#this is just the ones in this chapter alone....

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - SIX

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care; drug and alcohol addiction;

Rafe had been clean for the past three years.

Over the course of the year, things between him and you had been smooth sailing. 

It was almost easy, something he wouldn’t have believed a few years back when everything he touched seemed to go up in flames. There’d been a time when he was just too much—angry, impulsive, doing all the wrong things for all the wrong reasons.

He’d been selfish, reckless, it was intense, way too intense, and when you fought, it was like you were both throwing grenades, just waiting to see who’d blow up first. You’d pushed him away, he’d pushed you harder, and you’d both crossed lines that should’ve never even been close.

Eventually, both of you learned to talk instead of shouting, learned when to back down instead of pushing buttons just to get a reaction. You’d gotten better at letting each other breathe. He’d pull back when he felt himself getting heated, and you’d do the same.

It wasn’t perfect; sometimes you’d still get into it, still end up in an argument that felt like old times, but it was different. There were no more lines on the bathroom counter, no disappearing at all hours. 

Until Ward died. 

Rafe didn’t know what the fuck to feel when he got the news. He knew what he was supposed to feel, right? He’d done it before with his mom, now it was his dad’s turn. The man who had raised him, the one to teach him everything he knew about how the world worked, even if it wasn’t pretty. 

Ward was a hard man, a strong man. The kind of guy who commanded respect, even if he didn’t always show it the way others might expect. But that’s the thing, he was a man of respect. 

To Rafe, that meant something. Everything. 

Ward had shaped him, he couldn’t just forget that, couldn’t act like that wasn’t important.

At first, you were there for him, no question. 

He knew you hated Ward, you barely tolerated the thought of him even existing in the same room as you. You spent those first few weeks with him, making sure he didn’t spiral back into the shit that nearly destroyed him. He needed the support, even if he didn’t always know how to ask for it.

You were there, holding it down. You got through it, the late-night talk, but then, you started getting distant.

At first, it was subtle—small things. He’d catch you looking at him like you didn’t quite get him anymore. You’d pull away when he needed you to listen, when he was ranting about Ward, and even though you tried to hide it, Rafe could see the dissociation.

He pretended he didn’t sense it, tried to tell himself you’d come around. 

After all, this was his��grief, and no one else was going to understand it the way he did. His dad had been everything to him—maybe not in the way you thought he should’ve been, but that was just the reality of it.

For the first time in years, it felt like you weren’t there with him. It didn’t make sense to him how you couldn’t see it. 

Ward had been a tough guy, sure, cruel sometimes, but he was also a provider, a father who tried to teach him how to survive, even if it didn’t always come wrapped in the right way.

He wasn’t perfect, but he was the only father Rafe had ever known. He was gone all of a sudden and that was what had hurt the most—knowing he’d never get the approval he’d always been chasing, even when he was clean, even when he was doing better. There was no fixing that. 

He wanted to mourn in peace, but no one seemed to understand why Ward still mattered to him, not even Sarah.

Three weeks after the funeral he spent his days surrounded by a few bottles of scotch he’d stolen right out of his dad’s stash. Who was gonna stop him now, anyway? He almost laughed. Three years clean. Shit, that was something, wasn’t it?

He’d had people telling him he wouldn’t make it three weeks, let alone three years. Shit, his dad sure didn’t think he’d get this far. Only you.

Rafe squinted at the amber liquid swirling in his glass, then leaned back in the worn leather of his dad’s old armchair. It felt weird being in here, in his chair, in his office, breathing in that persistent smell of old cigars and varnish.

After the whole “funeral”, with everyone looking at him like he was a wild animal about to snap, this was the only place he could sit without someone judging him.

If you’re so clean, why are you drinking yourself half to death? He took a slow sip, letting it burn down his throat. 

It wasn’t like it used to be, that high that hit fast and hard, and didn’t care if it broke him apart.

This was different, a slower, quieter process.

Besides, he was in control this time. Just a drink, he told himself, fingers tightening around the glass. No powder, no pills. That was progress.

So what if he had to take the edge off? Who wouldn’t, if they’d just said goodbye to their only living parent and had to look at their younger sisters crying like that? 

He was practically swimming in alcohol. Rafe knew he was overdoing it, but he didn’t care.

Every time he saw himself— on a window, mirror, whatever—he had a drink in his hand, and something about it just felt terrifyingly right.

Grounded.

Nobody understood him; they just kept looking at him with that worried face, like he was on the verge of losing it like he used to when he was younger. Maybe he already had.

You watched him—really watched him—and yeah, he could tell you were pissed. He saw it in that little wrinkle between your eyebrows every time he took another sip. But you didn’t say anything. 

Even Wheezie was on his case in her quiet way.

She was hanging around, throwing out old jokes and trying to make him smile, but he barely reacted. She was looking at him like she was scared, as if he was some stranger she was trying not to set off. And he hated that—God, he fucking hated it. So he kept his distance, hoped she would back off, let him get through this his way.

But then came that night at the beach bonfire, when everything changed.

He probably shouldn’t have gone, but he needed to get out and feel normal again—even if that just implied showing up and pretending, he was fine. He dragged you along, flashing that cocky grin you could see right through, but you followed anyway, probably just to keep an eye on him. He could feel it—the way you were watching him, worried as hell, that just made him want another drink.

Half the people were staring, too. Waiting to see if he was gonna go off, if he was back to the same volatile Rafe he used to be, the one they loved watching spin out. And just when he thought he could ignore it, some random pogue, scruffy, half-drunk, threw out a comment loud enough for the whole group around him to hear.

“Guess Ward Cameron finally found some gold he couldn’t buy his way out of, huh? What was he thinking, running off to some country where people don’t just take bribes? Practically killed himself.”

It took everything in him not to lunge right there, but he was too plastered to keep the anger off his face. He pushed his way over to the guy, hands clenched into fists.

“You got something you want to say to my fuckin’ face?”

The guy shrugged, muttering something under his breath, people were looking now, everyone watching to see if he was finally going to give them a show.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was shoving him back, hard enough that the dude stumbled, beer splashing out of his cup. The crowd around them stirred, murmurs, but nobody did a thing—they were just staring, waiting to see the blood spill. He felt tempted to hurt someone, felt that cameron fury crawling up his throat.

It didn’t matter that he was twice as drunk as he should be; all that mattered was the way his father’s name was rolling off this nobody’s lips.

He felt you grab his arm, long nails digging hard enough to pull him back, he jerked his shoulder, trying to shake you off, but you weren’t letting go.

“You’re gonna waste your time on him?”

Rafe gritted his teeth, but you didn’t give him a chance to argue. You hauled him back, forcing him away from the guy, who was still standing there with that smug look plastered on his face. 

“Get out. Now,” you urged him, voice calm but with the tone that even he didn’t want to test. He glared at you, mouth opening to argue, but you didn’t let him get a word in. “Rafe. Now.”

You were mad at him.

It was enough to knock some sense into him, and he let you reel him away, but not before you turned back.

“And you,” you called out, enough to silence the chatter around you. “Keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.” 

There was no bluff, no hesitation, and Rafe watched as the pogue’s smug expression dropped instantly, eyes widening as he realized you were dead serious, your family’s name always had an impact around town, old money and all.

As you dragged him to the car, he muttered that he didn’t need you playing bodyguard, but you ignored it, taking him out of the spotlight he hated but couldn’t seem to avoid.

His head was spinning, his blood boiling, and he couldn’t even look at you, not with how angry he felt.

By the time you pulled up to his house, you got out, guiding him inside with that hard, that silent determination he both hated and admired in you. 

You were there, right behind him with that look on your face—angry, disappointed, like he was missing something big, as if he was the one who didn’t get it.

He stumbled into the bathroom, holding himself against the sink, and before he could even catch his breath, you turned on the faucet and splashed cold water in his face. He jerked back, sputtering, wiping it with the back of his hand. When he looked at you, his anger burned again.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he snapped.

“My problem?” you scoffed head already shaking, “Are you serious?”

“You don’t get it,” he growled, barely controlling the rage, the shame—everything. “You don’t know a fuckin’ thing about him. I had the right to defend him.”

You took a step forward, finger pointed at your chest, “Don’t I? Because I remember standing in this very house, watching him tear you down every chance he got. You’re so busy mourning this man who treated you like shit, that you’re pushing the people who care about you away. It’s not just me. It’s everyone.”

Rafe laughed bitterly, the sound humorless. “Oh, here we go,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he turned back to the sink, gripping the edge hard enough to make his knuckles turn white.

“Don’t you dare roll your fucking eyes at me,” you retaliated, stepping up beside him. “I stood by you through all of it, I’m not gonna stand here and watch you kill yourself because of him. He’s the reason you felt like you had to be so perfect all the time, why you’re always trying to prove yourself to people who don’t deserve it. And now he’s gone, and you still can’t see it. You’re still trying to be good enough for him!”

He didn’t look at you, didn’t want to see the indignation—or worse, the pity—in your eyes.

“Just stop,” he muttered, but you were past listening.

“No, I won’t stop. I can’t. I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself again. You’re better than this.”

He suddenly pushed himself away from the sink, and turned to face you, his blue eyes practically black with a hurt that was older and deeper than either of you could touch.

“You don’t get to stand there and tell me what I deserve.”

“I know what you deserve.” 

He scoffed, rolling his eyes again, though his face had gone a shade paler. “You think you know everything, don’t you?” he sneered. “Think you know what’s best for me? Get off your high horse.”

“You’re damn fucking right I know better than you do, I’m not the one who’s drowning every night in some pathetic tribute to a man who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

He could feel it now, the bitterness you’d been hiding for weeks. It wasn’t just about him drinking himself stupid. It was everything—every fucking thing you’d been ignoring, it had festered between you two while you pretended things were okay.

“You’re the one who’s just tired of me, of everything that comes with me.”

You took a step back, eyes narrowing, but you didn’t flinch.

“What?” Your rage momentarily dialed down, the sound gurgling, “You think I’m tired of you? I’ve been here this whole time, trying to make you see the truth, but you won’t even look at me. You won’t let me in. You’re too fucking blind to notice.”

His breath was shaky, too fast, but he didn’t care. “So now I’m blind, huh? I didn’t see you sneaking out the door when I needed you? I didn’t notice how you pulled back, how you stopped giving a fuck about me? You’re just waiting for me to give you an excuse to leave.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he wasn’t done.

“You don’t get it! I didn’t need you to fix me, I needed someone to stay. But instead, you—" His voice cracked, the anger choking him up, "Instead, you started to make me feel like I was a b-burden. Some mess you had to clean up. How am I supposed to deal with that, huh?"

You were shaking your head, your eyes had already been filled with tears, your chest suffocating.

“I’ve been here. I’ve been standing right next to you, waiting for you to pull your shit together. I didn’t walk away. You did.

His stomach churned, as if you’d taken every inch of space in his chest and twisted it, just for fun. The worst part was, he couldn’t even argue with you. Not really. He had been so wrapped up in his own shit, so obsessed with keeping everyone out, that he hadn’t even seen how far you’d already gone.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare try to make this about me,” he spat, the words ugly in his mouth, it felt like they were scraping their way out of him. “You don’t get to make me the villain in your story just because you’re tired of playing my fucking hero.”

“I’m not trying to play the hero!” you screamed, stepping closer, your eyes were cold. “I’m trying to help you see that you have to fix this. Not me. Not anyone else. But you. And if you’re so fucking broken you can’t see that, then maybe you really don’t need me.”

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Rafe could feel his heart racing, that agonizing coil in his chest, but he couldn’t stop.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said, voice quieter, but just as venomous.

He turned his back on you, walking to the door. The sound of his boots clamped against the wood floor like a countdown.

“Maybe I don’t. Grab your shit and go.”

"Don’t you fucking—" you snarled, but he was already moving, grabbing your jacket off the hook by the door and throwing it your way, “You know what? Fine. Maybe I will.” You shoved that stupid thing on, hands shaking as you yanked the zipper up. “Don’t come running back in two days like you always do. Don’t come crawling back.”

Rafe paused, hand on the doorknob, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking.

He didn’t turn around, didn’t look back at you.

“I don’t need you to feel sorry for me.”

“Good. Because I stopped feeling sorry for you a long time ago,” you replied sharply, every syllable punctuated with weeks of resentment. “What I feel now? That’s just disappointment.”

You watched his shoulders lock up; his whole body wound so tight it was like he was one wrong look away from completely losing it. He didn’t turn around either, even as you slipped out the door, but he knew.

That was it.

Two moths later, almost three, he was standing in front of the ER pacing like a complete fucking idiot after you passed out in his arms earlier.

He’d told himself he’d stay away, make it easy for both of you. 

That shitty plan had gone down the drain once he saw you speed away at that party with absolutely no regard for your safety or Topper’s. He’d seen that wild look in your eyes before—the one that said you were about to burn it all down. Or when your dad’s gala came around, and he couldn’t sleep properly knowing he wasn’t going to be there that year, knowing how you spiraled every time you had to step on that stage.

He had stupidly thought that maybe, one day, you two could still be friends. But today? That shit blew up in his face, for the second time in the span of a week.

He forgot what you could invoke in him when you were standing merely an inch away. He promised himself that he’d moved on, forced to consider that the love of his life might not be someone he could spend his lifetime with. Maybe you weren’t meant for each other.

But how the fuck was he supposed to act when the girl who had been everything to him was hurting? 

No, no, no.

Sofia was what he needed.

Someone who didn’t know shit about his past, who didn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer. She hadn’t seen him the way you had, hadn’t been there through every drunken rant and punch he’d thrown at the wall or someone’s face, hadn’t heard him rail against his dad or drag himself back from one of his darkest nights. 

She hadn’t called him a fucking idiot when he chose to throw his father’s ashes on the ocean. She wasn’t going to call him a coward for it. She didn’t have a clue about any of it, and that was supposed to be what he wanted.

He looked up at the ER doors for the millionth time in the past hour, his fingers clenched around his jeep keys so tight they left marks on his hand.

It was over between you two. He’d make sure to keep the fucking distance, two whole months. If he didn’t give you enough closure, you’d hate him faster and you’d both get over it. 

So why the fuck was he about to set the whole hospital on fire as he watched John B’s beat up twinkie pull up to the parking area? It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. 

Of course you’d call her, his own sister—his father's favorite.

Sarah had always been the golden child, Ward’s little angel who could do no wrong, while he was the family screw-up. Even now, you’d picked her, just like Ward would have. 

He didn’t think before he moved, closing the distance between him them in seconds. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He barked right up in her face, daring her to explain herself.

Sarah didn’t back down, though. She just looked up at him with that same cool, level expression she always had whenever he tried to get a rise out of her. 

“I’m here because she called me.”

“She called you?” He scoffed, eyebrows pulling together in disbelief. “You? She called you?” He took a step closer, “So what, you’re her savior now or some shit? Why the hell would she call you if I’m right here?” His eyes narrowed, searching her face like he couldn’t believe it. “Are you kidding me?”

Sarah threw her hands up, a look of pure exasperation on her face.

“Are you dense, Rafe? You’re with someone else! Why would she want the guy who broke her heart to drive her home?”

He blinked, thrown off. “I broke her heart? She broke mine!” He laughed, but it was harsh, bitter. “I did us a favor. We were just—”

“Oh, right. A favor?” Sarah cut in, voice dripping with sarcasm. “That why you’re pacing out here like a goddamn lunatic?”

“Go away. I’m driving her home.”

She stepped closer, her voice steely as she looked him dead in the eye.

“No. She called me, she wants me here. Not you. So do yourself a real favor and go home before you do something even more stupid.”

A breathless chuckle escaped his lips, “She already hates me, Sarah. What’s the fucking harm, huh?” He threw his arms out, as if daring her to come up with an answer that would hurt less. “What’s one more screw-up on top of everything else?”

“You’re real dumb if you believe that. But if you wanna make it worse, then by all means, go ahead. You’ll just prove her right.”

He stayed rooted in place, chest heaving, the conflict ripping him to pieces. His hands shook, his throat tight with words he couldn’t even begin to understand.

But Sarah had already turned her back on him, heading toward the entrance.

“Walk away,” she warned him, looking over her shoulder, “That’s the only thing left for you to do right now.”

Rafe didn’t know why the fuck he listened to her.

It was as if his body had already made that decision for him, understanding that if he didn’t leave right then, he’d end up doing something stupid—something even more fucked up than what he’d already done. His tongue was locked in place, a curse on the tip of his pursed lips, but it never came. 

His feet wouldn’t move, his hands stayed at his sides, and that tightness in his throat wouldn’t let him get a single word out, not one that would make any fucking sense. He hated that. Hated that you still had this kind of control over him.

Hated that he just…felt like something was wrong.

You hadn’t been this frantic, so impulsive since he had to take you home after your sister passed. He didn’t want to remember that night—you damn near threw yourself out of his truck.

But he couldn’t ignore the memory, the desperation on your face, the screams, the fight in his grip as he pulled you by your shirt back inside.

He’d felt like he was holding on to something breaking apart in his hands, something he couldn’t fix but couldn’t let go of either. He’d seen it again in your eyes when he’d caught you earlier at the beach clean-up, the way you’d tried to dodge his stare, voice cracking, legs wobbling when he mentioned the hospital. 

Rafe still felt like he’d swallowed shattered pieces of glass every time he thought about you. And if he could just push it down, if he could just get through one fucking day without looking back, maybe he’d start to forget you.

His feet were glued to the hospital pavement, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. If you were about to crash, if this was anything like before…He didn’t know what the fuck he was going to do.

He had no reason to stay, you’d made it clear as day. He was supposed to be gone—out of your life for good. You’d told him you didn’t need him, he told you he didn’t need you. So why the hell was he still standing here? 

Perhaps because he remembered the last time he’d let you walk out, the way he’d watched you disappear, thinking he was doing the right thing—giving you the clean end you’d both needed.

Maybe that made him sick to his stomach now, thinking of you in there with Sarah, telling his sister things you wouldn’t say to him, letting her be the person he once was to you.

But you’d called her, not him. You’d picked Sarah to be here, and that hurt like a bitch, but it was what he’d asked for, wasn’t it?

This was what he deserved. He told you to grab your shit and go, forced you to leave because that was supposed to make it easier.

He’d impulsively made his choice the minute he’d wrapped his arm around Sofia, pulling her close in front of everyone who’d once known he was yours. He’d talked himself into it. It was the right call, moving on was the only way to finally get you out of his system. 

He was the one who decided it’d be easier to act like he forgot you than to actually try. He thought he could make it easy—pain-free.

Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked back toward his Jeep. He gripped the door handle so hard he could break it in half if he wanted to, feeling his knuckles strain.

If he let go, if he closed that door and stormed inside, he’d just be right back where he started.

He stared at his reflection in the window, his hardened face staring back. His pulse was pounding in his temples, his gut twisting and turning as he tried to bury it all six feet under—the need to just go to you, to hold your hand or yell at you for making him care so fucking much.

He finally released the death grip he had on the door handle, forcing his fingers to relax, his knuckles still throbbing. He slid into the driver’s seat, the cold leather you’d help him choose, mocking at his skin as he slammed the door shut.

With a quick flick of his wrist, he threw the car into drive, the tires screeching as he peeled out of the parking lot.

He drove like he was being hunted down. He wanted to get as far away from that place as possible, praying the miles between him and you would stop the churning inside him. 

You’ll just prove her right.

He hated her for saying it, hated Sarah for knowing exactly what buttons to push. 

As he rounded a curve, his headlights swept across Topper’s house. Rafe cut the engine and stalked toward the backyard. Topper’s sprawled-out form on a reclining chair, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses somehow still on evenly.

He stomped up and smacked the end of his chair.

"Wake the fuck up."

He jolted, nearly tumbling off the chair, ripping his sunglasses off and squinting up at him. “Jesus fucking christ, dude, ever heard of calling ahead?”

But Rafe didn’t answer. He just paced, hands in his growing hair, digging into his scalp like he could rip the frustration out of his skull. Topper sighed, propping himself up on one elbow, he didn’t even look at him, just kept muttering to himself, biting his lip, pacing.

“What the hell happened?”

Finally, he stopped, “I need you to find out what’s wrong with your cousin,” he muttered, not wanting to admit he cared enough to ask.

Topper blinked, brow furrowing. “What do you mean, what’s wrong with her?”

Rafe only shook his head, hands on his hips as he stared at the ground. “I don’t know, okay? She just…she’s acting off. And I can’t—I’m not supposed to care, Top. I’m not. I’m with Sofia now, alright? But she’s still…” His voice trailed off, as he scrubbed a hand down it.

Topper tilted his head, eyeing him knowingly.

“Right, yeah, whatever you say. I’ll figure it out.”

If Sarah Cameron didn’t walk through that hospital door within the next three minutes, you’d lose all the courage you’d summoned over the last hours. Or was it just an hour? You weren’t sure how long you’d been lying there, the IV needle taped uncomfortably into your arm. 

Your fingers curled into the thin blanket draped over you, and you wished—desperately—that you didn’t feel so…empty.

Ten minutes later, she strode in with a glance at the door, as if she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get there on time. The relief on her face when she saw you was reassuring but it only made the confusion in your chest heavier.

She was so different from Rafe, yet still looked so much like him. She sat in the chair by the bed, eyes scanning your face like she was trying to gauge just how bad it was.

“Hi.”

You swallowed, blinking up at the ceiling to keep the tears at bay.

“Thanks for coming.” 

“Of course,” She reached for your hand where it lay on top of the blanket, hesitating for a split second before giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You okay?” 

You felt a laugh bubble up, “Not even a little.”

She let out a small breath and nodded, squeezing your hand again. “I figured,” she said quietly, and you appreciated that she didn’t pretend to have some miracle answer, “I made him leave.”

She’d made him leave.

You could imagine his face distorted with anger.

You wondered if he’d put up a fight or if he’d just walked away,  giving in to his sister in that infuriating, self-pitying silence he’d perfected.

You weren’t going to ask, the less you knew, the better.

“Good.” You were relieved, but it felt bittersweet, “I didn’t want him here.” 

Except your voice shook, like it simply had to let her know you were lying.

You’d been telling yourself for so long that you didn’t need him—that you didn’t want him anywhere near you. But the second you pictured him there, waiting… God, you hated yourself.

Hated that tiny, pathetic part of you that still wanted him to care, even if it was just a sliver of anything that wasn’t anger or flat-out ignoring you.

“He threw a hissy fight, but don’t worry. He’s not coming back.”

You nodded, half in agreement, half in frustration, “He never listens.”

“Especially when it matters,” Sarah added, rolling her eyes. “I swear, sometimes I think he just likes to make things worse for himself. And everyone else.”

You recalled the sound of his footsteps trailing yours earlier, the way his hand had hovered near you when you swayed, the wild look on his face when you told him to back off. He had seemed…hurt. Like he wanted to fix something he’d already smashed to pieces.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

She respected that—she wouldn’t insist. There was a lot to unpack when it came to Rafe, but you didn’t need to go there right now. She could tell.

"Okay. Do you want to tell me why you called me and not Topper?”

There wasn’t any judgment in her tone—just plain curiosity, confusion. And you couldn’t blame her. If the roles were reversed, you’d be asking the same thing.

You had to bite your lips to avoid crying for the hundredth time that day. You hadn’t planned on telling someone the biggest secret of your life in a public space, or after nearly having a mental breakdown.

Not like this, with the IV in your arm.

"I—" you started, the words tangled in your throat. "I don't trust him," you admitted quietly, "I don’t trust him with this.”

This.

You turned your head to look out the window, the late afternoon light pouring through the blinds, but it never touched the void you felt inside. 

“He’s too close. He wouldn’t get it. I needed someone who could just… not be involved, you know? I mean—You’re still his sister but—”

Sarah’s already frowning, interrupting your pitying party, “Sweet girl, you don’t have to explain your reasons to me. I’m listening either way. I don’t know what’s going on, but I get it, I understand why you’d want to keep him out of this.”

“You’re the only one I can trust to keep this a secret,” you confessed, “If anyone finds out—if Rafe finds out—it’s over. I’m not ready for that.”

A shadow crossed Sarah’s face, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn’t ask questions about what you meant—about how Rafe had ruined things before. She didn’t need to. 

“I won’t tell him,” Sarah promised, her grip tightening on your skin. “It’s safe with me. I’ve got your back.”

You closed your eyes, breathing out slowly.

This was hard, harder than anything you’d ever done before, and that was saying something considering all the shit you went through when your family died. She had no idea what you were about to say, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it would change everything between you—between you and her, and you and everyone else.

"Sara, I—" The truth choked you once more, cutting you off. You couldn’t breathe.

Your chest felt vacant, something was missing, something that you didn’t know how to fix, but you had to say it. It was the only way out.

“Are you—" she started to ask, but you quickly shook your head. You could hear the hesitation in her voice.

"Just… just let me tell you,” You begged, pushing the words out before you lost them. “I-I’m pregnant,” you finally blurted out, as if confessing it all at once could make it easier.

But it didn’t. 

You didn’t dare look at Sarah right away. 

Your eyes were stuck on the ceiling, blinking rapidly, you didn’t need her to see how much this was breaking you or how terrified you were. You could feel her eyes on you now, and your hand clenched around the blanket, your knuckles white from the lack of circulation. 

Then, slowly, Sarah squeezed your hand again, she was giving you a moment to breathe, even though you didn’t feel like you deserved it.

“Rafe’s?” she asked quietly, confirming what you already knew she understood.

You nodded, not needing to say it aloud; she could sense the truth in the way your chest hitched, how you couldn’t bring yourself to meet her eyes.

“God,” Sarah breathed out, "And you... you want to...?"

You nodded again. She wasn’t asking if you were sure; you could hear it in the hesitation of her question. She was asking if you were ready to make the choice.

“I don’t want this,” you choked out, the tears finally breaking free. “I can’t have it, Sarah. I can’t. I’m not ready for that. I’m not sure I even know what I want anymore," you spit the doubt out with the brokenness you felt, wiping the traitorous tear that traced down your cheek. "I don’t know what to do."

“I’m here. Whatever you need, however you need to do this—I’m here,” she promised, making sure you wouldn’t float away.

“I can’t… I just… I don’t want him to find out,” you managed between shallow breaths. “If he knew, he’d… I don’t know what he’d do. Maybe it’s stupid, but I don’t want him to look at me like… like he owns me something.”

Sarah nodded, not a hint of judgment on her face, “He won’t know a thing from me, I swear. He’ll never have any say in this, not unless you want him to. This is your choice, no one else’s.”

You didn’t know you’d been holding your breath, but it came out all at once in a shaky exhale.

“Thank you. I just… I didn’t know who else I could ask.”

“Hey,” she said, her voice gentle. “This? This is exactly what I’m here for. I’ve got you, no matter what.”

The empathy there, the way she held space for all your broken pieces.

“New Mexico’s clinic rules… they won’t let me go through with it alone. They said I need someone with me.” You took a shaky breath. “I can’t imagine anyone else but you there, Sarah.”

“Then I’ll be there,” she said, without hesitation. “I’ll get the tickets, we’ll go together. And if you feel like breaking down, then break down, because you don’t have to keep any of this in anymore.”

Her words broke something in you that had been holding everything so tightly. The relief, the gratitude— “You’re really… You’d really do this for me?”

“Of course,” she murmured, pulling you close so your head rested against her shoulder, her fingers brushing through your hair soothingly. “Sweet girl, I’d do this a thousand times over.”

“I mean—he’s your brother. I don’t want to mess things up between you two even more.”

She sighed, giving a small, sad smile, almost like she’d been waiting for you to say that. “You think he’s my priority right now? Don’t you worry about me and him, we always figure it out. Trust me, I’m used to it.”

“He might hate me for this. And if he takes that out on you…” You couldn’t finish.

“Listen to me,” she sighed, “I’m here because I care about you. Rafe and I, we’ll always have our issues—he’s stubborn, and he thinks he has all the answers. But that’s our problem. He’ll never have a say over what I do or who I’m there for. Especially not with this.”

You swallowed hard, “I don’t want you to regret it.”

She gave a wry laugh, brushing a piece of hair back from your face. “You don’t have to protect me from him, remember? He’s my brother, yeah, I love him despite all our shit, but I’m not here for him right now. I’m here for you.”

“You’re sure?” you asked, the question a whisper, almost childlike. You were afraid of the answer, terrified she’d eventually pull away.

“Of course I’m sure,” she replied, tilting your chin so you’d meet her eyes. “Whatever’s going on with Rafe will figure itself out—But right now, you need someone who’s all in, no strings, no doubts. That’s me. You focus on you. I’ll handle him.”

You looked down at your hands, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket, “I don’t think he loves me anymore,” you admitted, almost hoping she wouldn’t hear it, “I was so mean when your dad died.”

When you finally looked up, Sarah was watching you with a sad smile, one that made your heart hurt in both comfort and ache. “You really believe that?” she asked quietly, and you could hear the disbelief in her voice as if it was so obvious to her, something you couldn’t see.

You nodded, swallowing down the sting in your throat. “He doesn’t want me, not really. He’s…he pulled away. Like he’d rather hate me than be close to me. He’s with her.” 

The words tasted bitter, and made you want to hurt him twice as bad, but there was finally some relief in saying it out loud.

She sighed, looking down for a second, almost like she was thinking how to tell you something that hurt her to admit.

“I don’t think that’s the problem,” she murmured, with a knowing sadness. “I think the problem is that you two will never stop loving each other. He’s still hurting from dad’s passing, he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to stop loving you. And you—you’re here, angry that he loved my dad so much, hurt that he left, trying to protect me from him, still worrying about me when you should be focusing on yourself. You’re scared he doesn’t care anymore, and he’s scared you don’t need him at all."

Your lips quivered, your heart about to leap out of your throat, your tongue darted out, briefly brushing your lips.

You weren’t sure you should say it out loud, but maybe you had to. “We’re better off without each other, aren’t we?”

“You’re allowed to be someone without him, and you’re allowed to find out who that is.”

You were slipping, falling back into that spiral of guilt and shame, the one that told you maybe this was all you were good for. Maybe Rafe was right to break things off, perhaps he’d realized that, in the end, you weren’t worth fighting for.

And shit, you hated yourself for still caring. For still wanting him to want you, even though you knew it was poison. Even though you knew that being with him, needing him, was only dragging you both down.

“Thank you.”

And as you sat there, in the stillness of that room, with the sunlight dimming outside, you felt that maybe someday you’d be able to trust yourself too. To believe that you were worth more than the heartache you’d come to accept as your own.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[golden-cherry]

deal - cl16 (43/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Getting ready for a party is always fun when the company is good.

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of sex), fluff, tiny bit of angst (body insecurity if you squint), alcohol consumption

Word Count: 3.5k

series masterlist

previous part

A/N: cherry is still sick, but this needed to get out of my head. feedback is appreciated. love ya.

When Kika puts her bag on the living room table, it clinks suspiciously. 

“My goodness, did you bring half the supermarket with you?” you ask her with a grin, which develops into a loud laugh when Pierre puts down a huge bag next to the door. ”And you brought your whole wardrobe too.”

“Of course I did,” she smiles, kissing your left and right cheek. ”After all, I don't know what you're wearing, and I thought we could coordinate our outfits a little.”

Pierre puts an arm around his girlfriend's shoulders. “I'm glad you only packed one bag,” he says, kissing her temple. “Please pick up the other stuff off the floor tomorrow. The bedroom looks like a battlefield.”

Kika rolls her eyes but snuggles up against him. “You love me.” She looks up at him with her huge brown eyes as he leans down to her. 

“I do,” he smiles against her lips, and the moment is so intimate that you leave them alone in the living room. 

Charles is standing at the coffee machine in the kitchen and smiles at you as you enter the room. “Everything okay?”

You nod and sit down on one of the stools at the kitchen counter. "How long have they been together, by the way?”

“I think about two years," he replies, leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter behind him with his palms. ”They're cute, aren't they?”

“Absolutely,” you smile. "Almost a little too sweet. I fled the living room when I saw the way they looked at each other, like he was about to propose.”

Your roommate has to laugh. "You should see them together at a Grand Prix. A few drivers – myself included – have a bet on when he'll ask her to marry him.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you bet for money?” 

The Monegasque raises his coffee cup to his mouth and takes a sip. "Yup.”

“And what was the stake?”

Charles hesitates and avoids your gaze. "100€.”

A grin spreads across your face. ”Can I still join?”

Your friend raises his eyes and looks at you in wonder, but before he can say anything, Kika and Pierre enter the kitchen. Pierre now places the heavy bag, which had just clinked suspiciously, on the kitchen island. Not a second later, the Portuguese woman reaches into the opening and pulls out a bottle of wine. 

“Sweet,” she says and holds out the bottle for you to see. The brand doesn't look familiar, but the label is pink and the glass is a mint green, and the way your friend looks at you, you know exactly that you'll like the wine. 

You take two wine glasses out of the kitchen cupboard and place them in front of her. “And what are the boys drinking?”

Charles puts his hand to his chest in mock outrage. "Boys? Boys?" He shakes his head. "We're men.”

You wrinkle your nose and grin at him. "Since when?”

Your roommate walks around the kitchen island and wraps his arm around your neck to put you in a light headlock. He presses you against the counter in front of you with his big body and whispers in your ear. “Do you want me to show you again?”

“Please get a room.” Kika grins and pours the wine into your two glasses. 

Charles lets his arm slide from your neck to your collarbones, where it then remains. “You're in our apartment. You can just leave,” he replies annoyed, as if your friends' presence were preventing him from dragging you to the bedroom right now. Which maybe it is. But you don't want to think about that.

“Then I'll take this one back with me.” Kika reaches into her handbag again and pulls out another bottle, before placing it in front of you both. "For your beloved Moscow Mule.”

You don't need to look at the man behind you to know that he's grinning. "If you two ever break up, I'll keep Kika.”"

“Ouch,” Pierre says, pouting. "And I thought our friendship was more important to you than ginger beer.”

With his free hand, Charles grabs the bottle and lifts it up before smiling at the Frenchman. "I thought so too.”

“Okay, okay.“ Kika grabs her glass and the bottle of wine before looking at you. ‘You and I are going to get dressed up. You can play video games or something in the meantime." She kisses Pierre on the cheek before heading for the kitchen door.  ”You coming?”

You nod, but turn around in Charles' arms to look at him again. “What are you going to wear?”

Your friend shrugs. “I was thinking of a simple black button-down," he replies, raising his hand to tuck a loose strand behind your ear. "Do you already have something in mind?”

You shake your head. ”Not really, no.”

Charles smiles gently at you before weaving his fingers through your hair before they come to rest at the nape of your neck. “You're sure to find something nice. You look perfect in anything, anyway.” He leans forward a bit and breathes a kiss on your forehead. 

“You're disgusting!” Kika's voice sounds from the hallway. 

Charles flips her the bird before letting go of you. “Go. Before you get into trouble. And let me know if you need anything.”

You smile at him briefly before taking your wine glass and following your best friend towards the bedroom. Once there, you watch as Kika empties her bag, which was just standing in the living room, onto the bed. “I don't want to imagine what your bedroom looks like at your place.”

“Believe me, it's actually better if you don't.” She grabs the clothes and starts sorting them on the bed. "How was your Christmas?”

You take a big gulp of wine. "Good.”

The Portuguese woman looks at you with raised eyebrows. “Wow, you tell it like I was already there.” She matches a white top to a dark red satin skirt. “Tell me. Did you visit Charles Mom?”

“We did,” you reply and sit down on the last free spot on the bed. “I haven't had such a nice Christmas in a long time.”

Kika smiles at you. “Did you two fuck?”

You almost drop your glass. "Kika!" you whisper indignantly and quickly close the door so that the men can't hear you. You lean back against the wood. 

“So you fucked,” she grins and raises her wine glass to toast you. When you stare at her, she lowers her glass again. ”Y'all didn't fuck?”

“We didn't.”

“But you did something.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Like a curious little child, she draws up her legs and sits cross-legged, chin resting on her fist. “Tell me everything.”

You have to laugh. ”I thought we had to get ready for the party.”

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

And you do. You tell her everything that has happened in the last few days. About the night you gave Charles a massage and about the night on the boat. That he gave you an employment contract as a Christmas present so that you can be together permanently. About Christmas and last night, when you got closer than ever before. The way he called you “his girl”. 

Kika listens intently and asks questions in between, but first and foremost she lets you say everything that is on your mind – and that seems to be quite a lot. 

You tell her how confused you are because you don't know exactly where you stand with Charles. But also that it's okay for you, because as long as you can somehow participate in Charles's life, that's enough for you. It's like you're addicted to him – and every little dose you get of him draws you further under his spell. 

When the men knock on the door an hour later, you've just finished and are catching your breath for the first time.

“Is everything okay?“ Charles asks, his eyes fixed on you. He seems to ignore the bed's mess – or he doesn't even notice it. 

“Everything's fine,” you smile.

He nods and points at Pierre, who is standing behind him. “We just wanted to get pizza so that we can eat something decent before the party. What do you want on it?”

“Just a simple Margarita, please,” you reply, Kika gives the same answer. 

Charles smiles at you. “Have you found an outfit yet?” When he sees the empty wine bottle on the dresser, he presses his tongue into his cheek. “Or did you have so much to talk about that you haven't had time yet?” He raises an eyebrow. He knows exactly what you've been talking about for the last hour.

Warmth rises to your cheeks. “The latter.”

Your roommate nods again. "Okay. You still have a little time. We're on our way. See you in a bit," he says goodbye and closes the door behind him. 

Kika looks at you. ”He's right. We really should start thinking about what we want to wear.”

As if you were at a fashion show, you try on everything that could possibly go with the club. Dark red dresses, the little black dress, satin trousers and corsets that accentuate the décolleté. But somehow there is nothing that convinces you. 

Annoyed, you lie down on the bed with your back on it, the clothes are spread out on the floor of the room. Kika lies down next to you. 

“Is it always like this?” you ask her, crossing your arms over your face. 

“What do you mean?”

You breathe out loudly. “It's the first time I'm consciously out and about with people who are famous. Is it always so exhausting to find something appropriate so you don't embarrass yourself?”

“I think you get used to it,” the Portuguese woman replies. ”I had to learn that too at the beginning. That there are some items of clothing that suit your figure and some that don't. And just because something looks good on you doesn't mean you feel comfortable in it.” 

“And how do you do it?” you ask her, looking at her. "I mean, you're a model. You obviously look good in anything. But – I don't know.”

Kika shrugs. "It took me a long time to feel comfortable in certain things. But most of the time I actually wear things that I didn't have to be convinced of at all. And then I don't care what others say about me. I feel comfortable – and I want to keep it that way.” When you don't answer, she grabs your hand. "It'll get easier. And until it does, you've got me by your side." She nudges you in the side. ”And your roommate, who practically undresses you with his eyes.”

You roll your eyes mock-annoyed. “He doesn't.”

“He does,” she grins. “But that's okay. After all, you're absolutely perfect. You could go to the club in a potato sack and you'd look bombastic.”

“Well,” you say. “Unfortunately, I don't have a potato sack here that I could put on.”

When the door suddenly opens, you both jump. The boys are standing in the doorway, Pierre has two pizza boxes in his hand and Charles a smaller black box. 

“Where have you been? It's been almost an hour since you left” Kika asks, getting up from the bed. 

“We had to get something,“ says Pierre, motioning for her to follow him. As Kika takes your wine glasses and the two of them leave the bedroom, Charles sits down on the bed next to you. 

“I brought you something,” he smiles, placing the box on the mattress between you.

You sit up and examine the box. “What is it?”

Your roommate shrugs. “You asked me what to wear to parties in Monaco, and I still owe you an answer.”

Slowly, you reach for the box and take off the lid. Inside, wrapped in dark red paper, is a dress. Black and long, with thin straps and a low-cut back. As you carefully take it out of the box, you are speechless. 

“Do you like it?” He asks and watches you get up from the bed and hold it up properly. 

You stare at it, mouth agape. "Where did you get this?" You ask him, holding it up to your body and looking at yourself in the mirror. 

“It's not important. Do you like it?“ he asks again, his eyes glued to you. 

“It's gorgeous,” you breathe, turning a little to get a better idea of how it would look on you. “I—how much did it cost? I'll definitely pay you back the money.”

“Absolutely not,” he replies immediately and with a tone that allows no argument. "It didn't even leave a small dent in my bank account." He gets up and stands behind you. He's so close that you can feel his breath on the back of your neck. "You'll look stunning in it.”

You look at him through the mirror. “And if you put on your black shirt, we'll even match,” you smile, before carefully hanging the dress over the sideboard. 

Charles wraps his arm around you to press you against him. You feel his hardness against your lower back as he leans down to you and places feather-light kisses on your neck. “That was the plan,” he whispers, and goosebumps spread across your body where his hot breath caresses your skin. 

His hand moves under your sweater and his fingertips slowly glide over your ribs before his thumb hesitantly slides under the fabric of your bra. Breathing heavily, you lean your head against his shoulder and give him more room on your neck as his thumb slowly circles around your nipple. 

“Charles,” you breathe softly and arch towards him. You want more. So much more. 

When Kika's voice echoes through the apartment, you break away from each other. ”Come on! The pizza will get cold!”

With hot cheeks and wet panties, you let Charles lead you into the living room, where the other couple is already sitting on the couch eating pizza. Another bottle of wine is on the table in front of Kika, who is refilling your glasses. 

Although the couch is big enough, Charles pulls you right next to him on the cushion and puts your legs over his lap. For a moment, you wonder if he's doing this just so the others can't see his boner. 

“Here,” Kika smiles, handing you a slice of pizza, which you accept gratefully. 

The four of you eat dinner together and chat about Christmas, Charles‘ upcoming training camp and New Year's Eve, while the boys’ pizza boxes, wine bottles and drinks get emptier and emptier. 

“I was thinking of throwing a New Year's Eve party,” Kika says, putting her wine glass back on the table. ‘You're obviously invited. I wanted to invite a few other friends, but your attendance is most important to me.”

“Well, I'd love to come,’ you smile, looking at Charles. ”Unless you have something else planned.”

The Monegasque shakes his head. “Unfortunately, I won't be back from camp until the afternoon, so we'll probably see each other again at the party first. But until then, you'll be in good company for sure.”

“Excuse me?” Kika says indignantly. “I'm the best company!”

Pierre puts his arm around his girlfriend and kisses her on the cheek. ”For me, definitely.”

Kika leans against her boyfriend before gently kissing him. “I know.”

Charles quickly grabs a pillow and throws it at them. “Please get a room!” He jokes, repeating Kika's words. When she flashes him her middle finger, he can't help but laugh. “Come on, you two. Get ready. We have to leave soon.” He runs his fingers over your shins before smiling at you. “Go put on your new dress.”

You can't stop smiling. “See you in a bit.”

While the men continue to chat, Kika and you get ready. With professional precision, she applies make-up on your face before doing your hair and then taking care of herself. The Portuguese woman decides on a short black dress with pearl embroidery. When she is finished styling herself, she helps you into your new dress. 

“Careful with the straps,” she smiles as she pulls it up your body. You put your arms through it carefully so as not to damage it. When you're dressed, Kika looks at you skeptically. "The bra has to go.”

You look at her with a raised eyebrow. "You want me to go out without a bra?”

“Don't you have an invisible bra?” When you shake your head, she purses her lips into a thin line. ”Then you'll have to go out without a bra. Unfortunately, the straps are so thin that you can see the bra underneath either way. But we can tape over the nipples if you like. At least they won't be visible in the cold outside.”

Without further ado, she disappears from the room and while she is looking for something to cover the nipples with in the apartment, you examine yourself in the mirror in your room, but no matter how you turn, it is too small to see you from top to bottom. On bare feet, you walk to Charles' bedroom across the hall, where the new, larger mirror is leaning against the wall. 

The satin dress clings to your curves and accentuates your body exactly where it should. There is a slit on the left side that reaches to the middle of your thigh and the back neckline is so low that you couldn't pull your thong all the way up because it would otherwise show. 

You examine yourself in the mirror and don't even notice that Charles is leaning against the doorframe until he starts talking.

“Let's stay home,” he suggests, his expression impenetrable. He is wearing his black shirt as promised, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks wickedly handsome.

You smile at him and try to suppress the dirty thoughts that are trying to take over your brain. “We can't cancel now,” you reply. “First of all, the others are already here, and secondly, Lando is definitely waiting for us.”

“I don't care.” With quiet steps, he moves towards you without taking his eyes off you. Like a predator that stares at its prey before it snaps. 

You turn to him. ”You have very good taste, Charles. The dress is perfect.”

He answers without hesitation. “Not as perfect as the woman wearing it." The Monegasque stands directly in front of you and looks down at you. "Let's stay home," he suggests again. His large hands find their rightful place on your hips and pull you towards him. His eyes glow seductively. 

“It would be rude to cancel now.”

“It wasn't a request,” he whispers, turning you so that you are standing with your back to him. Once again, you can see him through the mirror. He grabs the flesh of your hip with one hand, while the other hand wanders over your upper body until it rests on your neckline. ”That dress was definitely a mistake.”

You look at him, confused. “Why? I thought you liked it?”

“That's not the point,” he whispers, kissing your bare neck. His stubble scratches a little, but you couldn't care less. "I just don't know how to hold back when you look like this." His teeth graze the soft skin below your ear. ”God, you look devine.”

His hand slides gently into the dress from above and encloses your bare chest. At the same time, a soft moan escapes you. “Charles.”

“Merde,” he curses and presses you against him. “How am I supposed to keep my fingers to myself when I know you're not wearing a bra?”

As his fingers gently play with your nipple, you bite your lip. “Who said you had to?” you tease him, whereupon his other hand gently rests on your neck, though not squeezing. Sadly.

“I can't wait to be back here later,” he gasps and presses a final kiss on your shoulder before taking his hands off you. You watch him fix his erection in his pants so that it can't be seen. But it's there, you know that. And just the thought of it gets your blood pumping. ”And then neither of us leaves this bed until I say so.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise?” you ask, tilting your head so he can see the red marks on your skin where his beard has left its mark 

Charles suppresses the urge to pull you close and throw you onto the new bed to fuck you relentlessly until your legs give out and you forget your name. He flexes his hand. “Both, mon amour. Definitely both.”

[cressidagrey]

It's a Love Story - Chapter 5

Summary:

Azriel's shadows find their master a wife.

Azriel would just really like his heart not to get broken again.

And Sky...well, she's just really surprised that that far too handsome male is interested in her at all.

Warning:

Rhys Bashing (as usual), I classified this as Azriel x OC, even when it't technically Azriel x Sellyn Drake (but we kinda know nothing about Sellyn Drake other than that she writes books so Sky is kinda an OC), Cassian is kinda a good guy for once, Azriel has a horrible time, as usual... Stuttering, toxic families (For once I do not mean the IC), Self-Esteem Issues, Secret Identity, Body Image Issues, Fat Shaming, People being utterly horrible.

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

“Where’s Az?” Mor asked as Nesta and Cassian entered the dining room at the River House.

“Busy,” Cassian said with a shrug, as he pulled out the chair for his mate, greeting the rest of their family with a smile. 

Mor cocked her head, a small frown appearing on her face. "Busy?" she repeated, a note of curiosity in her voice. "What's he up to?"

Busy. That had been Azriel’s answer to nearly everything after Koshei. Busy.

Even quieter than usual. Keeping away from all of them…and Cassian still heard that one sentence echo in his head. Better me than you. Like somehow Cassians life was worth more than Azriel’s.

Azriel was just being noble and self-sacrificing as usual, right? Cassian knew that his brother didn't really think that way, didn't really believe that his life was worth less than anyone else's. But still, the words haunted him. He couldn't shake the feeling that somehow, somewhere, he had let Azriel down. That he hadn't been there when his brother had needed him the most.

Maybe he should have tried to talk to him...when it all went down… but then he hadn't realised what exactly was even going on, until Nesta had flatly laid it out for him one evening. Azriel had gotten over Mor only to fall in love with Elain...and that hadn't ended in his favour either.

Cassian grimaced just thinking about it. Azriel deserved to be happy. Azriel deserved a mate that loved him, a female that fucking adored him…and instead his brother had fallen not just for one, but two unavailable females. 

And Azriel hadn’t complained. Not once. He had never let it show.

He always kept his emotions hidden under that stoic mask of his, like he was afraid of letting anyone see how much he was hurting. Cassian knew that Azriel would never ask for help, that he would never admit that he needed someone to talk to. But that didn't mean that he didn't need it. 

Cassian just wished that he could find a way to get Azriel to open up, to let him in…that wouldn’t involve beating him to a bloody pulp. 

Azriel acted like everything was fine. Azriel acted like he didn't care. Cassian knew that it was a mask, knew that it wasn't the truth...but Azriel liked to pretend it was...and maybe it was better to let him pretend. 

It wasn't like he was hurting anybody with it, right? He was doing his work just as well as he always did...and if he wanted to spend his free time reading Sellyn Drake books, maybe they should just let him do that…maybe it made him feel better. 

"Maybe he's seeing his secret girlfriend," Cassian drawled.

Mor snorted at that suggestion. "Please," she said with a roll of her eyes. "As if Azriel would ever have time for a girlfriend, let alone a secret one."

"You would be surprised," Cassian muttered under his breath. Apparently Azriel had time for reading Sellyn Drake novels while locked into his room, after all. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mor wondered. "He has been...distant lately," she said with a pout.

Cassian could only stare at her. Mor couldn't be serious right now, could she?

Of course, Azriel was distant to her. Mor had fucking broken his heart and trampled on it to top it off. And Cassian had helped her with through the years. He probably owed Azriel an apology for that as well.

And still, Azriel hadn’t complained. Azriel hadn’t called them out. Azriel had taken it silently. Had even congratulated Mor when her Mating Bond with Emerie had snapped. Had been painfully polite, making painfully sure that he didn’t cross any lines, didn’t make Emerie uncomfortable in any way. 

"Just leave him be," Cassian said with a shrug. "He's reading Sellyn Drake novels, he'll be fine,” he waved her off. 

Rhys nearly spit his wine over the table and instead started coughing violently. "Azriel is reading Sellyn Drake novels?!" he asked Cassian with an incredious stare.

"Apparently he has trust in Nesta's taste of literature," Cassian answered easily.

Mor raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Sellyn Drake novels?" she repeated, eyeing Cassian like he had gone mad. "Since when does Azriel read those kinds of books? He's not exactly the...romantic type."

Or maybe there just never had been a single person that had appreciated that side of his brother. Who knew what Azriel actually was into. 

Elain and Mor weren’t similar in the slightest after all. 

Cassian shrugged. "Maybe he's expanding his horizons," he said with a grin. "Or maybe he just wants to see what the fuss is all about. After all, Sellyn Drake is...surprisingly good. Or so I've heard, anyway." He gave a sidelong glance to Nesta, who simply rolled her eyes at him.

Still, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhys play absentmindedly with the stem of the wine glass. There was something there...between Rhys and Azriel that Cassian couldn't quite put his finger on. Some kind of tension...some kind of...something.

But lately, it had seemed like that tension had only been getting worse. Like they were both holding something back, like they were both waiting for the other shoe to drop. Cassian couldn't help wondering what would happen when that tension finally snapped.

***

"Winnowing or flying?" Azriel asked Sky as they stepped out into the icy early winter air.

"I...I can't...fly?" Sky answered haltingly, looking at him with these devastating blue eyes. They were beautiful. Not a light blue, not a teal, not bordering on violet…just beautiful near cobalt blue. She probably would match his siphons, he reflected weakly. 

"I'll fly, I'll carry you," he gave back with a chuckle. She stared at him like he was insane, her cheeks reddening.

"I...I...you...can...can't carry me. I am too...heavy," she mumbled. Now it was his turn to stare at her.

Azriel couldn't help but scoff at that. "Too heavy?" he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm an Illyrian warrior,” he told her drily. “I could carry a full-grown male into battle if I had to,and I have dragged full-grown males off the battlefield…I can carry you.” 

Azriel couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Was she...was she seriously trying to tell him that she was too heavy for him to carry? She just so reached the middle of his chest! She definitely wasn't thin...her body was covered with soft flesh and lush curves, every inch of it soft and inviting...but even if she weighed twice her weight, he would easily be able to carry her. She would probably weigh next to nothing to him.

And yet, he could sense the insecurity in her voice, the way she didn't quite believe that he could carry her.

He stepped closer to her, placing his hand gently under her chin and tilting her head up so that she was looking directly into his eyes. "You are beautiful," he said softly, his voice full of warmth and sincerity. "And I don't care how much you weigh, I can carry you. I want to carry you. Because you are mine and I will always protect you, no matter what."

Her breath hitched at that, and he could see the warmth spreading through her cheeks as her heart began to race. She looked up at him with those stunning blue eyes of hers, her lips parted slightly in surprise and wonder. "You...you really mean that?" she whispered, her voice soft and shaky. "You...you don't mind how big I am?"

Azriel chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, sweetheart, I don't mind," he said gently. "I think you are absolutely perfect just the way you are. And if I have to carry you to prove it, then that is what I will do." And without another word, he scooped her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest as easily.

She squeaked as they shot up in the sky and then she laughed, the sound bright and beautiful

They soared through the sky together, the wind blowing through their hair and clothes as they flew. The City of Starlight sprawled out beneath them, a beautiful tapestry of color and light. Azriel held her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his, the sound of her heartbeat pulsing in rhythm with his own. He knew that he could never tire of this feeling, of having her in his arms like this.

Sky looked up at him with a smile, her eyes shining with happiness and excitement. "I love this," she breathed.

How very fitting it was for the female that called herself Sky to love flying.

"Good," Azriel said softly, his voice full of warmth. "Because we can do this anytime you want, sweetheart."

They soared higher and higher, until the city below them was nothing but a sparkling sea of lights. Azriel was in his element up here, his wings powerful and graceful as they sliced through the air. He could feel the wind whipping through his hair, the cold night air stinging his skin. But he didn't mind, not with her in his arms. In fact, he felt more alive than he had in months. Years, even.

He flew a loping circle over Velaris, towards the Lake House the shadows had purchased and he thanked them mentally for their foresight. He couldn't very well bring Sky home to the House of Wind...but here...he could take her. It was private and safe...and if the expression of her face was anything to go by, she loved it.

He angled his body towards the Lake House, gliding towards it with expert precision. As they approached, Azriel saw the soft glow of the lights in the windows, the gentle sway of the curtains in the breeze. The lake glittered in the moonlight, the surface of the water undisturbed and serene. It was the perfect place to bring her, a place that he felt she would love just as much as he did.

"You live here?" she wondered, wonder in her voice as she took in the sight.

Azriel felt a warm swell of pride in his chest as he landed smoothly on the deck of the house. "Yes," he said simply, his eyes fixed on her face, watching as she marveled at the house. "I wanted a private place," he admitted. "Somewhere quiet and peaceful, where I could escape from the chaos of my life for a little while.I haven't been there long though, it’s still a work in progress…" he warned her. More like 2 hours before he had met her. "But I love it."

He set her down gently, his hands lingering on her waist for a moment before he stepped back. "Come on," he said softly, holding out his hand to her. "Let me show you inside."

The shadows skittered inside as soon as he opened the door, like a bunch of little busybodies, rightening the curtains there, fluffing pillows on the couch...It seemed to amuse Sky though. "You must ne...never have to deal with a mes...messy kitchen," she teased him

Azriel chuckled at that. "No, the shadows don't like when things are out of place,”  he admitted.

It wasn't a lie. But then he didn't like it either. 

Like a moth pulled to the flame, Sky was pulled towards his bookcases, fingertips tripping over the spines as she hungrily read the titles.

Azriel suddenly hoped that the shadows had put something other than Sellyn Drake novels in the bookcase, because otherwise he was going to look like a fucking stalker.

He watched with a mix of amusement and apprehension as she examined the bookshelves, his heart pounding in his chest. *Please,* he silently pleaded to the shadows, *please tell me you didn't leave those Sellyn Drake novels on the shelf.* Because if she saw those, it would be disastrous.

The shadows seemed weirdly frozen in place.

"You read Sel...Sellyn Drake?" Sky asked him, sounding delighted and shocked at the same time.

Azriel groaned inwardly, feeling his face flush with embarrassment. "I...yes, I do," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I...There is...I...I need to tell you something."

"Te...Tell me som...something?" Sky asked, turning towards him, these big beautiful eyes staring at him.

"I...It wasn't a coincidence that I was in that bar tonight," he told her, watching as she stared at him. "The shadows told me to go."

"The...The shad...shadows?" she asked him, looking utterly shocked.

"I...I told them...a few weeks ago...to...find me somebody that....that I could love...somebody that I could make happy. A wife," Azriel admitted. "You were the one they picked."

She stared at him, her mouth falling open slightly. Azriel braced himself for her reaction, not sure what to expect. Would she be angry? Scandalized? Horrified that he had sent his shadows to find him a wife?

She stared at him wide-eyed. "You...You as…asked yo…your sha..shadows to fi…find you a wi…wife?!" she asked him, repeating his words back at him.

He could feel his cheeks reddening but nodded nonetheless. "...are you angry?" he asked her weakly.

Sky stared at him for a moment, but then she shook her head. "No, No...no, I'm not," she repeated again, her voice trembling slightly. "I'm...I'm flat…flattered, actually...Though...though I am cu..curious what it…what it was about me that...made…made them pick me," she admitted.

For the first time in his life, his shadows talked to somebody other than Azriel. *We thought you would treat Master like you treat your cat,* the shadows told her brightly.

She blinked at the bunch of shadows that had gathered in front of her.

"You...You...You want me to...treat Az..Azriel like...like a cat?" she asked them incrediously.

Azriel spluttered, his cheeks burning with mortification. He hadn't expected the shadows to be so blunt, and the idea of her treating him like a cat was...well, it was absurd, to say the least. He wanted her to be his mate, his equal, not to treat him as if he were some kind of pet.

"No, no," he quickly interjected, trying to salvage the situation. "They...they don't mean it like that, Sky. The shadows have their own...unique way of looking at things. Please just...just forget they ever said that."

Sky fixed him with a look. "What do you mean?" she asked the shadows.

*You love your cat,* the shadows said quickly. *You buy him ridiculous overpriced Tuna, and you let him sleep in your bed and you scratch him behind the ears. You even knitted him a sweater!*

Azriel winced, feeling his embarrassment and mortification rising even further. 

"That...thats not important," he mumbled, feeling like he was on the verge of spontaneously combusting from embarrassment. "The shadows...they have a habit of exaggerating things. Just...please, don't take them too seriously. I'm not expecting you to treat me like a cat, I swear."

Sky looked at him, then at the Shadows, then at Azriel again. She seemed to be lost in thought, clearly trying to decipher what the shadows meant.

"You..You want your mas…master to be tre…treated...well?" Sky finally asked the shadows, her tone of voice serious. "You pick…picked me because I...be..because I was nice to my cat?" she asked them curiously.

*You are so kind,* the shadows said softly. And so pretty. And we knew you would treat Master well and wouldn't judge him.*

Sky blushed at the compliment.

Azriel felt a sense of relief wash over him as the conversation shifted away from the whole "cat" thing. He had to admit, the shadows were right. Sky had been nothing but kind and considerate towards him since they met, and he was grateful for that. Still, he couldn't help but feel a bit embarrassed by the whole situation.

"Look...I apologize for the shadows' behavior," he said to Sky, his voice soft. "They can be a bit...blunt, sometimes."

"I…I un…understand where they are com…coming from," she said nearly thoughtfully. "They just...want to see you hap…happy?" she said carefully and he nodded.

"Yes."

"Though they…they don't seem to have much of a sense of boun…boundaries," Sky said with a laugh. "You hid in my apartment didn't you?" she asked the shadows.

Azriel cringed as the shadows seemed to twirl in agreement. He had hoped that particular detail would have gone unnoticed, but he should have known better. Sky was too observant for her own good.

"Yes, they did," he admitted reluctantly. "I'm sorry about that. They...they have a tendency to go where they please."

Sky still mustered the shadows that were twitching in front of her

"I…I prom…promise to t…treat your ma…master well." Sky said seriously. "He's my mate."

Azriel felt his heart skip a beat at her words. The sound of that word coming from her lips made his knees weak.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them and taking her hands in his. "And I promise to treat you well too," he swore fervently. 

"And I'll…I’ll even knit him a swea…sweater," Sky continued, looking at the shadows.. "I…I don't know if he likes Tu…tuna, but I'll…buy him some… sweets."

He couldn’t help but laugh at her words, feeling a surge of affection for her that was almost overwhelming. "Sky," he said softly, looking into her eyes. "You don't have to do any of that for me. Just being with you is more than I could ever ask for.But...if you are willing to knit me a sweater, I surely won't say no to it," he added with a laugh. "And maybe you could try scratching me behind the ears too, just in case the shadows are right."

He meant it as a joke, but there was a part of him that was secretly delighted by the idea of her spoiling and doting on him. Maybe, just maybe, the shadows were onto something after all.

"And...who knows, maybe I'll develop a taste for Tuna," he added, grinning playfully. "As long as it's the fancy kind, that is."

He kissed her forehead gently, holding her close for a moment longer before finally pulling away. "But Sky…you don’t have to do all of that…Just being with you is enough."

She smiled up at him, beautiful and blinding and he couldn't help but kiss her.

As his lips met hers, Azriel felt a wave of warmth and tenderness wash over him. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close as he deepened the kiss. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the shadows, not the world outside, nothing but her.

He broke the kiss reluctantly, resting his forehead against hers as he caught his breath. 

"You…You can absolutely sleep in my bed with me," she whispered. "Or I'll sleep in yours," she offered, a grin on her face... and that was all he needed to hear, as he picked her up again.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every time ࿐‧₊ 1900 - with you i'm free

chapter summary: Logan meets you again in a small town in Pennsylvania. Only this time, you are married to another man, but your marriage is far from perfect.

word count: 11.4k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this is a bit darker than the other chapters, past and future, so this'll probably be a 'one off'. please read the tags! the domestic violence isn't described too heavily, but there are still some descriptions and scenes involving it. you've been warned!

warnings/tags: angst, mentions of brushing hair, outdated mindsets on women, domestic violence, bruises, cheating, blood, character death

series masterlist - chapter 2 → chapter 4

Logan found himself in a small town in Pennsylvania 20 years later. Victor was doing who knows what, he wasn’t sure if he even cared, so he was alone, once again.

Coal mining was the primary job in this town, so he found himself doing just that. After work, the guys would go to a nearby bar and get drunk, go back home, and repeat it all over again.

This was his second week here, and the guys finally learned that he only came along to do one thing- drink.

You walked into the dimly lit bar, the smell of tobacco and cheap liquor hanging heavy in the air. The men, mostly miners from the town, were crowded around tables, drinking and laughing loudly after a long day of work. The sound of clinking glasses and rough voices filled the room, but your eyes were drawn to the man sitting at the bar, quiet and distant.

He didn’t look like the others—he wasn’t laughing, wasn’t part of the group. He just sat there, nursing a glass of whiskey, his dark eyes focused on the amber liquid as if it held answers to questions he wasn’t ready to ask. Something about him felt familiar, though you couldn’t place why.

You hadn’t intended to come inside. George was already drunk somewhere in the back, and you knew what that would mean when he got home. But something pulled you toward the bar, toward him. You made your way over, hesitating for just a moment before slipping onto the stool beside him.

“You new in town?” you asked, your voice soft but cutting through the noise around you.

The man didn’t look at you right away, but his hand tightened slightly around the glass. His jaw clenched, as if the sound of your voice had struck something deep inside him. Slowly, he turned his head, and when his eyes met yours, the world seemed to tilt for a moment.

It was like a punch to the gut, a shock that ran through both of you, though you couldn’t understand why. You had never met him before, but his eyes... those eyes. Dark, haunted, and yet filled with something familiar, something you couldn’t explain.

Logan stared at you, his mind racing. It couldn’t be. But it was. You were here, sitting right next to him, alive. Different, yet the same. His chest tightened, the memories flooding back—your face, your smile, your laugh. The way you had slipped away from him, twice now.

He hadn’t expected to see you again. Not after the last time. But here you were, as real as the glass in his hand.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice rougher than he intended. “Just passing through.”

You tilted your head slightly, curious about the stranger beside you. “Passing through? Not many people come here unless they’re looking to stay a while.”

Logan’s eyes flicked to you again, lingering this time. It was you, all right. Same voice, same damn spark. He could feel his heart pounding, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he should just get up and walk away. He didn’t know if he could handle this—losing you again.

“I’m not lookin’ to stay,” he said, taking a long sip of his drink, hoping it would calm the storm inside him.

You smiled faintly, noticing how closed-off he seemed. “Seems like you’re fitting in already, though,” you joked, nodding toward the men in the back. “That’s my husband back there, George. One of the miners.”

Logan’s jaw tightened at the word ‘husband,’ though he didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Of course, you’d have a life. It was always like this. But that didn’t make it any easier.

“Is that right?” he replied, not really asking. He glanced toward the group of men, catching sight of George, loud and drunk, waving his glass around like he owned the place. A man like that didn’t deserve you. But Logan stayed silent.

“Yeah,” you said softly, looking down at your hands. “He’s… something.”

There was a heaviness in your voice, something that told Logan more than your words ever could. He recognized that tone—the one you used when you were trying to hide the truth, trying to make things seem better than they were.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Logan just stared at his drink, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. You were married. You had a life. He didn’t belong here. But he couldn’t just walk away. Not again.

“Y/N.” The sound of your name from his lips was barely a whisper, but it felt like it echoed through the bar. Your head snapped up, eyes wide.

“How… how do you know my name?” you asked, frowning in confusion. He hadn’t asked, and you hadn’t introduced yourself.

Logan cursed inwardly, realizing his slip. He hadn’t meant to say it, but your name had come so naturally, like it always did. “I, uh… heard someone call you that when I came in,” he lied, quickly looking away. “Didn’t mean to surprise you.”

You blinked, but before you could question him further, George’s booming voice interrupted.

“Y/N!” he shouted, stumbling toward you. “What’re you doin’ at the bar? Get over here!”

You flinched slightly, your body tensing at the sound of his voice. Logan noticed immediately, his eyes darkening as he glanced between you and the drunk man. He didn’t like the way George looked at you, the way he called for you like he owned you.

“I should go,” you muttered, standing up quickly, the warmth between you and Logan fading as you stepped away. “It was nice meeting you…?”

“Logan,” he said, his voice low. “Name’s Logan.”

You smiled faintly again, nodding. “Logan. Well, take care.”

He watched you walk away, his chest tight with a mix of emotions he couldn’t put into words. This wasn’t fair. Not to him, not to you. But life had never been fair, had it?

As George draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the group with a roughness that made Logan’s blood boil, he clenched his fists under the bar. He wanted to stand up, walk over there, and tear that man’s arm off. But he stayed where he was, the ring in his pocket feeling heavier than ever. The ring he never got to give you.

You were gone again, and Logan was left with the bitter taste of whiskey and the familiar ache of loss.

---

George never really allowed you to do much, he wanted you to be the ‘perfect wife’ and the ‘perfect mother’, but he always said that last part to you with such hatred.

Some nights, while you silently cried yourself to sleep, you wondered if you were broken, and that maybe you deserved it. Not ever getting pregnant, having an abusive husband- not that it was rare, most of the guys’ wives went through the same things too.

One day, you were out doing errands, getting some things to make George his favorite dinner in hopes you wouldn’t end up with another bruise on your wrist like yesterday, when you saw him. Logan, from a few nights ago.

He was smoking a cigar against a brick building; he should be at work with the rest of the men.

You paused, your breath catching for a moment as you saw him. Logan. He looked out of place, leaning against the wall like he didn’t belong in this time or this town. His eyes, sharp even from a distance, locked onto yours the second you stepped out of the store. It was like he knew you’d be there, as if he had been waiting.

You hesitated, then made your way toward him, the worn handle of the basket digging into your palm as you gripped it tightly.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” you asked softly, your voice carrying just enough over the sound of the bustling street.

Logan took a long drag from the cigar, his eyes narrowing slightly, and shrugged. “Took a break. Figured I needed some air.”

You shifted awkwardly, glancing around before lowering your voice. “If George finds out you’re not working…”

He scoffed, the sound rough, almost amused. “George ain’t my boss.”

His words hung in the air, and you knew he was right. George might run things at home, but out here, Logan didn’t answer to anyone. You, on the other hand… your life was different.

Logan’s eyes flicked down to your wrist, where the bruise from yesterday’s outburst was still visible, even though you’d tried to hide it with long sleeves. His expression darkened instantly, the casual air gone in an instant.

“He do that?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

You swallowed, tugging the sleeve down further. “It’s nothing,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “I just—George gets frustrated sometimes.”

Logan pushed off the wall, stepping closer, the smell of smoke and leather surrounding you. He was close now, too close, and you felt your heart quicken—not in fear, but in something else entirely.

“Frustrated?” Logan repeated, his voice dripping with disdain. “That what you call it?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. What were you supposed to say? That it was normal? That the other wives had it worse? The words died in your throat, and instead, you turned your head, focusing on the basket in your hand. “I should get going.”

But Logan didn’t move, didn’t let you slip away that easily. “You don’t have to put up with that, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice softer now. His hand brushed your arm, barely a touch, but you felt it. Felt it everywhere.

Your breath hitched, and you looked up at him, finding those dark, intense eyes watching you closely. “I… I should get home,” you said again, but the words lacked conviction this time.

Logan didn’t argue, but the look on his face told you that he wasn’t letting this go. “I’ll walk with you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.

You didn’t protest as he fell into step beside you. The two of you walked in silence for a while, your steps in sync, even though neither of you said a word. It was like that night in the bar—the unspoken connection, the weight of something you couldn’t quite name hanging between you. But this time, there was no crowd, no drunken laughter. Just you and him, and the quiet tension that seemed to grow with every step.

When you reached the edge of your street, you stopped. “You don’t have to walk me the whole way,” you murmured, glancing toward your house, where George’s silhouette was already moving around inside.

Logan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he looked at you, his gaze lingering on the bruise again before his eyes met yours. “You ever need someone to talk to,” he said quietly, “you know where to find me.”

Your heart clenched at the offer, at the way he said it like he meant it. You nodded, unsure of what else to do, and turned to leave.

But as you stepped away, his hand brushed yours again, just for a second. It was fleeting, but it sent a shiver down your spine, a reminder that there was something here—something neither of you fully understood but couldn’t deny.

You walked inside, feeling his presence behind you even after the door closed, knowing that things had just shifted, that something had begun. And it scared you. Not because of George, not because of what it might mean if you were caught—but because of how much you wanted it. How much you wanted him.

---

Over the next few days, Logan stayed close. You saw him more often—sometimes at the store, sometimes on the street—but always watching, always aware. He didn’t push, didn’t say much. But his presence was a constant, a quiet offer of protection that you hadn’t asked for but found yourself relying on.

It was late one evening when it finally happened. George had been out drinking again, and when he came home, it was worse than usual. You flinched as his hand caught your wrist, yanking you toward him as he slurred something about dinner not being ready on time.

You would’ve left the house if you could, but you couldn’t. Not when George was glaring at you like that, his drunken eyes wild with the sort of rage that had become all too familiar. You knew exactly what was going to happen tonight. It wasn’t new—this quiet dread that wrapped itself around your throat, choking off your breath. Running had never worked before, and by now, you had learned there was no use in trying.

George's grip on your wrist tightened painfully as he muttered something under his breath. The way he yanked you close made your heart race, not out of fear, but from the exhaustion of enduring it. He wasn’t done with his tirade—his words slurred together, complaining about dinner, the house, everything. It didn’t matter. Nothing you did ever seemed to be enough.

As his fist balled around the fabric of your dress, you stared blankly at the floor, your mind drifting elsewhere, anywhere but here. To the street outside, to the market, to Logan. The quiet man who’d appeared in your life without explanation. You didn’t know why, but when you thought of him, you felt something different—something dangerous but soothing all the same. A flicker of rebellion, of hope, that you hadn’t felt in so long.

George shoved you toward the kitchen table, grumbling about the cold food, about you being lazy, about anything he could think of. You stumbled, catching yourself on the edge of the table, but didn’t say a word. You never did, not when it got like this.

But Logan… he had noticed. He had noticed the bruises, the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, the way you avoided eye contact. He wasn’t like the other men in town. He wasn’t one to turn a blind eye. You remembered his intense gaze lingering on your wrist, the bruise that you couldn’t quite hide. You remembered the way he had spoken to you softly, almost like he cared.

That thought gave you strength now, as George barked another order, telling you to clean up the dishes. Your body moved mechanically, but your mind stayed somewhere else. You could almost feel Logan’s hand brushing against yours again, the briefest touch when he’d walked you home the other night. It had been so subtle, but it had sent a jolt through you—a reminder that there were still things you could feel, still things you could want.

The night dragged on, just as it always did, but when George finally passed out in his chair, snoring heavily, you slipped outside. The cool night air hit your skin, and for a moment, you just stood there, breathing it in. You weren’t going far. Just a few minutes of peace. Just enough to remind yourself that you were still alive.

You walked slowly down the empty street, your eyes scanning the shadows. You didn’t mean to, but your feet led you toward the alley where Logan had been smoking that day. It was a habit now, searching for him, even when you knew you shouldn’t.

And then, there he was. Leaning against the same wall, his broad figure half-hidden by the dim light of the streetlamp. His cigar glowed faintly in the dark, and as soon as he saw you, he straightened, eyes narrowing with concern.

“Y/N,” Logan said softly, stepping toward you. His voice was rough but gentle in the stillness of the night. “What’re you doin’ out here?”

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to speak just yet. Your throat felt tight, and your chest ached with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, you just walked closer, until you were standing right in front of him, your head tipped back slightly to meet his gaze.

Logan’s eyes flickered over your face, taking in every detail—the bruise that had started to fade but was still visible on your wrist, the exhaustion that weighed down your every movement. He didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t need to. He knew.

Without a word, Logan reached out, his hand cupping the back of your neck in a way that was more comforting than anything you’d felt in years. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into him. Just for a moment.

“Y/N, you don’t have to stay there,” he murmured, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Not with him.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, the truth of his words cutting deeper than anything else. You didn’t want to stay, you didn’t. But leaving wasn’t as easy as it sounded. George was… dangerous. You didn’t know what he would do if you tried to leave him. And besides, where would you even go? You had nothing. No money, no family. Just an empty house that felt more like a prison with every passing day.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of your own admission.

Logan’s grip tightened slightly, and you could see the conflict in his eyes. He wanted to help, wanted to tear you away from that life, but he was fighting something inside himself too.

“You always got me,” Logan said quietly, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite name. “Always.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and full of meaning. You didn’t know what to say. The part of you that was practical screamed that you couldn’t rely on him, that you shouldn’t get attached. But the other part, the part that had been buried deep beneath years of heartache, wanted to believe him. Wanted to fall into him, to take whatever comfort he could offer.

Before you could stop yourself, you reached up, your hand trembling slightly as you rested it on his chest. You felt his heart beating under your palm, steady and strong. Logan’s breath hitched at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. He never did.

“Logan,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet street. “I don’t know what to do.”

He let out a slow breath, his forehead resting against yours now, his warm breath mingling with yours. His free hand came up, his thumb brushing your cheek softly, tracing the path of an unshed tear.

“You don’t have to decide tonight,” he said gently, his lips so close to yours that it took everything in you not to close the distance. “But whatever you decide… I’m not lettin’ you go through this alone. Not again.”

Your heart ached at his words—his promise. The unspoken connection between you felt stronger than ever, and before you knew it, you were closing that distance, your lips brushing against his in a hesitant, tender kiss.

Logan froze for half a second, but then his arms were around you, pulling you closer as if he’d been waiting for this moment for longer than he could remember. His lips were rough, but his kiss was gentle, full of restraint. You could feel the years of longing behind it, the pain of lifetimes lived and lost, but also the desire—the need that neither of you could ignore any longer.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Logan’s eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them. He looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Y/N…” he whispered, his voice ragged, his forehead still resting against yours. “This ain’t right. You’re… you’re married.”

“I know,” you said, your voice barely more than a breath. “But I… I don’t care anymore.”

Logan’s grip on you tightened for a moment, like he was trying to fight it, but then he cursed softly under his breath and kissed you again, this time with more desperation, more need. His hands tangled in your hair, his lips claiming yours in a way that made it clear this wasn’t something either of you could stop now.

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to.

---

The next few days blurred together, a dangerous mix of stolen moments and whispered promises. Logan was always there, watching over you, his touch lingering on your skin long after you parted. You knew it was wrong, knew that it would only lead to more heartache, but you couldn’t stop. He had become your anchor, your escape from a life you couldn’t bear anymore.

It wasn’t long before you were meeting him after dark, slipping out of the house when George was too drunk to notice. The kisses became longer, the touches more urgent.

Soon, it wasn’t just nights you were seeing him. It was after George left for work, during Logan’s lunch breaks, or anytime he could sneak away from the mine. You’d meet in the same alley, or sometimes he’d find you waiting in a small park just outside town. The secrecy of it all—the sneaking around, the stolen moments—it was reckless, but neither of you could stop.

Logan wasn’t the kind of man who talked much, but the way he looked at you, the way he held you—like you were the only thing keeping him grounded—it said enough. His hands were always gentle, so different from George’s, even though you could feel the strength behind them. That raw, unyielding strength that was so uniquely his.

One afternoon, Logan met you in the small clearing just past the main street. It was a rare moment when George was working late, giving you a little more time than usual. You leaned against the large oak tree, your back pressed into the rough bark, and waited. It wasn’t long before Logan’s figure appeared in the distance, his broad shoulders tense, eyes scanning the area out of habit.

As soon as he spotted you, his shoulders seemed to relax, and he made his way over, his footsteps heavy but quiet in the dirt. When he got close enough, you smiled softly, your fingers fiddling with the fabric of your dress, a nervous habit you’d picked up over the last few weeks.

“Thought I’d lost you for a minute there,” you teased, keeping your voice light, though there was a real fear under the surface. Every time you saw him, there was a tiny part of you that worried it might be the last.

Logan gave a half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not that easy to lose me, Y/N.”

You looked up at him, trying to read what was going on in his head. He seemed… tense, more so than usual. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

“You alright?��� you asked, your voice softening as you stepped closer, close enough to touch him, but not quite daring to yet.

Logan’s gaze flickered down to you, and for a moment, you saw something in his eyes—something old, something heavy. But he shook his head, as if brushing it off, and reached out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, though you could tell he wasn’t. He was never fine.

You reached out, resting your hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart under your palm. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Logan.”

He stared at you for a long moment, the silence stretching between you, before he finally spoke. “It’s just… this,” he said, his voice low, almost pained. “I don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m already hurt,” you whispered, and for the first time, you felt the full weight of those words. The bruises, the fear, the nights spent lying awake, wondering if George would snap—it had become your normal, and you hated it.

Logan’s expression didn’t change much, but his jaw clenched, a flicker of something dark flashing behind his eyes. He stood still, his hands loose at his sides, and for a second you thought maybe you’d gone too far—that maybe admitting this would scare him away, make him walk off into the night and leave you standing there alone.

But he didn’t. He never did.

Logan exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound quiet but loaded with restrained anger, like a simmering fire just barely held in check. His hand—rough and warm—reached out to settle on your arm, fingers curling gently around your elbow. It was a simple touch, but it grounded you in a way that nothing else did.

“I’ll handle it,” Logan said, voice low, rough. His words were more than a statement—they were a promise, weighted with meaning you couldn’t quite untangle.

Your heart skipped at the way he said it, quiet but firm, like the solution was already decided, and there was no point in questioning it.

“You can’t,” you whispered, not because you didn’t believe him, but because you knew how dangerous George could be. And if Logan went to him—if George found out about the two of you…

Logan’s thumb brushed once along your forearm, slow and deliberate. “I’ve handled worse,” he muttered, gaze never leaving yours. There was a sharpness in his eyes now, something fierce. You didn’t know what he’d been through in his life—just that it was far more than you could imagine.

A part of you wanted to tell him not to get involved, but the other part—the part of you that had been breaking under George’s hand for years—wanted to let Logan do exactly what he was offering.

You bit your lip. “If he finds out…” You trailed off, but Logan understood. Of course he did.

He stepped in closer, so close that the rough wool of his shirt brushed against your dress. His hand shifted from your arm to the back of your neck, his fingers resting there firmly, possessively, but with the same strange tenderness he always showed you. “I won’t let him hurt you again,” Logan murmured, voice steady.

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him so badly. And when you looked into his eyes—dark and steady and filled with something raw and unyielding—you thought maybe you could.

Your hand rested flat against his chest, fingers curling slightly into the worn fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat strong beneath your palm, steady and unrelenting.

“He won’t stop, Logan.” Your voice cracked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “He’ll just—he’ll come after me, after us.”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “Let him try,” he said, the words edged with a quiet menace that sent a chill down your spine.

It should have scared you, the way he said it—like violence was something inevitable, something he didn’t shy away from. But instead, it made you feel… safe. Safer than you’d felt in years.

The night air around you was cool, but standing this close to Logan, you felt none of it. His hand slipped from your neck down to the small of your back, his touch warm and steady through the fabric of your dress.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, but even as you said it, you didn’t move away.

Logan’s gaze softened, just a fraction. “I ain’t gonna pretend this is right,” he said, voice rough but quiet. “But I ain’t gonna pretend I don’t want you, either.”

His words hit you hard, sinking deep into your chest. You hadn’t realized how starved you were—how badly you needed someone to see you, to want you. And Logan… he saw everything. The bruises, the fear, the exhaustion. And still, he looked at you like you were worth something.

You swallowed thickly. “What happens if he finds out?”

Logan’s expression darkened. “He won’t.”

The finality in his tone left no room for doubt, and for a moment, all the fear that had been building inside you loosened, just enough to let you breathe.

Without thinking, you reached up, fingertips brushing along the edge of his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble beneath your touch. Logan’s eyes closed briefly, like the small touch was something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. When his eyes opened again, they were darker, filled with a need that mirrored your own.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His lips found yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate, like a man starved for something he couldn’t name. His hand cupped the back of your head, holding you to him as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You melted into him, the fear and exhaustion slipping away, at least for now. His kiss was everything—an escape, a promise, a lifeline.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and trembling, Logan rested his forehead against yours. His hand lingered on your waist, as if letting go wasn’t an option.

“Just say the word, Y/N,” Logan whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Say the word, and we’ll leave. Tonight.”

Your heart ached at the offer—at the thought of running away with him, leaving everything behind. But it wasn’t that simple, and you both knew it.

“I can’t,” you whispered, hating yourself for the truth of it.

Logan’s grip on you tightened briefly, as if trying to hold onto something he couldn’t keep. But when he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“Then I’ll stay,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. “Until you can.”

You closed your eyes, letting the weight of his words settle over you. For the first time in years, you felt like you weren’t alone.

And that—just that—was enough to keep you going. For now.

---

One of the local churches was having a retreat set up for the women in town. Clara had been talking your ear off about it at Sunday church, spouting how excited she was to get out of the house.

You listened half-heartedly, but really you were thinking about what a perfect excuse it was to flip this into a lie for George.

You told Logan you couldn’t run away with him, but that didn’t include spending these few days with him, maybe off somewhere in a nearby town.

Most of the women in town were very religious, and at times you felt like an outsider. You didn’t believe like they did, but you kept up a perfect front to make them believe you felt the same way.

“Maybe we’ll have another sewing circle this time. Whaddya think?” Clara asked, a wide grin splitting her face as she held her hat against the October breeze.

You gave a noncommittal hum, tugging the sleeves of your dress down to cover the faint bruises on your wrists. “Maybe,” you murmured, though your thoughts were far from sewing circles and prayer sessions.

The retreat was perfect. It would get you out of George’s reach—at least for a couple of days—and give you the time you so desperately craved. More than anything, it meant time with Logan.

Clara didn’t seem to notice your distraction. “It’s always good to get away, you know? Some of these girls say the Holy Spirit really speaks to ‘em up there.” She gave you a knowing look. “Sometimes, you just gotta leave it all behind for a bit.”

You forced a smile. "Maybe that's what I need."

Clara squeezed your arm, oblivious to how you tensed. “See? That’s the spirit! Now you just gotta convince your husband.”

You swallowed thickly. George wouldn’t care about a church retreat if it kept up appearances. He didn’t pay much mind to you unless you were standing in his way—or if dinner wasn’t on time. A couple of days without you underfoot? He’d probably welcome the peace.

Later that night, after George had his fill of supper and slumped into his chair with a bottle, you tested the waters.

“You remember Clara?” you asked, keeping your tone light. “She mentioned a church retreat this weekend. Thought I’d go.”

George barely glanced up. “What for?”

“Some of the other women are going too.” You folded your hands together tightly, hiding your nervous fidgeting. “It’s just a few days. They’ll be praying and sewing... nothing much.”

George grunted, shifting in his chair. “You ain’t skippin' out on Sunday dinner.”

You bit your lip, nodding quickly. “No. I’ll be back before then.”

He waved you off with a lazy flick of his hand. “Fine. Just be sure you ain’t runnin' off to waste money.”

Relief washed over you so fast your knees felt weak. You ducked your head, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you,” before slipping into the next room. It had been easier than you expected—maybe too easy. But you weren’t about to second-guess it.

---

The next day, you told Logan.

You found him where you always did—leaning against the brick wall near the alley, a cigar pinched between his teeth. He straightened the second he saw you, his sharp gaze sweeping over you like it always did, searching for signs of hurt.

“I told George I’m going to the church retreat,” you said quietly, stepping close enough that the warmth of him reached you. “It’s this weekend. I’ll have a couple of days...” You let the words hang between you, heart pounding as you waited for him to understand what you were really saying.

Logan’s jaw ticked, his expression hard to read. “You sure?” His voice was low, the sound of it like gravel underfoot.

You gave a small nod. “It’s the only way I can get away.”

He exhaled through his nose, looking past you for a second before his eyes settled back on yours. “Where’s the retreat supposed to be?”

“About an hour north,” you said. “But... I’m not going there.”

Logan’s lips twitched, something almost like a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That right?”

“Yeah.” Your voice wavered slightly, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “I wanna be with you, Logan. Just for a couple of days. Somewhere... away from here.”

The smirk faded, replaced by something heavier, something that settled deep in his eyes. “You know what you're askin’, darlin’?”

You nodded. “I know.”

He didn’t move for a long moment, just stood there watching you with those steady, knowing eyes. Then, with a slow exhale, he reached for you—his hand slipping under your chin, tilting your face up toward his. His thumb brushed along your jaw, and the touch made your breath catch.

“Where do you wanna go?” Logan asked, his voice rough but gentle.

“Anywhere.” The word slipped out before you could stop it, and you hated how desperate it sounded. “Just... not here.”

Logan gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Alright,” he muttered, the barest flicker of emotion crossing his face. “Meet me at the train station Friday night. I’ll take care of the rest.”

---

Friday came quicker than you expected.

The afternoon dragged, tension curling in your stomach as you packed a small bag. You kept everything simple—a couple of plain dresses, your brush, and the few coins you’d stashed away in a tin under the floorboards. You told yourself it wasn’t permanent. You’d be back in a few days, and everything would go back to how it was.

At least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

When the sun began to set, you told George you were leaving. He didn’t even look up from his whiskey. “Just don’t come back actin' all high and holy,” he muttered.

You gave a quick nod, your heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

---

The train station was quiet when you arrived, your breath fogging in the cold night air. You spotted Logan almost immediately, standing near the platform with his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. He wore the same tired expression he always did, but when his eyes found yours, something softened in his gaze.

“You made it,” he murmured, stepping closer. His hand found yours, rough fingers wrapping around yours like they belonged there.

“Yeah,” you whispered, squeezing his hand.

Logan gave a small nod toward the waiting train. “C’mon. Let’s get outta here.”

You boarded without hesitation, the door clicking shut behind you as the train rumbled to life beneath your feet. Logan led you to a quiet corner of the car, his hand never leaving yours.

As the train pulled away from the station, you glanced out the window. The town grew smaller, the lights fading into the distance until there was nothing but the dark, open night stretching out ahead of you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself breathe.

Logan’s arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side. His warmth bled into you, steady and unyielding, and for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

“You alright?” Logan asked quietly, his lips brushing against the top of your head.

You nodded, leaning into him. “Yeah. I am.”

Logan didn’t say anything for a moment, but you could feel the tension in his body slowly ease as you settled against him. His arm was solid and steady around you, a quiet strength that made you feel secure. The train rocked beneath you, the rhythmic clattering on the tracks filling the silence. You closed your eyes, letting the sound and the warmth of Logan's presence wash over you.

For the first time in what felt like years, you could relax—if only for a little while.

"You got enough for a few days?" Logan asked, his voice gruff but soft, as if he was trying not to push too much too soon.

You nodded, pulling your small bag closer to you. "Yeah. Just the basics."

Logan gave a small grunt of approval. "We'll stop by a place I know, out of the way. You’ll be safe there."

"Safe..." The word hung in the air between you, heavier than you meant it to be. It felt like a luxury you hadn't been allowed for a long time, and the thought of it made your chest tighten.

Logan’s thumb stroked absently along your arm, a small gesture that grounded you. He didn’t press you for more, didn’t ask questions you weren’t ready to answer. That was the thing about Logan—he didn’t pry, didn’t demand anything from you. He just was. It was one of the reasons you felt drawn to him, why you kept finding yourself in his orbit.

But there was still so much you didn’t know about him. He’d never mentioned a family, never talked about where he’d come from or how he ended up here. There was a deep well of mystery around Logan, and sometimes you could feel it, the weight of something unspoken between the two of you. But you didn’t push him for answers either.

You shifted slightly, resting your head against his shoulder, the scent of cigar smoke and pine surrounding you. “Where are we going?”

"There's a place, up in the hills," Logan said quietly. "A cabin. No one's been there in a while. We'll be alone."

Alone. Just the two of you. The thought sent a ripple of excitement and fear through you, your heart skipping a beat. The idea of leaving everything behind—even if just for a few days—felt like a risk. But wasn’t that what you wanted? A break from George, from the town, from the suffocating weight of a life you never really chose.

“You sure about this?” Logan asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. “About… us?”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your decision settle in your chest. It wasn’t just about getting away anymore. It was about choosing him, even if it was only for a little while. A choice that could never be undone.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, lifting your head to look at him. His eyes met yours, dark and searching, like he was looking for any hint of doubt.

Logan’s expression softened, just a fraction, and he gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

The train continued its steady rhythm, carrying you further away from the life you knew and into something unknown. You couldn’t think about what would come after—about George, about the retreat, about the women who would notice your absence. All you could think about was Logan, and the way his hand held yours, like he didn’t want to let go.

---

The cabin was quiet, nestled deep in the woods where no one could find you. Logan hadn’t been lying when he said it was out of the way. You hadn’t passed another soul on the journey here, and the solitude felt like a blanket wrapping around you, warm and comforting.

Logan pushed the door open, the wood creaking slightly under his weight. The inside was simple—rough wooden furniture, a stone fireplace, and a bed in the corner, covered in a faded quilt. It wasn’t much, but it felt safe, isolated from the rest of the world.

“You can get some rest,” Logan said, setting your bag down near the bed. “Fireplace works, and there’s wood out back if it gets cold.”

You nodded, glancing around the room before your eyes settled on him. “Thank you.”

Logan’s gaze flickered, something unreadable passing across his face before he nodded. “Don’t gotta thank me.”

There was a silence between you, not uncomfortable but full of things unsaid. You wanted to ask him more—about why he was helping you, about what he really wanted from all this—but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you stepped closer, your hand brushing against his arm.

“Logan…” you started, unsure of where you were going with it.

He turned to face you fully, his eyes locked on yours. “Yeah?”

You hesitated, then closed the distance between you, your hands reaching up to rest on his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart under your palms, the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

“I just… I needed to be with you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “You got me,” he murmured, his voice rough but sincere. “For as long as you need.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned up and pressed your lips to his. It wasn’t soft or tentative like you thought it might be—it was hungry, desperate, like you’d been holding back for too long.

Logan’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, and the world outside the cabin seemed to disappear. There was no George, no town, no expectations. Just you and Logan, and the fire that burned between you.

---

Later, as the fire crackled in the hearth and the two of you lay tangled in each other’s arms, you stared up at the ceiling, your mind racing with everything that had happened.

Logan’s hand trailed idly along your arm, his fingers brushing over the faint bruises you’d tried so hard to hide. His touch was gentle, but you could feel the tension in him, the quiet anger simmering beneath the surface.

“I’ll kill him,” Logan muttered, his voice low and dangerous. “If he ever touches you again.”

You tensed, your breath catching in your throat. “Logan—”

“I mean it,” he growled, his grip on you tightening slightly. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

You turned to face him, your hand resting on his chest. “It’s not that simple…”

Logan’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something raw and painful in his gaze, something you couldn’t quite understand. But then he shook his head, exhaling slowly. “I just don’t wanna lose you. Not again.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but before you could ask what he meant, Logan leaned down and kissed you again, silencing your questions.

The kiss was rough, full of unspoken things—promises, regrets, desires that neither of you could fully articulate. His lips moved against yours like they were trying to drown out the past, to focus only on the here and now. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers digging into his skin, wanting to hold on to this moment for as long as possible.

For now, you didn’t want to think about George. You didn’t want to think about the bruises you were hiding, the lies you had to keep telling to survive. You wanted to focus on Logan—the way his body pressed against yours, the warmth of his breath, the way he made you feel alive.

When you finally broke apart, your breathing heavy, Logan stayed close, his forehead resting against yours. His hand brushed your cheek, and for a moment, the roughness of him softened, like he was letting his guard down.

"You should rest," he murmured, his voice low, but there was a strain in it, like he was trying to hold something back.

You shook your head slightly. "I don’t want to rest. I want to stay here with you."

Logan’s eyes searched yours, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. He lifted his hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your skin for just a second longer than necessary.

“You know this can’t last,” he said quietly, the weight of the truth settling between you both.

You nodded, the ache in your chest growing. “I know.”

You had always known it couldn’t last. This was just a moment stolen from the real world—a fantasy that couldn’t survive the harshness of the life waiting for you back home. But that didn’t stop you from wanting it. It didn’t stop you from wanting him.

Logan’s hand found yours again, his fingers lacing through yours in a way that felt almost protective. He hadn’t let go since you’d arrived at the cabin, as if he feared you might slip away if he did.

“I wish it could be different,” you whispered, staring down at your intertwined hands.

Logan was silent for a long time before he spoke. “Me too.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with warmth, but there was still a chill in the air, an unspoken tension lingering between the two of you. You could feel it in the way Logan’s thumb stroked absentmindedly across your knuckles, like he was trying to ground himself—trying to ground you.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, your voice softer now. “Helping me, I mean.”

Logan’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, his jaw clenching slightly. When he looked back at you, his eyes were hard to read. “Because you deserve better than him.”

It wasn’t a full answer, but it was the closest he’d come to telling you why. You weren’t sure if he was holding something back or if he just didn’t know how to say it. Logan wasn’t the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, and you’d never pushed him for more than he was willing to give.

You nodded, accepting his answer for now. “Thank you.”

Logan’s eyes softened at your words, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You don’t gotta thank me, Y/N.”

You closed your eyes, letting yourself lean into him. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to just be. No pretending, no worrying about what came next. Just this—just him.

---

The morning light filtered through the small windows of the cabin, casting a soft glow on the wooden floor. You woke to the sound of birds chirping outside and the comforting warmth of Logan’s body beside you. For a moment, you allowed yourself to stay like this, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this peaceful.

Logan stirred beneath you, his arm tightening around your waist as he woke. His eyes flickered open, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his expression unreadable.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

You smiled, the corners of your lips tugging up. “Morning.”

Logan gave a quiet grunt in response, shifting slightly beneath you. His hand was still draped over your waist, his fingers rough but warm against your skin. He looked at you through half-lidded eyes, his expression unreadable in the soft morning light, like he was trying to figure out if this moment was real.

“You sleep alright?” he asked, his voice still gravelly with sleep.

You nodded, brushing your fingers absently along his collarbone. “Better than I have in a long time.”

Logan gave a small hum, his thumb tracing circles on your hip. For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that—your body curled into his, the outside world forgotten.

It felt fragile, like if you moved too quickly or said the wrong thing, it might all shatter.

“Gotta admit,” you murmured, “it feels strange waking up like this.”

“Yeah?” Logan's lips twitched, just barely. “Strange good, or strange bad?”

A soft laugh slipped out of you. “Good,” you whispered. “Strange in a good way.”

He held your gaze, something flickering in his eyes—something like relief. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by the same quiet intensity you’d come to expect from him. Logan wasn’t a man who wasted words, and that suited you just fine.

The clock on the mantle ticked steadily, marking the minutes passing in this stolen moment. You let out a soft breath and rested your chin on his chest, tracing invisible patterns on his skin with your fingertip.

“What time do you think it is?” you asked, though you didn’t really care about the answer.

Logan turned his head slightly toward the window, where the early morning sun was just beginning to peek through the trees. “Still early.”

“Good.” You nestled closer, unwilling to let the morning slip away just yet.

He didn’t say anything for a while, just ran his hand up and down your back in slow, lazy strokes. The motion was soothing—so different from anything you’d known in your marriage. With George, everything felt like an obligation, a duty. With Logan... it felt like choice.

Logan’s breath stirred your hair as he spoke again, his voice low. “You thinkin' about goin' back?”

The question hit you like a stone dropped into still water, the ripples spreading out in every direction.

You hesitated, your fingers stilling against his chest. “I don’t know.”

Logan’s jaw flexed, and you could feel the tension creep back into him. “If you don’t want to... you don’t gotta.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Logan gave a quiet grunt, his hand still resting against your back, though his grip tightened slightly. “It could be.”

You shook your head. “He’s my husband, Logan.”

Logan exhaled hard through his nose, and you felt the anger simmering just beneath the surface. “That don’t mean you owe him anything.”

The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, and it tugged at something deep inside you—something that made you want to stay, to never go back to the life you’d left behind.

But it wasn’t that easy. It never was.

“I have to,” you whispered. “At least for now.”

Logan was silent for a long time, his hand resting heavily on your back. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, almost reluctant. “You know where to find me if things get bad.”

It wasn���t a promise, not exactly—but it felt like one.

“I know,” you murmured, brushing a soft kiss against his shoulder.

Logan’s hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your skin. “You got somethin’ to say, darlin’, just say it.”

You closed your eyes, trying to find the words. “I just... I don’t want this to end.”

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy and raw. Logan’s grip on you tightened, his expression darkening.

“It won’t,” he said quietly, and there was a fierceness in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, you let yourself believe—just for a moment—that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

You pressed your forehead against his, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Promise?”

Logan’s breath was warm against your skin. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Y/N. Not this time.”

Something about the way he said it—like there was more weight behind those words than you could fully understand—made your chest ache. But you didn’t push for more.

Instead, you kissed him.

It was slow this time, tender in a way that made your heart twist painfully in your chest. Logan kissed you back just as softly, his hands cradling you like you were something precious.

And for a little while longer, you let yourself believe in the possibility of happiness.

---

The days you spent at the cabin away from everything with Logan were the closest you think you’d ever get to heaven.

But of course, it had to come to an end. Logan walked you back to your house, keeping to the shadows where the trees thickened along the road. Luckily, George wasn’t home yet, but you knew he’d be back soon. On Sundays, the men from the mines always went to the bar after church, spending what little money they had on whiskey before heading home for dinner.

Logan stopped a few steps short of the porch, his expression unreadable. His heavy boots crunched against the dirt, and he tilted his head, listening for signs of anyone nearby. It was quiet—just the soft rustling of the wind through the trees and the distant caw of a crow.

“Looks clear,” he muttered, glancing toward the road. Then his eyes were back on you—sharp, like he was committing every detail of this moment to memory.

You stood there, one hand gripping the hem of your plain cotton dress, the other clutching the shawl draped over your shoulders. It was getting colder, October creeping in around the edges.

Logan’s jaw tightened, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. He shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest. “You sure you’re good?” His voice was low, rough as gravel.

“I’ll be fine,” you whispered, but the words felt thin, like paper stretched too tight.

His eyes flicked over your face, lingering on the bruise near your jaw that hadn’t quite faded. You saw it—the way his knuckles twitched like he wanted to tear something apart, or maybe someone. But Logan knew better than to push this conversation again. You’d had it more times than either of you cared to count.

“I mean it, Y/N,” he said, quieter this time, but no less serious. “If things get—”

“I know.” You cut him off gently, giving a small nod. “I know where to find you.”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. The porch steps creaked under your weight as you climbed them slowly, heart heavy in your chest. You reached for the door, but before your fingers touched the worn wood, you felt his hand wrap gently around your wrist.

You turned, meeting his gaze.

“You ain’t alone in this,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist. It was the kind of touch that made your knees weak—steady, solid, full of unspoken promises.

“I know,” you whispered, holding his gaze a second longer than you should have. Then you pulled your hand free, feeling the cold settle in the space where his warmth had been.

The door clicked quietly behind you, sealing you inside.

---

It was well into the afternoon by the time George came home. You’d set the table with what little you had—a pot of boiled potatoes, bread that was more crust than loaf, and a pan of cold pork you’d managed to stretch out since Friday.

George slammed the door behind him, the stench of sweat and beer clinging to his clothes. He tossed his flat cap onto the chair and grunted as he sat down heavily at the table.

“Where’s the roast?” he asked, eyeing the measly spread with disapproval.

“There wasn’t any.” You kept your voice even, steady, though your hands trembled slightly as you placed the food in front of him.

George gave you a hard look, his lip curling in disgust. “Useless,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

You clenched your jaw, swallowing the sharp retort that burned on your tongue. Fighting him would only make it worse.

He ate in silence, the scrape of his knife against the plate the only sound in the small kitchen. When he finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed his chair back with a loud scrape.

“Goin’ to bed,” he grumbled, already halfway out of the room before you could respond.

The knot in your stomach tightened, but you stayed still, standing in the middle of the kitchen long after the sound of his boots thudding down the hallway faded.

It was always like this. A dull, suffocating ache—day after day, night after night. And the worst part? You weren’t sure if you had the strength to keep pretending.

---

It was well past midnight when you slipped out the back door. The cold bit at your skin, and you pulled your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you made your way down the dirt path leading into the woods. The moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light across the clearing where Logan was waiting, his broad frame leaning against a tree trunk.

He looked up as you approached, his keen eyes catching the moonlight.

“Figured you’d come.” There was no smugness in his tone—just quiet understanding, like he’d known all along that you wouldn’t be able to stay away.

You stopped a few feet from him, your breath clouding in the crisp night air. “I couldn’t do it,” you admitted, your voice small.

Logan pushed off the tree and closed the distance between you in two strides. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, firm and grounding. “You ain’t gotta explain.”

You looked up at him, heart aching with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his chest.

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath, the quiet strength in the way he held you—like he’d fight the whole world just to keep you safe.

“I missed you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Logan’s grip tightened. “I know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The night stretched on around you, silent and still, as Logan’s hands roamed up and down your back in slow, soothing strokes.

“You stayin’ tonight?” he asked quietly, his breath warm against your hair.

You nodded, letting out a shaky breath. “Just tonight.”

Logan didn’t argue. He never did.

He took your hand, lacing his rough fingers through yours, and led you deeper into the woods—away from the house, away from the life you were supposed to live.

And for one stolen night, you let yourself believe it was enough.

---

When you got home later that night, around 3 in the morning, everything looked normal. The lights in the house were all off, and it was quiet.

You hung your shawl on the hook by the door when you heard the clink of a bottle. Your heart sank. George was awake.

The small kitchen was dim, the only light coming from the dying embers of the fire. George sat slouched at the table, a nearly empty whiskey bottle in his hand. His eyes were dark, glazed over with drunken fury. You could tell by the set of his jaw, by the way his knuckles gripped the bottle too tight, that this wasn’t going to end well.

“Where’ve you been?” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood, his steps heavy as he moved toward you.

“I went to clear my head,” you said softly, keeping your voice calm, steady, though your heart pounded in your chest. “The air helps me sleep.”

George narrowed his eyes. “That so? 'Cause Johnny’s wife told me somethin' different. Said she didn’t see you at the church retreat.”

You froze. You had been at the retreat—briefly—but it was a cover for your meeting with Logan, and Johnny’s wife must’ve been one of the few people you didn’t see. You opened your mouth to speak, but the words stuck in your throat.

“I was there,” you managed, though you knew it wouldn’t matter.

George took another step toward you, his voice rising. “Don’t lie to me!” His breath stank of alcohol as he spat the words at you, the anger radiating off him like heat. “What were you really doin’, Y/N? Who were you with?”

Your stomach twisted in fear as his hand shot out, grabbing your arm hard enough to make you wince. “George, please—” you started, but he cut you off.

“I know you weren’t there. Where the hell were you?” He shook you, his grip tightening painfully around your arm.

You winced, biting back a cry. “I told you, I was there.”

But George wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to you, and a dangerous look settled across his face. “You been sneakin’ around on me, haven’t you?” His voice was low, deadly now. He released your arm with a shove, sending you stumbling back a step. “You think I’m stupid?”

“George, I’m not sneaking around,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm even though your pulse was racing. “I just needed some air. I—”

His hand moved faster than you expected, backhanding you hard across the face. Pain exploded through your cheek, and you stumbled, clutching the side of your face as tears sprang to your eyes.

“You think I don’t know?” George hissed, his face twisted with fury. “You’ve been leavin’ me here, goin’ off, God knows where. You ain’t foolin’ me, Y/N.”

You took a shaky breath, tasting blood where your teeth had cut your lip. “George, please—”

But he was already moving, crossing the small kitchen in two heavy steps. You saw the glint of metal before he pulled the shotgun from the corner near the door. Panic seized you.

“George, no—” Your voice broke as you held up your hands, trying to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The small kitchen felt like a cage, the walls closing in around you.

George leveled the shotgun at you, his hands shaking slightly but his eyes wild with rage. “You think you can just leave? You think you can just run off whenever you please?”

You felt like you were drowning, your heart pounding so hard in your chest it hurt. “I wasn’t leaving,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady. “I wasn’t—George, please, put the gun down.”

“Shut up!” he snarled, taking a step toward you. “You’re lyin’! You’ve always been lyin’, and I’m done with it.”

You were shaking, trying to think of something, anything that would get through to him. “I’m your wife,” you said quietly, desperately. “I’ve never wanted to hurt you. I—”

But the words didn’t matter. Nothing you said would stop this. You could see it in his eyes—the cold, determined look of a man who had already made up his mind.

For a moment, everything felt frozen. The ticking of the old clock on the wall, the crackling of the dying fire—it all seemed too loud, too slow. George’s finger twitched on the trigger.

And then, in an instant, the world shattered.

The shotgun blast was deafening, the sound tearing through the small kitchen like thunder. You didn’t even feel the impact at first—just a sharp, searing pain that spread through your chest, knocking the air from your lungs.

You stumbled, your legs giving out beneath you as you hit the floor hard, the cold tiles pressing against your cheek. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps, blood pooling around you.

The room swam, your vision dimming as you tried to focus, but all you could see was the dark shape of George standing over you, the shotgun still smoking in his hands.

---

Logan heard the shot before he smelled the blood.

His body reacted instinctively, his enhanced senses kicking into overdrive. He’d been lying awake, his thoughts consumed by you, when the sound echoed through the still night. There was no mistaking it.

His heart lurched in his chest, and without thinking, Logan bolted to his feet, running toward your house, his mind racing with fear. He knew. He knew it was you.

The smell of gunpowder hung thick in the air as he neared the house. Logan’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the door slightly ajar, the soft light spilling out into the dark.

He pushed the door open, his claws already unsheathed.

The sight that greeted him froze him in place.

You were lying on the floor, a pool of blood spreading out around you, your breaths coming in shallow, painful gasps. And standing over you, his face twisted with something like confusion, was George.

Logan’s vision blurred with red.

He didn’t think—he just moved. In a blur, he was on George, his claws slashing through the air. There was a sickening crunch as the bone tore through flesh and bone, and then George was on the ground, lifeless.

Logan didn’t care. His only focus was you.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering over your body, desperate to stop the bleeding, but there was too much. The wound was too deep. “Y/N,” he whispered, his voice rough, desperate. “Stay with me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, but it was hard to focus. Everything felt distant, like you were floating just out of reach of the world. You tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Blood bubbled at your lips.

Logan’s face hovered above yours, his expression shattered. “Please, darlin’, hold on. Just hold on.”

You coughed, the pain in your chest unbearable, and for a brief moment, your eyes met his. The world was fading fast now, slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Logan...” you managed, your voice barely a whisper.

His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. “I’m here,” he choked out. “I’m here.”

You smiled weakly, even as the darkness closed in around you. “I… I love you.”

Logan’s breath hitched, his grip on you tightening like he could somehow hold you to this world. But you knew, just as he did, that this was the end.

“I love you too,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Your chest ached, not just from the pain but from the weight of those words—the weight of knowing this was goodbye.

And then, everything went still.

You felt Logan’s hand in yours, the warmth of his touch lingering even as the world around you faded into darkness.

You weren’t afraid. Not anymore.

You were free.

Logan knelt there, holding you long after the last breath left your body, his heart breaking all over again.

in this chapter logan is 68 years old and reader is around 21-24 years old.

just a reminder that going forward there is going to be an age gap between the two since logan obviously keeps getting older.

[mononijikayu]

love’s entanglement — ryomen sukuna.

“I’m not afraid, my lord.” you said, barely a whisper, but enough for him to hear. His eyes softened, just a fraction, but it was enough. The smirk that often played on his lips faltered, replaced by a look that spoke of ancient, buried memories and truths. “Then you’re a fool, little one.” he said, the words almost kind, a breath of admiration shadowed by disbelief. “Maybe so, my lord.” you replied, stepping back just enough to see his full frame. “Or maybe, I just see more than you let on.”

GENRE: alternate universe - heian era;

WARNING/S: safe for work (sfw), mild angst, one sided romance, complicated relationship, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, marriage, married life, physical touch, introspection, unexplicit mention of character death, pining, one sided confession, depiction of one-sided relationship, depiction of grief, depiction of pining, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of cuts and injury, mention of yearning, mention of manga spoilers, mention parts of jjk chapter 222, heian! ryomen sukuna, concubine! reader;

WORDS: 8.7k words.

NOTE: i was honest with all of you when i said that i wasn't done with this story at all. there are still forty years of stuff to dabble in. so i'll write that. the title is based off an ost from the untamed called qingqian ( 情牵) which translates to love entanglement. i remember listening to this for a while and picturing in my head how complicated love looks like for concubine reader and sukuna. they love each other more than they want to admit. forty years of this, making each other suffer and making each other feel this way. how could they not want to be entangled? anyway, i hope you enjoy this!!! i love you all <3

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THIS MOMENT WAS SOMETHING RARE. You do not usually find yourself around Ryomen Sukuna's own gardens. But today was quite a day for such a thing. For a good walk, after having been cooped up inside for so long. And yet, you did not find yourself in your own garden.

You after all have your own garden, courtesy of your husband who had allowed you to have a space of your own in your own hall, a luxury he extended to you — in contrast to his many, petty and envious harem. And all of it suited to fit your wants and needs, so long as you remained in his favor.

And because of that, you were particular with everything. Everything about it was more than enough to you, to last a lifetime of joy in a little space of paradise. Anyone who had been there would say so. Your Vermillion Hall was a serene haven, meticulously designed and tended to in ways that reflected your tastes and subtle touch. 

It was familiar, soothing, yet lately, a certain restlessness had stirred within you. The beauty of your garden felt too known, too safe. In search of a distraction, you drifted through the temple's quiet halls, each footstep echoing against the cold stone. The air was filled with the weight of silence, broken only by the occasional creak of ancient wooden beams.

Yet, you perhaps will not find anything that could rival it besides the untouched wonder of the Heaven’s Hall — where your husband resides. Before long, you found yourself at the threshold of your husband’s wide garden. Everything about this could be a pavilion of its own, a few Vermillion Halls, with just the greenery alone.

The space stretched out before you, vast and wild, a realm twice, no, thrice the size of your own. You cannot decide the accurate size. But everything about it was fit for a god. And yet, it was abandoned, untouched by the hands of anyone. It was presentable enough, and yet it was a bizarre sight to behold when you take it all in.

It was an unruly expanse, tangled with thickets of dark green and deep crimson, vines snaking around cracked statues and gnarled trees towering overhead. The paths, barely discernible through the dense growth, were cloaked in a mist that gave the air a damp chill. The scent of rich earth, damp leaves, and a hint of some distant, elusive blossom surrounded you.

You took a step forward, your hand trailing over leaves beaded with dew. The statues, fierce and ancient, seemed to watch with stone eyes as you moved past, their faces frozen in expressions of silent judgment.

Sukuna’s gardens were imposing, powerful, and unyielding; much like the man himself. He never spent time here, finding no need for the peacefulness that gardens offered. His presence, always commanding and forceful, left little room for such indulgences.

A rustle in the distance made you pause. You looked up, the hairs on your neck pricking. From behind a towering stand of bamboo, Sukuna emerged. His eyes, crimson and sharp, caught the faint light filtering through the leaves.

“Wandering somewhere you shouldn’t be, little one?” he drawled, a smirk playing on his lips as he took in the sight of you in his neglected domain.

You matched his gaze, refusing to be intimidated as you bowed before him. He towers over you as he tells you to be at ease. You raise yourself from your position and look at him with your uncertain eyes. He could tell immediately how you were.

He snickers. “You did not bring Chiharu with you?”

“She is at lessons,my lord. I did not wish to disturb her by my desire to walk.”

He raises an intrigued brow. “She would be throwing a tantrum then. You know of all people should know well enough that the girl likes to play.”

You purse your lips. “I am sure she will understand.”

“I should doubt that.” He retorts back to you. You did not reply. He was right. His eyes narrow at you tenderly. “How did you end up here, hm? Trespassers are not oft enjoyed by me, little one. Had you been some other unruly wench, it would be different.”

You feel chills echo through your bones at his words for a moment. You know well enough what happens to people who find themselves wanting around the King of Curses, even in his own land untouched by his hands.  

“You never come here, my lord.” you said simply, your voice steady, echoing with a curiosity that cut through the mist. “I would have thought I would be alone here.” 

Sukuna’s brow lifted, an unreadable glint crossing his scarlet eyes as he stepped closer, each stride deliberate. The ground crunched under his feet, the sound muffled by the thick carpet of fallen leaves. You let out a small soundless breath as you waited for him to speak.

“And yet here you are, caught red handed, little one.” he countered, stopping just a breath away from you. “Does your garden hold no interest anymore? Your favorite space of your own and you abandon it for unruliness, little one.”

“I wanted something different, my lord….and it felt right today.”

“Things feeling right does not mean you ought to come without a word.”

“My garden holds no mysteries anymore, I merely looked for excitement.” you admitted, letting your fingers brush a tangled vine. “And I walked and walked and merely found myself here. If I had offended you thus,my lord….I apologize.”

A moment of silence passed, thick as the greenery surrounding you. Ryomen Sukuna tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing as if weighing the truth in your words. He releases a composed chortle, echoing intrigue at your words.

“You’re bold, little one.” he said, the smirk fading into something deeper, more contemplative. You could not read his face now. You found that your husband is even better at hiding what he’s thinking over the years. You can only wait.

“Very well, little one. I shall give you a bit more of the grounds surrounding Vermillion Hall for your pleasure. Do with it as you please.”

You looked at him, your eyes widening slightly. Yet almost immediately, you thought to find yourself in collected composure. You could not falter easily, not in front of him. You bow slightly.

“I thank you for your generosity, my lord. I am sure Chiharu will enjoy that also. I thank you on her behalf.”

He grunts at you as he nods, crossing his massive arms together. Soon enough, you could feel his scarlet gaze shifting away from you, turning to scan the wild expanse that stretched around you both.

“These gardens have no order, no reason.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m here, my lord.” you replied, your voice soft but unwavering. “Order can be stifling.”

His scarlet eyes met yours, and for a heartbeat, the wildness of the garden seemed mirrored in the crimson depths of his stare. “Then it would seem that the heavens wish you to stay.” 

You lower your gaze for a moment, before lifting them slightly, your cheeks flustered red. “Does my lord wish that I shall stay here also?”

“What is the need for that question, when I do not say a word to dismiss you, little one?” Sukuna said in response, his eyes bearing intense more than ever.

You held Sukuna’s gaze, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. It was rare to find him in such moments, raw and unguarded in the vastness of his own untamed world. Ryomen Sukuna was good at getting under your skin, getting you good with everything. 

With all this time that had passed, you would have thought that one would give in and surrender to the tides. The tides of all that had come and gone. You knew he would never love you. Not in the way he loved Hiromi. 

And yet, when he says such things, you couldn’t help but let your heart beat for him, who had caused you so much misery. You fold ever so easily when it comes to your husband. Even if that gets you nothing in the end.

You couldn’t help but be a fool, loving him in your own way. But perhaps, that is all that there will be in this life. You must accept it as it is.  

As you let your eyes drift from his face, they caught on the heavy folds of his finely cut silk  kimono. The gleam of the silken fabric strained at his broad shoulders, seams pulled taut over the sheer expanse of his chest. It was clear that the garment, though richly woven, was not made to fit a man of his proportions, nor was it well sewn to fit the needs of his divine flesh.

He noticed your glance, a shadow of amusement crossing his face. “Did something catch your eye, little one?” he asked, his tone laced with mockery. He shifted, the movement making the fabric pull tighter, as if to emphasize the obvious.

“I was just thinking, my lord….” you began, hesitating for a moment. “ About your clothes... they don’t seem made for you.”

Sukuna chuckled, a sound low and resonant. “Even the finest they find would never be enough to clothe a god, little one.” he said, a touch of arrogance glimmering in his eyes. “None of them will be able to capture the needs of a god.”

There was no boast in his voice, only the stark acknowledgment of truth. He stood before you like a force of nature, a being who seemed larger than life in every possible way. Everything about your husband suited that being of a god. Everything about him was born to be divine. He knew that for a fact.

You didn’t know how to respond at first. The weavers, masterful in their craft, would sigh with frustration when tasked to make garments for him, their looms creaking under the weight of excess fabric. Sukuna was simply beyond what they could create; his existence outstripped the skills of even the most skilled artisans.

“You’re right, my lord.” you admitted, your voice a touch quieter. “You’re not... an easy man to define.”

He watched you for a moment, the flicker of curiosity hidden behind his usual veneer of confidence. “And yet, here you are, little one. Trying to find some meaning to it.” he repeated, softer this time, eyes searching yours as if tracing a hidden path within them. “I can see it on your face, how hard you think about it.”

You curse silently, but he almost looks like he was even more amused as he watched you try and gather yourself once more. Soon enough, the silence dissipates as the wind rustles through the garden, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and wildflowers damping the air.

“Do you resent it, my lord?” you asked, more boldness creeping into your tone than you intended. “The way nothing ever fits?”

His expression shifted, a crease forming at the corner of his mouth as he considered your question. “Fine clothing and steel, power and titles—they were never meant to fit me, little one.” he said, eyes narrowing slightly. “They are tools, nothing more.”

You nodded, understanding dawning on you. There was something in his words that resonated, the idea that even the trappings of power were too small for a being who transcended them. The moment hung between you, a rare peace settling over the conversation.

“It must be lonely, then, my lord.” you whispered, barely audible above the rustling leaves.

He regarded you with a sharp intensity, and for the first time, his smirk faded into something closer to sincerity. “There is no such thing for a god.” he said, voice low, almost gentle.

The silence that followed his words was profound, charged with an intimacy that neither of you had anticipated. Sukuna's gaze lingered on you, measuring, weighing, as if considering whether to share something more or let the moment dissipate like so many others. 

His kimono, stretched and strained as it was, seemed almost like a metaphor for the man himself, something vast and untamed, constrained by forces too small to truly contain him.He shifted his stance, the faint creak of fabric and the whisper of leaves underfoot drawing your attention back. 

“And you, little one?” he asked suddenly, his eyes narrowing as he studied you. “Do you find yourself longing for things that don’t fit?”

The question startled you, and you blinked, a shiver running down your spine as you pondered your response.

“I think we all do, in some way, my lord.” you said, choosing your words carefully. “We seek things that push at the boundaries of who we are. Otherwise, we’re just living within walls that keep getting smaller.”

A flicker of recognition passed through Sukuna’s expression. He looked away, his bright scarlet gaze drifting over the gardens, now cast in the golden hues of the fading sunlight. The air felt thicker, as if nature itself was listening to your exchange. 

“It’s easy for mortals to speak of boundaries, for you most especially, little one.” he said, voice almost a murmur. “But when you’re something... more, there are no walls to you. Only the question of what to do with the endless expanse.”

The way he spoke, not with pride but with a rare trace of weariness, made your chest tighten. You stepped closer, the distance between you narrowing until you could see the fine, jagged lines of old battle scars peeking out from beneath the strained fabric of his kimono. You reached out, hesitating for just a moment before letting your fingers graze the edge of one of those scars.

“And yet, you choose to build walls, do you not?” you said softly, your eyes lifting to meet his. “You push others away, keep yourself untouchable, my lord.”

He tensed under your touch, though he didn’t pull back. Instead, his eyes met yours in, the intensity of his stare pinning you in place. “Because if I let them in, they’ll see what even I cannot grasp. Power that bends to no will but its own. It’s easier to let the world see only what they fear, little one. Remember that.”

A breeze swept through the garden, carrying the whisper of leaves and the scent of wild jasmine. You watched him, understanding the vulnerability that hid in plain sight, wrapped in the guise of strength and distance.

“I’m not afraid, my lord.” you said, barely a whisper, but enough for him to hear.

His eyes softened, just a fraction, but it was enough. The smirk that often played on his lips faltered, replaced by a look that spoke of ancient, buried memories and truths. 

“Then you’re a fool, little one.” he said, the words almost kind, a breath of admiration shadowed by disbelief.

“Maybe so, my lord.” you replied, stepping back just enough to see his full frame. “Or maybe, I just see more than you let on.”

The garden held its breath as he took a step forward, closing the space between you. He towered over you, and yet, in that moment, there was an understanding—a balance between a force of nature and the one who dared to reach out and touch it.

“We’ll see, little one.” he finally said, the smallest tilt of a smile returning to his lips.

And for the first time, it wasn’t the smirk of a conqueror, but something softer, deeper, as if you’d both glimpsed a truth neither had expected to share.

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YOU COULD NOT STOP THINKING ABOUT IT WHEN YOU RETURNED. You cannot help it. You were only human. But it had been bad enough that it had distracted you for much of the day. And that rarely happens to you, as anyone else could attest.

Chiharu has been pestering about what has been so heavy on your mind, but you keep brushing her off. It was not her burden to carry. She was a child, after all. You would not let her find her way into the thought that consumed adults.

As you drank your medicinal tea, you couldn’t help but let yourself settle into the silence of the waning moon. That conversation had consumed you. Every little word between the two had endlessly lingered with you, its weight settling in your chest long after you had left the garden.

Your lord husband has always had a way with words. A Ryomen would — they were famed for intelligence and candor, for their wondrous words that echoed like the bountiful prose of a poet's mind. Everything about him is a gem more valuable than anything in the world.  

And yet, this may perhaps be the first time your husband had spoken in that way. He did not play with his words. He did not mince them either. Everything about it had encroached on you whole, like the darkness swallowing the day.

Ryomen Sukuna’s words and the rare vulnerability he’d shown played over and over in your mind, weaving themselves into your thoughts like the threads of a delicate tapestry. 

You found yourself thinking of him more often—not just as a powerful, untouchable figure but as someone who, despite his godlike presence, harbored something deeper beneath the surface. He was human once, after all. Wouldn’t such humanity at least remain, even unconsciously? 

For days, you wondered what you could do. You thought about how to reach him in a way that spoke more than words ever could. Sewing came to mind, but you quickly realized your skills were rudimentary at best. Your brothers had said as much as children. 

Your mother, however, was different. She had sewn clothes for your family for as long as you could remember, her hands weaving fabric with a mastery that turned every stitch into art.

The memory of her gentle hands, threading needle and cloth with unwavering care, bloomed in your mind like a warm, cherished light. Each stitch she made carried love, devotion, and the quiet strength that held a family together.

But a visit to her was out of the question. Ryomen Sukuna would never allow it; you knew that as surely as you knew the sun would rise. He does not find the need for you to debase yourself to such a life again, knowing you are a god’s wife.

And yet, you cannot help but think of her as you wondered what you could do for your husband. Everything about her echoed the warmth that one echoes with love. With devotion.

The thought of her touch, those fingers skilled in transforming cloth into something that fitted perfectly and comfortably, was a bittersweet ache. Yet, as much as you longed for her guidance, you knew this was something you had to attempt alone.

The desire to give Sukuna something beyond what words could express gnawed at you. He may not have loved you, not in the way stories spoke of love, but he cared for you in his own way.

He granted you freedom where he could, offered protection, and even moments of rare conversation like that day in the garden. You were alive because of his mercy, his whims. And you wanted to give him something in return. To show that you saw him, understood him, and cared.

With your resolve hardening, you purse the fullness of your lips in a flat line and find yourself calling over one of the temple servants. The young woman had soon approached swiftly, eyes downcast in the customary deference, but you caught a flicker of surprise when you made your request.

“What does my lady wish for this lowly servant to do?”

“If you may, could you bring me rolls of the finest fabrics, golden and silver threads, fine silver needles, whatever sewing materials you can find.” you said. The servant hesitated, her brows knitting as she processed the unusual command.

You offered a small smile, tilting your head. “Do not worry yourself too much. It is only that….I wish to indulge in some nostalgia.”

“I shall come and do as you ask, my lady.” she replied, bowing with great deference and desire to fulfill your request. 

As you sat there in the gardens waiting, your mind continued to wander back to your mother’s hands, the way she hummed softly under her breath as she worked, the warmth that filled the room as she crafted each garment with care. 

You breathed deeply, summoning that memory as strength. You would sew, even if clumsily, and you would give Ryomen Sukuna something he hadn’t asked for; a piece of your own devotion, stitched into every imperfect seam. You were after all, his most ardent follower, in all things.

The servant left quickly, her footsteps fading into the labyrinthine corridors of the temple, leaving you in a moment of quiet contemplation. You ran your fingers over the surface of a wooden table nearby, its polished edges worn from years of service, and thought about the task ahead.

You weren’t just sewing a garment; you were threading your thoughts, hopes, and unspoken words into every stitch. It would be a gift unlike any other—a piece of yourself, laid bare in the seams and folds of cloth.

Memories of your mother came flooding back like the sea against the cliff, more vivid and detailed than they had been in years. You could almost hear the gentle hum of her voice as she worked, an old song that spoke of love and patience.

You remembered how the light from the hearth would catch on the strands of her hair as she bent over her needlework, her expression calm and content. She worked slowly, meticulously, and with a grace that came only from years of practice and an abundance of love.

In those moments, her hands were not just sewing but crafting memories. You recalled the way she would glance up with a warm smile whenever you passed by, sometimes drawing you close to teach you the basics. Your child’s fingers were clumsy, the needle awkward in your grasp, but her voice had always been kind and encouraging. 

“Each stitch holds a bit of who we are, my daughter.” she’d say, guiding your hand. “So make sure it’s done with care.”

The thought of attempting to recreate even a shadow of that magic felt daunting, but the desire to give Ryomen Sukuna something meaningful pushed you forward. Despite his aloofness, he had become a fixture in your life. No, he has become your life. He is your life. You lived and breathed to do your duty to him and him alone, even if that burns you in suffering his lovelessness.

His presence, fierce and unwavering, was a constant in a world that often felt unpredictable. He didn’t need your gift, and he may not even value it in the way you intended, but that didn’t matter. This was for you as much as it was for him. This was the only way to express what words could not. Words will never be enough.

Time passed, and soon the servant returned, arms laden with fabric of various colors and textures. She placed them on the table, eyes glancing at you with a question that remained unspoken. You nodded, dismissing her with a quiet “thank you” before turning your attention to the bounty before you.

The fabrics ranged from deep, somber blues to vibrant reds that reminded you of Sukuna’s eyes. You ran your fingers over them, testing their textures. They were all interesting. Some coarse and sturdy, others smooth as the flowing water. Everything about it had found you pushing through with curiosity. You wanted to see what could happen if you choose to weave it together.

You chose a deep, rich indigo for the base, a color that spoke of strength but carried an undertone of calm, and a crimson thread to stitch with, a reminder of the fierceness you wished to honor. Another was plain and pure as the driven snow, bright as the moonlight striking down on the earth, put together piece by piece with the finest of silver threads. 

Settling into a chair, you took a deep breath, the weight of your resolve pressing against your chest. Your fingers trembled slightly as you threaded the needle, but you forced yourself to stay steady. The first stitch was hesitant, awkward, but soon you fell into a rhythm, each pull of the thread a quiet assertion of your purpose.

As you worked, the hours melted away, the room filling with the soft sounds of fabric shifting, the tiny click of the needle meeting cloth, and your own heartbeat thudding steadily in your ears. The memories of your mother’s gentle lessons guided you, each one a quiet assurance that even imperfect stitches could tell a story.

And so, you sewed. You stitched late into the evening, the flicker of candlelight your only companion as it cast golden shadows across the room. Every knot, every seam held a silent promise, an unspoken acknowledgment of what you felt and what you hoped to convey. It was more than an attempt to dress the god you worship.

It was an offering of yourself, an expression of your unfailing care, vulnerability, and the hope that even the wildest of beings could be touched by something as humble as thread and fabric.It was a human being’s prayer wishing to be answered at the altar of the god.

When at last you paused to look at your work, you felt a swell of emotion. It was far from perfect; the stitches were uneven, the fabric puckered in places, but it was real. It was honest. It was yours. And soon, it would be his for all of time. Just like you were.

══════════════════

IT WAS ASTOUNDING, HOW TIME PASSED. And yet how they were not peaceful. Ryomen Sukuna had not seen you for a week, and that bothered him more than he cared to admit. It wasn't as though he sought your constant presence or craved your company in the way mortals would seek comfort. 

No, his world was built on power, dominance, and the unyielding expectation that everything, and everyone served its purpose. They must submit to it. That is the fate of humankind in the face of a god.

You must, with all your might, carry out your duties by his side, as he demands. He did not care for how you spent your time in idle leisure, nor did he consider it his concern. But this week has been different.

You were absent from the audience halls, your soft steps nowhere to be heard drifting through the temple's stone corridors. You did not loiter about as you usually do when the sun comes around at dawn and or explore the temple gardens as you often did when the sun would set.

When he summoned Uraume to fetch you so you could stand by his side during the reception of the small folk and their insipid praises, Uraume returned with the same report: you had politely declined, citing that there was a rather important matter that required your attention.

And that too was confirmed by his daughter, who refused to tell him a word about it, even when Sukuna had threatened to be harsher upon her in training. Chiharu did not care about having to deal with more punishing punches and miles of running than betraying your privacy.

The first time, Sukuna waved it off, convinced that whatever occupied you was fleeting and of little consequence. The second time, he raised a brow but said nothing, allowing it to be an anomaly. 

But the third time, it grated at him, a feeling gnawing at the back of his mind like an itch he couldn’t reach. Was something wrong? Were you ill? The notion was absurd, but the idea still sat heavily on his chest.

The fact that Uraume provided no further explanation infuriated him. His trusted attendant simply returned with your refusals, a slight bow and an inscrutable expression that offered nothing more. Sukuna's irritation burned hotter with each day you did not appear at supper, each moment you weren’t where he expected you to be. 

He found it unnerving, a ripple of discomfort that was foreign to him. The mighty King of Curses did not worry, did not concern himself with the comings and goings of another. And yet, here he was, muscles taut and jaw clenched, pacing in his chambers as the unsettling sensation festered.

“This is absurd, foolish most of all.” he muttered to himself, voice sharp as the flicker of his irritation mirrored in the crimson gleam of his eyes. It was out of character for him to feel this way, and he knew it. 

A wave of frustration surged through him, not at you, but at the unbidden thoughts themselves. He could not help it, not when you were failing to fulfill your duties, not when you were not servicing him as you should. You, who were supposed to be by his side, a symbol of his reach, his power.

Ryomen Sukuna slammed a hand down onto the lacquered surface of the table before him, the sudden crack of wood splintering under his force echoing through the room. The servants outside stilled, their breaths caught in their throats as silence returned, heavier than before.

“Uraume.” he called out, voice ringing like a blade through the hall.

Moments later, Uraume entered, head bowed and expression carefully neutral. “My lord.”

“Find out what your lady is doing, this instant.” Sukuna commanded, each word sharp and deliberate. “And bring your lady to me, whether it be willingly or not.”

Uraume hesitated for a fraction of a second, a subtle shift of their eyes betraying curiosity or perhaps concern, but they only nodded and backed out of the room, the door closing with a soft thud behind them. They would not fail their lord Sukuna.

Uraume stood at the threshold, gaze steady as they absorbed Sukuna's command. “As you wish, my lord.” they said, bowing low before slipping out of the chamber. 

The sound of their retreating footsteps was soon swallowed by the silence, leaving Sukuna alone with the simmering tempest of his thoughts. That he hated more than anything. He hated having such thoughts by himself. But it cannot be helped. It would take a while. 

As Uraume went off to the other side of the temple and headed to Vermillion Hall in order to do their duty — that will take a while. He has to wait. Sukuna pressed his lips together as he sat there, tapping one of his hands on the stool’s armrest with great impatience. Everything about this is causing him more irritation by the minute. If he could, he would have a headache.

He clenched his jaw, staring down at the splintered wood beneath his palm. The sharp edges bit into his skin, grounding him in the moment, but they did nothing to ease the unfamiliar twist of irritation in his chest. It wasn't like him to be unsettled, to find his mind preoccupied with the absence of another. And yet, the past week had been a slow, relentless descent into that very discomfort.

“This is a farce.” he muttered, turning away from the table with a sweep of his robes. His dark scarlet eyes narrowed as he paced, the flickering torchlight casting his sharp features into a series of jagged shadows echoing through the halls. 

You, the one who had come to exist in the periphery of his life yet had managed to weave yourself subtly into his days, were defying expectations. One who he thought he would break and mold into his own — were still your own self, your own being and he cannot control what you do or what you want. 

You were you and he does not know what to do. The thought stirred something darker, something that demanded control and conformity. Something in him wanted to enrapture you whole over and over again. There was that desire. And he does not know what it all means, what he should do. And for the first time in his life, Ryomen Sukuna does not wish to know. 

A little while later, as twilight painted the sky in dusky hues of orange and purple, there was a soft knock on the door. The waiting is over. He gathered himself for a moment as he looked towards the door. His gaze narrows.

“Enter.” Sukuna called, voice measured but laced with an edge that warned of his impatience.

The door opened, and Uraume stepped inside, their expression unreadable but posture tense. “My lord.” they began, pausing briefly as if to gauge his mood. “My lady, your concubine has been in the private chambers. I spoke with my lady, but my lady insisted that there was no reason to leave. My lady could not leave the progress on the work.”

“Work?” Sukuna echoed, a scoff forming at the corner of his lips. The idea of you consumed by something so important that you would refuse him was laughable. “And what work, pray tell, keeps my little one from me?”

Uraume shifted, eyes flicking to the floor before daring to meet Sukuna’s gaze. “My lady had tried to find the right words to say, but it is obvious that my lady is sewing, my lord. My lady has asked for time alone to finish the task.”

A heartbeat of silence passed, and then Sukuna barked out a laugh, harsh and devoid of humor. “Sewing?” He repeated, incredulity turning to anger that settled hot and heavy in his chest. “And my lady denies me for this trivial pursuit? For so long? Over needle and thread?”

Uraume’s shoulders stiffened at the rising tension in the room. “My lady spoke of... nostalgia, my lord. I believe it holds some personal significance to my lady’s past.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. His pride bristled at the audacity of it. You had chosen something so mundane, so mortal, over fulfilling your role by his side. And yet, beneath the simmering irritation was a glimmer of curiosity. Sewing, of all things. It was an image so incongruent with your usual self that it gave him pause.

He paced, his heavy footsteps echoing like drum beats against the cold stone floor. “Uraume.” he said finally, his voice low but lethal. “Bring my lady here. I will see this work that my lady values so highly. Immediately.”

Uraume inclined their head, an acknowledgment that they understood the urgency masked as command. “At once, my lord.”

══════════════════

YOU HAD RUSHED TO GET READY. Uraume had come once more and you knew that you must depart soon enough. You knew your husband too well. He would end up throwing a tantrum the longer you made him wait.

He was just like that. You had kept your company and attention away from him far too long, more than what was necessary. But it had to be done, if you were to finish all of this. 

You lamented not being able to finish the fourth one, but it would have to wait. You could return to finish it, once you show your husband the other three you had made. You looked towards Uraume and handed them two of the fine wooden boxes. They looked at you with a curious gaze, but the moment Uraume stared at your hand — perhaps there was some understanding on their part.

The heavy silence stretched between you and Sukuna, thick with unspoken tension. Every breath felt labored as you stood there, frozen in the doorway, your hands clasped tightly before you in a gesture that betrayed the anxiety tightening your chest.

Your eyes were cast downward, not out of fear, but because you couldn’t bear to meet his gaze just yet. His presence, like an oppressive storm, filled the room, suffocating any semblance of comfort. The weight of his stare, heavy and searing, felt as though it was burning through you, stripping you of any pretense or barrier.

Sukuna did not speak at first, but you could feel the intensity of his scrutiny in every second that passed. His crimson eyes locked onto you, an unrelenting force that seemed to penetrate deep into your very soul.

The room seemed to pulse with an energy that was entirely his own, and yet, there was something different about it now. Something subtle, almost imperceptible, but still undeniably present.

You shifted your weight nervously, unsure of what to say or do. Every instinct told you to bow, to humble yourself before him as you always had, but this moment felt different. The kimono, the one you had made for him, still lingered in his mind, you could tell.

The way his eyes flickered briefly to the space beside him where the garment was now laid out, the faint reverence in his touch when he had examined it earlier—it was as if he had been remembering something far more important than mere clothing.

You lowered yourself in a humbling bow in front of him.

Not once did his gaze leave your presence in that moment.

For a good while, you could feel the chills all over your body.

“Approach.” he ordered, each syllable cutting through the silence like a blade.

You stood from your bow and slowly stepped forward, heart thudding in your chest, carrying one of the boxes containing your work felt even heavier. You could feel how harshly you clutched it in your trembling fingers.

His eyes flickered down to it. You lay the boxes before him. Uraume laid the others before him. For the briefest moment, his expression shifted. There was less anger and more... intrigue.

“Explain yourself.” he demanded, though there was an unmistakable edge of curiosity woven through the command.

You swallowed, summoning courage from somewhere deep within. “I wished to make something for you, my lord.” you said, voice quiet but steady. “Something that would... fit you.”

Sukuna’s gaze hardened, but a question glimmered in his eyes, curiosity battling with the remnants of anger. “Fit me?” His voice was softer now, dangerous but tempered. “And you thought denying my summons was worth this pursuit?”

You nodded, holding up the fabric. “I wanted to show you that you could be seen, that I care enough to try. That I am devoted to you, my lord.” 

The silence that followed was suffocating, his eyes locked onto yours, searching, weighing.

The room seemed to hold its breath as you stood, waiting for judgment, for the fury that could come like a storm. But instead, Sukuna’s lips twitched, not quite a smile but not far from it.

“Show me. Now.” he said, voice a low rumble. “This work that kept you from me.”

Uraume moved forward without hesitation, the ornate coverings making a soft, rustling sound as they were carefully untied and removed. The fabric shimmered under the dim light, revealing the fruits of your labor—a trio of kimonos, each meticulously crafted, each unique in its own right. 

The first was white, paired with a matching hakama and a black haori that seemed to drink in the shadows. The second was a deep, royal indigo with crimson accents, bold and regal. The third was a rich, earthy gray embroidered with intricate silver patterns that caught the light like scattered stardust.

Sukuna's gaze shifted from one garment to the next, expression unreadable as his crimson eyes took in the details on all of it. He could see the fine stitching, breathing life little by little in each piece seemed to carry a subtle elegance that spoke of both strength and devotion. You cleared your throat, feeling the weight of his scrutiny press against your chest.

“A–as I said, my lord, I made them myself.” you began, voice wavering but earnest. “I’m sorry if they are not as perfect as you would prefer. I know they may not be fit for a king or for a god, my lord. But I had carefully crafted all of it while thinking of you.”

His eyes flicked to you at that, sharp and assessing. He said nothing, and the silence stretched long enough that you felt compelled to continue, though your pulse thundered in your ears.

“I just wanted to make something that would suit you. Something that would… reflect who you are, my lord.” You hesitated before adding, “And to show that you are more than just—”

“Silence, little one.” Sukuna interrupted, though there was no malice in his voice. He took a step closer, gaze settling on your hands. 

The cuts and bandages were visible, stark against your skin, telling their own story of sleepless nights and determination. The marks of effort were not lost on him. The thought that you, a mortal bound by your own fragility, had poured so much of yourself into this—into him—sent a flicker of something unidentifiable through him.

He reached out, fingers brushing against the edge of the white kimono with the black haori. The stitching was impeccable, bold yet refined, as if each thread carried a piece of your heart. It was the simplest of the three, but there was an understated power to it. A garment that spoke of purity juxtaposed with shadows, stark and unwavering, much like the man it was intended for.

“This is no easy task to do by yourself.” he said finally, voice deep and resonant. “You undertook this task like you are a wife of a god. You dare to humble yourself before me, yet your work is that of one who knows worth.” 

You could feel your eyes water slightly. “My lord—”

He lifted his gaze to meet yours, eyes dark and unreadable. “You have done well.”

Your breath caught at the unexpected praise, and you bowed your head to hide the sudden, overwhelming emotion welling in your eyes. “Thank you, my lord.”

Sukuna stepped back, casting one last glance at your injured hands. “Uraume,” he said, a command rather than a question. “Go to the healers. Ask them to bring ointments for my lady’s hands. They will be treated.”

A flash of surprise passed over Uraume’s features before they nodded briskly and left to carry out the order. You blinked, stunned by the uncharacteristic gesture. Sukuna turned away, but before the silence could return fully, he spoke again, voice low, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than to you.

“Next time, you will not wait so long to show me what is mine.”

The room stilled, the weight of his words sinking in. You nodded, heart thudding with a strange mix of relief and something deeper, something you did not dare to name.

Sukuna's gaze lingered on the white kimono, his expression unreadable, but there was a quiet intensity in the way he took in each stitch, each line, and the subtle folds of fabric that fell with perfect symmetry.

The black haori had an elegant simplicity that balanced the pure white of the kimono beneath, embodying a duality that resonated with him—power restrained, shadow and light interwoven.

He reached out, almost absently, fingers brushing over the texture of the fabric. The quiet reverence in that small action caught even Uraume's attention, their eyes flicking between the two of you. Sukuna's jaw tightened, and for a moment, you could sense the battle raging behind his eyes, an internal war between pride and acknowledgment.

“You, little one….” he said, turning to face you fully. His voice was deep, almost resonant, as though echoing in the very bones of the room. “You claim to apologize for imperfections, but these garments carry none that I can see.”

The words caught in your throat, and for a moment, all you could do was nod, your heart pounding a steady rhythm that resonated with the silent awe you felt. The faint sting in your bandaged fingers seemed to dull as he continued to regard you with that intense, unreadable gaze.

“Your dedication does not go unnoticed, little one.” Sukuna continued, stepping closer until the space between you was marked only by the breath you dared to draw. He reached out, lifting one of your hands with surprising gentleness, eyes narrowing as he took in the cuts and raw patches on your skin. “You have marked yourself in service to me. Remember that, and remember the value of your labor. As I will.”

He let your hand fall gently, the faintest of smirks tugging at the corner of his mouth. The tension in the room shifted, not softening but changing, as if the unspoken had taken form and settled around you both.

“From now on, little one.” Sukuna declared, turning his back to you but with a final glance over his shoulder, “I shall command you to be the only one to make my clothing for me. I shan’t wear anything else. So do well, hm?”

A shiver passed through you at the rare acknowledgment, at the words that felt like both a demand and an offering. The title little one rolled from his tongue like an unfamiliar caress, a sign of possession and regard wrapped in one. You lowered your head, a flicker of pride warming the cold pit of exhaustion in your chest.

“Yes, my lord.” you whispered, voice trembling not with fear but with the weight of something new—something you hadn't yet fully understood but knew had shifted the ground beneath your feet.

“Come here, sit by me. Uraume will take a while.” He whispers back to you. His scarlet eyes are softly gazing at you. “Tell me about your work, little one.”

You couldn’t help but smile. A true smile that reaches your eyes. “If my lord wishes.”

Ryomen Sukuna let himself enjoy your smile for a moment.

He came to a good and true conclusion there and then.

You wear joy in the most beautiful way in the way no one else knows.

And he admits, he wishes to see it for the rest of your days.

══════════════════

epilogue

Ryomen Sukuna stood in the dimly lit chamber, his eyes narrowing as Uraume carefully moved boxes aside, clearing the clutter from the room. The sight of the discarded objects from a thousand years ago, long forgotten relics; they all seemed trivial at first. 

But then, something caught his eye, something that made his breath catch in his throat. A simple box, set apart from the rest, seemed too out of place for the cluttered heap of old trinkets and broken pieces. His loyal Uraume, not noticing his change in expression, continued to sort through the boxes.

"Uraume." Sukuna's voice rang out, low and deliberate, making Uraume freeze in place.

"Yes, my lord?" Uraume turned, posture stiff as they anticipated another order.

"Stop." The command was final, and Uraume hesitated for a moment before pausing, then obediently approached the box Sukuna had taken notice of. "Bring it to me."

Uraume did as instructed, carefully lifting the box and walking over to Sukuna, who stood with his arms folded, eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and something far more dangerous. Once the box was placed before him, Sukuna opened it with a measured slowness, as though savoring the moment, although he didn’t know yet what he would find.

And then, there it was.

The sight of the white kimono, the hakama, the black haori—all painstakingly crafted in a way that could only be yours. The way the fabric shimmered slightly in the dim light was enough to bring him back to a time long past, a time when you were still present in this world. 

The stitching so delicate and precise spoke of hours spent in quiet concentration, your hand steady as you worked. He recognized it immediately. His heart thudded in his chest, a sharp beat that reverberated in his bones.

The kimono was too big for him. Clearly, it had been designed for his old body.  And yet, it felt familiar, almost like a second skin he had never worn but was made to fit him nonetheless. The memory of your presence. Everything of you was shining through, even after all this time. He could see it clearly; your hands, your laughter, your quiet hums as you sewed—came rushing back with such intensity that it almost overwhelmed him.

Sukuna's fingers twitched, and for a moment, he stood still, staring at the kimono as if it were some precious, fragile relic he feared would shatter under his touch. He reached out slowly, as though he could still feel the warmth of your hands in the fabric, the echoes of your care woven into every inch.

His touch was tentative, almost reverent, as if the kimono might disintegrate under his hand. For a fleeting moment, it was as though he could hear your voice, soft and melodic, humming the same tune you always had as you worked. A soft ache settled deep in his chest, a yearning he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for centuries.

He stood, unmoving, eyes fixed on the fabric. His thoughts blurred together, memories of you flooding his mind—of your past selves, of your touch, your presence in his life. Of a long life lived together. 

And yet... you were gone.

All of that had come and gone.

Still, he can’t help but long for it.

Sukuna had long since accepted the passage of time, the impermanence of mortal lives, even the ones that had been his to command. But this, this feeling of loss; it was different. His thoughts were dark, bitter, yet they carried something deeper—a sharp longing for a time he could never reclaim.

"Uraume." he finally said, voice thick with something he couldn’t name. "Prepare this for me. I will wear it."

Uraume paused, sensing the change in him, the shift in the air that could only mean one thing. “At once, my lord.”

The room grew quiet once more as Uraume gathered the kimono, intent on following his command. But for a moment, Sukuna remained, staring at the fabric, his mind filled with fleeting images of you: your smiling face, your delicate hands working the needle with such care, the soft hum of a song that had once filled the empty spaces of his temple.

And then, in the stillness, it was as if he could see you again. Not clearly, but a shadow. A fleeting glimpse of your figure in the corner of the room, hunched over the cloth, the same rhythm of your sewing filling the air. His breath caught in his throat, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest.

But no, you were not there. He knew that. He could not allow himself to forget that. You had passed, long ago, lost to time, to the endless cycle of reincarnation.

For a moment, Sukuna let himself be still, standing in the quiet of the chamber. He reached out, his fingers brushing over the fabric once more, this time with more certainty, as if touching it again could bring you back, even for just an instant.

And in that moment, Ryomen Sukuna—the King of Curses, the immortal, the one who had never known regret, felt something in him break. It was a small thing, barely perceptible, but for the first time in a thousand years, Sukuna admitted something to himself, something he had buried deep within him and refused to acknowledge.

He missed you.

The realization hit him with the weight of a thousand years' worth of emotion that had never found its release. It wasn’t just the kimono. It wasn’t just the memories. It was the person you had been—the warmth you had given him, the way you had sewn not just fabric, but pieces of your soul into his life, despite all the darkness that surrounded him.

Sukuna closed his eyes for a moment, his breath deep and slow, before he looked down at the kimono once more. There was a strange sense of finality in the moment, as if the act of touching it somehow completed a circle long left unclosed.

“Uraume.” he said, his voice quieter now, more contemplative. “When you are done, make sure I can wear it tonight. No delays.”

Uraume glanced back at him, silent in their acknowledgement, and bowed. “Understood, my lord.”

And as they left, Sukuna lingered a moment longer in the quiet. The silence stretched, but for once, it wasn’t oppressive. He found himself lost in the memories of a time when the world had felt less cold, when you had been at his side.

And perhaps, he will never feel that again. Perhaps it was never meant to be. He had squandered his chance and now he suffers. He suffers life without you. And perhaps, that is his punishment. 

Ryomen Sukuna, this old immortal, this untouchable legend, this unshakable curse could not help but accept his fate. 

He accepted this punishment even if it was hard to do so, because there was nothing left of you without it.

For the first time in a long time that the King of Curses longs and yearns for his dearest concubine.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

The Return

Batter Up Chapter 7

Pairing: Baseball player Joel Miller x Female Reader Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI) Summary: After a month of being away from the game and the girl he loves, Joel Miller is back and ready to play. Warnings: smut, making a sex tape, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (reader has an IUD), cream pie, also regular pie, joel miller's dirty mouth, wine. Words: 5,000

A/N: Thank you to my dearest @devineconjuring and her beautiful brain for beta'ing and being my grammar goddess.

Masterlist Playlist

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The crowd chants Joel’s name, lights flicker through the stadium, the ground feels like it’s shaking beneath his feet. He loves this feeling—the rush of adrenaline coursing through him, the loud crowd drowning out every doubt he’s ever felt. After three weeks on the injured list and another week rehabbing in the minors–a month away from the big leagues–Joel Miller is back.

He walks to the plate, digging his heels into the dirt and tapping his bat against the plate as he soaks in the moment. 

“Miller, good to see you back,” the catcher says.

Joel nods, and grunts an acknowledgment back.

His eyes settle on the pitcher, some young phenom throwing 99-mph with almost every pitch. Don’t worry kid, you’ll get old like me.

The first pitch whooshes past him—ball one. 

Ball two.

Strike one.

The pitcher’s keeping it a little outside, Joel inches closer to the plate, squaring up. The pitcher winds up again, Joel takes a deep breath, feeling the vibration of the bat as it connects with the ball. The crack of the bat reverberates through the stadium as the ball soars past the infield, over the outfield, and disappears beyond the right-field fence.

Home run.

The crowd erupts, the celebratory bell tolls as he rounds the bases. His eyes scan the club box above third base, finding you amidst the cheering fans, your arms raised high, that smile of yours lighting up his heart.

Joel Miller is back, doing what he loves, and now in front of the woman he loves.

__

You’re so proud of him. You wipe the tears from your eyes as Joel’s feet touch home base. His recovery wasn’t easy. Every week away from the game for someone as old as him means double the work versus a young kid just in the game. Forty year olds aren’t known for being pro athletes. 

With the long Labor Day weekend, you were able to take time off from work and travel by train to Philadelphia to witness Joel's celebrated comeback, which had turned into a legend after his grand slam. Suddenly, all of your worries are lifted away. The stress of telling your families that you're a couple, your demanding job as a column writer at Sporting Digest that revolves around the ebb and flow of games, trades, and record breaking moments–none of it matters now.

Your responsibilities at work have been stacking up over the past few weeks. Churning out articles on everything from college football predictions to analyses of NBA draft picks. When you were hired you agreed to not cover baseball, what with the conflict of interest and all. Now, you dream of the headlines you could write about your boyfriend’s triumphant return. 

You’ve barely been able to leave your laptop. Last week, you spent three days shadowing a tennis star at the US Open, scribbling notes on her training and the pressure of being labeled the “next big thing.” You’ve barely had time to breathe, let alone do laundry, go grocery shopping, and, most importantly, be there for Joel. You put in countless hours of work to make this long weekend possible, just so you could witness his big comeback firsthand. 

“Heck of a player that Miller is,” you hear the TV in the corner say. “He sure knows how to show everyone he’s still got it, doesn’t he?” 

You clutch his number dangling from your neck, you’re so proud of him, always proving everybody wrong. Well worth every sacrifice. 

__

The Liberties win, 4-0, all thanks to Joel’s grand slam in the first inning. Sports radio is going to have a field day with this. 

You make your way down to the stadium’s corridors, where staff rush around with more important tasks than yours. 

The Liberties clubhouse sits just ahead of you, the two large blue doors stay closed to onlookers. You rest your back against the cold cinder block wall and send Joel a text, telling him to take his time.

A year ago, you never could’ve imagined this. Joel Miller—rugged, no-nonsense baseball star, the man who occupied your teenage dreams—now your boyfriend. The man who keeps your favorite pasta sauce in his pantry. The man who goes mattress shopping with you. It feels surreal, yet so real at the same time.

Every time that damn blue door opens your heart skips a beat, hoping you’ll find Joel walking out. False alarm after false alarm. 

Until…

Joel emerges, hair slicked back, wearing a gray Liberties shirt, khaki pants, and those cheesy white New Balance sneakers you tease him relentlessly about. Joel, you’re way too rich to be wearing these damn ragged shoes. 

“Hi baby,” he smiles as he wraps his arms around you, pushing you further against the wall. 

“Hi,” you breathlessly respond, smelling the body wash on his skin. Damn, he showered. “Good game.”

“It was, wasn’t it?”

You can’t help but smile at how happy he is, back where he belongs, doing what he loves.

“Come on,” he says, pulling you close. “Let’s go celebrate.” His arm stays around your waist as he leads you through the corridors to his car.

It’s so freeing now, being able to cheer for—and love—Joel out in the open, for all eyes to see.

__

“You know you made me cry today, right?” you say, reaching for his hand resting on your thigh.

“I did, huh?” he replies with a smirk on his face.

He always looks so confident as he drives. Philly’s narrow streets, filled with potholes and pedestrians, are nothing like Austin’s, but he navigates them as effortlessly as he does everything else—injuries, tough teammates, media storms. He handles it all like he handles a fastball: with ease.

“Yeah, I’m really proud of you,” you tell him softly, grabbing his hand harder. “I know I’ve said it a hundred times, but I’m just so happy to be here for you.”

He smiles that quiet Joel smile. “That’s how I feel watching you handle everything too.”

"So, where are we headed?" you ask, noticing you're not on the route to his apartment. “I hope I’m dressed okay,” you say, looking down at your simple red gingham dress. 

"It’s a surprise. You’ll be fine, you look beautiful baby," he says.

The car winds through the city. You glance over, watching the city lights flicker across his face as the car turns off the main road, slipping into a quieter neighborhood.

The car pulls up to a small, unassuming brick building tucked away on a quiet side street. No flashy sign, no valet—just a discreet, vintage lantern hangs above the door. It’s definitely a place Joel prefers. 

He turns off the car and turns to you, his hand still resting on your thigh. “Thought we’d keep it low-key,” his deep voice rumbles in the quiet of the car.

You nod, your smile widening. “Perfect.”

He steps out of the car and, ever the gentleman, comes around to open your door before guiding you toward the entrance. You wrap your arm around his, leaning into his warmth as he leads you inside.

—

“Mr. Miller, welcome to Vetri Cucina. We’re happy to have you here. Let me show you to your table.”

“Silvio," Joel says with a firm handshake. "Good to see you. Thanks."

Your eyes scan the cozy space. Shiny worn floorboards, warm amber walls, a glistening chandelier that hangs from the low ceiling–you’ve never seen a place like this before. Little did you know that behind the unassuming brick row home exterior there would be a whole functional restaurant. It feels like the perfect mix of a place for the two of you, rustic and intimate.

Silvio leads you both up a narrow staircase to a private room on the second floor. A table for two sits in the center of the room. A red glass chandelier hangs above it, candlelights flickering shadows across the golden walls.. 

“So, we’re still hiding our dinners with each other away from prying eyes?” you tease as Joel pulls the chair out for you and you take a seat.  

“Not exactly,” he says, taking your hand in his. “I just wanted to show off that I can get us a private table at one of the best restaurants in Philly.”

You laugh. “I’m sure there’s a Golden Corral around here.”

Joel chuckles. “Very funny. But trust me—you’ll love it here. They’ve got all the fancy dishes with those French words you like.”

“You know me too well.”

“Better than you think,” he says, his eyes gleaming under the golden light.

—

A waiter approaches, a polished smile on his face. “Good evening, and welcome. My name is Royal, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. We have a special tasting menu prepared just for you, personally selected by our chef. It’ll start with an appetizer, followed by a pasta course, a main, and dessert.” 

Your mouth waters as Royal pours you a glass of wine. 

”Each course will be paired with a wine from our grand collection. Your first course will be out shortly. In the meantime, is there anything else I can bring you?”

Joel shakes his head. “We’re all set, thanks.”

“Wow,” you say once the waiter leaves, glancing around the elegantly set table. “I feel a little underdressed for a tasting menu.”

Joel shrugs. “I have a feeling they won’t care what we’re wearing once I pay the bill. Besides,” he says with a smile, “I like you in that red dress.”

“Atta boy, Texas,” you say, smiling as you sip your wine.

—

After a couple courses of delicious appetizers that you happily eat, but Joel barely touches, the water returns, presenting the main course with a flourish. 

"For your entrée, we have our signature dish: salt-crusted tilapia with a bread salad of parsley and tomatoes, alongside grilled artichokes on a bed of smoked squash puree."

You glance at Joel as the waiter expertly cracks the salt crust, revealing the perfectly cooked fish underneath. You know Joel hates fish and artichokes. The waiter sets down two glasses of white wine and disappears, leaving you both alone with the dish.

"Baby, what are you going to do?" you ask, eyes wide as Joel picks up his fork.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m here to impress you,” he says with determination before spearing a piece of the fish. He takes a bite, his nose crinkling ever so slightly as he chews.

“How is it?” you ask, biting back a smile.

Joel grimaces. “I’ve had better.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Please don’t eat it. I know the only fish you like is fried.”

“Always been more of a Filet O Fish man myself.”

“I don’t think they’ve got tartar sauce here, so please, for me, don’t force yourself.”

He sets down his fork with a relieved sigh, his hand finding yours again. “Anything for you.”

When the waiter returns, he doesn’t comment on Joel’s barely touched plate, but you notice a subtle, appreciative smile as he clears away your empty dish.

“Well,” you say, leaning back, happy and full from dinner. “At least there’s dessert.”

“Never said no to dessert,” he chuckles, before looking you in the eyes with adoration. 

"You know," he begins, his voice low and serious, "I couldn't have done this without you. Coming back after my injury—”

Joel's voice trails off as he searches for the right words. His eyes stare into yours. You squeeze his hand encouragingly, needing to hear more. 

“It wasn’t just physical,” he continues. “It was mental. Wondering if I still had it within me, if I was too old, if it was time for me to hang up my cleats. But you—you never doubted me for a second.”

Tears pool in your eyes as his thumb brushes back and forth against your knuckles. 

"I’ve always been your fan, Joel. I’ll always believe in you.”

He nods, a small smile lighting his face. “I know, and that’s what got me through. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you smile through tears. 

The waiter approaches with dessert, you silently thank the interruption so you’re not left sobbing in the middle of this beautiful restaurant over how much you love your boyfriend. 

A familiar slice of pie is placed in front of you and Joel.

“Uppercrust?” you excitedly ask, your eyes widening at the large, glazed pecans laying atop the golden crust. 

Joel gives a shy, satisfied nod, his lips curving into that familiar, gentle smile. "Thought we’d end the night with our favorite. Had Sarah overnight it to the restaurant."

“Jooooel,” you breathe out, overwhelmed by his thoughtfulness. You stare at the pie, stunned by how deeply he cares for you.

“All for you baby,” he says softly as he lifts his fork and cheers with a playful smile. “Cheers to Austin and that hotel bar.”

You laugh, grabbing your own fork and tapping it against his. “Cheers,” you whisper, trying to steady your voice. 

“Oh my god,” you moan around the fork at the first taste of sweet pie. “I can’t believe you got this. You’re too good to me.”

He barks a laugh. “Baby, this is nothing, I owe you so much.” 

The pie is sweet, but your boyfriend is sweeter. 

The sweet wine served with the pie warms your body, Joel’s smile from across the table warms you even more. You sneakily slip your foot out of its sandal, and run it up his leg, making your way up to his crotch. He jumps in surprise, his eyes leer at you as he takes a sip of wine. Your foot finds its target, against the soft fabric of his pants, thankful for the white tablecloth that hangs from the table. He places a hand on your foot, pushing it closer to his crotch. You giggle as your toes wiggle back and forth, teasing him. 

“So, what’s next?” you ask, with a mischievous grin.

"Well, after we finish dinner, I'll pay the bill, grab some leftover pie for later...and then take you home and fuck you," he responds confidently.

A small hmph escapes your lips at the promise. “Is that so?”

“Oh, it absolutely is,” he replies, a sly grin spreading across his face. He leans in close, his voice lowering to a secretive whisper. “Just think about it—my place, those fancy sheets of mine you love so much…”

His hand wraps around your foot, pressing it harder against him. 

“Now you’re just making me impatient,” you tease. 

—-

The plates are cleared, the leftover pie is boxed up, Joel settles the bill and rises from his seat, extending his hand to help you up. 

Your fingers lace together as you step out into the warm summer night. Joel leads you to his car, unlocking it and opening the door for you. You lean over and seal your mouth over his, relishing in being able to kiss him out in the open. You pull away and give him a smirk before getting in and sliding across the passenger seat, your heart racing with anticipation for the next stop—Joel’s apartment. 

Your time together has been precious and few. Your career keeps you north in New York, Joel’s training and rehabilitation game have kept him busy and all over the states. But now, you finally have three nights together—the most time you've had since his injury a month ago. 

He glances over at you and winks before he adjusts the rearview mirror. You miss his truck back in Austin, the front bench seat allowing you to slide over and cuddle him close. You curse the existence of the center console. 

“Buckle up, baby,” he says with a grin. Your heart races at the double entendre. 

—-

Taking the elevator up to Joel's penthouse brings back memories of that first night together, when you couldn't believe how handsome he looked in that golden elevator at the hotel, not believing you were about to sleep with Joel Miller. Now, his body presses against yours as you lean on him, his head nestled in the crook of your neck as he leaves sweet kisses down your skin to the matching pendant of his number you wear, leaving a kiss against it before his eyes meet yours. 

“I can’t tell you how much I love seeing this on you, baby,” he says before licking his way up to your mouth, sealing his over yours. He grabs your ass, lifting you into his hold, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, your arms wrap around his wide shoulders. 

The elevator doors open and he carries you into his penthouse, crowding you against the entryway wall. His mouth moves against yours with fervor, deepening the kiss as your fingers tangle in his hair. You gasp against his mouth, the cool wall chilling your overheated skin. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath warm and sweet against your lips. “I’ve missed this—missed you.”

He turns and carries you to the living room. The ambient city lights shining in from the floor-to-ceiling windows light Joel’s way. He gently sets you down on the couch and slides his hand to the back of your neck, pulling you closer for another kiss.

“Let me show you how much I’ve missed you, baby,” he whispers against your lips, pausing to look into your eyes.

You nod, breathless and eyes wide. “Please,” you whisper. 

He grins, standing back slightly, taking in the sight of you sprawled on his couch, dress askew. “You look so damn good.” 

His hands rest on the hem of your dress and, with a cocky grin, he slowly lifts it up, exposing the soft skin of your thighs. 

“God, this is all I’ve been thinking about. Drove to the ballpark thinking about you, stepped up to the plate thinking about you, and, baby,when I saw you in the stands… all I could think about was you naked in my arms.” 

“Joel…” you struggle to find the words, already lust-drunk on his words. 

“I need to taste you.” 

He drops down to his knees in front of you, his large fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear and sliding them off.

You bite your lip as he grips your thighs and spreads them apart.

He breathes out a deep sigh at the sight of you. A low whistle leaves his lips. “There she is, she’s so fuckin’ pretty.”

He leans closer and places soft kisses along your inner thighs, teasingly slow, making your heart race even faster.

“Joel…” you plead.

He spreads you wider, warm breath teasing against your core. He licks a long, slow line from bottom to top, humming appreciatively at the first taste of you. 

Your back arches, a gasp escaping your lips. "Oh my God," you breathe.

His rough palms grip your thighs, thick fingers digging into the flesh as he holds you steady. His hot breath tickles your skin as he licks you. "God, you taste so good," he murmurs against you, his voice vibrating against your cunt. “Missed this taste.” 

His tongue explores you as your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping the soft waves of his dark strands.

Two thick fingers slide inside you, stretching you perfectly. Plush lips close around your clit, sucking and lapping at your sensitive nub.

It's been almost a month since he last touched you like this, and now with his skilled mouth and fingers all over you, your body is ready to let go.

“Joel,” you moan. “C-close.”

He enthusiastically hums against you, deep brown eyes staring into yours from under furrowed brows. His fingers pumping in and out of you as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your pussy pulses against his thick fingers, squeezing them as you bloom under the pleasure of finally feeling his touch. Goosebumps rise all over your skin, cheeks heating, legs trembling, and your eyes tightly shut… and when he curls his fingers upwards inside you, your orgasm crashes into you, your pussy soaking his hand and your voice screaming his name. He doesn't stop, continuing to lick and tease you through your orgasm until it's all too much and you're pulling at his hair.

He pulls back with a satisfied smile and kisses your inner thigh before standing and placing a kiss on your lips. You taste yourself as he licks into your mouth. His plush lips sucking against yours. 

Before you can catch your breath, Joel scoops you up in his strong arms, throwing you over his shoulder and carrying you into his bedroom. You giggle as he smacks your ass and growls. 

He sets you on the edge of his bed, the crisp white sheets cool against your overheated skin. He steps back, his eyes roaming over your body. 

“Stay right there,” he says as he moves to the closet, rummaging around for a moment before returning with a black camera and tripod in hand. 

Your breath catches at the sight as he sets them up, carefully adjusting the angle. 

The tiny red recording light blinks on and the little screen lights up. There you are, all disheveled—dress hiked up, your lips full and swollen from Joel’s mouth. 

His eyes meet yours. “Is this okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, excitement running through your body. “Yes,” you breathe. 

He grins as he removes his shirt, tossing it to the side before he steps out of his pants. He stays behind the camera, standing in the shadows like a director. “Go ahead baby, take it all off.”

You stand slowly, your heart racing at Joel and the camera’s attention. Dark brown eyes watch you intently from behind the camera, his eyes never leaving your every movement. You reach back and unzip your dress, pulling it down, as you slowly slip the straps off, letting the dress fall to the floor, the red gingham fabric pooling at your feet. 

"God, you're gorgeous,” he whispers.

You reach behind to unclasp your bra, staring at Joel as you let it fall away. Your breasts are exposed to his eyes and the camera, your nipples hardening in the cool air. You’re completely bare now except for the necklace with his number. 

"Touch yourself for me, baby," he instructs softly.

You smile, running your hands slowly up your sides, cupping your breasts. Your fingers glide over your nipples, teasing them to stiff peaks before you back up against the bed and lay across it, spreading your legs wide for the camera and Joel. Your hand snakes down your body, across your stomach, down to the apex of your thighs. 

You lock eyes with Joel as you slowly circle your clit, your breath hitching. His gaze is dark from behind the camera, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You can see the outline of his cock straining against his boxer briefs as he watches you pleasure yourself. Your fingers dip lower, sliding into your wet heat.

"That's it, baby," he groans. "Show me how you like to be touched."

Your other hand kneads your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple.

Joel steps out from behind the camera, moving to the edge of the bed. He strips off his boxers, his thick cock springing free. He strokes himself slowly as he watches you.

"You're so fucking sexy," he growls.

You whimper at his words, your fingers moving faster. "Please, baby,” you whine, “I need you."

He grabs your foot and turns you on the cool, slick sheets. Glancing over at the camera’s small display screen to check the angle of your body.  

He climbs on the bed and you instantly welcome the warmth of his presence and his broad body. He positions himself between your legs, gripping his cock and running the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness. Your breath catches as he slowly pushes inside, a smile lighting your face at finally feeling him inside you.

"Fuck," he groans, his eyes fluttering closed as he bottoms out. "You feel so good, baby. So tight and wet for me."

You moan as he starts to move, his hips rolling against yours in a steady rhythm. Your hands glide over the expanse of his shoulders and down his muscular back, relishing in feeling the flex of his strong muscles with each thrust.

He leans down, capturing your lips. His tongue tangles with yours as he picks up the pace, fucking you harder. 

"Look at the camera, baby," Joel murmurs against your neck. "Let's show it how good I make you feel."

You tilt your head, looking directly at the camera lens with heavy-lidded eyes. The knowledge that you are being recorded, that Joel will watch this later, that the two of you will get off while watching yourselves… it’s a new thrill for you. You moan louder, arching your back higher as Joel fucks you. 

"Touch yourself for me," he commands.

Your hand snakes between your bodies, fingers finding your clit. 

"Oh god, baby," you moan, your fingers working furiously at your clit as he pounds into you. "I'm so close."

Joel's rhythm falters slightly as he watches you touch yourself, sweat glistening on his brow. "That's it. Cum for me. Let me feel you."

Your voice echoes through the room as you cry out Joel’s name, your body trembling as your walls clench tightly around him. 

“Fuck,” he grunts, his hips snapping against yours. “So fucking good, you cum so fucking good for me. So fucking tight.”

He pulls your body towards him, sitting up on the bed, his cock still buried deep inside of you. You take control and ride him, your legs wrapping around his waist as you grind down on him. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding you.

“That’s it baby. Take what you need from me,” he growls.

Your hands tangle in the short waves of his hair, pulling him in for a kiss. Your tongues exploring each other’s mouths, bodies glistening with sweat.

He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his nose bumping against yours. “I love you. God damn baby, I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” you moan as he thrusts up into you.  

He captures your lips again. “I’m close,” he groans against your mouth. “Cum with me baby. Give me one more.”

His hand snakes down between your bodies, his thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles against it as you bounce on his cock. 

You cry out his name as you orgasm, Joel’s fingers and cock working in tandem to push you over the ledge. You turn your head to the camera, staring into it as you chant Joel’s name while your walls clench around his cock. 

“Oh fuck baby,” Joel groans, his hips stuttering. “I’m gonna cum for you.”

In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist as he buries his face into the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he chases his own release. Your hands run down his back, feeling the flex of his muscles with each thrust.

"Cum for me, Joel, I want to feel you cum inside me."

With a final and deep thrust, Joel stills above you. He groans your name as he empties himself inside you, his cock pulsing with each spurt. He fills you with his release, still gently fucking you with soft thrusts, pushing his seed deeper inside you. 

He leans over and grabs the camera, his cock still plunged deep inside you. With a sly smile, he films your face, capturing the bliss across it.

“Look at you,” he admires, “smiling all sweetly, all drunk on my cock and cum, aren’t you baby?”

You moan a response and nod eagerly. 

He chuckles as he pulls out, shuffling his body down to settle in between your legs. Joel positions the camera between your thighs, spreading them apart and running a finger through your cunt, swollen and slick with his spend pulsating out of you.

“Look at you, leakin’ everywhere,” he groans, collecting himself across his fingers and sticking it inside you. “Can’t have that, now can we?” 

His eyes stay focused on the little screen, watching his fingers pump in and out of your overworked cunt. 

“Fuckin’ filthy baby,” he angles his fingers, your slick squelches loudly across the room. 

Writhing and whining under his touch, your skin is overheated, your pussy radiating heat across your body. 

He pulls his soaked finger out, wiping it across your folds. “Show me how you drip baby, let me see.” 

A gush of his cum leaks out of you, the warm liquid runs down your ass, pooling on the bed. 

“Fucccccccccck,” he growls. “Can’t stop looking at this.” 

He zooms out, capturing your whole body in the frame. 

“Tell me whose pussy this is,” he instructs.

“Yours,” you breathlessly respond.

“That’s it baby,” he growls, before his eyes lift from the camera and into yours. “I love you,” he softly says, his eyes rounding in reverence. 

“I love you too.”

He grins, standing up from the bed and switching off the camera before placing it down on the bedside table.

“That was incredible,” you sigh. “I can’t believe we just did that.” 

A smile spreads across his face as he leans down to give you a tender kiss on the lips. "We'll have to watch it later," he says before heading to the bathroom. He returns with a damp towel and gently wipes between your legs, before planting a kiss on your forehead and turning to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” you slur, too blissed out of your mind. 

“To get pie. I’m starving.”

[lapisamethyst]

Absolutely love these designs. I don't see your lore for them posted yet, I hope you don't mind if I give my impression on each just from the design.

The Magician's wide eyes and overall "poofyness" definitely makes me think of the Damsel. Between the name and other details of the design she also appears to be some form of entertainer.

My speculation would be that she perhaps branches off from the "Deconstructed Damsel" ending, instead of said damsel being taken as-is, something happens during that and you die. The Magician then comes into being as a chapter 3, perhaps tapping into a more lucid control of the scenario like Tower or Apotheosis, but instead of using that lucidity to enforce her own power, she's still in the mindset of wanting to "make you happy." And so that's what she does, or at least tries to do. Clearly the problem last time is that she was too passive, she wasn't entertaining, and so now she's going to fix that, using what limited resources she has. She has this cool knife at least, surely there's some entertaining things she can do with it. From there I could envision either us attempting repeatedly to grab the knife from her only for it to vanish in increasingly cartoony ways, or alternatively her repeatedly nearly killing us with it while insisting she's just trying to entertain and make us happy.

The Masquerade's name alone brings certain concepts to mind, and the design fits into those same concepts. Surely there's some form of deception at work, both with getting to her and with her scenario.

I'd guess that she's either a chapter 2 that you reach similar to the Witch, first approaching with good intentions only to betray her later, or perhaps she's a chapter 3 that splits off from one of the Witch's endings where you kill each other on the stairs. The dance of feigned trust followed by betrayal defines her, and this time she's taking a more active role in it. Perhaps she even starts by pretending to offer a branch before the killings, or attempts to kill, begin.

The Plague definitely evokes similar feelings as the Wraith. There's a certain ghostliness to her and she is definitely out for vengeance.

I can't really guess where she'd split off from, but in terms of her scenario, between the ghostliness and her name, perhaps she'd be an alternative take on The Wild? She's there, ever present, haunting you, a part of you, slowly but surely killing you from within, yet a distinct entity from yourself. Fleeing her is useless, confronting her is pointless. A disease isn't something you can stab to rid yourself of. I can easily see her playing into the themes of inevitable change.

Some fan princesses before i go to bed. Lore on them in the morning if anyone cares put ut in the tags if ya want that ig

[creamflix]

UNSCRIPTED — toji fushiguro x female reader [chapter 5/5]

summary: you’re a faceless author of scandalous smut — great at writing steamy scenes but totally clueless about real-life romance (and with no one to match your freak). enter toji fushiguro, a hot stranger you (accidentally) throw up on during a drunken night out. surprise! he’s also the future voice actor for your smutty novel’s main character. can you survive the awkwardness of your disastrous meet-cute while keeping your identity (and dignity) a secret? welcome to the chaos of your own erotic fantasy romcom!

content warning & tags: (erotic) voice artist! toji, (smut) writer! reader, smutty content!! [in this chapter: slight dubcon/cnc (?), virginity loss, riding, switch! toji, sort of dom!reader, pussy drunk toji, kind of wholesome, whole lot of yapping], sort of workplace romance, secret/anon identity, slight social media au, meet-cute, virgin!reader, single dad dilf! toji, kid! megumi, strangers to lovers (?), she fell first but he fell harder, mentions of other characters (satoru gojo, suguru geto, megumi fushiguro, shoko eiri, brief mentions of ryomen sukuna)

notes: two chapters a day, who is this diva !!? nah i had this around and i could not help but post it today. it will either mean you all binge read it, or you all completely forget that either chapter has been posted. curse this damn algo! or maybe i am just overenthusiastically posting. but gaaahhhh!! can't believe we are at the end </3 !! thank you thank you THANK YOU !! for the love, i'm so beyond grateful. thank you for letting va toji and smut writer reader in your dashboards and following them along on their stupid meet-cute journey <3 and, please don't be mad about the epilogue, i SWEAR megumi is not like other guys [he is just like his dad...]. also, if you're confused about the ending, PLEASE!! read persephone. it's not as emotional and funny as this one, but...read it so that you could make sense of the plot? IDKKK. or don't i think it's pretty self-explanatory. but in all honesty, the freaky scene was really difficult to write in this chapter, and i really apologise if it seems..."anti-climatic" or a "letdown" or "not smutty enough" :") it's a lot more yapping and emotion based, not something i do often but i sorta liked writing it? i don't know, sometimes you should take a break from the dirty talk and just talk to yourself...eugh what am i saying, anyways! please, enjoy. and let me know how you liked this - comments, reblogs - i'm spying on them all  

read on ao3! ● series masterlist

➤ related au: persephone [business tycoon! sukuna x reader]

your phone buzzes quietly on the nightstand, and you reach over, still half-buried in blankets, to check the message. toji grumbles beside you, wrapping an arm lazily around your waist, pulling you right back to him. “don’t even think about leaving this bed,” he mumbles against your shoulder, voice rough with sleep.

you squint at your screen, smiling as shoko’s name lights up with a string of texts.

shoko: mission successful. megumi has been delivered to the institution of learning. shoko: also, fyi, we're stealing the limo for the dayshoko: and no, we won’t be back until we’re legally obligated. don’t worry, we’ll keep gojo under control… mostly shoko: enjoy your alone time, lovebirds 😘

you chuckle, typing back a quick reply.

you: thank you, dearest shoko. keep gojo from being arrested plz 😭 you: we really do appreciate it, but just know i have zero faith in ur ability to contain gojo, lol shoko: fair enough, neither do i

toji tightens his hold around you, grumbling, “what’s so funny? thought you were all mine this morning.”

you turn, placing your phone on the nightstand as you nestle back against him. “just shoko. apparently, she, gojo, and geto did drop megumi off at school. in the limo.”

toji lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “bet those teachers are loving that.”

“oh, absolutely. i’m sure gojo made it a whole production, too.” you laugh, imagining the scene — a horrified teacher watching the three self-proclaimed “cool” adults proudly unloading an amused, completely willing megumi from the limo like he’s some kind of celebrity.

toji’s hand slides up your back, sending a warm shiver down your spine. “good,” he murmurs, a lazy smirk on his face. “means we’ve got all day.”

you bite back a grin. “is that so, mr. fushiguro?”

“damn right, mrs. fushiguro,” he whispers, and there’s that flutter in your chest again. 

mrs. fushiguro — it’s still so new, so surreal. you lean into his touch, feeling that warmth radiate from him, that steady presence that’s been with you for so long, but now, somehow, feels even closer.

“god, that sounds… i don’t know. just amazing,” you murmur, voice almost shy. “it’s crazy how much changes when we’re just… us.”

he leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead, and it’s so soft, so tender, it’s enough to make your heart do another flip. 

“yeah? feelin’ all mushy on me now, are ya?” he teases, smirking down at you, but his voice is so soft, so genuine.

“maybe i am,” you admit, tracing small circles on his chest with your finger. “just… thinking about how lucky i am. how lucky we are. you… me… and megumi.” the last part brings a smile to your lips, the idea of the three of you, a real family, settled and safe and happy.

toji’s eyes soften, and he leans in to kiss you, slow and warm. “trust me, i’m the lucky one,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to cradle your face as he gazes at you. “i’ve got you, i’ve got ‘gumi… i got everything i need right here.”

you look away for a second, laughing softly to hide how much his words make your heart ache in the best way. “if anyone heard you right now, they’d never believe the tough guy act you put on.”

“hey, don’t go spreading rumors,” he warns, but his smile gives him away. “only you get to see me like this.” his fingers stroke along your cheek as he adds, “my best side.”

you look up at him, a rush of affection filling your chest so full you feel it might burst. “i just… i feel like the luckiest person alive. like… what did i do to end up here with you?”

“you didn’t have to do anything, baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “just had to be you.”

you both settle into a comfortable silence, his hand finding yours under the covers, fingers interlacing. there’s something so perfect, so still about this moment — just lying together, his thumb brushing idly over your knuckles. the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart — it’s like every worry, every noise from the world fades away, leaving just the two of you cocooned here in the quiet, the morning sun filtering softly through the curtains.

you close your eyes, sighing contentedly. “i could stay like this forever, you know.”

he chuckles, pulling you closer. “good. ‘cause i’m not lettin’ you go anywhere.”

you’re just basking in the warm silence, feeling utterly at peace, when toji leans in, his voice low and smooth in your ear. "so, mrs. fushiguro,” he drawls, a smirk creeping onto his lips, “wasn’t there talk of a… private reading of that dragon king sequel?”

oh, no. 

oh, no. 

you blink at him, trying to keep a straight face. 

this man is absolutely trying to get in your pants with literature. 

who does that? well, toji does, apparently. and damn him for knowing you’d promised him a private reading of that particular book launch. a foolish vow you made months ago, when you didn’t think he’d actually remember. 

but, of course, he remembers everything.

“i… um,” you stammer, your cheeks heating. “that was — okay, that was months ago, toji. i didn’t think you’d actually —”

“you didn’t think i’d remember?” he grins, and it’s the kind of grin that tells you you’re not getting out of this. “i remember everything, sweetheart. especially when it involves… let’s say, romantic storytelling?”

romantic storytelling, huh? right. 

sure. that’s one way to put it.

“toji, it’s not just, you know, romantic storytelling,” you mutter, cheeks warming even more. “i mean, it’s got… dragons. and quests. and —”

“oh, i remember chapter twenty just fine,” he cuts in, that cheeky smirk now completely in control of the situation. he leans closer, his face inches from yours, all smug and mischievous. 

“you know, the one where the dragon king finds his queen and… gives her a real good ‘welcome’?”

your mouth goes dry. 

this absolute menace. he’s got the audacity to remember chapter twenty?

“oh, you mean the ‘epic battle scene,’ right?” you try, feigning innocence. “where they’re fighting for the fate of the kingdom, and it’s super dramatic, lots of… explosions, you know?”

he laughs, low and deep, and god, it’s unfair how sexy he makes laughing sound. “sure, if you’re talking about the fireworks when the dragon king finally, you know…” he raises an eyebrow. 

“claims his queen.”

you are done for. 

“toji —” you start, but he’s already pushing himself up, reaching over to grab a copy of your book from the nightstand. you mentally curse past you for being sentimental enough to keep a copy so close by.

“here we go,” he says, flipping through the pages, and damn it, he’s really going for it. “right to chapter twenty. ah… here. listen to this, babe.” he clears his throat dramatically, as if he’s about to perform the damn shakespearean sonnet of the year. 

“the dragon king leaned in, his voice a whisper like embers in the dark, promising the queen his undying loyalty, his soul, his fire —”

“toji,” you hiss, trying not to laugh because this is utterly ridiculous. but also kind of the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

“— and his lips claimed hers with the kind of passion only a dragon king possessed,” he continues, absolutely deadpan. 

his eyes flicker up to yours, and the next thing you know, he’s leaning in, his mouth soft against yours, playful, slow. “see?” he murmurs against your lips, teasing. “it’s right there in the text.”

you barely hold back a giggle. “toji fushiguro, you are not… using my own book to seduce me.”

he grins, kissing the corner of your mouth. “oh, sweetheart. i absolutely am. and i’m pretty sure you’re enjoying it, too.” his hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer, and damn it, you are enjoying this.

“this is absurd,” you mutter, though your words lose their conviction as he trails kisses down your neck, each one soft and teasing. “you’re ridiculous.”

“ridiculous,” he murmurs between kisses, “for my beautiful wife who writes… excellent dragon king romances? definitely.” he pauses, looking up at you with that glint in his eyes that you know spells trouble. 

“and don’t act like you don’t find it hot, mrs. fushiguro. we both know that’s a lie.”

you groan, flopping back against the pillows. “why did i write chapter twenty like that? i’ve doomed myself.”

he raises an eyebrow, that smirk even more devilish. “hey, i’m just a fan, enjoying a private reading,” he says, leaning back in to brush his lips against yours, soft and gentle at first, but deepening, his hand cupping your cheek in that way that drives you crazy. 

“go on,” he whispers, voice low, “read for me.”

your heart’s pounding now, every nerve in your body alive with the feel of him so close, his eyes warm and mischievous and so damn loving. 

you swallow, taking a steadying breath, and somehow, miraculously, you manage to open the book and start reading in a low, slightly shaky voice.

“the dragon king wrapped his arms around her,” you read, feeling your voice hitch as toji’s fingers trace little patterns along your arm, sending shivers through you, “his breath warm against her ear, promising her… his devotion. his soul. his fire.”

“mmm,” toji murmurs, pressing a kiss to your jawline. “keep going. this is getting good.”

you continue, barely able to concentrate because he’s absolutely enjoying every second of this. 

“and as his lips met hers, it was like… like an explosion of heat, consuming them both in a moment so intense it could… melt worlds.” you swallow, feeling his hand slide around your waist, his face close to yours, his gaze dark with desire.

“you know, i think your writing really captures the, uh, tension here,” he teases, his voice a rough whisper against your ear.

“you’re impossible,” you say, laughing despite yourself as he pulls you back down onto the bed, his kisses now less playful, more earnest, his hand finding yours, fingers interlacing like they belong there.

“impossibly in love with my talented, beautiful wife,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips soft and warm. “the one who just happens to write the best damn dragon romances out there.”

you let out a breathless laugh, burying your face in his shoulder. “if my readers could see this right now, they’d probably riot.”

he chuckles, pulling you close, his hand running through your hair. “well, they don’t get this version of you. that’s all mine.”

you look up at him, heart swelling with so much love you feel you might burst. “yeah?” you murmur, feeling your voice go soft, your hand reaching up to trace his jawline.

“yeah,” he says, leaning in to kiss you, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that makes you forget the whole world, until there’s just him, just you, just the two of you tangled together in this little piece of forever.

you’re deep in the moment, hands tangled around toji’s neck, your heart racing, and then thump! — your hardcover book smacks him right on the back of his head. 

you freeze, horrified, but toji just blinks, a slow grin spreading across his face. where you see a mood-killer, he sees a grand opportunity.

“well, well,” he says, rubbing the spot with exaggerated drama, “guess the dragon king’s under attack.” 

then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he reaches down, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “only one way to counter this… surprise assault.”

before you can say a word, he pulls the shirt over his head, revealing that ridiculous six — or is it eight? — pack of his. you lose count every time. the man’s a walking anatomy lesson.

he leans back against the pillows, arms casually behind his head like he’s just some unassuming king lounging in his castle. 

“so,” he drawls, raising an eyebrow, “don’t you think it’s only fair for ‘equality’ reasons that you join me in my… wardrobe adjustments?”

you stare at him, knowing exactly what he’s doing, but still, the smirk on his face is impossible to resist. 

“oh, ‘equality,’ huh?” you laugh, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “you’re seriously using that excuse?”

“hey,” he says with an innocent shrug, though that devilish grin gives him away. “you hit me on the head. you owe me. this is… reparations.”

“reparations?” you raise an eyebrow, feigning disbelief as you fiddle with the book, stalling, though your heart’s racing. “i think you just want me out of my shirt.”

“yeah, obviously.” his eyes sparkle, not an ounce of shame. “you’ve got the dragon king here, and he’s got a… well, let’s just call it a mighty thirst for, uh, ‘visual balance.’”

you laugh, shaking your head. “visual balance? you’re just making things up now!”

“come on,” he says, reaching out and gently tugging at the hem of your shirt with that smirk that melts you every time. “for equality. and… maybe chapter twenty accuracy?”

you try to hold in a laugh, failing miserably. “oh, now you’re committed to accuracy, are you?”

“absolutely.” he leans in, his eyes meeting yours, that smirk growing softer, somehow more sincere. “besides,” he murmurs, voice low, “i’m not about to let some book have all the fun of a private reading with you.”

his words send warmth straight to your chest, and you find yourself surrendering to his playfulness. slowly, you lift the hem of your shirt, and his gaze never leaves yours, following each movement with that quiet intensity that makes you feel like you’re the only thing in his world.

“happy now?” you ask, raising an eyebrow once the shirt is off and tossed to the side.

toji’s gaze trails over you, his smile widening. “mmm, much better,” he says, voice a low rumble. he reaches out, pulling you close until you’re practically lying on top of him, his hands resting lightly on your waist. 

“now,” he whispers, his breath warm against your cheek, “about that private reading…”

“you mean, before the book tries to knock you out again?” you say, laughing softly as he grins.

“nah,” he replies, pulling you closer, voice softer now. “i think i’d rather hear it from you… no books, no pages. just us.” his hand slides up your back, his touch so familiar, so gentle, and suddenly, you’re not laughing anymore, just looking into his eyes, feeling like you’re in your own story, one that’s still being written.

“fine,” you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder as he holds you close, his fingers brushing through your hair. “i’ll read to you, toji. but only if you promise…” you pause, smirking, “not to bring out any more ‘dragon king’ moves.”

he chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “no promises,” he murmurs, voice warm and full of laughter.

you’re lost in the warmth of his embrace, melting into him as your lips meet, his hands firm on your waist, grounding you as you straddle him. skin to skin, chest to chest, heartbeats syncing — it's everything a newlywed morning should be. but then… 

oh.

you feel it. 

that very… unignorable reminder pressing insistently against you, and the realization hits like a lightning bolt, your face heating up as if someone turned the thermostat up to a hundred. 

you swallow, suddenly very aware of the “problem” in question, and try your hardest to keep a straight face. 

it’s not like this is new or anything. toji’s your husband. this is normal. completely normal. all husbands feel like this for their wives, right? 

right.

but he’s… so unbothered. he doesn’t even hesitate, just keeps his hands on you, tracing slow circles along your back, his thumb brushing over your skin, his lips curling into a smirk like he knows exactly how much he’s affecting you. and maybe he does. 

of course he does.

“toji,” you manage to whisper, barely holding it together, but he’s already looking at you with that lazy, smug grin, like you’re his personal sunrise, and he’s basking in every single second. 

“you, uh… you sure you’re okay there?”

“me?” he raises an eyebrow, all innocence as he chuckles, his voice a warm, sleepy rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “i’m more than okay, sweetheart. just enjoying my beautiful wife on our first morning as mr. and mrs. fushiguro.” he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone that’s entirely too distracting. 

“besides,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin, “i think you’re the one who’s a little… flustered.”

flustered? you? 

“toji, you’ve got a —” you start, but he interrupts, grinning wickedly.

“a ‘normal human reaction’?” he teases, voice dropping to that smooth, low register that drives you crazy. “can’t help it when you’re this close. on top of me. looking like that.”

you cover your face with your hands, half-laughing, half-dying of embarrassment. “stop — oh my god, you’re insufferable.”

“and you love it,” he says, lifting your chin to meet his gaze. his eyes are soft, sincere, with a glint of mischief as he tilts his head. “what’s a husband supposed to do? just look at you? you make it real hard, y’know?”

he lets out a low laugh at your expression and then holds you tighter, his hands warm and steady on your waist. 

“guess we’re not getting out of bed for a while, huh?”

you’re not sure what’s come over you — maybe it’s the morning sunlight streaming in, soft and hazy; maybe it’s the devilish little voice in your head nudging you forward. 

but somehow, here you are, straddling your very, very surprised husband, taking matters (and his pants) into your own hands. 

and, well, let’s just say you got a little… ambitious.

before you even have time to think, you’re, um… fully committed. 

as in, no turning back. 

as in, you’re in.

toji’s eyes go wide, his hands gripping your hips as if he’s trying to catch up to what’s happening. his breath hitches, his head falling back against the pillow, and he lets out something between a sob and what might be a moan. 

his cheeks are flushed, his jaw tight, and for a second, he just stares up at you with a look that’s a mix of reverence and utter disbelief.

“you… y-you just… did you just — ?” he manages to stammer, the words catching in his throat, and suddenly, you’re the one who’s freaking out. 

the reality of what you just did hits like a freight train, and you’re not prepared.

“uh… yes?” you squeak, as if you’re also trying to convince yourself. a nervous laugh escapes you. “i mean… yeah. i just… i thought… y’know, we’re married now, so… spontaneity?”

toji’s lips press into a shaky smile, his fingers tightening on your waist. 

“spontaneity, huh?” he repeats, a breathless laugh bubbling up as he tries to process the situation. “damn, sweetheart, you really know how to keep a guy on his toes.”

your cheeks heat up, and you suddenly realize just how locked into this you are. 

no backing out now, not when you’re quite literally in the thick of it. 

“oh god,” you mutter, half to yourself. “did i just… did i seriously just yolo this?”

toji laughs, his thumb tracing comforting circles on your hip, his voice a little strained but warm as ever. “honestly? kind of the best ones of my life. but if you’re freaking out… we can take a breather.”

but there’s something in his gaze — something soft and genuine, with that signature spark of mischief — that steadies you a little. you take a breath, letting his presence calm your nerves. 

and then, with a shaky smile, you lean down, pressing your forehead to his.

“just… don’t move too fast, okay?” you whisper, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“you’re the boss, mrs. fushiguro,” he murmurs, voice low and tender, and he pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you, holding you steady. “locked and loaded… best way to start the day.”

you try to summon every ounce of confidence your heroines have ever possessed — the boldness, the sass, the sheer conviction that they know exactly what they're doing. 

but here you are, completely frozen, caught somewhere between exhilaration and abject terror. 

your mind is racing, but your body? not so much. you can’t seem to move.

and to make matters worse, there’s a tiny part of you that’s panicking, the same part that has you wiggling slightly as you try to find any semblance of control. 

naturally, he notices, and, of course, he feels it, too.

toji’s eyes soften, his mouth curving into that warm, almost-too-perfect smile that always settles your nerves, and his hands move gently to your hips, steadying you with the barest of pressure. you’re not sure if he’s trying to keep you from falling apart or if he’s anchoring himself, too.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice warm and so steady it cuts through your internal chaos. “you don’t have to do anything, sweetheart. lemme take care of you.”

he tilts his head back to meet your eyes, and the softness in his gaze is almost enough to melt you. 

“besides,” he teases, a wicked little glint appearing in his eyes, “the last thing i want is you remembering this as the morning you freaked out on top of me. that wouldn’t be fair to you, or, honestly… to me.”

you manage a shaky laugh, trying to focus on him rather than the tangle of nerves twisting in your stomach. 

and maybe, just maybe, you can let go of your inner heroine pep talk just this once.

“okay…” you whisper, breath still catching, but there’s something in his touch that’s grounding you. “just… go slow?”

“yes ma’am.” his voice drops an octave, the promise of patience woven through every word, and his hands tighten just a little, guiding you with gentle confidence. he starts moving slowly, carefully, each motion more reassuring than the last. his thumb brushes your hip soothingly, grounding you.

“and remember,” he whispers, mouth brushing the corner of your mouth as he leans up, “i’m right here. always.”

you’re trying, really. 

but, for all the research you’ve put into this exact scenario, it’s like your mind’s blanking out on everything. 

front and back? sideways? or was it… circular? maybe up and down? 

why is it that the one time you desperately need a mental slideshow, all your research notes abandon you?

to make matters worse, toji’s expression isn’t exactly helping. he’s looking at you with this mix of sheer desperation and restraint, like he’s teetering on the edge of losing it or… combusting. 

maybe both.

“uh, toji,” you murmur, fingers trailing uncertainly on his chest as you try to read his reaction. “am i… doing this right?” you ask, half-joking, half-panicked, but mostly hoping for some kind of confirmation. or maybe a sign that you’re not about to ruin him.

toji’s eyes snap open a bit wider, and the sounds he makes are… well, hardly words. 

more like a strangled, garbled mess of syllables that could pass for something between a moan and a mutter. he opens his mouth to say something and then just clenches his jaw, exhaling a shaky breath.

“babe…” he finally chokes out, voice rough. “whatever you’re doing… just… give me a sec, okay?”

you stifle a laugh, watching as his hands are balled so tight at his sides that they’re nearly shaking. it’s like he’s holding himself together by sheer willpower alone. you swear his knuckles might actually be going white.

he lets out a huff, like he’s trying to recite a grocery list or remember anything that isn’t the feel of you on top of him. 

“satoru’s voice… that dumb soap commercial… yeah, yeah, there it is… ‘leaves you feeling fresh all day’... god help me,” he mutters under his breath.

“toji?” you can’t help it; you lean in, brushing your lips against his jaw as he swallows hard. 

“i think i’ve broken you.”

his head tips back, a strained laugh breaking through as he fights to keep his cool. 

“you… might just have,” he manages, voice rough around the edges, and there’s this flash of helplessness in his gaze that makes your heart skip.

“i’m doing that well, huh?” you smirk, feeling just the tiniest spark of confidence.

he groans, half in frustration, half in what sounds like pride. “yeah… yeah, you are,” he grits out. 

“and if you move… in literally any direction right now, i’m not sure how much longer i can hold back.”

you take a moment to consider, still a little nervous, but now definitely encouraged by the effect you seem to be having on him. 

“well,” you whisper, “you’re my husband now. i think that means we can both… figure this out together.”

he looks up at you, that steady, determined look in his eyes, as he exhales another shaky breath. 

“then let’s figure it out,” he murmurs, voice softer now, but still brimming with that intensity.

his hands finally settle on your hips, steadying you as he starts guiding you slowly, deliberately, and the careful rhythm he sets feels like it’s easing all that tension out of both of you.

“god… toji,” you murmur, feeling every little shift and movement as he keeps you close, never rushing, always guiding.

“that’s right, sweetheart,” he says, his tone softening as he takes his time with you. “we’ve got all the time in the world.”

while toji is supposedly the one who should have all the experience here, somehow you’re the one taking charge — leading the pace, finding a rhythm, and honestly, feeling a little like some overconfident cowgirl until you remember, oh right, this is toji fushiguro, not some wild bronco.

okay, maybe ease up on the cowgirl image, you mentally scold yourself, trying to stay focused. 

but that confidence you’re feeling? it’s dangerous. because just as you settle into this boldness, feeling like you’ve got things under control, toji lets out a whimper.

your eyes fly open, heart practically stopping in your chest. 

oh no. 

was that a sound of pain? 

did you somehow… break him? 

wait, is it even possible to damage internal organs like this? 

“toji…?” you ask, almost scared to hear the answer.

he lifts his head a little, looking dazed and half-lost, his breathing heavy, eyes hazy with disbelief as he mutters, 

“y-you’re…” he doesn’t even finish, just closes his eyes, head falling back as another broken whimper slips out. 

and then it hits you.

oh.

“you… you like this?” you ask, almost stunned. the idea that you’re the one making him sound like that? 

the thought is so potent it makes you feel a rush of something warm and… yeah, okay, powerful.

he’s barely able to respond, his hands gripping your hips now, knuckles white as he nods, lips parted in another helpless gasp as he tries and fails to keep his cool. 

“don’t… stop,” he finally chokes out, like he’s barely hanging on.

“oh, trust me, i’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, heart racing. and now there’s this little thrill lighting you up from the inside out, because every tiny movement is pulling more helpless little sounds from him, his restraint finally slipping.

toji’s voice is so rough, barely holding it together as he grits out, “you’re killing me, sweetheart… god…”

“well,” you manage, barely keeping your own composure, “it’s only fair, right? after all the times you’ve done this to me?”

he lets out another shaky exhale, clearly struggling, and for a second you’re genuinely worried he might just combust completely. 

“y-you really think… you’re doing me in, huh?”

you raise a brow, smirking despite yourself. “you sound like you’re the one struggling here.”

he laughs breathlessly, like he can hardly believe it, before he pulls you close, one hand cupping the back of your neck. 

“struggling?” he murmurs, his voice low and full of promise. “i’m just letting you have your fun before i flip us over and show you exactly who’s in charge here.”

your heart does a somersault. because the thrill of this playful push and pull, of seeing him finally lose control? 

that’s the best way to start any morning.

toji’s brain is on a full-blown rollercoaster right now, and not in the way he’d imagined. 

he’d thought he’d be calm, collected, the man in control, ready to take his time with you and make this morning something sweet and a little filthy, just like you’d always hinted at. 

he’d be the one setting the scene, the one doing all the work, the one guiding you gently, like he’d dreamed about doing ever since you let him in on that side of your writing.

he even had a whole monologue rehearsed in his head last night: “to my parents, my friends, and any god who’s listening, thank you for giving me this beautiful woman to love, a girl with fire in her veins and creativity for days.” 

he’d planned on simple, soft kisses, with lots of praise to make you feel adored, even throw in a little dirty talk, just like in your books. 

he’d thought about quoting a line or two back at you for fun — maybe one from that chapter you wrote where the dragon king says, “you’re all mine tonight, and you’ll feel every inch of me, i promise.”

but now? 

all that’s gone out the window, because here you are, on top of him, taking the lead with confidence, and he’s losing his mind. 

every time he tries to open his mouth, all he can get out is a strangled groan, and it’s doing something to him he wasn’t expecting. 

he can barely recognize himself; the words he’d so carefully picked out are just… gone. every time you shift, it’s like his thoughts scatter to the wind, replaced by pure, helpless need.

he wants to tell you, wants to let you know how much he loves this, loves you, how insane you’re driving him, but all that comes out is a barely-coherent mess of sounds, and it hits him that you’re not just in control of his body — you’ve completely stolen his mind, too.

“i… god, i thought i was supposed to be the one teaching you…” he finally manages to whisper, half in awe, half in defeat.

you smirk, that little gleam in your eye sending a shiver down his spine. “thought you liked a surprise every now and then?”

and all he can do is nod, a dazed look in his eyes. 

because in this moment, he realizes he’d gladly give up every carefully planned word, every practiced move, just to feel like this forever: utterly and completely wrapped around your finger, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

the second toji feels your movements stutter, that telltale shiver coursing through you, he knows exactly what’s happening. 

and oh, he’s not about to let you handle all that on your own. 

in one smooth, effortless motion, he flips you onto your back, settling himself on top of you with a grin that’s downright devilish. his muscles flex as he moves, every bit of that gym routine paying off in real time.

“thought i’d take over, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, his words wrapping around you like velvet. “just… seemed like you could use a little help.”

you meet his gaze, already breathless, but the excitement bubbling inside you is impossible to ignore. 

“oh, you’re taking over now?” you tease, your hands resting on his strong shoulders, gripping tight, letting him feel the way your fingers tremble slightly. "go on then, show me what you got."

his eyes darken, and the heat between you intensifies as he lowers himself, pressing a line of kisses along your neck that makes your whole body tingle. 

"you don’t have to tell me twice,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with that rough, familiar affection, every word sending a thrill straight to your core.

with every frantic movement, every desperate thrust, he’s thoroughly reminding you that this is his world, and you’re just lucky to be living in it. 

the tension that had been building inside you starts winding tighter again, and you feel like you’re seconds away from cumming. every nerve is on fire, and his name escapes your lips like a prayer, like you’re as completely lost in him as he is in you.

“that’s it, just like that,” he whispers, his tone full of encouragement, his breath warm against your ear. “i want you to feel everything, sweetheart.”

and with the way he’s moving, with the heat and the energy building between you, you don’t doubt for a second that he’s going to make good on that promise.

you're clinging to him, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, arms tangled around his neck like you’re in some intense love-drunk wrestling hold, and you’re this close, teetering on the edge. 

you have no idea what to do with all that emotion bubbling up inside — are you supposed to say something? shout something? last time, when he went down on you, you practically screeched, and that memory alone is enough to make you blush in embarrassment. 

but, you’re different now, classier, you tell yourself. 

totally changed. 

so instead, you lean up, press your lips to his ear, and let out a quiet, garbled, “i love you.”

toji goes still for a fraction of a second — barely a heartbeat — but it’s long enough for you to feel it: he wasn’t ready for that. it’s a sneak attack, and you see his face shift, his eyes going wide for just a moment before the heat in them intensifies, pure, raw emotion flooding in. you feel his whole body respond to those three words, and just as you think yes, i’ve got him, you realize he’s already cumming. 

finished, before he even had a chance to let out a coherent response. he’s so stunned that he just mutters, “fuck,” breathless and hoarse, the word barely forming on his lips.

you can’t help but laugh, voice filled with a mix of triumph and disbelief. “wow, that got you, huh?” you tease, brushing a hand through his hair, feeling all the tension melt from his body as he tries to catch his breath. “and here you thought you had it all planned out.”

he huffs, pulling you even closer, his forehead resting against yours, that familiar smirk creeping back into place despite the flush on his cheeks. 

“never underestimate the power of a writer,” he murmurs, voice deep and warm. “especially when her words pack one hell of a punch.”

and you grin, sinking into the feeling of having completely swept him off his feet, knowing full well he wouldn’t want it any other way.

toji’s lying there in post-bliss, still catching his breath, when it hits him harder than any of gojo’s early-morning, glass-shattering shrieks: he just took his wife’s v-card. 

he’s your first. 

and then it all unravels, one chaotic revelation after another — he just came inside you. 

came inside you. 

and wait, oh hell, were you even on any contraception?

his eyes widen in a near-panic, and he can feel his pulse skyrocketing again, but this time it’s not from excitement. 

he remembers how much you love kids — yeah, kids. specifically, one kid. megumi. did you two even talk about adding more to that tally?

“uh, babe…” he starts, pulling away as gently as possible. he ignores the mess and all sense of grace as he practically scrambles to his feet, hurriedly grabbing the first thing he can to clean you up, which turns out to be some spare tissues by the bed.

you blink up at him, a bit dazed but smiling, that look of total contentment on your face. but it just makes him panic more.

“are… are you okay?” he asks, voice a bit too frantic. he’s cleaning you up with a gentleness that feels oddly out of character, his hands trembling just slightly as he checks you over, his fingers brushing your cheek, your arm, like he’s making sure you’re really, truly okay. “do you feel… i dunno, uh… like, rested? like, you’re good, right? not too sore?”

you let out a soft laugh, reaching up to cup his cheek. “i’m fine, toji. actually, i’m more than fine,” you say, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone, and his heart does that stupid skip thing again. he can’t let himself get sidetracked, though.

“oh, that’s good — really good.” he nods, grabbing the water bottle that’s somehow on his nightstand, a red iron man one. “here, drink this.” he uncaps it, nudging it toward your lips. “hydrate and all.”

you stare at the bottle for a second, blinking. 

“is that… ‘gumi’s iron man bottle?”

“i don’t know, and i don’t care right now. just drink,” he says, pushing it toward you with a kind of determination, and you obediently take a few sips, though you’re clearly trying not to laugh.

after a few swallows, you pull back, wiping your lips. “toji, relax. you’re the one who told me to trust you, right?”

he’s rubbing the back of his neck now, a bit embarrassed but mostly still caught up in his thoughts. “yeah, well, i didn’t think that…” he trails off, looking at the mess on the sheets with an almost horrified expression. 

“i just… we didn’t talk about… kids.”

you tilt your head, giving him a soft look. “toji, do you want kids?”

he runs a hand through his hair, that panic settling into something softer. “i mean, i’m good with megs, y’know? he’s… he’s all i need, but… it’s not like i’d be against it.” he shifts, the vulnerability clear in his eyes. “just… wanted to make sure that’s what you wanted, too.”

you reach for his hand, pulling him back down beside you, a reassuring smile on your face. “we can figure that out together. maybe we don’t know everything yet, but that’s okay. we’ve got time, don’t we?”

he lets out a sigh, relief flooding through him as he squeezes your hand. “yeah, yeah we do. i guess i just… never thought i’d get to do this. to be… a real family, with you.”

“toji,” you murmur, leaning in close, pressing your forehead to his. “you already gave me everything i could ever want. whether it’s just you and me, or us and megumi… or more.”

he lets out a chuckle, feeling lighter as he finally lets himself relax. “alright, alright. just don’t scare me like that, okay?” he mumbles, reaching for the blanket to cover you both up again. 

and as he lies back down beside you, he can’t help the soft smile that spreads across his face.

two years had flown by since that whirlwind of a wedding, and life with toji and megumi had settled into a heartwarming, beautifully chaotic rhythm. 

megumi, now ten , was in a phase where he’d scoff and roll his eyes at anything even remotely ‘ kiddish ,’ claiming he was far too mature for that stuff now.

but you’d caught glimpses of that little boy spark in him — a reminder that he hadn’t fully shed his innocence yet. 

like the time you’d spent an entire evening painstakingly building a lego dragon together, a complicated model that had you and toji squinting at the manual with a kind of warrior resolve.

where toji groaned, half-buried in tiny plastic pieces. “this better be the last one, kiddo, or your mama and i are gonna turn into dragons ourselves,” he muttered, piecing together the dragon’s intricate scales.

megumi tried to act indifferent, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “well, i don’t need it. dragons are kinda… whatever .”

but the moment the final piece snapped into place, his face lit up with such unguarded delight, and he stared at the completed dragon, almost in awe. 

“actually… it’s kinda cool,” he mumbled, tracing the wings with his finger.

and then there was the iron man phase. 

just last week, you had surprised him with a new iron man action figure — the latest model that even he, the ‘ oh-so-mature ’ ten-year-old, had been subtly eyeing. he’d accepted it with a feigned shrug, muttering something about it being ‘ okay ,’ but later you found him arranging his collection on his shelf with utmost care, placing iron man front and center.

today was a new milestone, though. suguru, ever the romantic, had finally invited his elusive business partner and the woman he was head over heels for: the famed mrs. ryomen , founder of persephone wines, accompanied by none other than her husband, ryomen sukuna . their wine brands were renowned globally, their rivalry and partnership like something out of a novel, and, unsurprisingly, satoru never shut up about how good the wines were.

the moment you laid eyes on her, you understood why suguru was so smitten. she was a vision of grace — calm, poised, with an elegance that felt both timeless and grounded. her wisdom was palpable, like she’d seen the world and learned from it, carrying that understanding effortlessly. 

and beside her was sukuna, a towering figure, his presence demanding attention without a single word. he wore his reputation as the industry’s most formidable businessman like a second skin, but there was a softness in his eyes whenever he glanced at his wife.

and trailing beside them, in her adorable little dress and with a wide, mischievous smile, was their five-year-old daughter, aiko. she looked exactly like her mother but had that unmistakable devious glint in her eyes — the unmistakable ryomen charm that came with a penchant for trouble.

aiko spotted megumi almost immediately, her eyes lighting up as she sized him up with that daring grin. without a second’s hesitation, she skipped over, standing tall in front of him as if ready for a duel. 

“you’re megumi, right?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

megumi nodded, looking slightly intimidated but also oddly impressed. “uh… yeah? ”

“my daddy says you’re gonna be tall like him someday,” she announced with a challenging gleam. “but i think i’ll still be cooler.”

toji, watching the exchange, chuckled, leaning down to you. “she’s got the ryomen spirit, alright. poor suguru, he’s in for a lifetime of keeping up.”

suguru, who had been watching from the sidelines, gave an almost weary smile. “don’t remind me. she’s just like her dad, which is… terrifying.”

over the course of the evening, satoru found every possible opportunity to rave about the wine, which led to a slightly tipsy serenade of praise to both persephone and ryomen wines. 

suguru shook his head, but you caught the faintest hint of pride in his eyes as satoru loudly professed, “the best wine on earth, right here! what did i do in my past life to deserve this ?”

“satoru, we get it,” shoko laughed, patting his shoulder. “but maybe save some of your poetic speeches for the actual wine reps?”

sukuna, stoic as ever, cracked the smallest smirk. “better listen to her, gojo, or next time you’re paying double for every bottle.”

at this, megumi tugged at your hand, pulling you down so he could whisper in your ear, “do you think they’re like… superheroes? like, fancy business ones? ”

you grinned, whispering back, “maybe, but the kind that save people’s sanity after long days with a good glass of wine.”

as the night wore on, aiko became bolder, challenging megumi to little games and teasing him whenever he pretended to be unimpressed. 

by the end, they were both racing around, megumi begrudgingly admitting that maybe having a ‘ little kid ’ around wasn’t the worst thing ever.

and you, watching your little found family and newfound friends all mingling, felt a sense of peace settle over you. life had changed so much, yet, with every piece that had fallen into place, it felt more complete than ever.

toji slid his hand into yours, his thumb brushing softly over your knuckles. “so,” he murmured, nodding towards the crowd of laughing, chatting, slightly inebriated friends, “how’s forever treating you?”

you squeezed his hand back, leaning into his warmth. “with you? it’s perfect .”

— [epilogue] 

megumi adjusted the microphone, clearing his throat as he began his podcast. the familiar red recording light blinked on, and for a moment, he hesitated. 

but then, that cool, low voice of his rolled out — completely unaware of just how many listeners were tuned in because of that very voice.

“hey, everyone,” he started, with a slight, almost embarrassed laugh. “it’s megumi. welcome back to another episode. thanks for sticking around, i guess.” 

he took a deep breath, leaning into his usual deadpan humor. “today’s a little… special.”

eight years had passed, and megumi was now eighteen, on the verge of starting college. you never could have imagined that the quiet, reserved little boy who once scowled at anything that wasn’t cool enough would be sitting here, in gojo-sonic’s recording studio, with a podcast following that had skyrocketed in the last few months - his own little corner of the internet was a hit.

it was always a little surreal, hearing him speak like that — like an old pro — though megumi had no idea just how attractive his voice was. 

you’d caught snippets of his episodes in passing, and honestly, you were floored. it had that raw, emo, mysterious vibe that made his fans swoon. 

but megumi didn’t care much for that. he just liked talking. 

talking about whatever came to mind, whether it was the state of the world or random deep thoughts about dragons (which his viewers loved).

he paused for a second, then smirked. “so, apparently, it’s the anniversary of the sequel to my mama’s infamous ‘mating with the dragon king’ series, which is, uh…” he chuckled under his breath. “a title i try not to think too hard about, for my own sanity.”

he glanced at his notes, mentally preparing himself for the rest. “but it’s also my parents’ anniversary. they’ve been together a long time now, and honestly, i think they’ve aged pretty well… if not gotten weirder, too.”

"okay, so first things first," megumi continued, tapping his fingers against the mic like he was thinking. 

"i’ve been asked a lot recently — yeah, like a lot — about my parents. so, i thought today, i’d… well, talk about them. for those who don’t know, my mom and dad are basically the best couple on the planet." 

he paused for a moment, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. "and no, i’m not just saying that because they pay my college tuition," he added, voice dry, before laughing lightly. the subtle humor, that ever-present dry wit of his, had not been lost over the years.

“i’m serious, though,” megumi continued, his tone shifting slightly. “they’ve been married almost ten years now. ten years. that’s a long time, right? you know, the stuff i’ve seen them go through — good and bad — has honestly been like watching a rom-com… without the cheesy music. it’s real.”

he leaned back, grinning at the memory of his dad attempting to act cool when his mom gave him the anniversary gift she’d obviously poured her heart into, and how his dad pretended to brush it off while trying not to tear up. 

“i swear, my dad still thinks he’s the heartthrob he was in his youth… not that he’ll admit he ever thought that.”

a comment from the live chat caught his eye, and he read it aloud with a half-smile, “how are the lovebirds doing these days?”

“they’re… good,” he answered, a little softer, before laughing. “honestly, they’re like teenagers sometimes. last week, i caught them dancing to “dancing queen” in the kitchen at, like, two in the morning. my mama insisted they were ‘practicing their moves.’”

another comment rolled in: “is it true they started dating because of ‘mating with the dragon king’?”

megumi groaned, rubbing his forehead. 

“okay, so — yes, my mama’s… work may or may not have been involved in them getting together. which, by the way, is mortifying, but what can you do?”

he continued, “so yeah, every year, around this time, they go through the book again. they claim it’s just to, i don’t know, ‘relive the magic,’ or whatever. but personally, i think it’s just their excuse to laugh over the old cheesy lines and then get all sappy.” his voice softened, and you could hear the fondness there. “it’s… it’s cute, actually.”

as he sifted through more questions, a few regulars in the chat started asking about his dad’s influence on the podcast. 

“so… ‘like father, like son,’ huh?” he repeated aloud. “you all know my dad, toji fushiguro. he’s been a big reason i’m doing this at all. every week he tunes in and listens, usually making some snide comment about my ‘emo’ voice.” he chuckled. 

“but, like, he’s my biggest fan. it’s… weird. and kinda awesome.”

megumi leaned closer to the mic, as if sharing a secret. “sometimes he even gives me topic ideas, and he likes to pretend he’s all smooth about it. last week he was like, ‘hey, you ever think about doing an episode on… i don’t know, how to handle annoying old guys? just… putting it out there.’” 

megumi rolled his eyes. “yeah, thanks, dad.”

one listener asked, “so, are your parents tuning in today?”

megumi laughed. “oh, you better believe it. mama’s probably listening right now, making little notes about everything she’s going to tease me for later. and dad? he’s probably lounging around, acting all nonchalant, but hanging onto every word. he never says it, but… he’s proud. he just shows it in weird, dad ways.”

you, sitting in the living room across the house, smiled to yourself. you and toji hadn’t missed an episode of his podcast, even if megumi was often too cool to tell you exactly what he was talking about on-air. 

this was your son, the one who swore he'd never be like you two, now waxing poetic about your love life. you had to admit, it felt like a win.

you couldn't help but chuckle as you leaned over to toji, who was sprawled on the couch, casually scrolling through his phone. “he doesn’t even realize how much he sounds like you.”

toji grinned, looking up from his phone. “i know. ’m proud, honestly. the kid’s got my voice, and he’s got a knack for talking like a damn pro.”

then, someone commented, “do they still do their anniversary dinner tradition?”

“yeah, every year without fail,” he said with a warm smile. “they go to this little bar where they first met. same table, same drinks….it’s a whole thing. and they always make sure to bring something dragon-themed as, like, an inside joke.”

“is it true you used to help pick out those dragon anniversary gifts?”

“uh, yeah, when i was a kid, i’d help out. it started with this silly little dragon keychain i got from a claw machine. my mama loved it, and dad pretended it was the best thing ever. and now… it’s just something they do. last year, we found this ridiculously tacky dragon-shaped candle holder. they loved it, of course.”

he paused, watching the flood of hearts and happy emojis on the screen. “honestly, seeing them still be so… them, even after all these years — it’s kinda awesome.”

as the comments continued to pour in, he couldn’t help but smile. “you know, when i was younger, i thought all of it was a little much. but now, i think… it’s cool. like, really cool, to have two people who just… get each other, and who make life fun. like, i might roll my eyes, but i wouldn’t trade them for anything.”

“anyway, that’s enough of the mushy stuff,” megumi added with a huff, trying to shake off the softness that had crept into his voice. “the point is, they’ve been together for a decade, and they still act like they’re in their honeymoon phase. but they’re both ridiculous, so whatever works, right?”

one final comment caught his eye: “do you ever think about finding a love like theirs?”

megumi laughed, leaning back in his chair. “i don't really know if I’ll ever be that kind of couple — that couple who looks at each other like it's just… meant to be. but honestly? i kinda hope i do. 'cause if that’s what they’ve got, i want it too. who knows?”

there was a beat of silence before megumi sighed, clearly awkward with what he’d just said. 

"alright, that’s enough of the sappy stuff. let’s move on to today's topic of… superhero movies."

the episode cut into a new segment, but not before you could hear megumi’s voice soften again.

“but if i do… you guys will be the first to hear about it. after all, i learned from the best.”

you pressed a hand to your chest, feeling an overwhelming swell of love for your son. despite all his protests, the way he spoke about you and toji just now? it was more than a little heartwarming.

“ten years, huh?” toji said softly, his voice carrying that familiar warmth. “you think we’ve gotten better with age, or are we just getting more ridiculous?”

you leaned your head on his shoulder, chuckling softly. “i’d say both. we’re definitely more ridiculous. but i’m pretty sure we’re still just as in love as we were on day one.”

toji smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i wouldn’t have it any other way.”

back in the recording room, megumi wrapped up the episode with his usual quiet flair, and just as he was about to sign off, he added, 

"to all the people listening out there — especially the ones who think i'm some kind of “emo, angsty mess” — you’re not wrong. but hey, thanks for sticking around. and shoutout to mama and dad… for being the real heroes of this fushiguro life.”

you heard the final click of the microphone turning off, and you couldn’t help but feel your heart swell once again, knowing that your little family, in all its weird, loving chaos, was exactly where it needed to be.

produced by creamflix on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, modify, repost — support your writers by liking and reblogging. ♡

[mr-ys-phantasma]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1312

Chapter 37:

When you walked into the Iron Maiden and climbed the first two steps, you did not expect to hear Jen shouting for anyone other than herself.

"Lilla! Lilia!"

Her shouts echoed across the stone walls, and you let Agatha continue up ahead as you turned and chose to check what was going in.

Yet when you found her hitting her fists against a dirt wall, shouting the name of a certain witch that was not amongst you... you realized.

Your lips pressed against one another, forming a flat line and momentarily you closed your eyes; offering a silent prayer and a moment of respectful peace for the brave witch.

Lilia was not close to you, and the way she often stared at you made you keep your distance from her. But in the end, she cared for the coven; more than anyone.

In the end, she sacrificed herself so the rest of you could move forward; one trial closer in reaching the end of the road and the much needed prize.

A prize, one would start questioning if it was worth it, after all the mental and physical torture... and the losses.

Jen needed a moment to recover, tears being wiped by the back of her hand before she sat down by the steps; trying to process yet another loss.

One that she truly felt this time.

Teen joined her while you stood close. You could have left them behind, go find Agatha, but you chose not to. They needed to mourn, to process everything before being able to continue.

Agatha would be fine, for she was not stupid enough to walk away. Yet you could not help but have this feeling... that something was not right.

"Rio." Jen started, unsure where to start. "Green Witch with a capital G. She told us who she was in the very beginning." She continued, earning Billy's attention, who was not catching up.

"Green Craft is about the cycle of all living things. Growth and decay in constant flow." You chose to enlighten him, leaning against the stone wall with hands folded in front of your chest.

At least you were out of that dress, which was perhaps the only positive thing you could think of right now. That and the fact that you were alive, one trial closer in getting out of this helish road.

Billy looked at you, not surprised you knew. He had come to realise, with your past related to Agatha, that you knew far more than the rest of the coven members.

"So Agatha's ex is Death." He concluded, trying to wrap his head around the idea that death was a woman; one capable of faling in love from the looks of it. "Well, one of her exes." he looked at you again.

You kept your lips pressed to one another. "Pretty much,"

"That makes sense," he commuted. Somehow, it did make sense; though by now, he did question his sanity and mind.

"You knew, didn't you?" Jen asked next, her gaze on your form.

This time, though, she was too tired to judge. Too tired to throw any sparky remarks. She just wanted some more answers. She deserved to know after all the trials she had been through with the coven.

You sighed. "I did."

"And you didn't tell us."

In honour of her grief and Lilia's sacrifice, you chose not to react to her words. "You didn't ask me, not her, not anyone," you replied calmly.

It was Jen's turn to sigh. "No, we didn't." she placed the back of her head against the wall.

Silence enveloped the group of three, no one truly knowing what to say. Some were even hesitant to move, trying to savour as much as they could, this little moment of peace.

Who knew what they would face next? How quick will the next trial come meet them?

As you three sat there, it was then that your fellow witches took notice that someone was missing.

"Where is Agatha?" Jen questioned, looking around but finding no sign of the magicless witch.

"Up ahead. She should be waiting for us, " you informed, one thumb pointing over your shoulder towards the way the steps were leading.

Jen scoffed. "Yeah, right?"

"She knows alone won't do her any good in the trials," you reminded Jen as you offered your hand to pull her up on your feet. "The Road needs us together. It's the only way."

Defeated, she accepted your hand and let you pull her up; surprised by your strength. You definitely did not look that strong...and yet again, you did not look a lot of things if she were to be frank.

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

The Path led you back to the forest, unsure if it was the same place you had started of further down the Road. Everything looked the same, but you did not trail back to question. There was no need.

As you three walked in a line, you could not help but start a conversation. Though the topic was not much to your liking.

"I mean, how did they even meet?" Billy wondered.

"Um, over corpses, I imagine." Jen answered before the duo looked at you.

You sighed. "I am afraid you are asking the wrong witch," you confessed.

"But you were first, right? You knew Agatha before Rio, didn't you?" She asked you next, remembering what Evanora's ghost was saying in the cabin.

Though Jen was still puzzled by that interaction. Evanora hated you, and Jen suspected it was because you had chosen Agatha in the end. But something was telling her there was something more.

Pieces of your puzzle were missing, making it harder to get a good image of who you truly are and what your past is.

"I was," you answered simply, clearly not wishing to continue this discussion.

It was not easy for you either. Your feelings mixed about the topic and you needed time, to finally make a decision about it... to make peace with it.

"You must have really hurt her if her next ex ended up being Death itself."

You took a deep breath at Jen's words. You had chosen not to react so far, simply as a respect to her grief, but even you had limits to your patience.

Billy took notice, and he did not really like how that topic had changed to focus on you and your rather cryptic relationship with Agatha.

And it was not right talking about Agatha behind her back, as if she was not going to show up any time soon.

"Well... I don't care," he joined the conversation. "It simply shows more proof that Agatha has feelings."

His words made you smile faintly, but you hid it from Jen, who you didn't have to look to feel her disagreement rising.

"That was your takeaway?" She scoffed. "I do not understand your loyalty to her. Hers, I understand, but not you. "

"It's not loyalty. It's analysis." Billy quickly defended himself.

"Oh, look who grew up."

"I'm fully aware that Agatha Harkness can never be anything but a coven-less witch."

You did not manage to hide your expression at those words, which seemed to sting you as much as they would Agatha.

Yet before you could ask anything, someone else beat you to it.

"Ouch!" Agatha exclaimed as she came from behind some plans.

Your eyes locked, and you could once again see right through her. You could see that something was odd, something had taken place but you were not sure what.

A part of you told you it had to do with Rio, but you wouldn't put your hand in the fire of it.

One thing was certain, though.

Agatha's mask was back on. Any moments of true humility, humanity, and empathy long gone by now. She had locked them all away once again.

Chapter 38

[merrycrisis-if]

So is merry crisis not gonna be an if anymore but rather a vn? What does that mean for its progress? I'm a bit worried tbh...

Also i thought you were working alone on it but you keep saying "we" in your new monsoon games posts? I'm genuinely confused about everything. Maybe i missed smth...

Heya! Super fair question, and I get where you're coming from. I love Merry Crisis as it is right now, and I know how concerning it may be to see me spending time "fixing something that ain't broke".

I just want to emphasise two things that I think might reassure you somewhat:

I'm very much still focusing on writing Merry Crisis above all else, and that's always going to be my priority. (I love writing first and foremost!)

That said, I've been giving it a lot of thought, and I do truly believe that my vision for Merry Crisis leans more toward visual novel than it is fully text-based; the reason why I started with COG/HG is simply that it was the thing that got me into Interactive Fiction, and the only language I knew 2 years ago. Now, 2 years later, I can genuinely say that my coding/programming skills have improved, and discovering Ren'py really clicked. Like, I feel in my bones that this is the form of the story that I want to tell, and I'm glad to have it in my arsenal/as one of my options now.

On the second point, I hope it at least counts for something that I am not making the decision lightly, and I genuinely think that when you guys see it in the form I'm imagining, you'll love it too/be as excited as I am. More details / answers to the rest of your questions below the cut.

I'm still going to be focusing on writing merry crisis while I find artists- and even when I do settle on artists, since I won't be the one doing the art (thankfully), writing progress should still be made at the same(ish) speed.

That said, porting to a visual novel format does require a fair amount of editing, and yes, I will need to balance that with writing new content.

As for the actual details of implementation and what language/format I will be updating in, I am currently writing the new chapter in choicescript, and it will be updated in that format for 1 more chapter at least (possibly more). Hope that answers things!

[dropthedemiurge]

Love for Love's Sake: Bоnus Stаge (spoilers!!)

Love For Love's Sake (Love Supremacy Zone): bonus stagе is a short spin-off story from the author of the original novel, released in June 2024 (after the drama series). It's about 19yo Tae Myungha (from Game World) being transferred into the future and him slowly realizing how 29yo Myungha has been living happy 10 years with Cha Yeowoon and friends.

I promised to keep talking about it and thank you, guys, for enabling me xD Before translating bits from chapters, here's the full summary of everything that happened in this story – for those of you who are not that patient and don't fear spoilers :] I'll put them under more anyway so those who don't want to read the summary won't read them accidentally!

Warnings: suicidal intentions

Let me know your thoughts about this spinoff *д*

Love for Love's Sake: Bonus Stage (summary)

"If your life was a book, what would you want it be about?" "How would the first chapter begin and what sentence would be the last one?" "I wish it was about love."

19yo Myungha (so before canon timeline) is playing games in PC cafe. He doesn't really have money but wants to spend time so he wouldn't have to live it

On the crossroad, he sees a child running before the signal changes, and he jumps to save them but instead of getting hit, he feels like falling. He sees sunbae who pushes him. Message [World has been changed] appears.

Myungha finds himself in the arms of a handsome man who knows him - but he doesn't know this man. Myungha runs away but the man is faster.

[Mission: Make Tae Myungha happy.] [Reward: Memory] [Clear until (0%) ♥♥♥♥♥] [Penalty: Can't return to the original timeline]

Myungha is diagnosed with amnesia. He should be 29yo now, so he just goes along. Yeowoon decides to start over again and introduces himself.

Yeowoon and Myungha have been living together for 6 years and dating for 10 years. 19-Myungha is shocked to know this.

Ahn Sia, Kyunghoon and Sangwon immediately run to check whether Myungha is okay, 19-Myungha is shocked that people worry about him and they've been friends for 10 years.

Yeowoon asked if Myungha would hypothetically date him - just to make sure - but he still wouldn't let Sangwon in before others come (he's sooo jealous)

Sangwon finds younger Myungha a lot of fun, Yeowoon wants to fight with him. Others come, so they try to figure out what's happening.

29yo Myungha is a teacher respected by kids. The girl in his class wanted to kill herself so she went to the rooftop, Myungha ran after her but ended up falling down, and Yeowoon caught him (19-Myungha)

Sia is a shopping mall CEO and a popular influencer now, Kyunghoon does photography/filming professionally, Sangwon introduces himself as 'the one who Myungha rejected when he was 18yo'.

Everyone wants to have chicken and beer but 19-Myungha is a minor so they have chicken and cola and a group sleepover at Myungha/Yeowoon's house :]

Yeowoon tried to sleep with Myungha in one bed but eventually ran away to the living room, flustered.

They all decide to do a trip down the memory lane, since Myungha is "having amnesia".

Yeowoon is a gold medalist now, and many kids go to Shinyeop school now because he made it prestigious.

They visit old Yeowoon's house, and Yeowoon quietly tells him they had kissed here for the first time (on the stairs) 19-Myungha is flustered because he feels feelings that he doesn't know the source of. But he never had his first kiss, never thought about ideal type or love so he's can't stop thinking about it. He tried to take Yeowoon's hand but ran out of time.

After this trip, in the car Myungha clears 20% of his mission and sees flashbacks from the 10 passed years: how they were grilling meat at the rooftop, how they played at the sea.

Yeowoon went to the store to get ice cream, while Myungha and Sangwon were left alone waiting. Sangwon told 19-Myungha about precious memories with him (dogs!), how he was his first love and he kept regretting what if he made a different first impression on Myungha – and now he can.

So he asks for one more chance to start over but gets rejected because Yeowoon was faster once again. Sangwon accepts that his first love is finally over and walks away.

Yeowoon says he likes Myungha more anyway, but 19-Myungha doesn't know it so Yeowoon says he'll teach him. They go to amusement park (closed again) by the sea.

Myungha insists on going to the popular cafe, Yeowoon is hesitant but doesn't reveal the truth until Myungha meets his mom there. Yeowoon takes him away in a hurry as 19-Myungha wants to talk to her in anger. Myungha cries. He thinks if he didn't have Yeowoon next to him now, his mom's reaction would be his last straw.

Mission is cleared to 40%. 19-Myungha sees 18yo Yeowoon crying and being comforted by "him".

19-Myungha thinks the person Yeowoon fell in love with is nothing like him, so he runs away. Yeowoon catches up with him.

Suddenly, they meet his fans. 19-Myungha is confused to learn he's quite popular and has 100k followers on his YT channel where he's been posting vlogs for 10 years (Yeowoon made him do it). He's used to being widely hated as a Crazy Dog, and not widely loved.

19-Myungha doesn't want to restore memories because he doesn't want to return to his original timeline. But he also feels acutely that 29-Myungha is a very different person from him. So he openly tells Yeowoon about the game mission, and Yeowoon believes him.

They return home, and 19-Myungha notices that Yeowoon still cherishes him like they were new lovers and not 10yo couple that usually feels like a family. Yeowoon was testing his reaction to skinship. Myungha calls him to sleep and teases him for having dirty thoughts.

19-Myungha is scared to sleep because he fears to wake up from a good dream. Yeowoon comforts him, while Myungha teases again and asks whether he's going to kiss. Yeowoon responds he'll wait until Myungha does it himself, like the first time (I guess, it's a bit different from drama?)

In the morning, Myungha learns that his grandma is still alive in this timeline and is in the hospital with injured leg. He rushes there and cries a little seeing her alive. He pleads her to come live with them but the grandma is like 'wtf this kid gone insane'.

His memories are cleared until 60% and he remembers time spent with his grandma.

19-Myungha watches videos on "his" Youtube channel and he sees what kind of life 29-Myungha lived and what kind of person he was. He finds they weren't actually that different and he could become him. He sees how liked he was and what kind of person younger Yeowoon was too.

They go to get groceries, and suddenly 19-Myungha is surrounded by kids that claim he's their homeroom teacher. Yeowoon saves him from awkwardness, it seems like they don't know Yeowoon and Myungha are dating. The kids say that their entire class will always love their teacher Myungha, and 19-Myungha understands why he chose this job.

Mission is cleared until 80%. He sees flashbacks from teaching kids, he still keeps in touch with the ones that left. 19-Myungha starts to smile.

But he still doesn't want to go home, he's also scared that original Myungha comes back and he will disappear. He doesn't want to leave.

Yeowoon tells him he'll be waiting for him even if he goes back to his time. He tells him to return and find 18yo Yeowoon, because he exists there and he will definitely like and choose Myungha.

Myungha is overwhelmed with feelings and goes to kiss Yeowoon. This time he's the inexperienced one.

The timeline written down by Myungha: "First meeting at 19, first fight at 20, living together at 23, passing teacher's exam, Yeowoon breaking the world record, Myungha becoming homeroom teacher, having 5 anniversary trip".

Last 20% are still missing. He's waiting for Yeowoon to come home, he returns with the cake and flowers. It's their 10th anniversary today, so Yeowoon insists he still has to celebrate, despite the situation. Myungha feels bad that he always forgets about anniversaries.

Yeowoon proposes to Myungha. He gives him his wedding plan and prepared funds.

Myungha laughs (while Yeowoon is annoyed :D) and gets positive buff, as he falls in love. [Mission is cleared until 99.9%]. He witnesses more happy flashbacks.

Because it's legally difficult, Yeowoon still wants to get married. Myungha tells him if he proposes again in 10 years, he'll accept. And teases him for being in such a rush to speedrun the relationship.

He remembers all memories from 10 years of their life and love together, he tells Yeowoon 'of course' and finally decides to return home and meet Yeowoon in his own timeline.

But Myungha is scared because there's still 0.1% to fail. He remembers the sunbae who pushed him before the world has changed. He wonders who that was.

He sees himself talking with sunbae, who asks him what is happy life to Myungha and if his life was a book, what would it be about.

"If your life was a book, what would you want it be about?" Someone is asking next to me. "...love. I wish it was about love." I wished that this thing, which was so common that I could hear about it everywhere but have never really felt it, could exist in my life too. The sunbae smiled quietly. "I just decided on a title".

Sunbae tells Myungha that humans are made of stars and apologizes that he was so late. He asks him to live the way he wants to.

He pushes him again. Message [The world has been changed] appears.

29yo Myungha wakes up next to Yeowoon and immediately goes to hug him. He finally feels like his soul and body are perfectly aligned, and he remembers how lonely he was when he was 19.

He tells Yeowoon they'll go see stars on their honeymoon trip. But first, they want to take a trip to Taiwan and the grandma is bitter they're not taking her with them because she's convinced they're gonna secretly get married there. But Myungha and Yeowoon want to get married in Korea.

[Mission: Make Tae Myungha happy is completed with 100%]

29-Myungha goes to meet the girl in his class who he saved on the rooftop. They both talk about how they don't want to die anymore and they should never give up. The girl also says Yeowoon suits him well, and Myungha promises to invite her to their wedding.

[END OF THE GAME.]

[LOADING]

19yo Myungha gets back to his conscience on the street, as someone asks him if he's okay. He is surprised to see Yeowoon, while Yeowoon is displeased that Myungha knows his name since they never met before.

Yeowoon walks away, but Myungha starts running after him.

[ENTERING THE LOVE SUPREMACY ZONE]

That's it 🥺 Of course, there are many amazing and touching moments in the story itself but I wrote down the main points. Aren't they precious?!

Tag list: @pickletrip @bunni-bun @illuminutiae @kaleidoskuls @delesaria-blog @maybe-boys-do-love

[zyafics-recs]

reblogging comment review from @zyafics

everytime i read this series i feel like im entering the battlefield 🚬😮‍💨my annotations below hehe ⬇️

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

ur writing has such PERSONALITY in it, i swear to god when i read this in beta, i was so in awe

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

this parallels perfectly to the first chapter where topper called rafe when reader was leaving, so not only is this paragraph giving us an at-point breakdown, but it's referring evidence that topper would slip and tell rafe

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

their lives are so intertwined that reader doesn't know who to turn to when she needs independence 😭 oh curse rafe and his big dick

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean. 

this specific paragraph i wanted to highlight because i thought it was so descriptive and imaginative, but simplistic in a way that didn't feel like it was purple prose.

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either. 

the last line EATS BITCH IT EATS

 “You should sit down.”

oh suck a dick

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

in love to hate omg

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

THIS IS SO COLD BUT IT SHOWED HOW THEIR RELATIONSHIP IS SO WELL, HOW INTERTWINED THEY ARE WITH ONE ANOTHER

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

i would crashout

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

hm.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

they're so toxic and dynamic and i love them

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here. 

that stopped me cold i had to write something in my diary

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours. A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall.  "Yeah? Get in line."

LISTEN LISTEN LISTEN I'M LISTENING TO BAD OMENS BY 5SOS AND IT'S AT THE BEATS AND WHILE I READ THIS, IT FITTED PERFECTLY OHMYGOD

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

i wanted to highlight this specific paragraph because i adore the writing, something about it made me feel every single atom of the scene

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”“And what?” you interrupted.“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”“You’re not coming in."He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

HE DIDN'T EXPECT THAT SHIT NO NO

“Yeah, I got someone.”

that's right baby tell em

💌 — ugh, something about this part has been so dynamic, in the way it's constructed, the way it flows so naturally, the way the dialogues are so emotionally-charged but bounces off one another seamlessly. it was like i was watching a perfectly-curated film, where the dialogues were performed by seasoned actors. i love love their arguments. i love how intense it always gets, how they have this push-pull against each other, this hate-love, this line they can't even comprehend nor define. and i love how you written it so beautifully, that you communicate the intensity and depth of this relationship but aggression, tension, and hurt.

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - FIVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mention of pregnancy; abortion; lack of self-care

You’ve had to make a lot of unfortunate decisions in your life.

Choosing a place for your entire family to rest for eternity, picking the caskets, the headstones—it felt like deciding which curtains to buy for the house, except you were burying your entire close family.

After the crash, your parents were gone instantly, just like that—no goodbyes, no warning, just there one moment and gone the next.

But your sister survived. Three days. You thought maybe that was a sign, she’d live despite everything, and you wouldn’t be left alone.

Two weeks later, the doctors told you it was time, but you couldn’t accept it. You held her hand, begging her to stay, telling her every promise you could think of if she opened her eyes.

When the monitors finally went flat, you couldn’t feel anything but desperation. Rafe had to pull you out of there, his arms locked around you while you kicked and screamed, sobbing and begging your sister not to go, not to leave you here.

You fought him with everything you had left, clawing, crying, pleading for just one more second. You were screaming so loud you didn’t even recognize your voice. Everything good had been ripped away from your hands, there was nothing left of the world you’d known.

After that, you remember sitting in some stuffy funeral home office, skimming through catalogs and hardly seeing the pages through your tears. The caskets all looked the same, the types of wood made no difference to you, fabric linings, all of it felt so wrong. 

None of it was a choice you should have to make. 

It was unthinkable to be contemplating about gravestones. How could you sum up your family in limited words or dates, let alone choose a font for it?

You just picked something neutral and blank, something that didn’t require thought or emotion because, by then, you had nothing left to give. 

Now you were trapped again, caught between a rock and a hard place.

Your first thought had been telling Topper, your only real family left, but he was as much Rafe’s as he was yours, and when it came down to it, he was still his best friend. Loyal to him since they were five, and jesus knows how he’d react if he found out about this. He’d most likely freak the fuck out and tell Rafe everything, thinking he was doing the right thing, or worse, letting it slip to Ruthie.

Ruthie—no chance you’d involve her. She’d just see this as another fucked up piece of gossip she could hold over your head, another way to judge or control you. She was “friend” only in the loosest sense of the word.

Kelce was the last person you’d consider turning to for something this serious. He has always been there, but you never got close. He was too much of an instigator, always pushing Rafe to do reckless things he’d regret later, peer pressuring him in ways that made you wonder if he even knew what loyalty meant. He had this weird loyalty to Ruthie, defending her comments as if she was some misunderstood angel when really, she was just… mean.

So that left Sarah. 

It felt weird, thinking of her as the person you’d call on for something so serious, she was the only one who felt… safe. She wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t pry, she’d seen what the worst kind of family conflict could do, and she’d keep this private, just for you.

It’s then you recognized how small your world was. How few people were truly yours.

You were pretty sure no one in this town would fully understand, they’d just offer their "advice," as if they knew you, seen what you’d been through. 

The truth was, they didn’t know shit. They hadn't seen you holding your sister’s hand, begging her to stay alive. They didn’t know what it was like to bury everything that made you feel like a person, like you belonged somewhere, and have to get up the next day like nothing happened.

Nine days, you would be halfway across the country, and you needed someone. You pictured saying it out loud: “I’m pregnant", just those two words, to someone’s face, you had no idea what to say next.

Maybe you’d tell them that it wasn’t about wanting it gone out of spite or shame, but because you couldn’t bring a child into a world where you felt this alone.

Earlier that morning, you’d stared down at your phone, thumb itching to click on Sarah’s name, like just pressing "call" could fix everything. You despised how needy it made you feel—reaching out, when you’d prided yourself on surviving alone. 

You didn’t have much time to ponder about it, because you were stuck at the beach cleanup.

Just like every other summer, another "social responsibility" event that your late father’s foundation insisted you smile through. Even back then, when they were alive, your summers were a carousel of charity galas, fundraisers, endless hours of small talk, and impeccably arranged seating charts.

The board members of the foundation probably thought it would “ground” you—remind you of your privilege, of your “responsibility” to give back. As if a couple of hours and a few bags of garbage would somehow balance the scales. They never seemed to understand how much of it was all for show, this shallow idea that if you looked the part, no one would care to learn more.

But, still, you’d show up. You always did. Smile, make just enough small talk to appease the right people. 

Today, it was just you, a few kids and teens dotted along the beach with oversized trash bags. It wasn’t even noon, but the sun felt like it was scorching you alive. It was laughable, really, standing under this blistering sun with a cheap trash bag and an endless stretch of sand to clean. 

Kie, who was so genuinely invested in this whole “save the planet” thing it was almost enviable was there too with JJ, who was running around her as usual, wearing his ‘I’m just here for the ride’ expression but enjoying himself. The love between them made you miss having someone who cared in ways that weren’t just calculated moves.

She waved at you from the shoreline, her eyes moving to the trash bag you were barely half-filling.

You weren’t friends, but if Sarah liked her, you did too.

You offered a faint smile back, tired, because between all the shit you’d been thinking about, you'd forgotten to eat, to drink anything, and every time you leaned down to grab another crumpled plastic bottle or a bit of seaweed-laden garbage, you felt like your legs were about to give out on you. 

Every now and then, she would throw a quick, appraising glance your way, like she was expecting you to miraculously become invested in the beach’s ecosystem.

You didn’t have it in you to pretend this was enjoyable today. The “effortless” philanthropy your family loved was a lifestyle you’d never bought into. It didn’t matter how many smiling photos of you had ended up on some charity’s social media—you knew you’d rather be anywhere else.

You had to take a break every few minutes, leaning against a pier post, trying to get yourself together as a few of the younger kids gave you wary glances. You could have left—probably should have.

You managed a tight-lipped smile, giving a thumbs-up that said, Just doing great over here, guys!

You were in a long t-shirt, which hung over your bikini and shorts, the fabric slightly oversized, to help hide what was still a small change in your body. Paranoia was your new best friend, always worrying that someone would notice something different, even if you didn’t have a noticeable bump yet.

Bending down to grab another plastic bottle, you felt a stab of nausea hit you hard, rolling up from your stomach, thick and sour, but you ignored it. Not here. Not now.

You straightened up too fast, and your vision blurred slightly, that familiar sense of vertigo hitting you. You took a shallow breath, ignoring the burn at the back of your throat, your hands shaking slightly as you adjusted the bag slung over your shoulder.

One girl looked up at you with these wide eyes kids like to pull, “Are you okay?” 

You smiled, brushing it off as if you weren’t about two seconds away from collapsing. “Of course. Just... need a second.” 

The kids were watching you again, with that look of curiosity. You couldn’t look them in the eye. It wasn’t their fault. They just didn’t understand that sometimes the grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing either. 

Just a few more bags of trash and you’d be able to get back to your car, maybe grab some water from the cooler in the trunk, sit down, and think about it.

This used to be easy, you got a weird kind of enjoyment from these cleanups, running around with your sister, making it a competition to see who could pick up the most trash, laughing until your stomachs hurt over stupid jokes about jellyfish and sunscreen. Back then, this was just one of a thousand little family traditions, one of those things that felt effortless.

Now, sweat dripped down the back of your neck, making your skin prickle uncomfortably.

You’d long given up wiping it away, knowing that it would only come back thicker and hotter the next second. Every instinct told you to run off to the parking lot, and sit in the car with the AC blasting until your body remembered it didn’t hate you.

Leaning down for one last bottle wedged in the sand, your legs wobbled and gave way beneath you. Just like that, your vision was spotty, as if someone had turned down the brightness on the entire beach, and you pitched forward.

Just as you felt yourself going down, a hand caught your arm, pulling you back up.

"Whoa, whoa, you okay?" A teenage boy, maybe sixteen, gripped your arm firmly, keeping you upright.

How much longer could they realistically expect you to go on, plastering on that sweet, dutiful smile? How much “grounding” could one person take?

You blinked, trying to clear the haze in your eyes, "I’m fine. Just a little lightheaded, really, it’s fine,” you insisted, but then a shadow loomed beside you. 

Your vision was so foggy that it took seconds for you to register it.

You looked up slowly, feeling a familiar drop in your stomach as you realized who it was.

The last time you’d been this close to him, the two of you had been screaming insults across the room, Lily having to physically step in. She’d forced him to leave before you two killed each other. It was a miracle you hadn’t punched him then and there.

 “You should sit down.”

It felt like a sidekick to your chest.

The sound of his voice was grinding on your nerves, and just like that you were stuck back in your dream, a real memory, leaning against him, his hand playing with a strand of your hair as he laughed at something you’d said, the two of you carefree under a golden sunset. 

Except this was real.

Rafe was shirtless, with his board tucked under one arm, surf wax staining his fingers, and the sun glinting off his damp skin, like he was God’s gift to the Outer Banks. His buzzed hair was dark and wet, droplets trailing down his temples and catching along his jawline. His cheeks were flushed, a little red from the heat.

You looked away, somewhere over his shoulder, anywhere but at him, refusing to let him see you in this fragile state.

“Go away. I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move.

He’d been summoned from your absolute worst memories, catching you at your lowest when you least wanted his help. Typical. 

“No,” he refused firmly, with that stupid, stubborn look that made you want to throw something at his head. “I’ve seen you almost fall three times now.”

“Maybe if you stopped looking at me like a creep, you wouldn’t have to see me ‘almost fall.”

“I wasn’t—"

You grounded your teeth, “Just go back to surfing.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head as if you were the one acting crazy. “Yeah, 'cause you look perfectly stable right now.”

He'd always been a master of the passive-aggressive half-sneer, the art of making you feel like everyone else was imposing on his day, no matter the situation.

“Don’t act like you care.” you snapped, voice carrying over the sand, earning a few glances from nearby kids.

He ran a hand over his face, looking around as if he didn’t want to be there any more than you did, mouth pressed into a tight line. You wanted to scream that this was his fault too, that every choice he’d made led to you standing here alone, exhausted, and terrified.

“Water would help, y’know”, his tone just shy of patronizing “You can’t go around dehydrating yourself just to make a point.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Your fingers twitched with the urge to send him stumbling to the other side of the beach, you knew that any sudden movement would make you light-headed again, and the last thing you wanted was to give him more proof of your weakness.

The kid—still standing there, eyes wide and darting between you both—looked like he was watching a reality TV show when Kiara appeared at your side.

“Let’s not do this here,” she begged under her breath, handing you a bottle of water she’d brought over, a kindness you didn’t want but couldn’t reject. “Just sit down for a second, please?”

JJ followed, always with that air of easygoing nonchalance, but his eyes were serious as he glanced from you to Rafe.

“She’s right. Just take a second, yeah?” He looked over at Rafe, “Maybe you should leave,” he said pointedly.

“Maybe you should mind your fuckin’ business Maybank.”

“Look, uh,” the kid stammered, knowing he could get caught in the crossfire. “I’ll… I’ll go see if anyone needs help further down the beach…”

You waved him off, your focus still locked on Rafe as the kid all but bolted away, you didn’t want anyone to think they had to “rescue” you.

You tried to take a step back, but the little strength you had in you disappeared as you felt your knees wobble.

"Jesus," you heard him groan, and then his hands were on your arms, board on the sand, holding you as you stumbled. "I told you to sit down."

You shook his hands off, "Don’t tell me what to do.”

It was hard to believe the two of you had once burned hotter than any bonfire, two people who got under each other’s skin, in love, and in hate.

He let out an exasperated sigh while you took a sip from the water Kiara handed you, ignoring how your hands were still shaking around the bottle. 

She spoke again, trying to be the voice of reason, "We’re here to help the community, remember?"

JJ smirked, "Yeah, think the sea turtles are rooting for y’all to work out your issues somewhere else.”

You ignored his joke, keeping your eyes on Rafe, your pride and stubbornness refusing to let him win, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

He looked you over, his gaze fixed to your warm cheeks and the dewy sheen across your temple, “You look real fine, don’t you?” He didn’t even try to cloak his sarcasm.

God, he could be so exasperating.

He couldn’t understand. How could he even think he could look at you now and know anything about who you were? Standing there, with that stupid board and that look, like he couldn’t imagine anything bothering him as much as this seemed to be bothering you.

As if he hadn’t already ruined you in so many ways that felt impossible to get over. 

“Don’t you have something better to do?” 

“Oh, believe me, I do,” he drawled, his eyes trailing from the waves back to you. 

You were tired of this game, of fighting him every time he showed up only to leave you feeling even emptier than before.

Your fists clenched, and you opened your mouth to hurl something back, but the dizziness hit you again. Before you could compose yourself, Rafe’s arm wrapped around your waist, strong and frustratingly secure, holding you upright with an ease that made your skin crawl.

He had seen you at your weakest, had been there at the hospital after the accident, keeping you together when you were certain you’d break. 

Yet, here you were, in a sick way, back in his arms, all broken apart.

“That’s it. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I hate to say it, but he’s right,” JJ chimed in, hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

The world alone had all kinds of alarms going off in your brain. You fought back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest, freeing your arm. 

“I told you, I’m fine.”

He let go, but he didn’t back away.

Instead, he narrowed his eyes, “You think I don’t know what fine looks like? I was there.”

He was there. And you didn’t want to be reminded of it, not in front of other people. 

He meant the exhaustion and hunger pains you’d welcomed after your family was gone, embraced even, because it meant you wouldn’t have to feel anything else.

You’d wanted to disappear, and he’d been there—dragging you back, forcing you to drink water and swallow bites of food, even when you pushed him away. He’d seen you at your absolute lowest, where you didn’t care if you made it through the day. 

The thought of the hospital, tests, questions, you fought it, but your vision was already blurring.

You couldn’t let him find out about the baby. 

Your breathing felt tighter, each shallow breath only making the spinning worse, you could sense your body giving in to the exhaustion

“Shit,” you heard him curse, sounding distant now like he was farther away. 

You felt yourself sway as if the ground was opening beneath you, there was a ringing in your ears that made his voice sound muffled but you still felt his arms catching you again, holding you upright before you fell.

Waking up in a moving vehicle was like emerging from a nightmare, except somehow, this was worse, because you were no longer at the beach. 

You blinked hard, desperate to wipe the fogginess in your eyes and when it did go away, you realized who was behind the wheel. 

Rafe. 

Your heart pounded—your desperation to keep the baby a secret, how you almost passed out at the beach, and the fact that now he was most likely driving you to the hospital.

“What the hell are you doing?” you practically screamed, your voice hoarse from the lack of water.

He didn’t spare you a glance, “You passed out, genius. I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Your whole body went rigid. “Are you insane?”

“Me?” He scoffed, as he kept his focus on the road. “You practically ate sand back there. You’re not fine.”

“Turn the car around. I’ll call my driver and be fine.” You huffed like he was too dumb to understand. “I don’t need your help.”

He let out a dry laugh, still not looking at you. 

“Yeah. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m letting you out of this car right now.”

“Rafe, I’m not kidding,” you warned, louder this time. “Stop. The. Car.”

He gave you a sideways glance, his grip on the wheel tightening.

“Not happening.”

Your heart hammered as you realized he wasn’t going to back down, you were driven by sheer desperation.

“Fine, then I’ll do it myself." you muttered, reaching for the door handle. 

Anything to get out of this suffocating car before he dragged you all the way to the ER and they found out you were pregnant—with his baby, no less.

His eyes widened, finally snapping from the road to your hand on the handle.

“Are you crazy? Get your hand off that, I’m fuckin' serious.”

You yanked at it anyway, twisting the handle and pulling with spiteful defiance, and Rafe’s expression went from annoyed to full-on rage. He swerved the car to the side of the road, tires skidding as he slammed the brakes and practically threw the car into park.

Before he could even stop fully, you flung the door open and stumbled out, sandals sinking into the gravel as you stalked away.

You didn’t get more than a few feet, he was already bolting after you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, digging your nails into your palms. 

How the hell had it come to this? You were stuck here, pregnant with his child, and he played the reluctant hero like you needed him swooping in to save you.

Rafe reached you in two strides, his fingers were digging into his forehead, pointing at it with exasperation imprinted into every corner of his face. 

“Are you out of your fuckin' mind?” He sounded like he was talking to some unruly child.

And the worst part? You could see that frustration in his eyes, the same look he used to give you when he’d reached his limit with you.

You wondered if he ever got to that point with Sofia.

What would he do if she was the one almost fainting? Would he still look like she was some colossal burden, or would he soften, maybe even smile as he fussed over her, acting like he wanted to help?

You hated yourself for caring at all.

Sofia—the one who looked like she'd been ripped off from some perfect postcard, all wide-eyed sweetness and gentle smiles. She probably never challenged him, snapped back, or made him want to pull his hair out.

There was no way he’d look at her like she was a mess, someone he just had to “deal with.” He likely saw her as easy, perfect, all soft and sweet words, everything you weren’t.

This wasn’t who you wanted to be, and yet here you were, stumbling around half-dead and pregnant with his child.

“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?” You spat the words, watching his jaw clench tighter. 

He exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes. 

“Unbelievable. Only you could take me trying to help and turn it into this.”

You were done. You were done with the memories, with the torment of seeing him be something better for someone else. 

“Help?” You laughed bitterly, the anger engulfing you so hard it felt as if it choking you. “You think this is help? That I need you, of all people?”

He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I'm trying to help."

You hated how calm he was, how rational he sounded.

It was maddening when all you wanted was for him to get angry, to let that icy surface crack, to give you even a glimpse of something real, something that wasn’t just irritation or sarcasm.

You wanted proof that he still was affected by you, that this was the same guy who used to be everything, who’d promised you everything.

But you swallowed it down, straightening up, because there was no way in hell, you’d let him see even a hint of weakness.

“Trust me,” you shot back, “I’ll be just fine without you.”

He raised an eyebrow, a bitter smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Get in the car.”

“No,” you said, firm and unyielding, every inch of you screaming that you wouldn’t let him decide anything for you ever again.

“Fine. Have it your way.”

In one swift move, he reached out, his hands gripping your arms with enough pressure to pull you forward, lifting you clean off your feet. Your breath caught in a furious gasp as he practically dragged you back to the car, his fingers warm against your skin, like you were just a mild convenience. 

“Put me down!” 

You struggled against his hold, jabbing at his chest with what little strength you could muster, but he didn’t even flinch, didn’t so much as hesitate. 

“Rafe, I swear—”

He opened the passenger door with one hand, keeping a firm grip on you with the other, before finally setting you down—not gently—onto the seat. Without meaning to, tears began falling as you struggled against his hands. You could feel them wetting your cheeks, your voice was breaking, jumping to distress as you tried to twist out of his hold, feeling so small under his unrelenting strength.

He almost knelt in front of you, reaching for the seat belt with one hand, while his other remained firmly on your shoulder, holding you still. You felt trapped, impresioned as you tried to turn in every direction, hands weakly pushing him back, but he caught them effortlessly.

“Stop!” you meekly choked out, failing to shove him, the words coming out shameful.

You could feel your heart breaking all over again.

You hated that he was seeing you like this, how he dared to act like you needed him—it made your skin crawl. You hated that he could do this, like he had any right like you’d ever wanted him involved in this part of your life, let alone now.

This was a version of you only Rafe could bring out.

You glared up at him, practically shaking with rage as Rafe ignored your protests like you were nothing more than a child throwing a fit. 

“Get your hands off me.”

His jaw tightened, ignoring the flailing punches and slaps grazing him, and you couldn’t stop the sob that escaped, loud and ugly.

“I’m not letting you kill yourself out of spite.”

Your chest hurt like you’d been run over a hundred times—it felt suffocating. “I hate you.”

For the first time, you thought he might actually leave you here. 

His fingers stopped as if your words had made an impact, his lips pressed into a thin line. Your vision blurred as he leaned in, his touch hovering as if to wipe away the tear running down your cheek, but he didn’t, instead, he closed his hand into a fist and drew back, his face just inches from yours. 

A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he clicked the seatbelt into place. He made a low humming noise, that thing he did when he was getting ready to make someone feel two inches tall. 

 "Yeah? Get in line."

Without another word, he pulled back, slamming the door shut, and walking around to the driver’s side.

You wiped at your cheeks, furious that he’d seen you like this, that he had the power to break you down. It was humiliating, sitting here in his car, every part of your body screaming to escape. 

He got in, started the engine, neither of you spoke.

Rafe drove fast, every rev of the engine matching the churning in your stomach perfectly. You sat there, trembling, the dread building with every mile that passed. You gripped the seatbelt so hard it felt like your entire body might go numb, and stared straight ahead, breathing shallow, trying to ignore the sting in your eyes.

You bit back another wave of nausea. Weakness.

You’d already shown him too much. 

You didn’t need a lecture from some doctor on how you “should’ve taken better care of yourself", let alone with Rafe there, watching, scrutinizing, acting like this was his business when he’d made it clear long ago that it wasn’t. He was in your space in the worst way, reopening all the wounds.

You were seething. He had no right to do this.

The thought made you want to drop dead—doctor would walk in, casually drop the news about the baby, and you'd be left watching his reaction in real time.

You looked at the entrance to the ER. The vision of anyone running tests, of some well-meaning nurse, coming in and spilling everything about the baby in front of him—no way. You wouldn’t let that happen.

He wasted no time getting out, moving around to your side, while you sat rigidly, staring straight ahead. His hand was already on the door, yanking it open, looking down at you like he was ready to drag you inside if he had to.

You weren’t moving. You knew the second you stepped inside, it would be over. 

“C’mon,” Rafe pressed, his hand outstretched, hovering there like he thought he could compel you to listen. “Stop being so stubborn.”

You crossed your arms over your stomach, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I’m not going in.”

Rafe let out a sigh, nearing his limit, and knelt down to your level.

“Look, you passed out. I’m not leaving until you get checked out.”

“You’re gonna be here for a while then.”

“Would you stop?” His voice softened for the first time, as if he was trying to reach some part of you that he thought still cared. “You look like you haven’t slept in days, like you haven’t eaten anything that wasn’t out of a vending machine. I know you don’t want my help, but can you just stop for a second and—”

“And what?” you interrupted.

“And think! If you don’t get in there, I’ll drag you in myself.”

Your heart raced, “You wouldn’t dare.”

Rafe stepped closer; his jaw set in determination. “Try me.”

“You’re not coming in."

He blinked like the idea hadn’t even occurred to him. “What?”

Maybe he was seeing the protection you’d built up around yourself since he left, how there was no longer any crack left open for him to slip through.

“I don’t need you. I don’t want you in there.”

“Fine.” His tone was clipped, restrained. “But I’ll be right here.”

You slammed the door shut behind you, not letting him your legs still shaking. You’d rather collapse face-first into the concrete than give him the satisfaction of listening to him. 

“Yeah, you do that,” you replied, turning and walking toward the entrance, refusing to look back.

Stepping inside, you felt a slight tremor run through you—part relief, part panic. The lights were too bright, almost white. Your heart wobbled, replaying how he’d been such a fucking asshole to you.

You’d forgotten how mean he could be, how easily he could go from angry to something so frigid it made you want to cry yourself to sleep.

“Hi there,” The receptionist greeted, her eyes moving over you with a professional once-over, “What brings you in today?”

You forced a small smile, knowing she wouldn’t buy it.

“Just…got a little dehydrated, that’s all.”

“Okay…let’s just get some basic information.” She clicked into her computer, her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Name?”

You cleared your throat, rattling off your full name, she nodded, typing it in.

“Have you experienced any other symptoms besides dizziness?”

“Nothing serious,” you replied, dismissively. “It’s just the heat, like I said. I just need some water and I’ll be good as new.”

This had to be a fucking nightmare you got sucked in, you could sense your blood pressure spike.

She tapped her screen and glanced back at you.

“Alright, Miss Thornton, it looks like we’ll just need a few quick details here to get you all checked in. Can I start with your insurance provider?”

A chuckle almost slipped out of you. Insurance—God, you were fine with insurance. What you weren’t okay with was everything else. You answered, “Blue Cross.”

She asked for your birthdate, which you gave on autopilot, hoping she’d skip any weird or invasive questions. “Any allergies?”

You shook your head. Please, just let this be over. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” You blurted out, giving her a thin smile and forcing calm into your voice. “I just need the IV. You know, standard stuff.”

“Of course, dear. We’ll get things started, it will include routine tests, like bloodwork, just to be safe.”

Bloodwork. Perfect. You were doing everything you could to keep from falling into that spiraling panic mode. 

Please, just get me in, get me out, and don’t find anything.

“Just head down to Room 12.”

All you could think was that you wanted this to be over—before the whole town, or worse, he, found out. It made you want to scream. He was the last person who should be outside.

This was his fault. You’d never be here if he hadn’t shown up.

The next hour passed in seconds—questions, forms, an IV drip.

They’d done blood work, too, but you’d sighed in relief when they’d told you the results wouldn’t be ready immediately. As far as they knew, you’d just overdone it, and now, as you lay on a cot in a room that reeked of sick people, all they’d prescribed was rest, hydration, and food.

When the nurse asked if anyone could pick you up, the thought of calling someone, asking them to see you like this, made you delirious. You didn’t need anyone; you were perfectly fine on your own.

But you also didn’t want Rafe and his delusional ass to barge through the doors.

The nurse moved around you awkwardly, eyes still expectant, as if you were just a button away from a reliable “someone” to come running.

You looked at her, controlling the compulsion to yell. Little people ever bothered to check on you, to show up for more than just the drama or gossip.

Out of them, only one face bounced around in your head.

“Yeah, I got someone.”

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige @rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron @serrendiipty @sunny1616

@yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog @psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[httpserb]

this is strictly my kags bias speaking like I still love all the joys from Kitagawa but.... How do no one notice the change in kags behavior and personality!?

Like from the few scenes we see from kags and oikawa's povs/chapters, as a first year, he appeared shy, quiet, earnest, and very respectful. And while I'm only assuming that Kazuyo started getting sick around his second year and dying sometimes in his third year, how did no one notice this switch?

Not Kindaichi, Kunimi, teammates, or even the coaches when it's there jobs to watch and take care of the children trusted under their care. How did no one notice or question kags becoming sullen, angry, impatient, and more?

Just thinking abt it messes me up bc it's implied his parents and miwa weren't there (often?) so he was really alone most of that time with silence and grief as his main companions, deciding to throw himself wholeheartedly into the one thing that brought his happiness: volleyball

[shaisuki]

some efforts

FEATURING. GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU

CONTENT WARNINGS. mentions of past abuse.

NOTES. got sidetracked by requests and i didn't really put up with this chap. apologies. i swear i only update when someone asks if i'm still continuing this fic.

SYNOPSIS. the awaited date and some memories ruins it for you.

chapters one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve

the bistro was filled with numerous chatters. coming from patrons and customers alike. conversations over good food and the small laughter coming from them. surrounded by the warm glow of the lights like sun rays but more subdued. hitting the wooden interior with its soft light. creating a more laid-back atmosphere where everyone can wine and dine.

you were still on guard. geto sees how you scanned the room more than twice. avoiding eye contact at him and twiddling your fingers in the smallest of manner. he knows you were still wary of him. a bully or a former bully. it sets a bitter taste to his tongue. the knowledge of being one of your tormentors and realizing it later in life how he deeply regretted for hurting you.

he's not his former self anymore. he tells to himself. this date where you reluctantly accepted after many times of convincing you. saying that he'll make up all the years of the misery he caused. proving to you that he's no longer that person who causes you tears and pain but is it when he sees you. sitting across from each other with your gaze who couldn't even look at him and your withdrawn hands not making it nearer to where his rests.

“look at me.” there's tinge of authority in his voice but gentle when he spoke to you. it was like coaxing you to go outside of your box. “can't we unless talk?” rich coming from him who can make you say the filthiest of words while he used to torment you.

“i guess.” you briefly muttered. gathering every nerve to your body to look at him and you die a little bit inside how similar his eyes to his. a complete copy of him but you shake the thoughts. it was just you and him. “thank you for taking me out here.” your eyes briefly landing at the small frame pinned at the door.

a bit distracted and intimidated. gripping your cup filled with tea to prevent from squirming to much. it's not like everyday your former bully would invite least asks you for date. you were reluctant of course but geto is persistent to get what he wants and it earned you.

he picks good. the place didn't scream high-end or some posh place that their menus didn't have a price and the bill ending up as a month's worth of salary.

a ghost of a smile etched in his face at your response. there it is. what he has been waiting for. geto can't help but to admire you. the same round face that used to look at him. there's the softness in it and something new. perhaps determination? he can guess but nonetheless it isn't the time to guess what you're made of now. you've changed just like he is.

before any of you can continue, the waiter arrived with the food you both ordered. placing the plates in front of you and bids you both to have a nice meal.

you began to eat. taking a spoonful of the food and chewing softly. surprised that you managed to work an appetite despite how guarded you feel around him. “you and gojo fucked me up, literally and metaphorically.” you paused in between bites before continuing. “but you two never made me feel bad about eating. i'm kind of glad for that.”

shrugging as you placed your utensils down. taking sip of your beverage. your relationship with food was kind of rocky around in the edges. you never ate in public. afraid of the stares and judgement that strangers give to you when eating and never in front of someone. let alone as cruel as gojo and geto. surprisingly they never made you feel bad about it and encouraged you to eat with them when they're particularly in a good mood. often going as far hand feeding you.

you didn't beat around the bush and geto applauded you for that. it often got you in trouble when you talked back and defy them when you won't do a particular thing they want you to. they were such an asshole to you. “you look happy when you eat. simple gestures like that is hard to come by.”

pouring the creamer in his cup of coffee and adding two sugar cubes. geto stirs it with a spoon. he finds you looking at it. his large hand dwarfing the cup and it was like a teacup rather than a coffee cup.

“is it?” pausing and trying to sink in what he said. somehow your lips curved into a smile. it was rather a pained one. “and you, gojo would take pleasure in hurting me afterwards.” now, you killed the mood. the food gone bland in your mouth. feeling like your eating nails. the memories came flooding and it just made you ache in places. a phantom pain.

putting down your utensils down. your appetite's lost. everything's heavy now just like it was in the first time.

geto freezes at your words. it was like a punch in his gut. you were still stuck at that time but you never made it seem like it affected you and you were doing it just to make thing seems right. for his own comfort.

a pang of guilt hits in his chest. seeing you hung your head low and blinking back the tears threatening to fall from your eyes. he hears you mutter an apology.

he stands up. grabbing the back of his chair and placing it besides you. “hey, it's fine. it was never your fault.” he says, holding your cheek in his hand and forcing you to look at him. “it's been years, sugu. why does it still hurt?” you asked him. peering through your blurred vision of tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. you could have pushed him. recoiled at his touch and when you leaned in. giving up to his touch — you asked yourself why? and you understand it. why some people come back even though they were hurt by the same person and you weren't any different from them cause the best comfort will always come to the one who had hurt you the most.

a stray tear rolls down your cheek. suguru was quick to wipe it with his thumb gentle. cradling your face in his one hand. he looks at you and there wasn't any emotion shown in his face except for the conflicting emotions inside him. pain? guilt? and new emotions he never felt mixes with it and the more he stays with you, the more he feels all of it.

geto wasn't anything remorseful for what he had done. he and gojo had their fun playing around with you and what happened after that night — you disappearing without a trace and shoko's warnings that they shouldn't interfere with your life anymore despite the circumstances that you were working for both of them.

he did fucked you up and reduced you to this mess. the younger him would relish over it but seeing your tear-stained face. he felt worst. everything since you came back is forced. always driving you to a corner and if he really wants to build his relationship with you again. he have to change and he's willing to make it.

the weather's warm. with the slight breeze of wind sweeping throughout the park. the scent of the sakura blossoms wafts in the open air. after that little breakdown of yours earlier. geto decided that you need a breath of fresh air and the park is where he took you.

both of you remained silent. you in the most part. embarrassed at the sudden burst of emotions and thinking that you ruined the supposed date. “i'm sorry.” you softly muttered. glancing at the man besides you.

strands of his hair danced along the rhythm of the wind. he only hums. slowly inching his hands towards you. holding your hands in his. “don't apologize.” reveling in the softness of your hands in his and suguru's mind drifts for a minute. marveling at the sight of your hand in his. if things were just normal and he pursued you in a much kinder approach — is this how you two will be? except for the part where he's the reason why you suffered at his hands.

“i shouldn't have said that.” meeting his gaze and you suddenly felt bothered. “you were making it up to me and i ruined it.” blinking and biting your lower lip in guilt. you should have never brought it up.

geto sighs. he swipes his thumb in your knuckles. the gesture sweet and intimate with gentleness in their touch. “you didn't ruin it. i should thank you for accepting that date. it was pleasant to talk to you about things.....” his words trailed off. referring to what happened three years ago.

you only nod.

“can we start again?” your former bully eyes widened at your suggestion. “no talks of the past and all? just us two adults as friends?” and you have that effect on him. geto isn't easily swayed. it was the opposite he's the one that should be doing this and here you are.

there is no need to know what was his answer. it was a yes. without hesitation.

it was hard to tear his gaze off away from you. despite the earlier dilemma of your sudden outburst everything was going fine after that. you were just eating but why do you look so alluring. your cheeks puffing up in a manner while you ate.

“is something the matter, sugu?” pausing to glance at him and he reached to wipe the cream in the corner of your lip before licking it off with his tongue. your face burns in embarrassment at what he had done before looking away. clutching the hem of your sweater and ignoring the sudden rise of your heartbeat. face warming at the gesture.

geto chuckles at your reaction. his eyes narrowing and his pupils dilating. it is known that there is still the attraction lingering in your body after all the years you're away from them. too used to their touch that your own responds without the will coming from you.

it's going to be sweeter this time pursuing you.

gojo was running impatient.

he has been waiting all day. wondering what happened to the date suguru had scored with you and he did get the full detail of it. geto smirks triumphantly in front of him and gojo felt an annoyance towards him.

“she won't even glance at me, suguru.” he sighs exasperated. running his hand in his hair out of frustration.

“she knows you're in a committed relationship. you're engaged and to sayuri. don't compare (y/n) to your ex-flings and sayuri. she won't do anything that would jeopardize a relationship because of her.” geto explains. he knows all of it. girls didn't care about the others when they really liked someone and when he got the gist of you working under satoru. he quite abandoned the thought of other women. fully commiting to you. trying to get back to your life and make you his.

gojo scoffs. “what's your plan, suguru?” his blue eyes glinting behind his glasses. there's been change of plans. he's not going to woo you anymore. he's going to pursue you.

“nothing really.” he lied. “i know (y/n)'s going to give in to me. anytime if i played my cards right. you should know we're not the only men in her life. we don't know what really happened to her life the last three years.” he didn't lie on that part. geto knows someone in your life is trying to also pursue you. one that you owed deeply.

his friend remained silent. taking a long sigh before going back to his desk. he can hear the cogs running in his brain right now. he's out of it and he just can focus to you and only you. he didn't need to drag his ass to gojo even it was planned from the start that they would have you.

guess he's not sharing you to him.

taglist: @missakward123 @lupitalove @i00bear @socialanxietyvictim @tourmalxine @labelt-san @ghostlyworld @kashxyou @chiiiiiiiiiiifuuuuuuuu @cute-sucker @skii-high @boyimjustaloserforyourlove @jossayuuu @bubblesandsand1-0 @ply4vnce @witchymermaid12 @luna-v-roiya @mariyumemi @sinfullygay @higurumapet @kvk6433gkcigv @s-j320 @bts-skz @imcreepininyourheartbabe @hazzelle-kento @cashcadaver @n1vi @kiruupon @vebbiewuzhere @its-princessmara @ssetsuka @unicornqueen05 @idkwhattfimdoinghere2 @sunnytyun @tomriddles-wh0re @ya-mamaaaaa @wateriswhatiam @red-writes @saltyladyflower @greyclouq @bahurani @lovayle @okayiamkassandra @sealikesushi @sanzuandmikey @spicana @luvsymai @uniquenicefangirl @ushijimaschubbs @lansy-4 @aesonsgirl @eggieshiteru @jellibean2018 @uchihabucketlist @sunaemoby @cupidscourt @divinedolliebun @rottmntrulesall @mmeharuno @sleighter @haesify @desperadaparasapagmamhal @ichikanu @daytej@0honeylemonade @definetlythinkimanalien @thulhu @mastermasterlist1p1

[xxnghtclls]

Ever since the final chapter of Jujutsu Kaisen came out, I‘ve been wondering who this woman is, that we see in Sukuna‘s final panels. So I decided to read a bit. (Maybe I‘m hella late and y‘all already know this stuff or it‘s already fully settled who this is idk I wasn‘t active until last week lol)

The woman appears to be a Miko, a type of priestess that works at shinto shrines. This source describes their duty as the following:

In general, Mikos remained virginal and unmarried for their entire lives. Until the late Heian period, mikos could be married to Yamabushi who belonged to the Shugendō religion. However, these were purely ritual-formal marriages that remained childless. (Wikipedia / Joseph Cali, John Dougill: Shintō Shrines)

Back to the Manga: some people assumed this woman must be Yorozu, since it‘s one of the persons who offered love to Sukuna. However, for me, there is no indication at all that Yorozu of all people, is a virgin, let alone a devoted priestess.

My personal first thought was, that this woman is Sukuna‘s mother. The only parent Sukuna ever mentioned is his mother. He also hinted at his childhood as well.

If we assume Sukuna‘s mother was a Miko, Sukuna‘s fate of being unwanted and at the brink of starvation would make sense, since Miko were expected to be childless.

So how could this have happened? As I mentioned above, until the Heian Period they were allowed to have ritual formal marriages with Yamabushi. They also were supposed to remain childless.

But who are the Yamabushi anyway? The followers of Shugendō performed magical-religious rituals and ascetic practices in the mountains with the aim of “becoming Buddha in this life” (sokushin-jōbutsu <<< Hah ring a bell?) and gaining supernatural abilities. These abilities are used for the benefit of the population, for example in the form of fortune-telling or to cure illnesses. (Wikipedia)

This sounds very Sukuna esque for me lol

Doesn‘t prove anything but I think it‘s interesting to mention.

ANYWAY

What if Suku‘s momma was married to one of the Yamabushi? What if they were just… human and did fell in love, putting their duty aside? Getting Suku‘s momma pregnant, and probably punishing her for it. Sukuna was unwanted after all, not only bcs of his appearance but bcs of the circumstances as well.

What‘s super interesting is, what is mentioned earlier, that up until the late Heian Period, Miko were primarily young girls from noble families. So Sukuna being the abomination that he is being born into the forbidden circumstances AND disgracing his mother and her family. Yea… unwanted little wretch.

However.

Maybe none of this is true and the Miko woman is just a symbol for the religious path he could have followed.

Who knows?

Not me. Apparently.

Any further information is very welcome!

[archrypts]

The front door of your apartment was wide open, with dumb and dumber currently looking like two deers caught in headlights on opposite sides, separated by an old armchair whose springs had become a death trap over the years. Last year, when you held parties here, someone was always left standing — it was either the cursed chair or the floor - this is such a good start to the story because it explains the group dynamics so well!!

you are left alone in the apartment that held so many of your memories, beautiful moments you wouldn’t trade even in exchange for forgetting the sad ones. - oh! my heart, I just

It wasn’t fair, how you seemed to crumble along with everything around you while he, and his stupid things, remained intact. - chose to just put this part because I couldn't copy the previous two paras but the way you've written grief is so immaculate, it's so perfect, it's exactly how sad nostalgia feels, and the imagery of broken glass and wilted flowers against sunlight will always get me

Your three close friends were the only people present, but all you could see was him, a ghost roaming around and haunting every corner of the house you now despised, his giggles caressing your ears gently every time you moved from one room to the other. - oh holes in hearts.

With love, grandma J - mrs jeon is such a cutie pie bfcds.

you collide with something or better said, someone, the impact causing you to stumble a few steps back until rough, gloved hands stabilize you by the shoulders. - giggling i love that she crashed into hyune.

Yeonjun, one of his friends and teammates, comes into view and places a hand on your shoulder in concern - yesss kinggg

Since when was Hyunjin running this team like the fucking marines? - you can tell the breakup was hard on him

You would have rather been the one written off the story if it meant keeping him. Unfortunately, that was not a possibility since without you, there wouldn’t be a story to begin with. - rfbm,ed noooo crryyinngggggg

ahhh this was such a good starting genuinely jumping around waiting for the next chapter a friend group like their's would heal me tbh also... how soon is too soon to ask for chris's hand in marriage???

maybe it's not our fault - chapter 01

── synopsis: after a nasty breakup that’s left you completely shattered, you’re set on giving up on love forever. That is until, in a surprising turn of events, your respective best friends start dating and one of their main goals is to restore the peace in your broken relationship. Will their plan succeed? Will they manage to play cupid and get you and your high school sweetheart back together, or will it all backfire and result in the end of their own love story?

There is only one way to find out. If only your beloved’s heart wasn’t already broken beyond repair…

╰─▸ ❝ pairing: hyunjin x fem!reader

╰─▸ ❝ content: exes to lovers, angst, mutual pining, fluff, suggestive themes, drama and heartbreak, jock!hyunjin who is captain of the uni's football team + dance major!hyunjin, college au, lack of communication.

╰─▸ ❝ word count: 10k

a/n: it's here!! special thank you to my croissant baby laure @byunfirstlady (this wouldn't be a me story if i didn't mention her somehow fgfdgh) for reading this for me before posting!! since this is the first chapter, things might feel a little slow, but dw, it will all pick up soon! enjoy <33 and do let me know your thoughts after reading <3

“That is not going to fit!”

He scoffs, already annoyed. “Yes, it is! Just move over a little.”

“A little? I’m already stretched the fuck out! What more do you want from me?”

“Seohyun, I swear to fucking God – “

She yelps, most likely cramping. “Just pull it out, you dumbass – “

“What the hell is going on in here?”

You and Chan stop dead in your tracks, confused at the scene currently playing out in front of your very eyes. You were gone downstairs for less than ten minutes to get the rest of your stuff, with you and Chan carrying a box each that held the essentials to ensure this move went smoothly. And in that time frame, your two other best friends have already managed to be at each other’s throats.

The front door of your apartment was wide open, with dumb and dumber currently looking like two deers caught in headlights on opposite sides, separated by an old armchair whose springs had become a death trap over the years. Last year, when you held parties here, someone was always left standing — it was either the cursed chair or the floor, with most guests picking the latter once they were drunk enough.

“Uh, hi?” Jisung greets, forcing a smile onto boyish features that haven’t changed much since you met almost seven years ago, in high school.

Bewiled, you set the box down by Chan’s feet and approach. “Are you guys, okay? What happened?”

Whistling, Jisung tries to pretend he has everything under control. He doesn’t, he never does, that’s just the type of guy he was. “Duh, we’re fantastic! Everything is under control, don’t even – “

Called it.

“For the love of god, just shut up and let them help us already!” Seohyun barks from the other side, prompting you to peek in to see her straighten her posture, rubbing her wrists in obvious discomfort. With a sigh and a glare from Jisung who steps back to allow Chan to take his place, she explains. “We were trying to get this chair out to make room for the new one.”

Chuckling, Chan inspects the door frame while you pass Seohyun one of the boxes right over the ugly, red chair that’s seen better days. “And it got stuck?”

“Yes, because Jisung didn’t want to listen – “

“Or maybe because you started pushing when I wasn’t ready, like an idiot.” He counters instantly, never one to back out from a fight instigated by Seohyun. Not to be fooled, these two were as close as can be, the bickering reflective of their special bond.

You and Chan share a look as they start again, amusement clear in gentle, doe eyes that have comforted you numerous times over the years. Meeting back in the summer before high school, you and Chan have been attached at the hip ever since, clicking as pre-teens and growing up together, maturing down the same path that’s led you to the same university, and even the same major you also shared with Jisung. Music production has always been a passion of yours, so getting to fulfil that dream with your absolute best friend by your side was a blessing you couldn’t be more thankful for.

“Alright.” Chan stops their bickering, one hand landing on Jisung’s shoulder to get his attention. “Stand on it.”

“Pardon?” Jisung blinks at him, as confused as you and Seohyun were, not sure he heard Chan right.

Smiling, Chan squeezes his shoulder. “So, you can step on the backrest and make it fall over. It will be easier to move afterwards.”

“You think so?” He asks, biting down on his bottom lip, not confident in the slightest.

Your best friend nods, giving his bottom an encouraging pat. “Positively. Now go on, I don’t want to spend my whole day in this hallway.”

Seohyun scrambles back, unwilling to get caught in between Jisung and the chair, giving him enough room to do what he must to free her exit.

Watching the whole scene unfold has you smiling from ear to ear, struggling to keep your laughter at bay once Jisung realizes the task isn’t as dangerous as he expected. It’s anticlimactic, more than anything, as he gets on top of the chair to step on the backrest, going down slowly without even losing his balance.

He blinks, barely realizing it’s over before making eye contact with Seohyun who bursts out laughing like she’s been holding it in since the beginning. The three of you join in quickly after, your delight bouncing off the hallway walls and lifting the spirits tremendously.

After all, nobody in existence was ever excited for summer to end and classes to start again, with a new, even more demanding schedule than last year. You were in your third year now and things were bound to get difficult the closer you got to graduating.

This silly moment was exactly what you needed to start the new year right, sure it would become a core memory later down the line when you’d all be working adults, with even more responsibilities and nonexistent free time. The sight of Chan dragging the armchair out, without any difficulty whatsoever as Jisung and Seohyun’s jaws hit the floor, incredulous he didn’t struggle like they did, was sure to bring a smile to your face for years to come.

When your only access to the apartment was finally free, the four of you gathered inside with the remaining boxes.

“You weren’t kidding, you do have all of your stuff here.” Seohyun hums, scanning her surroundings, and her new home. The apartment was yours. You moved in just last year and you’ve lived by yourself until now, when you welcomed her with open arms and a little too much excitement.

“Yeah.” You nod, already moving around to put the scattered things back in their rightful places. “Sorry about the mess. I didn’t bother cleaning up before leaving.”

The living room was fine – your bedroom was the one that suffered the most, already dreading the thought of having to dig through all the mess to find most of your things.

The apartment was a gift from your parents, after successfully finishing your first year of university living in a dorm. Sure, having your own space was great, but you’d never trade that first year for anything in the world. That’s where you meet Seohyun after all, growing closer and closer with every sleepless night you spent together giggling and talking about everything under the sun, not feeling the hours tick by until one of your alarms would ring, signalling the start of a new day.

It was big, too spacious for only one person to live in, with two bedrooms and a bathroom straight out of an interior design magazine. Even though Seohyun didn’t move in until now, you were never truly alone with Jisung and Chris living right next door. Someone was always keeping you company, which you were thankful for, in more ways than one.

Already moving about like they owned the place, Chris and Jisung were helping you tidy up, with the latter moving to check for anything rotten in the kitchen. With four pairs of hands on deck, it didn’t take more than fifteen minutes for everything to be back to normal, leaving you to take care of the dusting.

“Alright.” Chan stands, carrying two trash bags. “Ji, let’s go get the armchair.”

Jisung follows before Seohyun calls after them. “Right, is it in your car?”

“I thought it was in yours?” He turns around, stopping in the doorway while Chan is already busy calling the elevator, further away.

You see her brows furrow, setting the duster down before grabbing her car keys. “Nope.”

The ding of the elevator gets your attention, and they share a look before hurrying after Chan, in search of said armchair, the door closing behind them with a quiet thud. You lived high up, on the 10th floor – nobody was ever willing to take the stairs and waste that much time.

And so, in the blink of an eye, you are left alone in the apartment that held so many of your memories, beautiful moments you wouldn’t trade even in exchange for forgetting the sad ones.

You feel a little lost, staring around like you couldn’t recognize your own home, shoulders slumping with a deep sigh. Your gaze moves towards your closed bedroom door, feet following before your hand twists the doorknob and you’re engulfed in sunlight, blinking rapidly to adjust to the change in lighting.

Inside, the sight that greets you seems frozen in time, transporting you back in June to the last moments spent in this room, where you were running around to pack in a hurry. You don’t dare move, just taking it all in as memories flood your mind and make your heart ache in your chest, what still remains of it, anyway.

All of your stuff thrown around haphazardly painted a picture you didn’t enjoy, yet couldn’t look away from either. Your bed remained unmade, with piles of clothing, bags and random objects occupying all the space. Framed photographs were thrown everywhere around the room, just so they would stop glaring at you from their place on your nightstand, face down and most likely damaged by the broken glass. The vase on your dresser, which used to stand tall with beautiful, healthy flowers seemed to have lost its color, struggling to fulfil its purpose because of the dried, mouldy peonies you didn’t bother throwing out before leaving.

But what’s even worse than the mess is what tipped you over the edge back then, falling to your knees on the fluffy, white carpet as you sobbed uncontrollably – the things he left behind were still here, in the exact same spots, in pristine condition. Your room looked like it barely survived the hurricane that shared your name, yet his red cap was still resting quietly next to the flowers he got you. One of his sketchbooks, still opened on that drawing he never got to finish as he got too busy with school, was on the other nightstand, on his side of the bed. A pair of his dancing shoes were by the door, right next to your comfy slippers. They have been there for so long, that you couldn’t enter your room without tripping over them and be reminded of his presence every single time. Hell, you bet if you checked right now, his toothbrush will still be next to yours in the cute holder you bought together, his razor not far away.

There were traces of him everywhere you looked in this apartment, clothes and necessities he left behind on his many visits. Like his football jersey, lucky number 20, you’ve worn more times than him, hung in your open closet among empty hangers that barely held on.

It wasn’t fair, how you seemed to crumble along with everything around you while he, and his stupid things, remained intact. The world shattered beneath your feet, freefalling to your doom of self-doubts and regrets while he continued with his life like nothing even happened. Like you never happened; like you weren’t such a fundamental part in his life in the exact same way he was in yours.

Your ex boyfriend moved on in the blink of an eye, while you were still here, crying at the sight of a stupid toothbrush.

This will never be fair. Why did you always seem to draw the short end of the stick?

New beginnings were usually your favorite. Starting another book, turning a new leaf and switching up your wardrobe for a change, getting the inspiration for another song – these were all activities that brought you joy. Now, returning to campus at the end of summer vacation to begin another school year? For the first time since starting university two years ago, felt like an impossible task, one you weren’t ready for in the slightest. Because how could you ever be ready to start your junior year without him?

How could you possibly embark on a new journey without him holding your hand and guiding you through it all, navigating around every hardship with ease like he was the most experienced sailor in existence?

You had no answers, only questions. Too many that were also too loud, bouncing off of the sturdy walls of your mind that were threatening to crumble with every thud, remaining standing only thanks to the unbearable headaches that reminded you to take a break from all the overthinking.

Your mind went quiet as another voice made its presence known, bringing you back to the world outside your bedroom while shooing the dark cloud above your head out the window with ease.

“Oh my god, we lost the goddamn chair!”

A wet laugh escaped your lips, more tears rolling down your cheeks as you desperately tried to wipe them all before joining your friends in the living room. You weren’t stupid – they were worried. That’s why Seohyun was moving in, in the first place. To keep an eye on you at all times, when the other two couldn’t be there and provide the much needed support you craved so badly.

Not like they knew you were aware of their little plan, having them figured out from the moment they showed up at Chan’s doorstep in Australia, last month. They’ve been tiptoeing around you since then, not knowing what emotional state you were in or what’s changed or hasn’t in the two months you spent apart. Sure, Chris might have filled them in, but they were still afraid. Afraid they were going to mess up somehow and have you slipping through their fingers and shatter at any moment, like you were nothing more than a fragile package, all progress lost the second something that reminded you of him jumped into your path.

And, you hate to admit but they were right.

They failed to take into consideration that even though your ex never actually moved in, the apartment was his as much as it was yours, quickly becoming your shared home as you fell into a routine that involved the other at every step.

Your three close friends were the only people present, but all you could see was him, a ghost roaming around and haunting every corner of the house you now despised, his giggles caressing your ears gently every time you moved from one room to the other.

Just being here felt like torture. How were you supposed to spend another two years sleeping in the same bed you shared with the person you thought was going to be your forever?

“Sweetheart.” Chan’s gentle voice coaxes you out of the room as you manage to pull yourself together, no sign of crying or distress still present on your features. If anything, they looked worse than you, crestfallen and a little embarrassed.

“We have something to tell you.” Seohyun steps closer, gently taking your hands into hers and intertwining your fingers loosely.

Jisung nods and is by your side in a second, throwing an arm around your shoulders as he lowers his mouth to your ear. “Chris lost your new armchair.”

“What the fuck?!”

Your laughter joins theirs, a beat later, as Chris remains the only one standing there, arms crossed over his chest with his words falingl on deaf ears, nobody paying attention as he begins defending himself.

When you’re pulled into a warm embrace, with Jisung’s cologne enveloping all your senses, you can’t help but start wondering. Is this a good time to finally reveal you never actually ordered a new chair or…?

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚.

Saturday slipped away into a moment in time, and before you knew it, Sunday was upon you. Your last chance at relaxing before the craziness began, and you’d be thrust into a series of new projects, classes and assignments that were already giving you a headache.

Despite spending the previous night celebrating a new beginning with your best friends, having an intimate pizza party with karaoke and a little too much alcohol, you wake up bright and early to get to a previously made appointment. Usually, you wouldn’t go anywhere for the summer, for the first two months anyway. But since you flew out of the country as soon as your exams were over, you didn’t get to help the animal shelter you have been volunteering at since your first year. It left a hole in your heart, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel guilty for disappearing into thin air, with nothing more than a text sent to the owner to let her know you’ll be going away for a while.

Hopefully, they’re willing to forgive and forget and let you make up for it by spending the next two months as involved as possible.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Comes Chan’s groggy voice, still husky from all the singing he did last night, stumbling out of your spare bedroom with barely open eyes.

You startle, losing your balance while putting on your other shoe and crashing into the wall by the front door. You were hoping to make a swift escape and return before any of them rose since nobody in their right mind would willingly wake up this early.

He appears from around the corner, tank top slightly raised as he’s trying to scratch at his back. “You good?”

“Yep, everything’s just peachy.” Regaining your footing, you manage to put your shoe on and turn your back to him to get a jacket, feeling too awkward to make eye contact right now, which Chan would have laughed about if he wasn’t so sleepy.

“Where are you going?” He yawns, turning to squint at the clock on the far wall, above the couch. “It’s literally 7 am, too early to even be alive right now.”

For some reason, you hesitate to tell him, too out of it for your, and most definitely his liking. Being here was certainly not doing you any good, the walls closing in every time you tried to breathe and lift all the broken pieces of your stupid heart off of your lungs. It felt suffocating, especially when you were left alone with your thoughts as you zoned out one too many times.

Still, you mumble under your breath, reaching for your keys as silently as possible.

“Huh?”

With a sigh, you finally face him, eyes downcast. “Furry Friends Rescue.”

The smile that stretches across his features as he processes your words is so wide and contagious, it brightens up the whole room like he was somehow related to the sun itself, light radiating off of him in waves. It wakes him up instantly, and before you know it, he slips into a pair of slides left by the door and flies to his apartment.

You look after him, confused, and step into the hallway at the same time he does.

“Alright, let’s go!” He beams, locking his door before reaching for your arm softly. “I’ll drive you!”

“Wait, are you sure? I can – “

“Yes, I’m sure!” He frowns, shaking his head and pulling you after him with his newfound energy. “You love it there, and I know you already miss Berry. The least I can do is offer you a ride, are you kidding?”

You can’t help but smile at the mention of his puppy, spirits lifted in an instant. She was such a special little lady and you really bonded in these three months you’ve spent at his parents’ house.

Your parents never allowed you to have a pet, with your mom being allergic, so you did what you could to fill the space that remained constantly empty in your heart.

The drive there is full of laughter and even more singing, with Chris bringing back one of the activities you loved doing since he first got his license back in high school. Carpool karaoke has always been a must in his car, and that’s why you rode with Seohyun on your way back from the airport yesterday. You were a fool because nothing was quite as therapeutic as being silly and singing Disney songs at the top of your lungs with the only person who’s watched you grow into the adult you are today.

The drive to your destination isn’t long, but you still manage to squeeze in five songs before you get off and Chris speeds off. Only after wishing you a good day and making you promise you’ll call once you’re done so he can come pick you up, too. He was too kind, willing to do too much for you sometimes, but you were just the same. You’re afraid you might try moving the moon if he asked, one day.

Your annoying, overprotective brother who wasn’t really your brother, who’d push you into the pool before jumping in to save you in the same breath. He was such a guy.

Approaching with a prep to your step, the shelter’s surroundings have changed drastically since your last visit. The trees in the back have dyed their leaves in warm shades of orange and yellow, scattering some on the ground in hopes of attracting more pet lovers. A beautiful background always pulled people in, just like all pretty things did, and this autumn is particularly beautiful, with sights straight out of famous paintings. Seoul was truly a special city, one that’s nurtured and taught you the meaning of the word love that’s being thrown around too casually for your taste, these days. The city you grew up in, where you found your love for writing and composing, and where you met the most amazing people on this planet.

No other city could compare to your birthplace, no matter how pretty or modern it was.

Just as you make to try the door, with your apology speech all ready to go, it suddenly opens and forces you to take a few steps back in surprise.

“I’m sorry, we aren’t open yet.” The apology comes from a tall man, whose delicate features would have fooled you into believing he wasn’t older than a high schooler. Yet his physique begs to differ, you could tell even from beneath all the layers. He’s wearing the shelter’s apron with the logo you’ve had Jisung design a few years back. A new employee, perhaps? You don’t recognize him, so that’s most likely the case.

Your gaze travels upwards until it meets his brown eyes that fidget at the sudden contact. “Sorry, I’m here to see Mrs. Jeon?”

The stranger shakes his head, bleached blond hair hiding an undercut following his every move. “Mrs. Jeon is out of the country.”

You wait for him to continue, provide more details but when he doesn’t and only raises a brow that almost asks ‘what are you still doing here?’ you sigh and turn to leave. “Right. Will you please tell her Y/n has stopped by?”

“Wait, Y/n L/n?”

You turn right on your heel, both of your eyebrows raised as if to challenge his. “Do I know you?”

He brings his hands up, showing he means no harm as a smile finds his rosy lips, one you don’t truly grasp the meaning of. “No! But I know you.”

Alright, now you’re properly creeped out. Noticing the look on your face, the man quickly corrects himself, letting out an awkward laugh as he rubs the back of his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not good with strangers. Mrs. Jeon does! I was recruited in your place when you didn’t come back in June.”

Oh, so he was your replacement. Great. You had no idea you’d entered a race to see how fast people and places you frequented could replace you during the summer. Very motivating and uplifting. You should have stayed home.

“Oh.” Despite all the thoughts overlapping each other in your head, you only manage to sigh, properly exhausted.

His eyes widen slightly, and without thinking, he grasps your elbow when you turn around to leave for good. “Please do come in! Mrs. Jeon has been waiting to hear from you. She left a note.”

“A note?” When he nods, you shake off his hand and accept the invitation, stepping inside filled with curiosity.

All of the furry friends were in the back, in a separate space away from the reception. The place was modern, decorated in warm, pastel colors that seemed to welcome you with a fuzzy hug, the surroundings pristine. Furry Friends Rescue was built from the ground up by Mrs Jeon’s late husband, who passed away a few years back, right after you started volunteering here. To honor his life, she kept this place running, making it her mission to find loving homes for all the animals that were brought in, investing most of her resources into modernizing the place and treating the animals like they deserved to be treated.

The shelter housed a veterinary office and a pet salon, run by other volunteers who were experts in their fields, students alike and even working people who would come by to offer a helping hand whenever they could. Mr Jeon was a vet – he used to treat all of the animals before he fell sick and became unable to work.

Making his way around the reception desk, which truly resembled the entrance of a corporation, even with all the pet pictures plastered on all the walls, and the dog pattern on the couch, the man picks up a note that was next to the bone-shaped phone.

“Here.”

Your fingers brush his as you take the small paper from him, but you don’t pay any attention to the slight color that appears on his cheeks.

Dear Y/n,

I hope your precious heart managed to heal during your trip

What fitting words for someone who had no idea why you left in the first place. Guess Mrs. Jeon knew you better than you thought, after all.

If you’re reading this, it means I have not yet returned from visiting my grandbabies. It also means Jaemin is the one looking after the place

Please work together until I’m back. He’s a nice kid and I believe you’ll get along well

That is if you’re still willing to return. Always put yourself first. If quitting is what you think is best, just know I’ll never hold it against you

With love, grandma J

P.S. there’s a surprise on the other side 😊

Curious, you flip over the page, eyes scanning the familiar handwriting to decipher what has she left you. A giggle escapes you soon after, shaking your head with fondness spilling from your eyes at her antics. You’re glad that after everything she’s been through, Mrs. Jeon has never changed.

“Is something funny?” The guy you’ve come to learn is named Jaemin asks from the other side of the desk, head tilted slightly in wonder making him resemble an actual puppy.

You dismiss him with a wave of your wrist, pocketing the note. Mrs. J’s brownie recipe you could never get enough of wouldn’t interest him anyway.

“So, you’re Jaemin?” You finally ask, giving him a once-over. He was tall, wearing a denim-on-denim outfit and smiled a little too brightly for your liking. Still, he did look like a nice guy, so you might as well give him a chance, even if meeting someone knew was the last thing you wanted to do.

As expected, he beams, thrusting a hand forward over the desk. “That’s me! Nice to meet you, Y/n. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

You give him a small but genuine smile and shake his hand. “I’m a third year at SNU so I usually volunteer here during summer vacation. I hope we get along.”

He nods, listening to your every word. “Yeah, Mrs. Jeon mentioned we go to the same university. I’m a second year majoring in dance! I’m also a part of the football team so I apologize in advance if I ever end up leaving you here all alone when the season starts.”

Oh, what were the odds?

Your smile drops despite your effort in not reacting, retracting your hand a little too quickly while nodding and trying to act as normal as possible. “Cool.”

Turning around, you begin walking in the opposite direction to escape from this awkward situation Mrs. J has unknowingly put you in.

“Shall we go see the animals?”

He’s on your tail soon after, grabbing another apron on the way for you with that ever present sunny smile of his. Jaemin reminded you of a hyperactive puppy, a golden retriever who would do anything to make you happy, pulling silly stunts and stumbling over his own feet.

Turns out, his bright personality isn’t the only reason Mrs. J has hired Jaemin. You spend the next four hours together, taking care of the animals and talking, to your surprise. They all seemed to love him already, causing a ruckus at the mere sight of him, excited to be let out and greet you both properly.  The puppies especially as they’d run back and forth from you to him without stopping for a while, barely managing to bottle feed them in their excitement. Jaemin was nice, and easy to talk to, happy to get to know you but also talk your ear off when sensing you might need a laugh, managing to make everything funny. A great pick me up, you ended up agreeing with Mrs J’s statement – he was a good guy, the best that could have replaced you and helped her and all the staff in your absence.

For some reason, he felt comfortable opening up to you, and in turn, you told him some things about yourself too.

“What made you want to volunteer here?” He suddenly asks while cradling a noisy kitten, the sight comical.

You barely think before answering, gaze still trained on the bichon that has fallen asleep in your lap while you were brushing her. “I wasn’t allowed to have pets growing up, and I’ve always loved them. I was lucky my best friend had the most adorable puppy in the world right next door, but it wasn’t the same as owning one, you know?”

Jaemin nods, finally calming the kitten, eyes on you. “Oh, that sucks. I couldn’t imagine life without my two babies at home.”

You look up, curious. “You have dogs?”

“Two cats.” He throws a peace sign, chuckling when you smile. “I’m from Busan, so I only get to see them on holidays. I thought coming here and helping out four days a week might help me miss them less.”

“And? Does it help?” You point to the kitten that has fallen asleep in his arms, head crocked to the side weirdly. Looking down, he laughs and sets her in his lap, using his knuckles to gently pet between her ears, one of his hands as big as her whole body.

“It does, actually.” He smiles absentmindedly, most likely reminiscing about his fur babies. “But only momentarily. When I’m back in my dorm room, I still feel their absence.”

“I’m sorry.” Is all you say, a deep pang of sadness hitting you out of nowhere. You guess this is how Chris and Jisung feel as well, both away from their respective dogs they’ve more or less grown up with.

Jaemin shakes his head, still smiling and not as sad as you’d thought he’d be. “None of that. I facetime my mom every night just to see them.”

“That’s cute.” A smile finds its way on your face as you imagine him using the same baby voice he uses with the animals here on the phone with his mom, cooing at his cats.

“You’re cute.”

An uncharacteristic silence falls upon you as Jaemin searches for your gaze, dying to understand your reaction. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just weird, making you feel like you were doing something wrong. Which made no sense. Jisung and Chan called you cute all the time; not out of nowhere, but when the moment was right. Heck, Seohyun would write entire pages praising your beauty whenever you posted on Instagram – you knew you were cute. But this was different, this was someone that meant it romantically, you could tell. He was flirting with you, shooting his shot and seeing where it landed.

That wasn’t something you could reciprocate, especially not now.

When he notices the look in your eyes, the storm brewing behind them, he adds. “I was talking about Belle over there.”

You look down at Belle, the fluffy bichon in your lap, who is currently sleeping soundly on her back, tummy up and randomly kicking her feet once in a while, dreamland surely rowdy.

“Shut up.” You laugh a moment later, appreciating how fast he took the hint and backed off, leaning over to softly push him on the doggy mats, to which he pretends to fall just for your amusement.

With that out of the way, things return to normal quickly and before you know it, the other volunteers arrive and you’re biding Jaemin goodbye and going on your merry way, back to your apartment.

It’s afternoon now, hopefully your friends are awake by now.

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚.

They were in fact, not awake. Jisung just moved himself from the spare bedroom he shared with Chris for the night to the living room couch to sleep some more, without having to deal with the other’s snoring. Seohyun was buried in your blanket, hiding from the world, in the same position she was in when you left that morning.

Like it or not, it seems their bodies were incapable of pulling all-nighters after doing it for so many years without suffering the day after. Hopefully, you all manage to fix your sleep schedules before your classes start properly, not wanting to miss too many and be left behind, confused out of your minds and barely figuring it out by the time exam season rolls around.

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚.

“I’m sleepy.” Seohyun complains, reaching up to rub her eyes before remembering the pretty eyeliner currently gracing her eyelids and stopping at the last second, groaning.

You giggle, full of energy from the coffee Chris made sure got into your system before your first class, swirling the ice in your cup absentmindedly, mind somewhere else.

Busy on his phone, he doesn’t even look up as he responds. “You barely made it to class this morning and you’re still complaining?”

Monday, 10:15 am. Your first class of the day officially ended fifteen minutes ago and as you’ve been doing for two years now, your friend group meet up at your favorite location, the diner closest to campus that has become some sort of sanctuary by now.

Seohyun was majoring in communication so she did not share your classes yet somehow, the four of you have started the new school year in the same way – with a boring, way too long 8 am lecture that almost erased your will to live.

She shoots him a dirty look he doesn’t notice, but otherwise doesn’t respond, too tired to bother with Chris and his top student agenda. Because being popular, good at sports and everyone’s friend wasn’t enough for him; your best friend was the academic weapon every freshman aspired to be, without trying too hard either. Hands down the most gifted and smartest person you know.

“You did go to bed super late last night.” You reach for her hand across the table, gently massaging her palm in hopes she’ll feel a bit better.

Just then, Jisung returns with your drinks, handing them out one by one like he was a barista himself. When he’s done and you all thank him, he takes his seat across from you and Chris, next to Seohyun. “What did I miss?”

“Seohyun was complaining.” Chris responds instantly, fingers typing away. What could be more interesting than spending time with your closest friends?

“Oh, so nothing new.”

At the same time, you softly smack the back of Chris’ head while she smacks Jisung, with a little more force, only the latter reacting loudly.

“Stop being mean.” You reprimand, and Chris puts his phone down with a sigh, leaning back in his chair to stretch his arms above his head.

“For your information, being late was not my fault.” Seohyun chimes in, finally in the mood to explain herself after taking several sips of her coffee. “This random guy ran straight into me, I was tackled to the ground!”

Concern flashes over your features. “Are you okay?”

She nods. “Yeah, don’t worry. He helped me up and gathered all of my books while apologizing. Then I met up with Ji and he carried my bag to class.”

Both you and Chris shoot Jisung a curious look, not convinced he went through all of that trouble out of the kindness of his own heart.

“In my defense,” Jisung shrugs, his arm thrown over the booth behind Seohyun’s head, “I really did not want to come to class.”

Chris chuckles and sips from his strawberry milkshake while you shake your head, smiling and pinching the back of Jisung’s hand that was resting on the table, to which he retaliates by throwing the straw paper in your face.

“To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention either so he’s not entirely to blame here.” She continues like neither of you has said anything, resting her head in her palm with a dreamy look in her eyes. “Besides, he was fucking gorgeous. I swear I’ve never seen such a beautiful man before. And his freckles? Literal constellations right on his cheeks, oh my god.”

“Okay, Juliet, pipe down.” Jisung flicks her forehead and she swats his hand away, glaring.

Amused, you lean closer with interest. “Did you get his name?”

She shakes her head. “No” Then, her gaze moves to Chris. “That’s why, I need you to find him for me.”

Raising a brow, he reaches for your drink to have a taste before responding. “What am I, the local newspaper? You’re the one who bumped into him.”

“Yes, but you literally know everyone on campus.”

He makes a face, deeming your drink too bitter for his taste. “So do you.”

That was true. Seohyun was the definition of a social butterfly, mingling with all cliques and being liked by everyone she came into contact with. However, she was also very perceptive so if someone’s vibe seemed off, she could come across as cold and aloof, not giving them the time of day.

“Please?” She continues, resorting to the infamous puppy eyes. “This guy might be the love of my life, Chris, please help me.”

“What about Mark?” Jisung buts in, giving her a questioning look. Immediately, you and Chris signal for him to cut it out, abort the ship and never utter that name for as long as he draws breath.

Seohyun’s gaze drops to her cup, manicured finger moving back and forth on the edge, pretending she didn’t hear any of the words that have left Jisung’s mouth. To his credit, Jisung looks a little guilty, arm sliding over her shoulder and squeezing briefly in a silent apology, hoping it will be enough to fix things.

The probability of this mystery guy being the love of her life was low, but Chris seemed to feel bad enough to give in, exhaling deeply. Seohyun’s track record wasn’t great – for some reason, she always fell for emotionally unavailable guys, with her latest situationship ending not too long ago once she realized Mark did not want anything serious.

She didn’t deserve all that. Seohyun was the sweetest, kindest person you knew, with a heart of gold. If anyone deserved to find true love and grow old with rosy cheeks, still feeling butterflies at the mention of her beloved’s name no matter how many years passed, it was her. And you’d be damned if you didn’t try to make that happen.

“Let’s find this pretty boy of yours.” You smile as Chris nods, enjoying the way her face gradually lights up.

“Really?”

“I’d feel like I kicked a puppy while it was down if I didn’t, so what the hell. We’ve done crazier things anyways.” Chris adds and she squeals, getting out of the booth to come over and hug him, suddenly excited.

“Oh!” She rushes back to her seat, instantly rummaging through her bag. “This is his. I think it got mixed up with my books when I dropped them. He was in a hurry.”

The three of you huddle together as she places a small notebook on the table, curious about its contents that might reveal the identity of Seohyun’s prospective new…something. Let’s hope boyfriend, and nobody that treats her less than that.

Chris is the one who dares open it, flipping through the pages in wonder.

“These are…recipes?” He blinks, drawing a blank as the measurements for the perfect ‘gooey brownies’ stare him right in the face.

None of you says anything for a moment, the gears in your head turning and working simultaneously before Jisung breaks the silence with an unexpected outburst.

“Oh my god, he’s a fucking loser!”

Safe to say, he got smacked a couple more times before your next class of the day. Lovingly, of course.

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚.

With everyone promising to ask around for Seohyun’s prince charming, you go on with your day until your last class, when you established to meet again for a little get together with all of your other friends.

The sun was starting to set, casting a warm, golden hue that extended throughout the whole campus, creating mesmerizing surroundings you could barely look away from. Thankfully by now, you’re outside, enjoying the warm breeze and nice weather that might not return any time soon as the days will only continue to get shorter and shorter as time passes.

You’re currently near the football field, cutting through near the bleachers to get to the other side where Chris and his swimming team are currently meeting. Seohyun is skipping a few feet in front of you, obviously in good spirits.

“Didn’t know Chris needed a chaperone.” She teases, turning to you with a smile as she starts walking backwards.

You chuckle. “Well, he is our ride.”

“We could have walked.” She stretches her arms as if to prove a point. “It’s such a beautiful day! It’s a shame we have to miss out on the rest of it, too.”

You were on your way to a bar, a new one that opened all the way in Hongdae. The owner has invited 3racha, Chris and Jisung’s music group personally, so it would be rude to not show up, even if you did share her sentiment. If it were up to you, you’d be in bed, snuggling already, but your friends have made it a point to keep you out of the house as much as possible.

“Just say thank you, Seohyun.”

“Thank you, Seohyun, for being the hottest girl around!”

You both laugh, enjoying each other’s company before she turns back around and resumes her skipping, long, bleached hair flowing freely behind her in the prettiest way. As you reach for your phone to record her for memories, a speck of red gets your attention in an instant.

You keep walking but your eyes are glued to the field now, to the eight or so guys dressed in the white and red uniform of your university’s American football team. Your heart rate picks up in an instant, scanning their jersey numbers in a hurry.

Relief floods your system when you don’t find what you’re looking for, slowing down. These guys looked young, most likely freshmen trying out for a spot in the most famous football team your university has had in years. You didn’t know how that worked, your memory failed you as you tried to remember when tryouts took place. It seemed a little too early for all that though, too soon to be looking for new people when the season kicked off somewhere in October, a good month and a half away. You couldn’t help but wonder why the hurry.

“Y/n! Watch out!”

Seohyun’s screaming startles you out of your thoughts, your eyes coming into focus to see a football flying right in your direction, quickly approaching your head. Before you know it, you’re ducking and running, feeling bad for snoozing and interfering with practice. Of course, this had to happen, you were cursed after all. You could never be near a sports field without something hitting you, no matter how small or insignificant the object, it always had to make contact with your face.

However, you don’t make it very far before you come to an abrupt stop as you collide with something or better said, someone, the impact causing you to stumble a few steps back until rough, gloved hands stabilize you by the shoulders.

When you regain your footing and finally look up at your saviour, your heart actually stops.

Because the one looking back, right through you is none other than Hyunjin. Your Hyunjin.

Or actually, he wasn’t yours anymore, now, was he?

Hyunjin who’s written his name across your heart in golden letters, that suddenly lit up at the mere sight of him. Your ex-boyfriend looked almost unrecognizable, his short black hair replaced by long, bleached locks that were pushed back, away from his face in a little ponytail.

You were a fool to think he wouldn’t be here. He was the captain after all and the coach was nowhere in sight.

The air wasn’t entering your lungs anymore, yet somehow you were still breathing, being kept afloat by his familiar hands on your skin, so overly conscious of his touch that you barely registered the shiver running down your spine.

After three months apart with no communication, Hyunjin was finally looking at you, forced to acknowledge your presence. It felt a little surreal, bumping into him so soon. Sure, you were expecting it, but not on your very first day back to campus, not when you still haven’t processed the fact that you weren’t together anymore. Everything in you longed for him and all his endearing quirks, even after all this time; even after he broke your heart.

You don’t dare look away, and neither does he, enthralled by those beautiful eyes of his that used to watch your every move with so much love and care. Now, you don’t see any of these emotions, but there is an intensity to his gaze that you can’t quite put your finger on. Time always seemed to come to a stop when you were with him and right now it was no different. All of your surroundings faded, leaving him the sole object of your attention.

There was a new piercing adorning his face, right under his bleached eyebrow. It looked good, like everything he deemed worthy enough to leave a mark on his body. But that wasn’t what got your heart beating again, pounding against your ribcage at an alarming pace he was sure to hear even from afar.

Without looking away, his hands slide down your arms slowly, and for a brief moment, you think they’re going to find solace in yours, just like they’ve done for all these years. By the surprise flickering in his eyes, you believe he thought of the same thing, catching himself at the last second and taking a step back, arms falling to his side heavily.

“Yo, what the fuck was that?” A new voice has you both snapping out of it, finally allowing you to look away and escape the staring war neither had the resources to win. It’s familiar, and as someone stops right by your side, seemingly out of nowhere, there’s no doubt in your mind about his identity.

“Y/n, are you okay?

You blink, and the magic from before finally dissipates completely, almost like the spell Hyunjin has got you under broke the moment he made himself busy by reaching for his helmet on the ground. When you manage to tear your eyes from him, Yeonjun, one of his friends and teammates, comes into view and places a hand on your shoulder in concern. The ball that almost collided with your head is under his other arm, and you notice that he’s not wearing his gloves as he should be.

Eventually, you nod, looking straight into his eyes while mustering your most convincing smile. “Yeah, don’t worry. Nothing even happened.”

“It almost did.” He states, glaring towards the group of men who seemed glued on the spot. “If it weren’t for Hyunjin, things might have ended badly.”

You look away, not knowing how to act around them anymore. Hyunjin doesn’t respond either, just moves out of the way as Seohyun sprints to your rescue, pulling your body into the tightest hug and putting some distance between you and the two men.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt anywhere, right?” She’s instantly checking you all over, dusting invisible dirt off your clothes before patting your head lovingly, just like a mother would do to comfort her sobbing child. Truthfully speaking, you weren’t far from turning into one, but the mortification of bursting into tears in front of all these people kept your emotions in check. You reckon a football to the face would have hurt less than having Hyunjin treat you like a stranger he’s meeting for the first time, barely reacting to your sudden appearance.

In hindsight, him reacting differently was almost impossible. Especially in the way you’d want him to react. Hyunjin had changed right before your very eyes in the last months before your relationship ended, burying his sweet and sensitive nature so deep down that you feared it might have gotten erased permanently.

Grasping her hands, you nod to calm her racing mind. “I’m fine, mom.” Then, you turn to Yeonjun again. “Sorry for interrupting practice like that. I should have been more careful.”

You hear Hyunjin scoff from somewhere behind you, still not brave enough to show his face, while Yeonjun shakes his head vehemently. “Nonsense. You did nothing wrong. Those guys though? They did plenty.”

He squeezes your shoulder reassuringly before excusing himself to join said guys, voice loud and annoyed. “Who were you passing that to? Are you fucking blind or just stupid?”

Yeonjun had no authority over them, not like Hyunjin did anyway. But he was still a seasoned player, one that’s been with the team for two years, so his words carried significant weight. He was a year older than all of you yet only decided to give football a chance in his second year, joining the team at the same time as Hyunjin. Their roles on the team were the opposite of each other – while Hyunjin was on the offensive, Yeonjun was a defensive player in charge of keeping the other team as far away as possible. Yet, they clicked and worked so well together that the probability of SNU losing a game with both of them present was close to none.

Bonding outside the field proved just as easy and before you knew it, Yeonjun became one of Hyunjin’s treasured friends, bringing their envied teamwork to more events than necessary.

For these guys to have a chance before the coach, they first needed to impress these two. And one thing about Hyunjin was that he was very hard to impress, especially in the areas he excelled in.

Your eyes naturally gravitate towards him along with your thoughts, his magnetic field still as strong as always. To your utter surprise, he moved to stand a little further away, facing his potential new teammates.

“Who threw that?”

The sound of his voice alone is enough to overwhelm you, suddenly way too emotional to keep still, to manage to keep your cool and act as nonchalant as he was. You haven’t heard that voice in so long, you’re sure you’d have collapsed if he as much as uttered your name.

Your name on his tongue has always been your favorite sound, no other word ever coming close to having that same effect.

Sheepishly, one of the guys steps forward while rubbing the back of their necks, visibly taken aback by the coldness in Hyunjin’s voice.

Hyunjin’s eyes narrow just as Seohyun links her arm through yours and tugs your body closer.

“Apologize.”

“Yes, captain!” He nods instantly, bowing repeatedly in Hyunjin’s direction to show exactly how sorry he feels for disappointing him. “I’m –“

“Not to me.” Hyunjin crosses his arms over wide chest, shoulder blade plates making him look even more intimidating as he stands to his full height, rolling his eyes. “To her.”

Your eyes widen as the guy looks up, searching for you with confusion visible even through his big helmet. Hesitantly, he changes targets, stopping before you and Seohyun.

“Hyunjin – “ You manage to squeak out, hating the way your voice almost gets caught in your throat, heat rushing to your face.

“Let him apologize.” His gaze travels to you leisurely, impatience clear in usual doe eyes.

But you aren’t far behind, a little annoyed by his insistence, managing to pull yourself together to counter. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“And last I checked, I didn’t ask for your opinion.” As quick-witted as always, Hyunjin isn’t even looking at you anymore, not bothering to react in any other way, like you weren’t even worth getting annoyed at. “He made a mistake that under normal circumstances, could have cost us the game. He needs to own up to it and apologize not only to you but to his teammates as well.”

Then, the guy seems to get smaller under his sharp gaze, instantly dropping into a deep bow and obeying Hyunjin’s words to a T. “I’m so sorry for throwing the ball in your direction!” In the next second, he’s spinning around and bowing to the other guys as Seohyun struggles to keep in her laughter at his next words. “I’m sorry for being an idiot!”

To his credit, Hyunjin hasn’t addressed him as such, always one to keep things professional. Yet, you notice the slight twitch of his mouth, obviously pleased and amused as Yeonjun bursts out laughing.

The guys bow in return, and suddenly they’re all shouting apologies at each other, owning up to all of the little mistakes they’ve made up until now that might’ve inconvenienced the other in some way, feeling bad for possibly giving anyone a hard time.

Not being able to hold it in anymore, your best friend almost collapses from laughter, needing to walk it off to calm down, only to start again as she locks eyes with Yeonjun a little farther away.

You’re so taken aback that you don’t even know how to react, watching the scene before you as flabbergasted as one could get. It was wholesome to see these kids already acting like a team but a part of you couldn’t help but feel bad once it remembered none might actually get to play and represent their university on the field. Hyunjin was trying to instil some discipline into them, but at what cost? What was the point?

Just as you’re contemplating everything that happened, the eight guys suddenly stop and turn to bow in Hyunjin’s direction as well, apologizing at the same time like it’s an activity they’ve rehearsed beforehand. It gets quiet as they wait for an answer, not even daring to raise their heads and see Hyunjin’s reaction, just patiently waiting for the go ahead so they can go back to practice.

Since when was Hyunjin running this team like the fucking marines?

Despite not looking at him, when Hyunjin nods they all stand to their full heights before him, awaiting further instructions. The mood shifts, all tense and serious like they weren’t sweet and wholesome just a moment ago.

“Since none of you seem able to handle one of these yet,” he barely finishes his sentence before Yeonjun passes him the ball, catching it with ease to hold up for the others to see. It all happened so quickly and naturally, that the others most likely didn’t notice, but you did. Hyunjin isn’t using his dominant hand. “you’ll be running laps until the coach gets here. Whoever is not up for it, drop your gears – you’re out.”

You’re expecting complaints and groans in protest but instead, they all nod and succumb to their miserable fates, doing exactly what Hyunjin has instructed. A little further away, you notice Yeonjun laughing without shame, having a blast at their expense.

“Asshole.” Seohyun murmurs, rolling her eyes, and you’re unsure who she’s talking about. “Let’s go. Any more time and Chris will send his speedo wearing army out in the wild to look for us.”

You want to laugh, to agree, and turn your back on this incident and leave without a word. But you can’t, feet lodged into place like you were standing on the biggest patch of mud around.

Hyunjin’s back was already to you, form cladded in that familiar uniform you’ve felt under your fingertips for years. The 20 under his surname written in capital letters on his jersey were almost mocking you, mad for holding their twin hostage in your mess of a closet. It doesn’t matter – in a month or so, they’ll be replaced in favour of a new design that comes around every new season. Just like your presence in his life will inevitably be filled by someone else; someone better, capable of loving him at his worst.

You had so much to say, so many words eager to escape and latch onto him, to get his attention and feed from it, growing bolder and more desperate with every second spent by his side. Hyunjin always brought the best out of you – until he broke things off. Then everything just came to a stop. Like someone lifted the stylus off of a vinyl before the song got the chance to come to an end, damaging the record and your ears in the process.

You loved music but suddenly, your life was quiet.

Hyunjin has been your muse for the entirety of your relationship, all of your songs based on him and the love that managed to blossom thanks to your shared effort. The butterflies and the fireworks all faded without a trace, making your music sound bland and meaningless, off-key since the one who inspired it was no longer there.

You wanted to call out his name, get him to stop and not leave you behind again but you didn’t know how, unable to without bursting into tears and breaking down for everyone to see. Hyunjin has been a part of your life for so many years, how were you ever supposed to start acting like he never was? Erasing him and the mark he left would surely be impossible without a potion of sorts, some Eternal Sunshine mechanism that will ensure your brain will be tricked into believing he was never here, to begin with.

Seohyun is off to the side, giving you the space needed to put your thoughts in order, for your next move. This was your chance, the moment you’ve been waiting for.

But you couldn’t do it. You couldn’t run after him no matter how loudly your heart was screaming in protest.

So, you turn around and latch onto your best friend as she begins pulling you along, quick to come to your rescue as always. Struggling to keep it together, with tears welling up in your eyes, you miss the way he turns to look in your direction one more time. One last time.

You’ve always believed Hyunjin was the love of your life, the one you’d grow old holding hands with.

Now, your perspective has changed, as did the main character role he has played in your story for the past five years. No longer was he the charming male lead, the prince coming in on a white horse to swoop you off your feet in a grand gesture of romance.

Hyunjin was the loss of your life. The one that managed to get away even with the tight grip you’ve tried to keep on his heart.

Hyunjin transformed into a background character that won’t be there for the ride, and won’t get to witness the new developments happening from now on in your life.

You would have rather been the one written off the story if it meant keeping him. Unfortunately, that was not a possibility since without you, there wouldn’t be a story to begin with.

︶︶︶︶༉‧₊˚.