Even Ghost hasn't truly given you a reason to fear him, despite his obvious disapproval and hard exterior. 

You know nothing about them. 

You've known them for just over two weeks. You can't possibly have any understanding of who they are, how they express their emotions. What if they get upset? What happens when they get angry? What if you anger them?

“I know this hasn’t been easy for you. Any of it.” Price says, drawing you from your worried thoughts. “I know you were taught to expect this, perhaps not this exact situation, but something like this. Being sent off to some strange alpha to join their pack, bonding with complete strangers. None of us were expecting this either. It’s been an adjustment in a lot of ways, but I want you to know that we’ll take care of you. You need anything, you tell us. You want anything, we’ll do our best to make it happen. We’ll keep you safe.” He lifts your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “I promise you that.” 

You want to believe him. You really do. They haven’t given you any reason to not believe it. 

It’s only been two weeks. 

You continue to talk with him as you eat, making light conversation, getting to know him a bit more. Despite the trickling uncertainty in the back of your mind, it feels good. It feels like a date, something you had dreamed of before you presented, something you had imagined happening when you finally got old enough to start looking for potential mates and packs. 

Of course, back then, you had thought you’d be an alpha. 

It had been expected of you. 

Price has his arm wrapped around you as you walk back to the car, his hand on your hip. It’s possessive almost, and it makes your stomach flutter. Price is the only one you haven’t kissed yet, well, besides Ghost, but you’re certain you’d wind up through a wall if you even thought of trying. It’s almost ironic that Price would be the last, considering he’s going to be the one claiming you, the one you spend your heat with. 

You stare out the window as the buildings fade into farmlands again. The sun is setting, painting the world in oranges and reds. You still feel a bit warm from Price’s possessive hold on you, his teasing in the store. You can still feel the tickle of his beard on your skin, his lips pressing against your neck. 

You jump when rough fingers trail down your arm, pulling it from where it had been resting in your lap. 

“You were right.” Price says as he lifts your hand to his face, pressing his nose against your wrist and inhaling for a moment. “Strawberries are the strongest note in your scent.” He lowers your hand again, lacing your fingers together. “What’s got you all worked up over there.” 

You stare at him, your face getting warm again. Of course he can smell it. You can smell the muskiness beginning to form around the edges of his scent. Desire. “You haven’t kissed me yet.” You say, moving his hand into your lap. “You're the only one that hasn't...well, besides Ghost.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “You sound disappointed.” 

You untangle your fingers with his, letting his hand rest on your thigh. “What if I am?”

His fingers flex against your leg, the muskiness of his scent strengthening. “Then maybe we should fix that.” 

The cocktail of scents in the car is intoxicating, and you feel bad for the poor beta soldier at the gate when Price rolls down the window to hand off your IDs. 

Price is out of the car as soon as it's parked, moving around to your side to open the door. He pins you against the side of the car as soon as you're out, caging you in with his arms. 

You stare up at him, head swimming with the musk laced in his scent. You can see his eyes shining in the light next to the door of the barracks. He looks like a hungry wolf, the back of your neck prickling with excitement. 

He leans down, breath fanning your face as he gets closer and closer to you. You press yourself against him, hands gripping his shoulders as he presses his lips to yours. His lips are surprisingly soft, his beard tickling your face. He growls quietly against your lips, pushing you harder against the side of the car. 

You let out a quiet sound in response, hands gripping his jacket. His hands slide from the car to your sides, sliding down to grip your hips. You can feel the muscle hidden beneath his jacket and shirt, the strength that he possesses. He may not be purebred like Ghost, but he’s still every inch an alpha. 

You let out another quiet sound as he pulls away, pressing a caste kiss to the corner of your lips. “Bloody hell, now I know what those boys were on about.” He breathes, leaning his forehead against yours. 

“They were talking about me?” You ask, pulling back slightly. 

“Only good things.” Price grins, leaning down to kiss you again. “Sweet as sugar.” He breathes, kissing you again. “And just as addicting.” He pulls away from you, his hands resting on your waist. “We should get your stuff inside so you can get it all set up. Want me to fetch one of the boys to help?” 

You bite your lip. “Or you could just do it.” 

He stares down at you, something flashing across his face but you can’t quite make it out in the low light. “You’re sure?” His voice is quiet, taking on that soft tone it often does when he speaks to you. 

“You’ll have to eventually.” You shrug. “Might as well start now.” 

He leans down, kissing you again before pulling away, opening up the trunk. He grabs most of the bags, only leaving the pillows for you to grab before he leads the way into the barracks. You open your door, stepping in first before he follows. You dump your pillows on the bed, and he sets the rest of the bags on your desk. 

“Blankets in the wash.” You say, digging them out of the bags, pulling the tags off. 

“I’ll take them.” He says, fishing out his stuff from the bags before taking the blankets from you. 

You switch out your pillows for the softer ones, organizing the decorative ones just the way you want. You squish the strawberry to your chest again, a smile forming on your face before you flop back onto the bed, sinking into the soft pillows. It’s almost perfect, you think. 

“Comfortable?” Price’s voice rumbles in the doorway, a smile on his face as he stares at you. 

“Much better.” You say, sitting up and placing the strawberry in its place. 

The two of you finish taking everything out of the bags, decorating the rest of your room. The posters on the walls, and the nightlight on your desk. It feels far more homey already, and you know you’re going to sleep well tonight once the blankets are out of the wash. 

“Thank you.” You say, looking up at Price. “This really means a lot.” 

“All in a day’s work, love.” He says, pulling you into his arms again. 

You lean against his chest, resting your head over his heart, listening to it beat steadily against your ear. 

You wake up suddenly, yet you’re not quite sure why. There’s no one in your room, your new nightlight easily showing you that. Your mouth is dry, but there’s a line of wetness down your chin. You reach across your nightstand, your phone illuminating the time. 

Just past one a.m. 

You smack your lips, feeling thirsty after the excitement of the day. You’d forgotten to grab water when you left the rec room and you huff out a sigh. You don’t want to get up, but now that you’re aware you’re thirsty, there’s no stopping those thoughts. 

You don’t even bother with slippers as you pad to the door, opening it up. You leave it cracked as you sleepily shuffle towards the rec room, the barracks almost dead quiet this late. You grab a bottle from the fridge, unscrewing the top before drinking a few gulps. It’s cold and tastes divine, soothing the dryness of your mouth. You screw the top back on, closing the fridge before heading back towards your room. 

You turn the corner, still half asleep, nearly yelping as you slam into a chest. You stumble back a couple steps, staring up at the covered face looming over you. You gulp, holding the bottle to your chest. 

“S-Sorry.” You stutter. 

“You’re out of bed.” He says quietly, voice rumbling in the silence. 

“Thirsty.” It’s all you can manage as you hold up the bottle. 

He stares at you for a long moment, eyes flickering all over your face. His chest is heaving, almost as if he had been running before you ran into him. His hands are closed into fists at his sides, knuckles almost white with how tense he is. You think for a moment he might be mad, but you can’t catch any whiff of ozone in the air. Your nose prickles at the scent, but it’s not anger. 

Your tired brain can’t make sense of it, yearning to sink back into the softness of your bed again. You slowly shuffle around him, taking cautious steps, waiting for him to reach out and stop you, but he doesn’t. He simply watches you go, standing there in the hallway as you slip back into your room, not moving until he hears the click of your lock slipping into place. 

NEXT ->

Taglist:

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[enha-doodles]

please do a slytherin boys reacting to you being a hufflepuff pls

SLYTHERIN GUY'S REACTION TO YOU BEING A HUFFLEPUFF | ✧⁺。

Pairing : (Mattheo , Tom , Theodore, Lorenzo , Draco) x reader

Notes : okay so now only Slytherin left and next will definately be an enhypen post , it's been too long since I posted something for them 😭

Warnings : not proofread , written in a hurry my bad guys

MATTHEO RIDDLE

Mattheo's smirk widens as he gazes at you, unable to contain his amusement. "Well, well, well, my dear Hufflepuff," he begins, his tone playful yet affectionate, "aren't you just the epitome of kindness? It's like you're allergic to anything even remotely sinister." He chuckles softly, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your ear. "But fear not, my sweet, for I'll be your guide through the shadows. Together, we'll navigate the dark corners of Hogwarts, with your innocence as our secret weapon." He grins, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Who knows, maybe you'll even rub off on this Slytherin and teach me a thing or two about being... less evil." He winks, his playful tone laced with genuine fondness for you. "But until then, let's just enjoy the ride, shall we?" You can't help but laugh at his teasing, feeling a surge of affection for the charming Slytherin who's captured your heart.

TOM RIDDLE

Tom rolls his eyes at the mere mention of Hufflepuff, muttering about the insignificance of a house that values kindness above all else. He's determined to toughen you up, constantly pushing you to shed your soft exterior and embrace the cold, hard reality of the wizarding world. "Kindness is a weakness, darling," he'll growl, his gaze steely as he lectures you on the importance of ambition and cunning.

He'd manipulate you by turning you against your friends because in his eyes you are born to evil that's why you ended up with him , your friends are the wrong influence "And those so-called friends of yours? They're just wolves in sheep's clothing, waiting to take advantage of your sweet nature. But fear not, my dear, for I'll always be here to protect you" He's there even if it means scaring away every potential suitor with a well-timed glare.

THEODORE NOTT

Theodore can't help but chuckle at the irony of your Hufflepuff allegiance, but it's all in good fun. He'll mock you mercilessly, recounting every Slytherin victory over Hufflepuff in Quidditch or other competitions. Yet, despite his teasing, Theodore knows when to concede defeat, his love for you outweighing any petty house rivalry.

"Alright, alright, my little badger," he'll sigh, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I may be a Slytherin, but you've got me wrapped around your little finger. Just promise me you'll stop bringing up that time Hufflepuff beat us in the House Cup. It still stings, you know."

LORENZO BERKSHIRE

He'll even go as far as pretending to roar like a ferocious dog lion - oh the irony , whenever someone gets too close, much to your amusement.

Lorenzo can't resist the urge to baby you at every turn, his heart swelling with pride whenever he looks at you. He'll hover protectively by your side, his arm draped over your shoulders like a shield against the world. "My sweet little badger," he'll coo, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll protect you from every danger, real or imagined. No one's laying a finger on my precious Hufflepuff, not while I'm around."

DRACO MALFOY

Draco's annoyance is as evident as ever, his aristocratic features twisted into a perpetual scowl (his resting face actually) as he begrudgingly accepts your Hufflepuff allegiance. He'll grumble about the stupidity of your house, his annoyance palpable in every word he utters. "Hufflepuff" he'll mutter under his breath, as if the mere mention of the word leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

But despite his disdain, Draco can't help but crave the princess treatment you're all too willing to provide. "Fine, Hufflepuff," he'll huff, crossing his arms in a dramatic display of annoyance. "But don't think for a second that I'm not expecting extra cuddles to make up for it."

。　　　　✧　　　　⁺　 　 　。

[sunseed-fandump]

I’ve been wondering on how the bad batch would meet Moonlight cookie and Stardust Cookie and their options on them?

(I would also like to know moonlight and stardust cookie options on the bad batch as well)

In canon, Gingerbrave, Strawberry Cookie, and Wizard Cookie go to the City of Wizards to recruit Moonlight Cookie against the forces of Dark Enchantress Cookie.

In the Bad Batch AU, I imagine a different set of cookies are sent by PV to speak with Moonlight Cookie. (Most likely Black Raisin and Strawberry Crepe.) Meanwhile, the kids go there to try to plunder the magical secrets the city holds. The location of the City had been revealed to Wizard Cookie in a dream and he is VERY excited to see the legendary city for himself.

I imagine this arc would be very Wizard focused, specifically addressing his almost compulsive need to gain more power due to the staff. In a way, he’s following a similar path to the Wizards who built the city: their ambition seems to have been their downfall. Wizard Cookie, however, is still on that climb BEFORE the fall. There’s still time to save him from being entirely consumed by the power he fervently seeks.

Wizard would probably get into a heavy debate/argument with Blueberry Pie Cookie over this issue.

Dreams are funny things. The rules of the real world don’t apply if one doesn’t wish them to. And since the children reside in a dream controlled by Moonlight Cookie, she can very simply change some rules, even in her dormant state. Like, for example, the need for a certain cookie to remain holding a certain staff. And she wouldn’t even need to lift a finger in order to, just as a hypothetical, subconsciously twist the dream in such a way that same cookie gets separated from the staff and his group.

This wouldn’t be done with malicious intent; in fact, it would be the opposite.

During their journey through the City, the kids would come across the Labyrinth of Remembrance. It wouldn’t be a big piece of the arc, considering Sugar Glass Cookie is no longer here. But it is within the Labyrinth where Wizard gets separated from Wild Strawberry and Gingerbrave, kickstarting them having to wake Moonlight up in order to get him back. HOWEVER, this trip inside the Labyrinth will have an unintended side-effect that will come back later to haunt them:

Some of the kids’ memories get imprinted on the sugar glass. Memories that are discovered by one of the cookies sent by PV. This bit won’t come into play until much much later, but it’s something that will have consequences, nonetheless.

Meanwhile with Wizard, it is revealed the dream that told him the location of the City was Moonlight Cookie’s doing, though it was subconsciously. When the Slumbering Moon silently wished to see a “real wizard” again due to her heartache and fear of a terrible calamity, her Dream had rushed to fulfill her desire, though not entirely how she intended.

While she had not originally intended to invite Wizard and his friends here, she is still glad he came.

Another funny thing about dreams, despite how nonsensical they are, they’re also terribly honest. They lay a person’s rawest emotions and desires out plainly, as one’s subconsciousness pushes itself to the forefront in a desperate bid to be acknowledged. Wizard cannot hide anything from her because of this. She pries away the hard shell forged of hurt and bitterness that Wizard has constructed to protect himself and sees the boy for what he truly is: Afraid. A lost and scared little boy who just wants to be free. A little boy who has been taken advantage of by an evil spirit and told that only being powerful and ruthless will get him what he wants. Beyond the hurt, she sees a child who is bright and brilliant, whose zeal for magic reminds her so much of the Wizards of the distant past. It’s almost as if her dear friends were in front of her once again, in the form of this small child.

And she feels pity for him.

“Come rest. Know peace.” She gently beckons, and pulls Wizard into a soft embrace, holding him in a way nobody ever has before. “I will protect your dreams, for as long as you are here.”

Wizard is not afraid of her. Rationally, he should be, yet he can’t help but feel completely safe here. He still asks, “Why…?”

He’s rotten. He’s no good. He’s corrupted and fowl and everything he touches burns and burns and burns until all that’s left is ashes. He’s hurt others just as much as others have hurt him. He’s a vile child who is going to grow up to be a complete monster. He knows this to be true, because it’s been told to him over and over again by others. There is no going back. No hope for him. Yet here is this Goddess of Dreams welcoming him into her warm embrace despite just having met.

Why?

“Do I need a reason to comfort someone who is hurting?” she asks. “Does kindness need to be conditional?”

If this were the waking world, Wizard would hiss and curse. He’d tell her he didn’t need her pity. He’d shove her away and recoil even deeper into his shell, untrusting and hateful.

But this was a dream, a realm where one’s truest self is laid bare, so the boy cries and sinks deeper into her embrace, wanting nothing more than to be held and soothed in the way he has seen other children comforted. And Moonlight Cookie cries with him, for she sees the wicked thorns the Azure Flame Staff’s curse has buried into his soul and she knows there is nothing she can do to help him at this moment. Not without risking great damage to him, that is. And they cry together, just the two of them, in this peaceful quiet dream.

“Come rest. Know peace.” Moonlight Cookie cradles the boy close, running a hand through his hair and wiping tears from his eyes. “I will protect your dreams, for as long as you need me to.”

He lets it all spill out from him. His pain, his fear, his rage. His emotions feel raw, like reopening an infected scarred-over wound and letting the rot spill out. He tells her all the awful truths he’s learned; how the real world is a terrible place and the only way to survive is to be just as terrible. How tired he is, but how he doesn’t feel like he can stop, lest he disappoint his friends and their dream of a world where they can finally be happy crumbles apart.

In return, she whispers stories to him of when the city was alive. Of the lessons the Wizards imparted on her, and of the lessons she learned through their loss. She tells him how she regrets not being able to prevent the events that necessitated the city's mass evacuation. She warns him that those who are strong must also be gentle, and those who are powerful must remember to be kind. That is the secret to a truly happy world; the world he wishes for.

They both rest soundly until Gingerbrave and Wild Strawberry activate the Clocktower, probably with the help of the Union Emissaries. Right on time too, because Stardust Cookie arrives not too long after the kids reunite.

Wizard won’t tell the others what he talked with Moonlight Cookie about (was it even really talking if its just thoughts and memories bleeding into each other in a dreamlike haze?), but seeing the city she loves so much being destroyed…

Well, much to Gingerbrave’s and Wild Strawberry’s surprise, Wizard Cookie tells them he wants to go out of his way to save the City. Usually, they don’t try to rescue places they initially plan to wreak havoc in, but… Wizard seems really worked up about this. He seems to actually care and, well, who are they to say no?

So they help Moonlight fight off Stardust Cookie, however Wizard’s staff starts acting up. Why? Because it wants to consume Stardust’s lifeforce. It tries to compel Wizard to kill him. Imagine the power he would gain from killing such a being. All of it, just for him, all he has to do is take one cheap shot while Moonlight has Stardust distracted... But Wizard, for the very first time since obtaining the staff, does not comply.

“No.” He grips the Azure Flame Staff firmly. “Not this one.” Because he can see hope in Moonlight’s eyes. He can hear her fondness for one she considers a brother. He can’t take that away from her. Not after the kindness she had shown to him.

At first the spirit within the staff is confused, but then that quickly shifts to anger. Its own compulsive need to satiate its gluttonous appetite makes its calm mask slip. Wizard feels a tug, but he yanks it back.

“Stop!” He commands and the staff merely laughs; the sound echoes in the boy’s head, making him feel dizzy. Wizard Cookie thinks he’s in charge here? That’s cute.

Wizard feels something snaking up his arms, through his torso, clawing his throat and shooting directly into his head. And then suddenly he’s asleep again, but it’s not nearly as peaceful or comforting as it had been with Moonlight.

Much to his friends’ horror, the Staff begins to puppet Wizard’s body with the intent to kill Stardust. Gingerbrave, enraged by this, tackles the possessed Wizard Cookie and gets into a full-blown brawl with him. The minute he disarms Wizard, the possession stops and the boy’s body goes limp.

In the end, Moonlight and Stardust will reconcile. Moonlight Cookie will be asked to help the Cookie Union stand against Dark Enchantress, to which she will agree. Then she will turn to the Bad Batch. Gingerbrave is holding Wizard’s unconscious body, meanwhile Wild Strawberry has taken the Staff and is beating it against the nearest wall. Not hard enough to break it, but just hard enough to get her point across. Both children bristle when the Goddess approaches, unsure of what she plans to do. They weren’t expecting her to kneel down in order to gently brush Wizard’s hair from his sleeping face. She looks… sad.

“I can tell he means a lot to you both,” she says. “He feels the same about you…” She looks up to meet Gingerbrave’s wide eyes. “I wish there was more I could do for him. Alas, my hands are tied unless he makes the choice himself…”

Nobody is quite sure what she means, but it seems to weigh on her.

“Take good care of him.” She smiles, but there’s still so much sorrow in her eyes. Gingerbrave nods without hesitation.

And with a wave of her hand, all the mortal cookies awaken outside the City.

Even months after these events, Wizard Cookie doesn’t share what happened while he was with Moonlight Cookie. He lies and says he can’t remember after he woke up. He won’t even let the Staff pick at those memories, and much to the Staff’s frustration, there’s something protecting that part of the boy’s mind.

Wizard Cookie is still bitter toward the world. He’s still all-in on their plan to steal the Soul Jam. He’s still loyal to his friends and willing to continue his research into the dark arts.

But some nights, when the moon seems especially beautiful and the dark seems especially peaceful, as Wizard Cookie drifts off to sleep… Sometimes he feels a familiar warm embrace.

“I will protect your dreams, for as long as you need me to.”

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

The Salesman | SFW alphabet + being obsess with his wife

Can be read as part of this

Template credit

Warnings: Parts with Suggestive things - Obsess!Salesman - Wife!Reader - Possessive!Salesman - Grammar mistakes -

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

The Salesman its not someone who usually shows affection or gets said feeling towards anyone. In fact for most years he thought he was unable to feel such a thing.

But then you came into his life and shattered that thought. He ended stalking you around Seoul, getting to know you before he did a first approach. He called it fascination at first, but when he finally got to know you for real he fell hard for you.

His ways of showing affection are quality time together, since he has some complicated hours at work he looks out for things you two can do together. Avoids the places where he usually goes.

Words, he loves calling you cute nicknames and telling you how well you did something. No matter what it was he makes a big deal out of it.

Contact, if he could take you everywhere with him, he would. He needs to have you by his side, being able to touch you its a must. He needs one kiss from you for his day to be good.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Most likely you two would be friends if you two used to work for the Organization and shared the same twisted dark mind set back then.

Like that he is a chaotic one, he does not like breaking the rules, in fact he lives by them. But would push your limits both inside the island and outside.

If you two worked as recruiters then you two would have friendly competitions on who can get more peopel into the games and bet on them once the games starts.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

YES. He is a big softie for his wife. After a long day of seeing the kind of peopel he hates the most he comes home needing you. 

Will drag you to either the bed or the expensive couch the saw you seeing one time and got it for you, cause why not? The best for his wife.

Will hug you from behind, let his head fall on your shoulder and whisper how much he loves you and how happy he is with you.

If you two lay down then he would like to have you pressed against his chest, facing him so he can give you small kisses or being the small spoon so he can hug you against him and act as a shiled from the world.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

THIS MAN SAW YOU AND WAS ALTERADY PLANNING THE WEEDING.

He is actually good at both. He likes to keep his home clean and prefers food that he made himself. However he cant compare his coking skills with yours. After the first time he tried your food he was unable to make himself food again. Why ? Because yours its just better!! And dont ask him to eat fast food, he hates it.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Oh sweet you, he would NEVER break up with you.

If for some reason you start to act strange and distant yourself from him he will gashlight you and blame you, manipulating the situation on his favor so you would feel bad for even think about it.

No. He needs you like his lungs needs air, he cant and wont ever let you go. He would destroy your personal life first so you would have no one to reach for.

You are his light and muse, he wont let you go.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

FAST. As I said he saw you and he was planning the weeding.

Even if he wants to get married fast he would work himself to be seen as a proper future husband. If you have friends then he would act as a gentlemen and even make them jealous of you. Your family would love him to no end, and would joke about when the weeding will be.

Your mom/dad may beg you to marry him since he is a good man and wants the best for you.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

SFW: SOFTIE. Loves to hold you close, smell your perfume and have your hands around him. It helps him ground himself down when he is too stressed.

Emotionally he is complicated, for you he is a open book at least with his feelings of devotion towards you. He is very vocal by how much he cares for you and how happy you make it. When it comes to personal matters, mostly his work he prefers to keep you in the dark about it. He does not want you to see him any different.

NSFW: At first in order to not scare you away he would be gentle and vanilla with you in bed. Then he would slowly introduce you to his depraved and dark side of it.

Does he manipulate you into giving in? Yes, yes he does. But you wont ever notice it.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He likes them, his hugs are short but with full of meaning. He likes to give you one during the mornings and at night.

Its a routine he has, he needs to at least give you one during the day.

On special times his hugs will be longer, maybe in your anniversary, he will hold you in his arms against his chest letting you listen to his heart beat.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

In is mind, he tells you the L word just days after starting dating you, or even while he stalked you.

He knows he loves you, but wants you to say it to him first so he can respond pulling all his heart in these words.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

He gets easily jealous, not because he does not trust you. But because he wants you all for himself.

Not only does he gets jealous over strange males, but over your friends too.

If he feels like you are passing too much time with them, then he will use his charm to keep you away from them.

If things gets more serious...then he will just make them dissapear, he may torture them or take two at times and makes them play a deadly game but the catch is..no one has a chance of winning.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Oh! His kisses are full of love and passion, his favorite spot its defenetly your lips. He loves to kiss them till they end all red and puffy.

Your neck is another place, he likes to leave both, small kisses and long ones in order to leave marks behind.

He likes to be kissed by you on his lips, neck, cheeck and hands. The last one its his personal favorite since it makes him feel less of a monster...or does not care what he does as long as you like his hands.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Actually no.

He can fake around kids that are not his but he does not want kids with you.

He wants to live a long life with you and only you. He wants your attention only on him.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Depends on how the night activities went.

Sometimes he lets you sleep while he gets ready but he finds you making him breakfast. Thats a thing that always happen.

If he feels like he wants to spend more time with him then he would ask you to shower with him, and help him dress for the day.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Depends on how he wants the night to go and and what time he gets back.

If he comes early and just wants to spend quiality time with you, you two would watch a movie or talk for a bit.

And if he wants to do another tnings...well you two are in for a long time.

If he comes home late then he would prefer you to be asleep, since he still has to shower and other things.

But you usually wait for him awake or wake up once he gets in, you like to see his tired face light up when he sees how much you worry over him.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Its complicated. He likes how you see him and only know of his depraved side when it comes to sex.

He may twist the truth about his past and what he does for work, maybe with a few years he will reveal something more, but nothing that would scare you.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

He has much patience, needs it for his work and it traslates to your relationship. Its not like you can do more to break his patience, he deals with worse things.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He remembers every single detail.

Even since he stalked you and got all your personal information, its like his second life.

What you like and dislike, what type of music, food, colors and activities, he remembers all of it.

Its impossible for him to forget a single detail when it comes to you.

He remembers your the special dates, from the first time he saw you to the first date you to had.

Your anniversary date its printed on his mind, you will find the most romantic dinner waiting for you, the most relaxing day just for you.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

His favorite moment its one centrain day, the day you told him you loved him.

It was a sunny day of spring, both of you were walking around a park, seeing the flowers and nature as well as other couples.

He had stopped to buy you some sweet and was enjoying seeing you munch over them.

"You know, we have been dating for some time now" You said to him, stopping to look up at him.

Taking a deep breath you added "And I cant keep this hide from you anymore, I love you, I have never feel loved like this before. And I have never loved someone so much before, it makes my heart feel heavy in a good way. And I want you to know it, I love you"

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He is very protective over you.

While he knows the organization wont do anything to you unless you do something to interfer with the games he feels at ease with that.

He does not trust the people.

He hacks your phone so he can know where you are at all hours. Has cameras at his home and a security system in case someone breaks in.

He even teachs you to use a gun and fight just in case.

(Having you around him its just a plus)

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

LOTS. Each date, anniversary and gift suprasses the last one.

He will ask you what you biggest dream is and make it come true. Gets you the best gifts and take you to the most fancy and fun dates.

Even once you two are married he likes to still take you out like old times.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He is:

A stalker.

Manipulative

Gaslighter

Possessive

Control freak but hides it.

He is a red flag, a walking one. But even that he gets all softie for you, his dear wife.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Well, he knows he is good looking and likes to take care of how he looks. But only for you.

Wants to look handsome and well dress for you. Does not care if he catches the eyes of others, he just wants you to look at him and tell him how good looking he is.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Totally. He never felt complete before, always alone and going on with his days. He never cared if he felt lonely, not till he met you from afar and then for real.

To him, you are his soulmate, his other half, his human side and lover. The one who grounds himself and brights his life.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

If you have a special plush to sleep with, he gets jealous of it. Even if he got you the plush himself.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Honestly if he ends being obsess with you he may ignore whatever thing he may dislike from you.

Does this mean he would not try and change you? Oh no, he would.

Something he dislikes is disobedience , if he tells you to not ask about his work he expects you to do as told. You cant follow, you cant enter his office...

Thats what he hates the most.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Before meeting you, he would sleep six hours. And thats it. His nights are plagued with nightmares and lots of times he would wake up before his alarm and look outside the window, towards the dark till the sun comes out and the lights of other houses starts to get on.

But once he meets you, he becomes a heavy sleepier, he loves to cuddle you during the night, with you by his side his nightmares are gone. His six hours passed to be eight hours, more if he feels greedy and want to stay besides you some more.