#this one might have to break if it gets too long.... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joemama-2 · 3 days ago

Text

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 15.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

a/n: was gonna post another sneak peek, but thought the entire chapter would be better :) as always, pls let me know of any typos

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

It’s a nice, warm morning. The sun’s out, there’s birds chirping, and a small breeze that feels lovely against the skin. And the best part of it all is that Hana called in sick today. Her now boyfriend, Naoya, reassured her everything would be alright and that he had an entire day planned out for just them two. Being taken care of by another person was a new feeling to Hana, one she hadn’t experienced since her last boyfriend.

She’s never been with a rich man before. And she’s especially never been to an upscale golf course, wearing a tight, sleeveless top with an even tighter little skirt. Naoya is in his stance a few feet in front of her, club in hand as he readies his shot. She can’t help but feel slightly out of place.

The brightness of the day feels almost surreal to Hana, like she’s stumbled into someone else’s life. The manicured grass stretches endlessly before her, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly cut greens, mixed with faint hints of expensive cologne, clings to the air. She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, feeling self-conscious even though Naoya hadn’t once looked at her with anything less than approval since they arrived.

Naoya stands confidently, the sunlight catching the sleek fabric of his polo as he lines up his shot. His form is perfect, practiced—a natural at this, just like everything else in his life. He’s effortless in a way that makes Hana’s chest ache with something she can’t name. Admiration, maybe. Longing. Envy. She doesn’t know.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. The outfit he bought her might make her look the part, but internally, she feels worlds apart from the other women here. Women with polished nails, designer sunglasses, and easy smiles born from years of moving through places like this without a second thought. Hana crosses her arms, squinting against the sun. She watches Naoya swing, sending the ball sailing with a crisp, clean sound that echoes across the open course. He turns back toward her with a wide, satisfied smile, the cockiness in his expression unmistakable.

“You’re up, babe,” he calls out, motioning her forward.

Babe.

The word feels strange, too, curling around her heart like a new pair of shoes she hasn’t broken in yet. It’s sweet, almost nauseatingly so, and it makes her feel dizzy, like maybe she could get used to this if she let herself.

Gathering her nerves, she steps forward, clumsily taking the club he offers her. Their fingers brush, and Naoya chuckles under his breath, stepping closer to adjust her grip. His hands are warm, firm, guiding her in a way that’s both helpful and possessive.

“Relax,” he murmurs near her ear. “You’re too stiff. Golf’s supposed to be fun.”

Easy for you to say. Everything about today, about him, about this life, feels so far out of reach for someone like her. But she forces a smile, tightens her fingers around the club, and lets him guide her swing. Even if she feels completely out of place, there’s a small, stubborn part of her that wants to fit. To belong.

Maybe, if she fakes it long enough, she eventually will.

“Ah, so close,” Naoya sighs, watching the tiny white ball miss its hole, veering way off to the right. “You would think you’d be a little better after watching me all this time.”

“I—sorry.” She scratches the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves her off, calling down the cart girl. Hana follows him as they approach the wide selection of cooled drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic.

“Hi, Naoya. What can I get for ‘ya today?” The blonde woman manning the cart asks, a smile on her pink lips. She tilts her head, regarding him with familiarity.

Naoya barely spares her a glance, his attention more focused on the line of bottles glistening under the sun. “The usual,” he says smoothly, reaching for his wallet without hesitation.

The cart girl giggles, a light, practiced sound that makes Hana’s stomach twist ever so slightly. She’s seen that look before, the way the girl leans just a little closer than necessary, the way her hand lingers when she passes Naoya the drink. It’s casual. Too casual.

Hana steps back instinctively, feeling like she’s intruding on something she wasn’t invited to witness. She folds her arms loosely across her chest, trying not to fidget, trying not to let the sudden sourness in her mouth show on her face.

“You’re looking good today,” the cart girl adds with a wink, handing Naoya a cold can.

He finally looks at her, flashing a charming smirk, the same one Hana had thought was just for her. “Yeah? Must be the company.” He says it without thinking, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Hana, almost like an afterthought.

The cart girl’s eyes follow his, her smile faltering for just a second when she realizes Hana’s standing there. Her gaze flicks back and forth between them, assessing, judging, maybe even pitying. Hana isn’t sure which would be worse.

Naoya tosses some cash onto the cart’s counter, far more than necessary for just a drink, and motions for Hana to follow him again. She does, but the small crack left behind by the encounter digs deep into her chest. As they climb back into his own golf cart, Naoya takes a swig of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t mind her,” he says casually, like he can sense her unease. “She flirts with everyone who’s got money. It’s nothing personal.”

Hana forces a small laugh, nodding like she believes him.

But deep down, a quiet voice whispers:

It’s not nothing to you, though.

And that’s what matters.

Naoya revs the cart up again, speeding toward the next hole, completely unaware—or maybe just uncaring of the way Hana sits a little stiffer beside him now, the sun suddenly feeling a little too hot on her skin.

“So,” he speaks up, causing Hana’s head to turn toward him. “You and bestie still not speaking?”

The mention of you causes her to stiffen, a frown forming on her lips. She scoffs. “No. And I don’t plan on it.”

“Shame, thought you said you guys were good friends.”

“We were, until she started changing when that…that asshole came in her life.”

Naoya hums, stopping the cart at the next destination. He doesn’t get out immediately, instead letting the engine idle while he leans back lazily against the seat, his hand casually resting on the steering wheel. His eyes, however, are sharp and calculating as he watches Hana’s face carefully.

“Guess that’s what money and status do to people, huh?” he says, a little too lightheartedly. “Especially when it’s someone like Satoru Gojo.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, a slow, rhythmic beat. “Big name. Big wallet. Big ego.”

Hana huffs, crossing her arms and looking away toward the sprawling green of the course. “He ruined her,” she mutters bitterly. “She’s not the same person anymore. Everything’s about him now, about his life, his rules. Like she doesn’t even think for herself anymore.”

Naoya lets her words hang between them for a moment, pretending to be focused on something off in the distance. When he speaks again, his tone is almost lazy, casual almost. “You know…” he starts, drawing out the thought like it just occurred to him, “people like him… they don’t change for anyone. And they don’t really let anyone get close unless there’s something they can use.”

Hana furrows her brows, turning to look at him again.

Naoya catches her glance and shrugs innocently. “Just saying,” he continues. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s caught up in something way bigger than she realizes. Maybe even something that could end badly for her if she’s not careful.” He gives a small, knowing smirk, like he’s letting her in on some forbidden secret, like he’s doing her a favor. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not mixed up in all that,” he adds smoothly. “But…” He trails off, feigning hesitation before flashing her a boyish grin. “You probably know more about what’s going on with them than anyone else, huh? Even if you’re not talking to her anymore.”

Hana shifts uncomfortably. She does know a lot, or at least, she used to.

And despite the way things ended between you two, there’s a bitter part of her that still wants to talk about it. Wants to air out the injustice she feels. Wants someone—anyone—to understand how wrong it all was. Naoya picks up on her hesitation immediately and presses just a little further, voice dropping to something more coaxing.

“Come on, Hana. You can trust me. You know I’m on your side.” He leans in slightly, eyes locking with hers, that charming smile never once faltering. “I’m just curious,” he murmurs, “about how deep she is with the Gojo group. About what Satoru’s really after. That’s all.”

He says it so sweetly, like it’s harmless. Like it’s just friendly concern. But beneath it all, Hana can’t shake the feeling that there’s a lot more riding on her answer than he’s letting on.

“I…I don’t know.” She admits, shrugging lightly. “I mean, they have a kid. I don’t see why else they’d still need to be close. She used to tell me when I first met her that she’d never go back to her ex, but that was before I knew who he was.”

Naoya listens intently, his expression carefully neutral, but his mind is already calculating the information. He nods slowly, leaning back slightly as if he’s processing her words, but really, he’s already piecing everything together. “Hm.” He hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the cart. “I guess when you throw a kid into the mix, things change. But… I don’t know, Hana. That just sounds a little too clean, don’t you think?” He tilts his head slightly, feigning curiosity. “The way she acted before, all that ‘never going back’ talk… Do you really believe she’d just… forget about him, that easily? People like Satoru, they don’t let things go so easily. Not when they have so much to gain.”

He watches her closely, gauging her reaction to the way he phrases it.

“You sure she’s not just… saying that? Or maybe she’s in deeper than she lets on?”

Hana shifts slightly, clearly torn. She’s not sure if she should give him more, but something about the way Naoya talks makes her feel like he already knows more than she does, as if he’s playing her like a pawn and she’s too distracted by her anger to realize it. “I don’t know,” she says again, voice quieter this time, her uncertainty growing. “I mean, you’re right. I’m not sure. She told me everything was over, but she… she’s always been so secretive about him. Like there’s something she’s hiding. I don’t think it’s just the kid, you know? There’s more. But she wouldn’t talk about it.”

Naoya’s eyes glint with barely-contained satisfaction, his hand moving casually to pick up his drink from the cup holder. He takes a slow sip before speaking again, voice smooth and coaxing. “Right, that makes sense. There’s always something people like her hide. But…” He pauses, letting the words linger. “If you really want to help her—if you care about her at all—you should let me know what’s going on. People like Satoru don’t play fair, and your friend might be in way deeper than she thinks. I’m not trying to pressure you, but if you know anything that could help… It could keep her out of something she can’t get out of.”

The words are wrapped in a thin layer of concern, but the underlying message is clear: if she doesn’t give him more, he might just find another way to get it. Hana feels a slight shiver of unease crawling up her spine, but she doesn’t know why, not completely. Part of her still wants to trust Naoya, but the other part is beginning to feel like there’s something more to this conversation than meets the eye.

“So, what do you think?” Naoya presses, his smile gentle but determined. “Think you could tell me a little more? For her sake, of course.”

She racks her mind, biting at her lip in thought. Scratching her head. Pulled between two sides of wanting to keep her friend’s privacy, but also wanting to please the man who’s been giving her so much and more. Sure, he has his mistakes, but so does she. So does everyone. So do you.

“I…I don’t know.” She mutters.

Naoya’s smile falters, assessing her for a few silent seconds before humming and getting out of the cart. He stretches lazily, the sun casting a soft glow over his sharp features as he plants the club into the ground and leans on it. His stance is casual, almost careless, but Hana can feel the shift in his energy, a subtle coolness creeping into the air between them.

“That’s alright.” Naoya shrugs, tossing a look over his shoulder at her. “Take your time. Not like I’m in a rush.”

But his tone says otherwise, the underlying warning barely concealed. He straightens up, walking a few steps to the edge of the green, surveying the course as if the conversation hadn’t just taken a turn. Hana stays seated in the cart, her hands worrying the hem of her little skirt, heart thudding against her chest. She knows better. She knows she shouldn’t be entertaining this. She shouldn’t even be thinking about sharing anything about you. You were her friend first—her best friend.

But then she thinks about the nights Naoya spoils her with expensive dinners. About the shopping trips. The way he says she’s beautiful, special, that he sees something in her that no one else does.

Maybe it’s not so bad to share a little.

Maybe it’s just harmless.

And maybe… just maybe… you deserved a little karma anyway, after abandoning her.

She steps out of the cart, heels clicking lightly on the concrete path as she makes her way toward him. Naoya glances back, smiling a little, patient, expectant. “I…I really think it’s more of a custody thing. That’s just my speculation.”

Naoya lets out a small, amused hum, twirling the golf club between his fingers before planting it back down again, leaning into it with casual grace. “Custody, huh?” he echoes, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Interesting.”

His words are light, but Hana can feel the weight behind them. The air shifts again, the easygoing summer breeze suddenly feeling less refreshing and more suffocating.

She nods quickly, as if to justify herself. “Y-Yeah. I mean… it makes sense, doesn’t it? They had a kid young. There’s probably no formal agreement. She hid him for years. She would always vent to me about stuff like her rent, paying for food, and clothes for Koji. Stuff like that.”

Naoya nods thoughtfully, the club tapping lightly against the grass as he watches the horizon. But Hana knows he’s really paying close attention to her every word. “Hm. Sounds like she didn’t have much support,” he muses casually. “Even though she had family money. Or… used to, right?”

Hana shifts uncomfortably, casting her eyes down at her feet. She shouldn’t be saying anything. She knows it. And yet—

“She doesn’t really… talk to her family anymore,” she mutters. “Or, I guess, they don’t talk to her.”

Naoya finally turns fully toward her now, the sun catching in his sharp eyes. He smiles, soft and indulgent, but Hana can sense the calculation behind it. “She sounds like someone who’s good at burning bridges,” he says lightly, almost jokingly. “Even the ones she might need later.”

Hana shrinks a little under the remark, guilt coiling in her stomach. Still, she doesn’t correct him. Maybe because some bitter part of her agrees. Or because it feels easier than defending someone who left her behind.

“You said she hid the kid for years?” Naoya presses, like he’s just casually connecting dots. “Why do you think she finally told him?”

Hana hesitates, nervously twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt again. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “She didn’t tell me how exactly he found out, either. But maybe she needed help? I mean… being a single mom is expensive. Maybe she got desperate. Or maybe he found out and forced her hand. I don’t know.”

Naoya’s smile widens a fraction, so small it’s almost imperceptible. “Right,” he says smoothly. “Makes sense. Desperation’ll make people do funny things.” He straightens, brushing invisible dust off his tailored pants, the polished image of someone who already has everything he wants, or knows exactly how to get it.

Hana looks at him, feeling small and a little stupid under the weight of what she’s just admitted, but Naoya only chuckles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft. “You’re not betraying anyone. You’re just telling me what you already know.”

And Hana, desperately wanting to believe it, lets herself relax as Naoya pulls her closer, delivering a soft kiss to her cheek. “C’mon, let’s finish up here. We can get some lunch, hit up the mall, buy something pretty for you. You like that?”

And Hana nods, smiling shyly. “Yeah, I like that.”

“I don’t know if I trust your parents picking Koji up.”

Satoru glances at you as he finds a parking spot, brows knitting before he reverses back. “Why not? You’ll be in the interview and I have to run some stuff back ahh the office. They said they’d do it.”

Nerves fill your stomach, anxious about the interview you have with Carlisle & Harlow. Wearing your most sophisticated, fitted black button-up with the same color slacks to go with it.

You let out a slow breath, trying to calm yourself as you straighten the collar of your shirt. The sharp black fabric feels comforting against your skin, almost like armor, but it doesn’t ease the tightness in your chest. The weight of the interview looming over you is enough to make everything feel more intense. “I know you trust them, but I don’t think I’m ready to put Koji in their care. I don’t trust them, not after everything.” You glance out the window. “What if something happens and I’m not there? What if they treat him differently… like they treated me?” Your voice quivers slightly, betraying the vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep hidden.

He parks the car, turning to look at you. “Hey,” he gently speaks, gaining your attention. “I know it’s hard. You have every right not to trust them. Hell, sometimes I don’t. But I’ve talked with them, okay? And I promise you—I promise—that nothing bad will happen to Koji. I’ll protect him and you with all I can. And I’ll be damned if my parents have something to say about it.”

Your breath hitches slightly as you hold his gaze, his eyes a mixture of reassurance and determination. The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, but you can’t quite shake the gnawing feeling in your gut. “You say that now, but you’ve never been in my shoes,” you murmur, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t get to choose how they treated me. And if they treat him the same way, I… I can’t handle that. Not again. Not with Koji.”

Satoru sighs, his fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel, his gaze flickering between you and the parking lot outside. “I get it. I do. But you can’t shield him from everything. You’re not alone in this anymore.” He leans in, placing a hand over yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding. “You’ve been carrying this weight by yourself for too long. Let me help you carry it.”

You swallow hard, the uncertainty and fear bubbling up inside you. “It's just…it’s hard. Letting go, trusting people—especially them—it’s not easy for me.”

He nods, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I get it. You’ve had a lot of time to build walls around yourself. But this… this is different. Koji deserves a chance at family, at love. And that means we need to trust, even if it’s hard. Not just for us, but for him.”

You look at him again, his expression serious yet tender, and for a moment, the weight of the world feels a little lighter. He’s not asking you to forget what happened or pretend everything’s okay. He’s just asking you to trust him.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you finally allow yourself to soften just a little. “But if anything goes wrong, I won’t hesitate to step in.”

Satoru’s smile is small but full of warmth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve got your back. Always.” He leans in, as if about to press a kiss to your forehead before you turn to the door.

You awkwardly clear your throat, grab your purse, and ignore the urge to look back at his face. “Right. I—I’m going to go in now. Good luck at work. Your parents have my number, right? They’ll text us if anything happens?”

A hand scrubs over his neck, settling back in his seat. “Um…yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“Great. I’ll take the bus back.”

“Are you su—”

“Thank you for driving me, bye now.”

You close the door before hearing what he has to say next. Forcibly brushing off this weird limbo you two are in, and instead, focusing on the now. This interview. Yourself. Your future. That’s what matters most. It’s a tall building situated within the nicer, more metropolitan area of Tokyo. One you’re still finding yourself getting used to. You don’t miss your shitty neighborhood, you won’t. But there’s still a small voice inside your mind that tells you this kind of environment, just living a city life, is not for you. Maybe one day, you can own a piece of property out in butt-fuck nowhere. Some cows, maybe chickens, and at least one chestnut horse. Ah, the thought is a nice one. If all goes well with this gig, that future may actually be a possibility.

Entering the lobby, important-looking people pass by. Some on the phone, discussing whatever deals are on the line, others rushing about, seemingly in a hurry to get from one place to the next. It’s a little chaotic, if you’re being honest. But why wouldn’t it be? Everyone’s dressed to impress, you can tell by the pristine, dark fabric of one guy’s suit. There’s a receptionist desk further down; that’s where you head. Straightening up and dusting off the imaginary particles on your shoulder, you make your way over. A subtle confidence is what you try to exude, smiling politely at the younger woman seated behind the desk. “Hi, excuse me?”

“One moment, please.” She holds a single finger up, talking on the phone while simultaneously clicking away at something on her monitor.

You nod quickly, stepping back just a bit to give her space, hands smoothing down your slacks as you glance around the lobby again—more a reflex than anything else. The walls are glass and concrete, modern and intimidating, and the clean, minimalist aesthetic makes you feel a little out of place no matter how well you dressed today. Still, you keep your chin up.

The receptionist finishes her call a moment later, setting the phone down with a practiced smile. “Hi there, sorry about that. Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” you reply, clearing your throat gently. “I’m here for an interview with Ms. Carlisle at eight-thirty.”

“Oh, Ms. Carlisle hasn’t come into the office yet.” The receptionist replies, head tilting. “Are you sure your interview with her was today?”

Your expression dampens slightly, hands fiddling. “Oh, um…yes, I’m sure. She said today.”

“Hmm, well that’s interesting.” Once again, the receptionist clicks and scrolls away on her monitor for a few seconds. You almost begin to think it’s a sign from the universe that it was all too good to be true, that maybe Evelyn even forgot she scheduled a meeting with you today in the first place. You’re about to lose all hope, but the girl speaks up again. “Well, you’re more than welcome to wait for her in her office. She’s up on the last floor. Once you’re out of the elevators, take a right, then another right, then a left, keep walking down, and you’ll see it. It’s not hard to miss.”

You thank her with a polite nod, trying to ignore the tightening in your stomach as you step toward the elevators. Maybe it was just a simple scheduling mix-up, or maybe this is what it’s like working in a place where everyone’s too busy to worry about being on time. Either way, you’re here now—and you’ll wait if you have to. You're not about to let something like this shake you. The elevator dings open with a soft chime, sleek and metallic inside, and you press the button for the top floor, which is the twenty-first. As the doors close, you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel—sharp collar, clean lines, confident-enough face—and you give yourself the smallest of nods. You can do this.

The ride up is smooth and quiet, faced with the beautiful skyline of a bright Tokyo morning. When the doors finally slide open, you’re met with the hushed luxury of the executive floor. It’s quieter up here—less of the bustling chaos from the lobby. The air feels cooler, more sterile, with plush carpeting and abstract art lining the walls. Probably the higher up you go, the more important the people are, and the more hushed it is.

Following the receptionist’s directions, you navigate the hallway, counting your turns. Right. Another right. Then left. And just like she said, there it is—Carlisle etched on the frosted glass door in neat serif lettering. It’s large, imposing, and framed by dark wood with a gold handle that gleams faintly in the soft overhead lighting. You pause just before reaching for it, taking another deep breath to center yourself.

This interview could change everything. Not just your job. Not just your income. But your whole future.

You knock twice, then slowly push the door open.

No one is inside, as you expected, but it still felt respectful enough to knock. There’s a dark mahogany desk in the center, a reclining seat behind it, with two chairs on the opposite side. Two monitors with a landline and piles of paperwork stacked on top. To the right is a plush, black leather couch. The walls have some paintings, you could only assume cost way too much for such simplicity. Carefully, you walk inside, plopping down onto one of the two chairs. Hands folded in your lap as the silence envelopes you, head swivelling around as you continue to take in the atmosphere. It’s not too large of an office, but still bigger than your normal supervisor's one. You almost question how similar this one looks to someone like Satoru’s, someone who has a high ranking in such a noteworthy company. Not that you’ve ever seen his.

Boredom begins to strike as you wait for her to arrive. You check your watch. 8:36. If there’s one thing you hate most in your life, it’s late people. Your finger taps against your knuckles, your foot against the floor as time ticks. When you glance at Evelyn’s desk again, you notice that she has a framed picture. It’s the only thing on her mess of a desk that seems like a personal artifact. You lean closer in your seat, head tilting to the side and just barely nudging the frame so you can have a better look.

One more month until we meet you, Baby Jeanie.

Evelyn is wearing a white dress, with a very obvious bump beneath it. Beside her stands her late husband, Noah Harlow, his blonde hair reflecting the sunlight. Her head is leaning on his shoulder, and each of their hands is placed on top of the life they’ve created. Genuine smiles painted their faces. He’s wearing a clean, tan button-up, with light slacks to match. The day looks perfect, the picture beautifully representing what it must’ve felt like for the expecting couple. A small twist forms at your heart, lip curving down.

“Three years today.”

You jolt with a gasp, quickly settling back in your seat, forcing your slouched position away.

Evelyn’s voice is calm but laced with a grief you recognize immediately. Her heels click softly against the floor as she walks into the office, setting her bag down on the desk with practiced ease. She doesn’t look at the photo—she doesn’t have to. Her gaze is distant, almost unreadable, but you see the heaviness behind her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, flustered, guilt blooming in your chest as you sit up straighter, “I wasn’t trying to snoop, I just—”

She lifts a hand, gently waving it off. “It’s alright.” Her voice is quiet, steady. “I keep it there because I want people to see it. It reminds me why I do what I do.” A pause. “And who I’ve done it for.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. Your fingers nervously clutch the edge of your slacks.

Evelyn takes her seat behind the desk and leans back in her chair, studying you with sharp, blue, observant eyes that don’t quite match the soft sorrow of her earlier tone. She taps the edge of her keyboard before finally breaking the silence again. “You’re early. I like that.”

“I—I wasn’t sure about traffic,” you manage, forcing a small, professional smile. “Figured it’s better than being late.”

“Smart. And rare,” she replies, and though her tone is cool, there’s something vaguely warm beneath it. “Let’s not waste time, then.”

She flips open a leather-bound folder, scanning your resume briefly. You can feel the shift—how she seems to pull herself together quickly, brushing her personal grief behind some invisible barrier to focus on the task at hand. “You did bring your resume, correct?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” You nod, reaching down to pull a folder out of your purse. You open it and hand her a straight, white sheet of paper stapled together. “

She takes it, head tilting as she analyzes it quietly. She hums. “Quite a lengthy list of employment.”

“I’ve been working since I was barely a teenager,” you nod.

Evelyn doesn’t look up at first, eyes scanning the page with the kind of thorough attention that makes your pulse tick faster in your throat. Her fingers rest at the corner of the paper, unmoving, like she’s weighing something much heavier than a resume. Finally, she speaks again.

“And not a single job lasted more than…ten months.” Her gaze lifts, sharp and assessing. “Why is that?”

You hesitate, the air suddenly feeling too thick in your lungs. There it is—that dreaded question. Not unexpected, but still difficult to explain in a way that doesn’t sound like you’re making excuses. You fold your hands in your lap, straighten your spine once more, and meet her eyes. “Most of them were out of necessity,” you say honestly. “Temporary work, short-term contracts, jobs I took to keep a roof over our heads. It wasn’t about building a career at the time. It was survival.”

There’s a pause. Evelyn leans back slightly, arms folding across her chest. She watches you in silence for a moment longer before her tone softens—just a fraction.

“And now?”

Your throat feels tight, but you manage to hold steady. “Now, I’m not just trying to survive anymore. I want something stable. I want something I can grow in, something that’s mine. For me. And for my son. I want us both to have security.”

Evelyn’s brow twitches faintly at the mention of your child, though she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sets your resume down and steeples her fingers. The grief you saw earlier remains behind her eyes, like a shadow, but something shifts. “You’re not the most qualified person on paper,” she says bluntly. “But I’ve made decisions from instinct before—and they’ve served me well.”

Another pause.

“Tell me why I should take that chance on you.”

You falter a bit, and a part of you almost blurts out, Well, you came up to me at my job, you sought me out, but you hold it back. “Well, I’m a very…hard worker. I’m passionate, and I’m very dependable. I believe that I have a lot of years' worth of experience, and I can be a great addition to this company. I’ve never been a personal secretary before, but I’m diligent, I’m…great at conflict management. And I get my work done.”

“You and…many other people, Y/N.” She murmurs, leaning back in her seat, one leg crossing over the other. “Give me more. What makes you stand out?”

God, you hate questions like these. You rack your brain for a bit, coming up with the most generic answer. “I’m a very determined person. I’m adaptable.”

“And that makes you, what?”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. Her tone isn’t cruel, but it is pointed, like she’s testing you, pushing to see if there’s anything beyond the surface. And maybe she has every right to. This is the kind of job people fight for, the kind you don’t just walk into from a string of restaurant gigs and hourly jobs. But you’ve fought too hard to shrink now. So, you breathe in, let your shoulders settle, and drop the polite, rehearsed version of yourself.

“It makes me someone who doesn’t give up when things get hard,” you say, voice calmer now, more grounded. “Someone who keeps showing up. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’ve got every reason to quit. I’ve worked through grief, through debt, through raising a child by myself. And I still found a way to keep going. I may not have a polished resume, and I might not look perfect on paper, but I learn fast, and I don’t need hand-holding. You won’t have to babysit me. I can take a hit and keep moving.”

Your voice quiets, but your gaze stays steady on hers.

“I know what it means to build from nothing. And I’m not afraid to start again, even here.”

The silence that follows is thicker this time, but not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Evelyn studies you with a different kind of stillness now. Not dismissive. Not uninterested. Just…watching. Measuring. Then, she speaks. “How old is your child?”

“He’s five now.”

“Going to school?”

“He is.”

Evelyn nods slowly, fingers steepled beneath her chin as she regards you with something unreadable—less like an employer sizing up a candidate, and more like a woman pulling apart a story that hits too close to home. “You’ll have to leave early sometimes. Sick days. School closures. Emergencies.” Her voice is even, neutral.

You nod. “I try to plan for those things ahead of time. But yes, sometimes they’re unavoidable.”

Another beat of silence. Then, she leans back slightly, eyes narrowing, but not unkindly, with intent. “Being a personal secretary isn’t just phones and calendars. It’s long hours. Emotional labor. You’ll be expected to run interference, manage people’s moods, anticipate needs before they’re spoken. My assistant before you quit because the pressure bled into her marriage.”

She lets that sink in. Not as a threat, but as a truth.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just telling you—you’ll be expected to carry a lot. Are you ready for that, Y/N? Not just for the job. But for what it takes from you?”

Your lips purse, fingers curling into your palms. Every question from her feels like a test. A reminder that this job, although presented to you, is not one for the weak. Well, luckily for you, you’re not married like the last girl. And, unluckily for Eveleyn, she may wish you were.

You huff a small breath through your nostrils before speaking with conviction. “I’m ready. I’ve made the necessary steps to get to where I am for my son and for me. I can push and push, and I can take just as much. I…I have more to fight for now.”

Evelyn’s eyes flicker slightly, just a subtle change in the way she regards you, but it’s enough to let you know she heard you. She shifts in her seat, elbows resting on the arms of her chair, hands folding neatly in her lap. There’s a glimmer of something—approval or maybe just curiosity—as she leans forward just enough to study you. “I see,” she murmurs. Her voice is softer now, less challenging. “You’re driven. That’s clear.”

You meet her gaze, holding it steady, feeling the weight of her scrutiny but refusing to flinch. This interview, this moment, it feels like one more battle you’ve got to win, and you’re determined to prove that you're capable of fighting for what you want, even if it’s a battle she doesn't yet fully understand. She taps her pen lightly against her desk, contemplating. “Alright, Y/N. I’ll be honest. I’ve had my doubts about taking on someone with little experience in this specific role. But you’ve shown me something I wasn’t expecting. I’ll need to run this by my team, but you’ll hear back from me soon. If all goes well, I’ll put you through a trial month. That’s all I can promise for now.”

You nod, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly. The worst of it is over. Or so you hope. “Thank you,” you say, standing up with a calmness you didn’t feel five minutes ago. You offer her a polite smile. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Evelyn gives you a small nod, standing as well. “Good luck, Y/N. I think you’ll need it.”

As you leave the office, your heart is still racing, but now it’s not from nerves. It’s from knowing you’ve fought for this. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough. A smile makes its way onto your face. That wasn’t half bad and not nearly as long as you thought it would be. Of course, you would’ve loved to have been hired on the spot, but it makes sense that she needs to consult first.

Still, it wasn’t rejection.

You lightly chuckle, turning one of the first corners, when suddenly, you collide with someone. You gasp, stumbling back a little before catching your footing. “Oh, I—I’m so sorry. That was an accident.”

Locking eyes with the person you’ve just come into contact with, you see it’s an older man. His grey hair is styled sleekly back, with hints of crows feet around the outer edges of his hazel eyes. He’s dressed like every other man here. Nice, fancy, pristine. He dusts off his right shoulder, straightening his blazer out. “Don’t worry, simple mistake.” His voice is clean and smooth, slightly rough at the edges, which makes it obvious he was or still is a smoker.

You quickly step back, feeling a slight wave of embarrassment. The man’s eyes soften as he gives a short hum. “It happens.” He gestures to the hallway behind him with a brief nod. You step aside, offering another apology. His eyes just very briefly scan you up and down, lingering on a couple of features of your face, specifically your nose and eyebrows, before transferring quickly to your ears.

“Have a nice day,” you mutter awkwardly.

“Mhm,” is all he says before walking past you. Once he’s gone, your body feels lighter, as if this stranger’s presence made you all wacky from the inside. You cast a small look around the corner, making it just in time to notice Evelyn’s door closing with a click.

You swallow, shaking off the lingering feeling that man left behind. His presence, the way his eyes skimmed over you, there was something strange about it, but you can’t put your finger on what. You chalk it up to nerves from the interview and move on. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, right? Besides, it’s Evelyn’s opinion that matters now. You keep walking, feeling that mix of relief and uncertainty creeping back into your chest. It’s a good thing the interview went well, but the weight of waiting for a callback still lingers heavily. As you approach the elevator, you check your phone, noticing a message from Satoru.

Satoru: "How’d it go?"

You smile a little, despite everything. You type out a quick reply:

You: "Better than I expected. No decision yet, but I didn’t bomb it."

You hit send, stepping into the elevator, your mind still buzzing. A moment later, the door closes, and the hum of the elevator fills the silence. You rest against the metal wall, letting your thoughts wander back to the interview, to what could come next.

It could be the start of something bigger.

“My, this…neighborhood,” Akane comments, laced with disgust. Her face wrinkles slightly at the trash that leaks out of the garbage can, obviously not being taken care of, the sketchy-looking liquor stores that seem too close together, but must be an alcoholic’s dream. The car stops at the elementary school, she looks over at her husband. “Are you sure this is the boy’s school?”

“That’s what the damn GPS is telling me. That’s what Satoru said.” Yamato huffs, grabbing his phone, pointer finger jabbing at the bright screen, and pulling down the glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

Akane sighs, straightening out her dress.

“C’mon, Satoru said his class should have already been let out, let’s go find the room.” Yamato pushes his hair back, sighing as he gets out his Rolls-Royce Cullinan. Rounding the car to open the passenger door for his wife. They link hands and head toward the front doors of Koji’s school.

“I hope we don’t get mugged,” Akane mutters under her breath.

“Oh, quiet. We’re only here for the kid.” Yamato easily replies, eyes rolling.

The inside of the school isn’t much better. The walls are faded, bulletin boards cluttered with crumpled flyers, hand-drawn posters, and outdated announcements. The linoleum under their feet squeaks with every step, and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Akane grimaces as a child runs past them with a juice-stained shirt, followed by another with untied shoes and an uncovered sneeze.

“This place smells like glue and poverty,” she mutters, pulling her handbag closer to her side.

Yamato doesn’t respond this time. He’s focused on the numbers above each door, squinting until they finally stop in front of Room 2B. Children’s laughter and the low hum of a teacher’s voice filter through the door. Akane frowns, eyes narrowing at the chipped paint on the doorframe.

Yamato raises his hand to knock, hesitates for a moment, and then glances at his wife. “Just…behave, alright?”

“I always do,” Akane answers with a sugary edge, smoothing her hair back and lifting her chin as he knocks.

The noise inside dips for a second as a voice— the teacher’s—calls out, “Come in!”

And just like that, the Gojo parents step into a room that’s far too small, far too loud, and far too beneath them—only, they’re not here for any of that.

They’re here for Koji.

Yamato presents a small smile. “Hello, we’re here for our…” grandson? Should he say grandson? Technically, he is, but it doesn’t really feel that way. “Koji. We’re his grandparents.”

“Ah! Right!” The teacher, an older lady with brown hair and a stained apron, nods. “His mother said he would be getting picked up by you two.” She turns her head over her shoulder, and the other kids who haven’t been picked up by their parents yet either. “Koji! Your grandparents are here, come get your backpack and jacket.”

Koji looks up from the little table where he’s been coloring with a few other kids. Crayons clatter as he quickly slides out of his chair, eyes wide and uncertain as he stares at the unfamiliar older couple standing at the door. He doesn’t move right away. His teacher encourages him with a soft pat on the back. “It’s okay, sweetie, go on.”

He walks slowly, dragging his feet just a little as he clutches his drawing in one hand. When he reaches them, he stops just a few feet away, looking up. His face is unreadable—neither shy nor excited, just…quiet. Observing. His blue eyes flick from Yamato’s trimmed goatee to Akane’s sharp heels.

A slightly awkward affair as the three leave the room, his teacher ensuring to tell Yamato to tell Koji’s mother about his homework left in his backpack. He nods, hand hesitantly hovering above the boy’s small shoulder as they walk back down the hallway. Yamato and Akane share a knowing, quiet glance.

Once they get outside, Akane clears her throat, looking down at Koji. “Koji, do you remember us?”

“Um…only a little bit,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck as he mentally recounts the day he first saw the two who call themselves his grandparents. Luckily, you and Satoru were with him that day, but now he’s all alone.

They get to the car, with Yamato opening the backseat. Koji’s eyes widened slightly in awe at the sleek, black car presented in front of him. “Papa’s car is cool too…” he offhandedly comments.

Akane arches a brow. “I’m sure it is,” she replies curtly, helping him into the car with a practiced grace that still feels stiff, unfamiliar. Koji slides into his booster seat, hands lightly grazing the armrest before clutching his backpack in his lap. Yamato shuts the door and exchanges another glance with his wife before circling back to the driver’s side. The moment he starts the engine, the car hums to life with silent power, and for a while, none of them speak.

Koji, ever perceptive, clutches his drawing a little tighter.

Akane breaks the silence first. “So… what were you drawing back there?”

Koji hesitates. “Me and Mama. At the park.”

“Hmm,” she hums, gaze forward. “No Papa?”

Koji’s lips press together. “He wasn’t there that day.”

Yamato’s knuckles tighten slightly on the wheel. Akane doesn’t respond, but the weight of her silence is as cutting as her tone. After a few more seconds, Yamato clears his throat, glancing at Koji through the rearview mirror. “We were thinking we could take you out for something to eat. Anywhere you like.”

Koji blinks. “Like… McDonald’s?”

Akane’s lips curl into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “If that’s what you want.”

“Can I get a toy?” Koji asks, almost hopefully now.

“Yes,” Yamato answers, firm but not unkind. “You can get whatever you want.”

There’s a beat of calm. Then, very softly, Koji says, “Mama doesn’t have a car like this.”

Yamato exhales quietly. “I know.”

Akane folds her hands in her lap, casting a sideways glance out the window. “That’s why we’re here.”

The ride to McDonald’s isn’t as painfully quiet. Yamato turns the radio on, volume in the middle. Koji swings his legs back and forth, looking out the tinted window as the streets blur past him. His head tilts when they pass the McDonald’s. “We missed McDonald’s,” he says, looking at the older couple with a confused gaze.

Yamato meets his eyes through the rear-view mirror momentarily. “There’s another McDonald’s closer to our house.”

“Your house?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to your house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why not my house?”

God, he forgot just how questioning children are. Akane answers this time. “Because your mother and father will meet us there later. Until then, you’ll stay at our house.”

Koji is silent for a minute, processing the information. He looks down at his drawing, hands smoothing out the paper. “Is your house big?” He questions.

Akane gives a soft hum, like she’s debating how much to say. “Yes. It’s quite big. There’s a garden and a fountain in the front. We have a piano, too.”

“A piano?” Koji repeats, eyes lighting up just a bit as he looks up from his drawing. “Do you play it?”

“I used to,” she replies, her voice a little softer now. “Maybe I’ll show you.”

Yamato glances at her, surprised by the gentle tone, but doesn’t comment. He switches lanes with ease, and they pass through the quiet, wealthier side of the city. The roads get smoother. Cleaner. Koji notices the change, too.

“Are there kids in your neighborhood?”

“A few,” Yamato answers. “Most are older, though. Teenagers.”

“Oh.” Koji pauses again, then looks back out the window. “Mama says big houses get quiet.”

Akane’s lips press together tightly. “That’s true. But sometimes quiet can be peaceful.”

Koji doesn’t respond. He just tucks his drawing back into his backpack and rests his chin in his hand, blinking slowly at the soft-spoken world outside the window—one that doesn’t look like his. One that doesn’t feel like his.

Yamato parks in the McDonald’s parking lot, unbuckling. Akane and Koji do the same, waiting for the man to open their doors. Koji hops out as Akane does. Koji, ever excited, begins to briskly walk to the front doors of his favorite place. Yamato and Akane’s eyes widen, quickly following.

Akane’s hand awkwardly juts out, as if she’s about to grab his hand, before stopping. She instead clears her throat. “Walk slower, now.”

Koji slows down, glancing up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, scuffing his shoes against the concrete as he adjusts his pace. He waits beside her, though there’s a slight fidget in his steps. He’s not used to slowing down for anyone but his mom.

Inside, the McDonald’s smells like fries and melted cheese. A kid screams with glee somewhere near the play area, and Koji visibly relaxes at the familiar chaos. Yamato leads them to the counter, where a bored-looking teenager takes their order. Koji clutches the edge of the counter, peering up as he declares confidently, “I want a Happy Meal. With the dinosaur toy. And apple slices, not fries. And orange soda!”

Yamato raises a brow but doesn’t argue. “Happy Meal. Dinosaur toy. Apple slices. Orange soda,” he repeats to the cashier, who nods with a shrug.

Akane watches Koji from the side, eyes tracing how easily he fits here—how his energy might be too big for their cold, cavernous home. She adjusts the pearl bracelet on her wrist, a little unsettled.

Once they get the food, they sit at a clean booth near the window. Yamato and Akane both sit across from Koji. Koji munches on his food contentedly, his legs swinging again. He pulls the toy from the box, a green triceratops, and sets it beside his apple slices. “He looks mad,” he says, turning it toward them.

Yamato checks his watch. “Maybe he doesn’t like apple slices.”

Koji giggles slightly at the dry humor of his grandfather. Yamato clears his throat, looking up and leaning back in the booth. The older couple watch in quietness as Koji happily devours his food, occasionally stopping to move his toy dinosaur and mimic a small roar.

It’s strange for them. They’re grandparents, and yet they know close to nothing about this boy. All that they do is he’s a carbon copy of their son, but his mannerisms closely match yours.

Akane finds herself watching Koji more than she eats. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, just like you do when you’re distracted. His laughter comes in bursts, quick and bright, like a firecracker going off in a still room. And when he talks about his toy, he looks up at them with expectant eyes, seeking some kind of shared interest neither of them really knows how to give yet.

Yamato studies him too, arms crossed now, food half-finished. The boy’s smart. He doesn’t fidget aimlessly; he thinks before he speaks. He absorbs everything. Just like Satoru did. Maybe more.

Koji finishes his apple slices, downs the rest of his orange soda, and then sits back and smiles at them. “Do you have toys at your house?”

“No,” Akane answers honestly. “But we can get some.”

“Cool,” he says, simple and trusting. “Papa gets me a lot of toys.”

Akane hums lowly. “Do you like your toys?”

“I do!” He chews on his last chicken nugget.

“What’s your favorite toy?” She asks, arms on the table as she leans forward.

Koji doesn’t answer right away. He swallows his food, then looks up at her with that same wide-eyed honesty he always has when asked something serious. His fingers toy with the edge of the Happy Meal box. “I like my robot dog,” he finally says. “Papa gave it to me when I was sick. He said it could bark and dance, but it only spins in circles now. I think I broke it.” He pauses, thoughtful. “But I still like it.”

Akane tilts her head slightly, a quiet softness tugging at her features. “Even though it doesn’t work right?”

Koji shrugs. “Yeah. Because Papa said it’s mine. So it’s special.”

She studies him—how simple his logic is. How unwavering his sense of loyalty already seems to be. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the edge of the table. “I see,” she murmurs. “That makes sense.”

Yamato glances at her, then down at his phone.

Koji sits up straighter. “Do you have toys from when you were little?”

Akane chuckles under her breath, caught off guard. “Not anymore. I didn’t keep many things.”

“Why not?”

She hesitates, then smiles faintly. “I guess I didn’t think I’d need them.”

Koji stares at her for a second, then looks at his dinosaur toy. “You can have this one if you want,” he offers, sliding it across the table toward her. “So you have a toy again.”

Akane freezes.

Even Yamato lifts his eyes from his phone, blinking in surprise.

“O-oh, well, um—” she clears her throat, hesitantly taking the toy in her hand. “Well…that’s very…nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Mama says sharing is caring.” He shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Akane’s eyebrow lifts. Seems you’ve taught your boy some good manners. At least.

She turns the toy over in her hands, the little green dinosaur staring back at her with its molded plastic scowl. Something in her expression softens further, an unspoken crack in her perfectly composed exterior. It’s clear she hasn’t been offered something so small yet so sincere in a very long time.

“Well,” she says carefully, “I’ll take very good care of him.”

Koji beams, nodding. “Good. He doesn’t like being alone.”

Akane offers a small, almost reluctant smile. “Neither do I.”

Yamato watches quietly, lips pressed together, a crease forming between his brows—not because of disapproval, but something closer to discomfort. Like watching something unfamiliar begin to unfold in front of him. Just then, Koji reaches for his drink, slurping the last of his orange soda loudly. He sighs, satisfied, then stretches his arms out wide. “When are Mama and Papa coming?”

Akane and Yamato share a quick look. She reaches for her clutch, already checking her phone.

“They’ll meet us back at the house later,” Yamato says, standing up slowly. “Let’s get going before traffic gets bad.”

Koji jumps to his feet with a little bounce. “Okay!”

Akane hesitates just a moment longer, placing the dinosaur into her purse beside her wallet and keys, treating it more carefully than she expected she would.

The entire bus ride to your ex’s parents’ house was spent in utter anxiety. You fiddle with your hands, foot tapping, and looking out the window. You haven’t seen them since that one day a couple of months back. You wish things were just easy enough so that you could have at least a semblance of a relationship with them. Especially if this co-parenting works out, it’s going to be inevitable you’ll be seeing them. You sigh, head resting back against your seat, eyes closing.

“Satoru not bringing you food anymore?”

You gasp and jolt, whirling around quickly. The kitchen light flips on, caught right in the act of stealing a couple of pastries from the pantry, as well as a carton of orange juice.

Akane stands in a nightgown, arms crossed, with a strong expression. Her eyes move up and down your figure, scoffing audibly. Her chin tilts up, silently commanding you to explain yourself.

You swallow the current food in your mouth, wiping it with your hand. “I…um…I—well, I can explain.”

“Explain?” She steps forward. “Explain why my son’s good-for-nothing girlfriend has not only been staying in our guesthouse, but stealing our food? Go on, then. Explain.”

Her belittling tone makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear. God damn it, Satoru. Where the hell are you?! “I…um…there’s—there’s just some stuff going on at home. Satoru said I could stay here until things clear up.”

“And he didn’t even bother to tell me or his father.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to over—”

“Why are you here?”

“I—I needed a place to stay. I’m sorry. I won’t be here for long.”

Akane stares at you for a long, unbearable second. Her jaw clenches. You can tell she’s holding back something sharp. Maybe it’s restraint, or maybe it’s just another judgment she wants to hurl your way. “I should’ve known,” she says quietly. “Satoru always did have a soft spot for broken things.”

That one stings more than you’d like to admit. Your throat tightens. You look down, ashamed, both hands still wrapped around the cold carton of juice. “I’m not trying to cause trouble,” you whisper. “I just needed a couple weeks. That’s all.”

Akane stares you down in silence for what feels like a full minute. The ticking clock above the stove echoes between you, and your heart hammers louder with each passing second. Her eyes narrow, not with confusion, but calculation. “Let me guess,” she says finally, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut glass. “You got into a fight with your mother again. Or maybe Satoru ran his mouth and scared you off?”

You shake your head quickly. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then tell me. Because all I see is a girl too proud to ask for help and too stupid to leave when she should’ve.” Her arms drop, but her words are no less harsh. “You’ve been sneaking around this house like a rodent. Do you know how humiliating it is to find out from the housekeeper that someone’s been using the shower and leaving dishes in the sink?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You can feel your throat tighten.

Akane sighs—long, exhausted, and judgmental. “You girls think just because someone like Satoru gives you attention, you’ve made it. But you don’t know the first thing about surviving in this family.”

Your knuckles whiten around the orange juice. The ache in your chest is unbearable, but you force yourself to speak. “I didn’t ask to be here. Satoru said it wouldn’t be permanent. He’s helping me. And I’ve been trying to stay out of everyone’s way.”

“You failed.” Her reply is quick and cutting. “Do you know how hard his father and I work to keep his name clean? To keep distractions away while he was studying, preparing to inherit everything? And now look at him—sneaking you in like a dirty secret.”

The word “distraction” lingers in the air like poison. You blink rapidly, biting your tongue until you taste metal. “I’m not trying to ruin his life.”

Akane steps closer now. She isn’t yelling. She doesn’t need to. “Then leave before you do.”

Akane snatches the food and juice from your arms, giving you a brief jut of her chin. “Go back into the guesthouse. I’m not dealing with you anymore tonight.”

You blink, holding back tears. Wordlessly, you bite your lip, turn on your heel, and exit through the back door into the cool night air. Tears sting your eyes as you enter the guesthouse, closing the door with a shut before making your way to the bed.

You sit on the edge of the bed for a long while, still in the dark, clutching the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. The burn in your throat won’t ease, no matter how hard you swallow. You press your palms to your eyes, trying not to let the sob crawl out of you.

She doesn’t know.

You repeat this tiny mantra to yourself, willing your brain not to go into overdrive for what will be the millionth time this week.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Satoru promised. He said they wouldn’t even have to know you were here. Just a few weeks, just until you guys figured out what to do, until you started feeling better, until you could afford that studio apartment in Setagaya. But it’s already been four nights since you found out, and you’re still waking up at three in the morning, stomach twisted in knots, half from nausea and half from sorrow.

And he still hasn’t answered your texts.

You stir awake from your small nap as the bus gets to your stop, rubbing your eyes and getting off. His parents’ place shouldn’t be too far from here, if memory serves you right. You sigh and begin walking, just trying to think about being able to see your little boy in a little bit, not come face to face with them.

You hug your coat tighter around you as you walk, the cool afternoon air nipping at your cheeks. The streets are too clean here. Too quiet. You hate how familiar it still feels, the ivy-lined walls, the sharp turns of the hedges, the cold elegance of it all. You used to think it was beautiful. Now it just feels heavy.

Your feet move on instinct, carrying you past the old stone wall you remember scraping your knees on one time, the bakery where Satoru used to buy you those strawberry mochi on Fridays. Everything is the same, but so different.

You pause as you get to the intercom at the gate surrounding the Gojo Estate. Pressing the button. A small buzz sounds out, a man’s voice you recognize coming in. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Y/N.”

There’s a tiny silence before you hear another buzz, the wide gates slowly opening. Taking a deep breath, you start up the long driveway, hands shoved in the pockets of your coat. Eyes focused on the two white grand doors. Once you get there, the doors open, revealing Yamato.

You purse your lips awkwardly. “Um…hi.”

He nods briefly before stepping aside. The moment you enter, a wave of nostalgia washes over your entire being. You force yourself not to book it out of there.

“Satoru said he’d be here in twenty minutes,” Yamato utters.

You nod, looking around. “And Koji?”

“Come,” he motions with his hand, turning to walk down the hallway towards the large living space. You follow a few steps behind, passing by a few family memorabilia on the way. You stop when he does. You blink, head tilting slightly.

In front of you, your son and Satoru’s mother with their backs turned to you. They sit on the seat of the piano.

The scene before you feels surreal, like stepping into a memory that doesn’t belong to you, yet it does. Koji, perched on the piano bench, his tiny fingers brushing over the ivory keys, a look of intense concentration on his face. And Akane, beside him, her back straight and her hands poised delicately over the keys as she guides him. The quiet, peaceful moment is almost too perfect.

“She’s been teaching him for the last hour, he’s very curious.” Yamato comments, arms crossing. He side-glances at you, noticing your quietness.

“Oh, well…that’s good. He’s never seen one in person before,” you mumble, awkwardly shifting on your feet. You can faintly hear Akane mutter a direction to your son, followed by his nod. Your stomach turns, unsure of how to feel about all this. “He’s been behaving?” You decide to ask.

Yamato nods, meeting your eyes. “Quite so.” He says nothing for a few more seconds before sighing and angling his body towards you. “Look, this is new for all of us. I didn’t expect him to be so open towards us.”

“Because I taught him to be kind to everyone,” you cooly reply, looking up at him. “No matter what.”

Yamato gets the silent message, jaw ticking just barely. “I know you may have resentment towards us, but we’re not your enemy,” he finishes, voice steady, but laced with something heavier.

You blink, swallowing thickly as your fingers curl inside your pockets. Enemy. You weren’t expecting that word, but maybe it fits more than you’d like to admit. Your silence stretches too long, and you know he’s waiting for you to snap, to throw all your pent-up frustration in his face.

But you don’t. Instead, you let out a small exhale, glancing back at Koji and Akane. “I don’t resent anyone,” you say, voice quiet. “I just don’t forget.”

Yamato says nothing, but the pause between you sharpens. Then he gives a small nod, almost as if conceding to something unspoken.

You walk past him.

As your feet carry you toward the piano room, Koji glances over his shoulder again. “Mama!” he beams, hopping off the bench and running into your arms.

You catch him easily, hugging him tight, letting his little arms wrap around your neck like ivy. “Hey, baby,” you murmur into his hair, inhaling the warm scent of shampoo and sunshine. When you lift your gaze again, Akane is standing. Her expression is cool and composed as always, hands clasped neatly in front of her. She doesn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes says enough.

She sees you.

“Thank you for teaching him,” you offer, voice strained but civil.

Akane tilts her head slightly. “He’s a fast learner,” she replies. “Takes after his father.”

You don’t comment on that, resisting the urge to say his mother, too.

“Would you like to hear what he’s learned?” she adds, tone perfectly poised.

You blink in surprise. For a moment, you wonder if this is some sort of trap, but Koji pulls back, eyes shining with excitement. “Can I show her, Grandma?”

Akane gives a small nod. “Of course.”

He runs back to the piano. You follow more slowly, sitting beside him this time. Your eyes flicker to Akane. She doesn’t sit, but she watches, hands folded, body rigid in that ever-disapproving way. Or maybe that’s just what she’s forever used to.

And still, as Koji presses the keys with tiny, proud fingers, all you can do is wonder:

Is this her trying?

Or is this just her performance?

You never know with these people.

Koji plays a small, four-key symphony. You smile softly, watching his tiny fingers move around the white keys before looking up at you with an expectant smile. “Oh, you’re so good. That sounded so wonderful,” you kiss his cheek, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to bring him into your side.

He giggles, kissing your cheek back. “Grandma said I’m a puh—poo—umm…a pr—”

“Prodigy,” Akane finishes for him.

Koji nods quickly. “Yeah! That! A prodigy!”

You can’t help the way your lips twitch at the corners, though you keep your tone even. “Is that so?”

Akane finally moves, just enough to step closer. “I wouldn’t say it lightly,” she murmurs. “He has an ear for rhythm. Muscle memory. Coordination. His age group typically struggles with that.”

You glance at her sideways. “He’s always been observant. Picks up things quickly.”

Akane nods once. “Yes. He’s sharp.”

There’s something there—a flicker of approval, rare and unfamiliar. It lands oddly. Not unwelcome, but not quite comforting either. Still, it lingers longer than you expect. And for the first time since arriving, her words feel… not like a dismissal. Not like judgment. More like an assessment.

You exhale slowly. “Well… as long as he’s enjoying it.”

Koji beams between you both. “I wanna be really good. Like the people on Papa’s phone!”

You blink. “What people?”

“He showed me a video of a man playing piano with his eyes closed. Really fast!” Koji’s eyes go wide. “I wanna do that.”

“Sounds ambitious,” you murmur, brushing his hair back gently.

“It’s possible,” Akane says, arms crossing. “With discipline and the right environment.”

Your jaw tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “He’s five.”

Akane’s gaze doesn’t waver. “So was Satoru when he started.”

The comparison between Koji and Satoru is one you expected, but that doesn’t make you any less frustrated. You look back at Koji, his joy too pure, too focused, to let the weight of that conversation reach him. He starts playing again, a slower, clumsier version of the earlier song, tongue poking out in concentration. “Well, he’s not Satoru. He’s Koji.”

“He can still learn how Satoru did.”

“Or he can learn what he wants, when he wants. And if I allow it,” you calmly reply, standing up from the bench and taking your son into your arms. He’s already growing big enough to the point where picking him up hurts your back even more. However, you still want to cherish whatever strands of dependency you can with your son, even if that means suffering a backache.

Akane’s lips press into a thin line, not quite disapproving—but not agreeing either. You can see the tension in her posture, in the way her hands shift slightly as if she wants to say more but is holding back. “He’s yours,” she finally says. “That much is clear.”

You hold Koji tighter. “He always has been.”

Yamato clears his throat, hoping to die down the growing tension as he stands beside his wife. “Why don’t you two wait for Satoru in the dining room?”

You don’t need to be told twice, turning on your heel and walking out of the room, practically feeling their eyes burn holes in the back of your head. Once you’re gone, Akane sighs heavily, foot tapping against the ground. “That girl hasn’t changed.”

“I’m not in the mood to break up a fight right now, Akane.”

“I’m not fighting,” she snaps, glaring up at Yamato. “I’m observing. Simply. It’s not my fault she dislikes us.”

“It doesn’t matter if she does or does not, I don’t care enough to worry about that. But at least try to act civil in the presence of a child, yes?” Yamato asks in exasperation, eyebrow lifting.

She scoffs. “I am acting civil. Do you see me raising my voice and throwing a tantrum?”

“No, but it’s your tone.”

“And how is my tone?”

“Jesus Christ, just be nice for one goddamn minute. I’m too old for this crap,” Yamato huffs deeply, hand running through his hair. His lips are set into a creased frown, and he waves his hand up. “Just try to make her feel somewhat comfortable, okay. Got it?”

Akane opens her mouth. “But she—”

“I said, got it?” He asks again, giving his wife a look she’s familiar with. One that says he won’t tolerate her disobedience any longer.

Akane’s jaw tightens at the silent command, but she doesn’t argue this time. She just presses her lips together, gaze flicking toward the doorway you disappeared through. “…Got it,” she says eventually, her voice clipped.

Yamato sighs through his nose, the tension leaving his shoulders just slightly. He doesn’t say anything else as he steps out, leaving his wife behind in the piano room. She lingers for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the bench where Koji had been sitting—small hands, wide eyes, laughter like Satoru’s when he was little. She swallows something bitter before turning on her heel and following after her husband.

In the dining room, you sit Koji down on the edge of one of the long chairs, pulling his little hoodie off his head and smoothing his hair. He swings his feet as he sits, talking excitedly about the keys, the sounds, how Akane let him press the pedal even though he “wasn’t supposed to.” You smile and nod in all the right places, but your mind is elsewhere, your eyes flicking to the large windows, the too-white walls, the marble floors. It’s like being dropped into someone else’s memory.

You hear their footsteps before you see them. Yamato enters first, his face unreadable as always, though there’s a tiredness behind his eyes. Akane follows after, her posture still regal, but her expression more composed. Less… cutting.

She doesn’t look at you as she sits on the opposite side of the table.

Yamato clears his throat and glances between you both. “Would either of you like tea while we wait?”

“I’m okay,” you mutter.

“Um…juice?” he asks Koji, his voice a tad bit gentler.

“Apple?” Koji grins.

Yamato nods. “Coming right up.”

As he heads to the side kitchen, silence settles between you and Akane again. You keep your attention on Koji, who starts humming some made-up song to himself.

Then, after a beat, Akane speaks.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you,” she says, tone low and careful, like each word has been weighed a dozen times before being spoken. “I only meant to point out potential.”

You glance at her. Her gaze is steady.

“He’s your son,” she says. “But he’s Satoru’s, too. You can’t expect the world not to notice what’s in his blood.”

You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “I don’t mind the world noticing. I mind when people try to turn him into someone he’s not.”

She sighs. “All I did was suggest he has greater potential.”

Akane’s words hang between you like an unresolved chord. The flicker in her eye, curiosity, perhaps hope, maybe even defensiveness—doesn’t go unnoticed.

You tilt your head. “I’m not against potential. I’m against projection.”

Her lips twitch at the corner. “You think I’m trying to mold him or something?”

“I think you don’t realize how easy it is to mistake admiration for control,” you say calmly. “And I’m not going to let him grow up thinking love has conditions attached to it.”

Akane stiffens slightly at that, her hands tightening over her lap. “You assume the worst in us.”

“No,” you reply softly. “I remember the worst. That’s not the same.”

Another pause. This time, it’s her gaze that flickers away, settling on the far end of the table where Koji now softly drums his fingers, looking between you and her. She decides not to push it; the longer the discussion grows, the more curious he might become. She looks up as Yamato holds out a juice box for Koji to take.

Just as he does so, Satoru walks into the room. His two top buttons unbuttoned, eyes glancing between his mother and you, silently trying to determine the comfort level of the current situation. “Hey,” he says, coming over to stand beside you. A quick look at your expression says everything.

“Papa!”

“Hey, buddy.” Satoru smiles, welcoming Koji into his arms, adjusting the small boy against his chest. He gives him a small kiss on the top of his head. “How was school?”

“Okay, I’m gonna miss my friends.” He admits, looking down with a small frown.

“Aw, buddy. I’m sure you are, but you’ll make even more friends at your new school.”

Koji childishly sighs, arms wrapping around his father’s neck and putting his face into the crook of it.

Satoru pats his back lightly, now focusing on his mother and you. His first question is directed towards you. “Everything good?”

You nod, though it’s a small, half-hearted gesture. “Peachy,” you murmur, not quite sarcastic, but not fully honest either.

His hand remains on Koji’s back, rubbing in slow, thoughtful circles. He glances at Akane, who has returned to her perfect stillness, eyes calmly watching the exchange as if it’s all part of a silent evaluation.

“She was just making observations,” you say before he can ask. “About Koji’s potential. About blood. About you at five.”

Satoru raises a brow, slowly lowering Koji to the chair beside him. “Mom,” he says, voice calm but edged, “We talked about this.”

Akane doesn’t flinch. “And I was careful. I said nothing out of line.”

“You never do,” he replies smoothly. But the look he gives her carries more weight than his tone. It’s the look of a son who’s lived too long parsing praise from performance. Yamato goes to his seat beside Akane with a grunt, muttering something about needing a stronger drink. You focus on Koji again, standing up to wipe juice from the side of his mouth as he slurps through the straw.

Then, Satoru shifts slightly closer to you, brushing your arm. “We don’t have to stay long,” he says low, for your ears only. “We can head out now, yeah?”

You glance at Koji, who’s swinging his legs, and you nod.

But it’s Akane who speaks next.

“You’re always leaving,” she says, tone bitter.

Satoru exhales through his nose. “And you’re always making it easy to.”

“The cooks will be making some shrimp tacos,” she says, standing as well. Her arms cross, looking between the two of you. “Maybe the boy can—”

“Koji is fine,” you cut in, fixing her with a firm gaze. “He’s a picky eater.”

Her lips purse tightly, restrained disapproval lurking behind her eyes. As if she is holding back a sharper comment. Her posture doesn’t waver, but the chill in the room thickens.

“He’ll learn to adjust,” she finally says, looking at you. “Children do. Especially in families like ours.”

Families like ours.

The words cling, sticky, and unpleasant. Satoru’s jaw tightens. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch at his side, the smallest urge to step in, to shield, to lash back. But instead, he smiles, tight, impersonal. “Koji isn’t some soldier in training, Mom.”

Akane lifts her chin. “And he shouldn’t be raised like a normal civilian, either.”

Yamato scoffs again, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go.”

Satoru ignores his father, eyes still on his mother. “He’s five,” he says flatly. “He likes dinosaur nuggets and cartoons that scream too loudly. He doesn’t need to know what it means to be part of this family yet.”

“And he doesn’t need to,” you add on.

She huffs dryly. “So you both plan on, what? Never allowing him to come over? To stay over?”

“Nobody is saying that, Mom.” Satoru exhales through his nostrils. “That is not at all what we said. Stop putting words in our mouths.”

“But that’s what I’m hearing.” Her voice rises, Koji just barely flinching in Satoru’s arms. You both notice, and your expression darkens. Satoru holds him closer, hand moving to his pearly white strands of hair to weave through in a calming manner. As if noticing the way she snapped, she blinks. For a moment, it looks like she might apologize.

But neither of you cares enough to stay to hear it.

“We’re leaving now.” You state, not leaving room for even more of whatever pathetic argument she might try to throw. Satoru and you turn, walking to the door.

Yamato side glances at Akane. Her eyebrows are furrowed, biting hard on her lip. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks regretful.

“Wait,” Koji says, looking over Satoru’s shoulder at the older couple. “Can I say bye to Grandma and Grandpa?”

Satoru pauses at the door, one hand on the knob, the other under Koji’s legs as the boy leans back slightly in his arms. You glance at him, silent, weighing the moment. Akane straightens. Yamato says nothing.

“Of course you can,” Satoru says finally, setting Koji gently down. “Go ahead.”

Koji pads back into the room, small feet quiet against the polished floor. He stops in front of Akane first, looking up at her with hesitant eyes. She meets them, unsure for once. There’s a flicker of something unfamiliar—a tender softness she doesn’t wear often enough, one she hasn’t had to wear in years.

“Bye, Grandma,” he says politely, giving a little wave.

Akane stares at him for a beat too long. Then slowly, she lowers herself to one knee, smoothing down her skirt. “Bye, Koji,” she replies, her voice quieter. “Thank you for coming.”

He smiles, just a little. She doesn’t hug him. But she brushes a piece of lint from his sleeve, like it’s the closest she knows how to get.

Next, he turns to Yamato. “Bye, Grandpa.”

Yamato grunts. “Be good, kid.”

Koji nods solemnly, then trots back to Satoru, who scoops him up with practiced ease. The tension hasn’t left the room, but the mood has shifted slightly, a tilt of something that might eventually become understanding. Or not. You don’t count on it.

Satoru looks over his shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”

Akane nods once, lips pressed tight.

You don’t say anything else. The door closes behind you with a quiet click. As you walk down the hallway, Koji resting his head on Satoru’s shoulder, you murmur, “Thanks for not letting that go on any longer.”

He nods. “You looked like you were about two seconds away from throwing a glass at her.”

You snort, the sound small but real. “I still might.”

He holds open the front door. “Next time, we do neutral territory. Like a park. Or the moon.”

Koji yawns. “Only if there’s nuggets on the moon.”

You smile, despite it all. “We’ll make it happen.”

Akane sits back quietly in her seat, eyes laser-focused on the door you two just left. Her husband rubs his face. “I swear, if it’s not me one day, it’s you. And you said I’m driving him away.”

Akane doesn’t respond immediately. Her gaze is still fixed on the door, her fingers tense around the armrest of the chair as though she’s trying to steady herself. Her jaw clenches, her silence a loud statement in the room. Yamato shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he leans back in his chair. “I’m getting too old for this.” He exhales heavily, rubbing his face with both hands, a look of both frustration and resignation settling on him. “Every damn time, Akane. Every time.”

Finally, Akane shifts slightly, her posture still stiff, but her eyes now narrowing as she shifts her eyes to her husband. “I don’t need your lectures right now, Yamato.”

“I’m not lecturing you, Akane,” he says, his voice sharp but tired. “I’m trying to understand where the hell we went wrong with him.”

Akane’s lips twist, the muscle in her cheek twitching slightly. “Where we went wrong? What about you? You think I don’t see how you’ve handled him? I’m not the only one pushing him away. He’s a grown man now, and he’s made his choices. Don’t you dare act like it’s all on me.”

Yamato’s eyes flick to the door again, his expression exasperated. “I don’t particularly favor either her or the boy, yes. But at least I can fake it in front of them. You preach how I’m ruining this family and how I care more about our legacy, but you’re the reason our son left our house angry, again.”

Akane’s gaze hardens as her husband’s words sink in, but she doesn’t respond right away. The silence between them thickens, heavy with the weight of old arguments and unspoken truths. Her fingers twitch tighter. Her posture remains rigid, every muscle seemingly on alert, and for a moment, Yamato wonders if she’s just waiting for the right moment to tear into him.

But instead, she takes a slow, deliberate breath, her voice quiet but icy when she finally speaks. “You want to talk about our son’s choices? Fine. But I’m not the one who hid behind his work, his pride, and a hundred excuses to avoid facing the truth.”

Yamato glares at her, the sharp edge of his frustration showing. “And what truth is that? That you’re right? That everything I’ve done to protect this family, to secure our future, was a mistake?”

Akane’s lips curl into a tight, bitter smile. “No. The truth is that we’ve been playing this game for too long, Yamato. For decades. You think Satoru’s leaving this house—this family—is his fault? You’ve built this perfect little empire on the backs of people like him, forcing them to believe they owe you everything. You taught him to put legacy before everything else, before loyalty, before love, before family.”

Her words cut deep, and Yamato feels his chest tighten. He leans forward, staring at his wife for a long, painful moment. “And what? You think you’ve been a perfect mother? You think you’ve done everything right? You think Satoru’s supposed to just bend to your every whim because you said so?” He scoffs bitterly. “You’ve been so busy trying to mold him into something he could never be. You haven’t seen him, Akane. Not really. You’re just as shitty as I am.”

Akane’s eyes flash with something, either anger or regret, or maybe both, but she’s quick to mask it with a calm veneer. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen exactly who he is, and that’s what I’m trying to protect. This family doesn’t have the luxury of softness, Yamato. Not when it comes to survival.”

Yamato laughs, a hollow, humorless sound. “Survival? Is that what you think this is? You think we’re still fighting to survive?”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing filling the silence. It’s as if both are trying to hold on to the shards of a family that, in truth, has already splintered. Yamato’s gaze falls back on the door, his voice softer now, tinged with weariness. “I don’t know anymore, Akane. I don’t know what’s left of this family.”

Akane’s expression softens, just slightly, but her voice remains firm. “Then maybe it’s time you figured it out.” She gets up and storms out the room.

Yamato leans back in his chair, finally letting his eyes close for a moment, as though trying to block out the heavy weight of the conversation and everything that’s still left unsaid between them.

God, can we just be a normal family for once?

“He barely even let me come over to his parents.” Himari scoffs, teeth gritting. She’s leaned over the middle console from the back, eyes narrowed into slits as she watches the car housing her used-to-be-boyfriend, his annoying wrench of an ex, and some useless kid drive off.

Haruka sits beside her, wearing a white fur coat and dramatic, huge sunglasses that cover her eyes. She nudges beside Himari’s side, causing the other woman to grumble, in an attempt to get a look herself before the car makes a turn. Emi sits in the passenger seat, while Kenji is in the driver’s seat. The tint of their blacked-out vehicle keeping their presence obscured from outside view.

Himari huffs again, tapping her fingers impatiently against the window. “I don’t get it. He just let her waltz in and take over, like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Haruka, ever the faux composed figure she is, brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sighs dramatically. “Men are always like that, darling. So quick to give away what doesn’t belong to them.”

Emi leans forward, her voice laced with mild amusement. “It’s not just about what belongs to him. It’s about what she thinks she deserves. And she clearly thinks she deserves him.”

“So, what now?” Himari crosses her arms, looking at her parents, then at Haruka. “I’m confused how this old hag will help.”

“Huh?! What did you—”

“She’s here to reclaim her daughter and drag her out the clutches of Satoru, Himari.” Emi sighs, looking over her shoulder at her daughter. “Just ignore her, she’s only an accessory.”

“Excuse me!—”

“Approach her again,” Kenji finally speaks, effectively quieting down the car. He lights a cigar. “His father has been sending a representative to meet with me instead of himself. Seems cowards run in the family.”

“And then what? What if she doesn’t help?” Himari argues back.

“I can help,” Haruka starts, lip curled into a scowl. “I’m not a useless brat like you. God, your generation knows nothing of respect.”

“I respect people who are on my same level. You? You’re like my pair of 2016 Versace pumps.” She flips her hair back.

“Oh, you little—”

“I have reinforcements. When the time is right,” he lets out a puff of smoke. “They’ll start playing too.”

Himari groans loudly, running her hands through her hair.

Haruka glares at Himari, her lips tightening into a practiced, poisonous smile. “I see Emi’s been raising her like a spoiled show dog. Pretty enough, but all bark, no bite.”

Emi chuckles softly, her tone dismissive. “And yet she’s the one he was with until your daughter came crawling out of the shadows, looking for scraps.”

“Crawling?” Haruka lets out a bitter laugh, the fur collar of her coat brushing her jaw as she turns to face Emi more fully. “Please. She doesn’t crawl—he has to have come looking. Don’t confuse desperation with effort. If anything, your Himari was the warm-up act.”

Himari scoffs, insulted, but Kenji speaks before she can bite back again. “Enough,” he says, cold and unamused. “This isn’t a fashion spat at a luncheon. This is about leverage. And right now, we don’t have it.”

The silence that follows is tense, thick. Himari bites the inside of her cheek, her nails tapping faster now.

“What do you want me to do then?” she asks, frustrated. “Just wait around while she plays happy family with him? With that child?”

Emi snorts. “If you had done your job properly the first time, we wouldn’t be here. But now…” she tilts her head, a calculating gleam lurking in her eyes, “we take advantage of what she loves.”

“And what’s that?” Himari asks, venom on her tongue.

Kenji answers instead, calm and deliberate. “Her son.”

That shuts everyone up.

The silence hangs for a second too long, and then Emi, always the tactful one, breaks it with a smooth, almost bored, “You don’t touch the boy. You use the boy. It’s simple, really.” Haruka’s lips twist into a knowing smile. “Now that’s strategy.”

“I’ll accept as low as 730,000 yen,” Mei-Mei cooly states, leaning back leisurely in her chair. Legs crossed with a coy smile. “Last time, you low-balled me a bit. And it ended up causing quite a stir. I’m sure this will be even double that, so the lowest is 730,000.”

Across from the table sits an older man. Tapping his cane against the ground, his wrinkled face set into a constant grim expression. His eyes so dark, they look like hollows in his face. Bushy white brow just barely lifting as he hears her offer.

“Quite the offer for an audio tape,” Gakuganji expresses grimly.

Mei Mei’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it grows just slightly, thin, polished, dangerous. “It’s not just an audio tape,” she purrs. “It’s leverage. Undeniable. Unedited. The kind of thing that makes people resign overnight, or mysteriously disappear.” She leans forward, fingers lacing together on the table, her voice lowering but still smooth as silk. “730,000 is the price of convenience. Of silence. And I’m being generous.”

Gakuganji’s tapping stops. His cane stills, and his knuckles tighten around the curved handle. “You’re young,” he says, voice dry as gravel. “Too bold for your own good.”

“And you’re old,” she replies sweetly. “Too used to being feared to realize when someone’s already won.”

A long beat passes before Gakuganji chuckles under his breath, no humor in the sound. “You’ll learn the consequences eventually.”

Mei Mei’s eyes narrow, her tone still velvet. “I already have. That’s why I charge before I hand things over. And besides, you’ll learn too, won’t you? Considering I’ve been doing your dirty work for you for a few months now.”

“My hands are not dirty, yours are.”

“And so are my ears.” She easily adds. “Unfortunately for you, I haven’t been able to ear-hustle on much. Other people with higher bids have my attention more than you and your mysterious vendetta against the Gojo Group.”

“It’s not mysterious.”

“Then why them?”

Gakuganji’s eyes glint, though his expression remains carved from stone. “Because they’ve forgotten what it means to answer to someone.”

Mei Mei hums, unimpressed, brushing invisible lint from her lap. “You mean you.”

“I mean structure,” he grits out. “Power has rules. Lineage has purpose. And Satoru Gojo—” he leans in, voice dropping to a growl, “—spits on both. Just like his father before him. Just like his mother did in silence.”

She tilts her head, amused now. “So this is about old grudges? Bloodlines and bruised egos?”

He says nothing. Mei Mei lets out a light, airy laugh, reclining again. “Fascinating. And here I thought it was about money. Or maybe land. You’re boring when it’s personal, Gakuganji.”

His knuckles twitch again around the cane. “When it’s personal, Mei Mei, it’s permanent.”

She smiles again, cold and brilliant. “Then you’ll have to pay extra for permanence. I’m not cheap, and I don’t do charity for bitter old men.”

“This is a necessary execution. They believe they are worth more than everyone else. Especially Yamato’s devil spawn. He disrupts balance itself. Privileged, spoiled rotten, wealthy, and unfortunately…very smooth talking. Everyone bends to his will just because of his name.” Gakuganji gruffs out.

She lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Necessary and personal usually go hand in hand, old man. I just like to know who’s paying for what. There’s always something more beneath the price tag.”

His lips curl in distaste. “And there’s always someone like you, digging for the bones after the war.”

She smiles again, dazzling and cold. “Better than dying in it. So.” She taps her manicured nail against the table. “730,000. Or I hand the audio to someone with less of a vendetta and more imagination.”

Gakuganji’s eye twitches.

“Fine,” he mutters.

Mei Mei holds out her hand. “Pleasure doing business with you. Again.”

a/n: i’ll be releasing the first chapter of the levi fic after this. everyone who has commented to be on the taglist, u have been noted lol (i swear im not ignoring). anyway, hope u guys enjoyedddd :)

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helen-with-an-a · 2 days ago

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Nerves pt 2

Hiiii, so here is pt 2 of Nerves that came out last week.

Part 1 : Part 2

Ingrid Engen x Reader

Description: It's R's first time

Word Count: 5.7k

TW: Smut, 18+, cunnilingus (R receiving)

Ingrid felt like she was going to have a heart attack. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration, but she definitely felt her heart hammering away against her chest, threatening to burst. She had never done this before. You had come to her a few weeks ago, all innocent eyes and soft smiles and whispered in the most adorable way that you were ready to go further. To go further than just a steamy make out session on the sofa. Why was she so terrified? She had had sex. Lots of sex. She was good at sex. But something about being your first. She told you she didn’t care about it being your first time, and that was true, she honestly didn’t. But it was just the fact it was you. She might have had sex before, but she had never had sex with you. And she was terrified.

She was glad you both still had your separate flats. No matter how much she loved waking up with you resting on her chest, or seeing you wearing one of her shirts as you cooked up a storm, or driving to training with you, one hand perched on your thigh, she was glad that she was able to kiss you goodbye so you could both get ready for your date in private.

Ingrid felt more nervous than your actual first date. She had spent over an hour in the bathroom, shaving, waxing, plucking every unwanted hair. She had used not one, not two, but three different body washes, two hair masks and a body scrub. She had busted out her old blow dryer and spent far too long with her head flipped and her arms hurting as she waited for the mass of dark hair to be dry. Ingrid had agonised over her outfit, stressed over the neatness of the flat and fussed over her makeup.

Little did she know that you were just as nervous. What did you wear? Should you shave? What about lotion? Did you pack an overnight back? Would she be expecting some fancy lingerie? Would she be wearing some fancy lingerie? How would it work? You were only going to hers, not some fancy restaurant or anything. Both of you, in her flat, having a meal … and then … other things.

God, you couldn’t even say it. Sex, it was only sex. People have sex all the time. But you weren’t people. You were you. And Ingrid was Ingrid. And you were going to be having sex. Together. You were going to have sex with Ingrid. You blushed at the thought.

You had seen her in a bikini before. Her long legs and pale skin, water trickling down her chest as she climbed back on board … you swallowed at the memory.

Before you knew it, it was 7 pm and you were walking up the stairs to her flat. You had done this walk countless of times, even before you started dating. 10 steps from the parking space, 13 across the welcome area, 27 steps up the stairs, 14 down the corridor. It was all familiar, all a part of your routine. Butterflies stirred in your tummy.

“Hei, kjære.” Ingrid’s voice was smooth as honey. You looked up, staring straight at the beautiful green of her eyes.

“H-hi,” you whispered, a blush rising to your cheeks.

Settling into the sofa felt normal. And it felt odd, that it was normal. Everyone had made this big thing about losing your virginity. Yes, alright, you were really nervous about it, but more so because it was the first time anyone would see you in that way. You had no doubt that Ingrid would be soft and sweet. That she would guide you and do exactly what you wanted. That she would …

“I was thinking we order food?” Ingrid smiled, relaxing next to you.

“S-sounds good.” You hated that your voice was so quiet. God, this was just a date. A totally normal date. You had had dates before. Had dates that never led to sex. This was your girlfriend for fuck’s sake.

“So what-”

“What are you want-” You both said at the same time, breaking off into giggles.

“What do you want to order?” You asked, leaning into her side.

“Sushi?”

“No,” you whined. “We had that like, two days ago.” Ingrid smiled at you, a love-sick expression on her face.

“Ok, Thai?” She suggested, knowing that the Thai place down the road was your go-to place, claiming that it refused to do deliveries for your flat so you just had to come to hers to eat it.

“Ooh, yeah. Can we get the spring rolls too, and the curry. And what was that thing Olga said we had to get? The skewer things?”

10 minutes later and the order had been placed, the idea of a quiet night with Thai food and Ingrid sounded fantastic. “Sorry, kjære. They said it’ll be like two hours before it gets here.” Ingrid winced, slumping back against the sofa.

“That’s ok. We’ve got a movie. And it’s not like I don’t wanna talk to you.” You teased, staring up at her.

“Oh, really? I’m important enough to talk to, am I?” She smirked down at you, her eyes flicking between your and your lips.

“Uh huh. Incredibly important.” You kept up the teasing tone, but the words could not have been more true. She sighed happily, pushing you down to lie back against the arm as she settled on your chest.

You stayed like that for maybe twenty minutes. Twenty long agonising minutes where you kept flitting your eyes down to look at her. She looked comfortable, cozy even, yet perfectly dressed all at the same time. Soft trousers made from some stretchy fabric that just exuded quiet elegance and a plain top that screamed sophistication. God, why was she with you? Out of everyone on the planet, she had chosen you? You knew you weren’t ugly, not by any means. You were a professional footballer on the top of your game. You knew you looked good, but it was more the undertones that Ingrid gave that set you worlds apart. She was elegant and gentle and wonderful and had this confidence about her that, even when lying here, curled up on your chest, gave her a glow the radiated from within. You had none of that. You were just an anxious girl. Shy, awkward, timid girl who had somehow managed to catch the attention of the most perfect person in the world.

You felt Ingrid’s lips move against your neck, placing a few careful kisses, testing the waters. “Stop,” Ingrid whined gently.

“Huh?” You struggled to look down at her, torn between your inner monologue berating you and the feel of her lips against your skin.

“I can hear your brain working overtime from here, stop it.” She pulled back to stare into your eyes.

“I-I didn’t mean,” you stammered, a blush rising to your cheeks.

“Hey, it’s ok. I know you, your mind is running a thousand miles an hour, you’re overthinking everything. And that’s ok. We don’t have to do anything. Not tonight, not ever if you don’t want to. It’s just me and you.” She pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“I’m just nervous,” you breathed.

“So am I.” The confession was a hushed whisper, so quiet you barely heard it.

“Y-you’re? You’re nervous?” You blinked, what could she possibly be nervous about?

“Of course, I am. We might have sex tonight.” She rolled her eyes.

“But you’ve had sex before.” You looked at her, confused.

“Yeh, but I’ve never had sex with you. It’s new for both of us. This is our first time. I know what I like, but I don’t know what you do. I don’t know if I’ll live up to your expectations, y’know.” Ingrid looked down shyly. Your heart swelled, a small smile dancing on your lips.

“Oh,” you paused. “Well, I know I like kissing you,” you stated matter-of-factly. She let out a melodical laugh. “What?” You couldn’t help but join in.

“I like kissing you too.” She said, emphasising her point by planting a swift peck on your lips.

“Why don’t we start there?” You suggested, eyes wide.

“That sounds like a fantastic place to start,” she whispered, leaning in and giving you a slow kiss. The first touch of her lips against yours was everything – so soft they felt like silk. Her lips moved against yours with an aching tenderness, igniting a charge that left you dizzy. Her teeth grazed your lower lip, sending a thrill through you, and you leaned in closer, unable to hold yourself back. You could feel her smile against your mouth, the way her body pressed against yours.

You weren’t quite sure how long you made out on the sofa … long enough to feel like teenagers, making out on their parents couch when they finally had the place to themselves. “Do you want to go to the bedroom?” Ingrid whispered against your lips, breathing shallow.

“Can we stay here?” You asked, confused as to why the couch wasn’t a perfectly good space.

“I mean, we can. It’s just more space on the bed. We can spread out a bit, and there’s not a giant window.” She jerked her head back towards the large window where the light from the street below was streaming into the living room.

“Oh, yeah.” You blushed, feeling embarrassed.

“But, I am totally down for a quickie on the couch, whenever you want it. Or in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or the shower, or the changing rooms, or the cupboard next to the medical room that no one uses.” You let out a laugh, arching into her at the thought of all the places she wanted to have sex.

“Let’s just conquer the bedroom first?” You suggested, smiling up at her.

Ingrid paused, her eyes blinking slowly as she looked down at you. “You are so beautiful, especially when you laugh.” You felt your cheeks warm.

Ingrid’s bed was wide and welcoming, her soft scent enveloping you as you settled against the pillows. She kissed you softly again, her lips like velvet as they moved against yours. You felt her hands move up your body, her nails scratching against your stomach. “Is … is this ok?” she asked timidly.

“More than,” you breathed, arching as her hand reached your bra. She squeezed gently, smiling into another kiss.

Kissing Ingrid was magical, when her lips were against yours, the voices in your head quietened, leaving only happiness running through your veins. You let your hand tangle in her hair. She moaned gently as you tugged at her roots, your legs looping around her waist. With a soft sigh, you shifted your hips against hers, testing the waters, moving in a way that felt natural, instinctive. The movement brought a warmth to your cheeks and made your breath hitch, and from the soft gasp that left Ingrid’s lips, you could tell she felt it too.

“Please, Ingrid,” you whined, the words slipping out in a soft, desperate tone when it became clear she wasn’t letting you set the pace. She was holding back, making you ask, making you wait – and it was driving you crazy.

“Please, what, kjære?” she teased, her lips brushing close enough that you could feel her warm breath against your skin, her hand squeezing your breast again.

“Please,” you whimpered again. You captured her lips again in a kiss, soft and insistent, hoping it would convey the plea that words couldn’t seem to express.

“Please, what?” Her voice was maddeningly patient, eyes warm and soft as they met yours, but there was a glint in her gaze – a playful edge that hinted at just how much she was enjoying this, watching you unravel.

“Ingrid, baby,” you murmured, your voice trembling, nearly breathless, “I’m begging you here…”

She arched a brow, her lips quirking up in a teasing smirk. “Kjære, if this is you begging,” she said, her voice a low purr, “we’ll have to work on that.” The flush that crept over your cheeks only seemed to amuse her further.

“Please…” you whimpered again, voice barely a whisper. You could see the exact moment her resolve softened, her eyes gentle as she took in your expression.

With a sigh, she rolled her eyes affectionately and cupped your face in her hands, her thumb tracing soft circles over your cheek.

“Say the words, kjæreste,” she murmured. “Say it, and it’s yours.”

“Ingrid…” Your heart was racing, a frantic drumbeat against your ribs, your breath catching as you tried to form the words. “I want you … I need you. Please, make me yours.” You shocked yourself. You had never imagined that you would be able to say anything in the bedroom, let alone something so … well it wasn’t exactly dirty talk but it was definitely more than you were expecting.

“Good girl,” Ingrid smirked, kissing you again. Warmth flooded your body, you hips lifting against hers.

“How do we… how do we do this?” you asked, he nerves creeping back in despite how much you wanted this.

“Well … have … have you ever touched yourself?” Ingrid questioned, her voice gently. You swallowed, feeling warmth rise in your cheeks as you nodded.

“I’m not that much of a prude,” you replied, trying to hide the flush with a little humour, though it came out more vulnerable than you’d intended.

She chuckled softly, her fingers tracing a soothing pattern along your ribs. “I didn’t mean it like that, kjære,” she murmured, her tone gentle. “I meant… do you know what you like? Or what you don’t like?” Her lips brushed the shell of your ear, sending another thrill down your spine, and you felt your fingers unconsciously fidget with the fabric of her top, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“Oh.” You felt your blush deepen as you realised what she was asking. “Yes,” you whispered, finding her gaze with an honesty that felt liberating.

“And what do you like?” she asked, her voice low and velvety

Your voice faltered for a moment, but you pushed past the nerves. “I… I have a vibrator,” you admitted, words a shy murmur. “I like that.”

She hummed in approval, her hand continuing its gentle exploration across your body

“What about… inside?” she asked, her question as natural as if you were talking about a favourite movie.

You bit your lip, giving a small shake of your head. “I’ve tried… but I couldn’t get the angle right. It felt… weird.” You watched her nod and felt her press a kiss to your cheek.

“W-what about you?” you managed, your eyes tracing the curve of her cheek, her jaw, marvelling at how beautiful she was from so close.

“Don’t worry about me, kjære,” she replied softly, her gaze tender. “Tonight is all about you.” She leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that made your heart stutter.

As the kiss broke, you couldn’t help but murmur, “I still want to know…”

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips “Well, I definitely prefer being on top… or at least in charge.” A smirk danced across her face, her eyes flickering with heat as she held your gaze. “And I’ve definitely pictured you beneath me,” she added, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek, her lips lingering as another blush rose on your skin. “But for me, I like more attention on my clit… penetration alone doesn’t really do it.” Her words were so matter of fact, yet her eyes softened as she watched you take them in.

“But,” she murmured, her voice gentle again, “we can explore that another night.” Her thumb brushed your cheek as she spoke, her expression filled with a love that took your breath away. “Tonight, I want you… in every way you’ll let me.” The heat in her voice sent a rush through you, your breath catching, and you felt yourself grow wetter, the ache of wanting her growing with every word, every touch.

“O-okay.”

“Good girl,” Ingrid smirked, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Your hips bucked involuntarily.

“If … if it’s alright with you.” She took another steadying breath. “Ireallywanttotasteyou … please.” You blinked, her words coming out so fast you missed it.

“Huh?” You laughed at yourself, the bluntness of your confusion breaking through the heated moment. Your laughter mixed with Ingrid’s, her head flopping down against your shoulder as she buried her head in embarrassment.

“Ask me again? I missed it. Slowly, this time,” you smiled, hand brushing her hair out of her face. She blushed heavily, but her eyes remained light and smiling.

“I really want to taste you.” She whispered.

“Louder,” you cocked your ear towards her.

“You are mean, kjære.” Ingrid raised her eyebrows. “I’ll get you back for this.” She teased, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips.

“Not … not tonight, though, right?” You double checked. You quite liked the idea of Ingrid maybe punishing you for something … but that was a bridge to be crossed at a later date.

“No, baby. Not tonight.” She reassured you. “Tonight, I want to taste you, if that’s ok with you, of course.”

“Good,” she said, her tone low and sultry, and she wasted no time. Her lips pressed a trail of soft kisses along your body, each touch igniting a fire within you. The world around you faded away, and all you could focus on was her – her warmth as she moved along your body, her touch as she shed both your and her clothes. As she moved, her hands slid along your sides, caressing your skin, memorising every inch of you. Your heart raced, every nerve ending alive with need.

It was an odd sensation, the way Ingrid's tongue moved against you was electric. The warmth of her mouth was more intense than you had anticipated, the way her fingers gripped at your hips added something you never knew was missing.

Your breath hitched a little as she circled your clit, her movements both teasing and deliberate, as if she were savouring every moment. “Down,” you gasped, your hands twisting in the sheets beneath you, gripping them tightly as a wave of pleasure coursed through you.

Ingrid listened intently, her tongue inching down just a fraction, perfectly attuned to your body and your needs. “To the left – there,” you directed, your voice breathless and trembling with anticipation. And then, as her tongue finally ran over your clit, a gasp escaped your lips, the sensation sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you. It was as if she had found the key to a door you never knew existed, unlocking a flood of sensations that had your body arching toward her, craving more. The way her tongue moved, skilled and confident, sent you spiralling closer to the stars.

Ingrid’s mouth was warm and inviting, her rhythm steady as she explored, each flick of her tongue sending you higher and higher. You could feel the tension building within you, coiling tighter, threatening to break free with each tantalising stroke. The world outside faded away, leaving only the delicious heat between your legs and the sweet sound of your breaths mingling with the soft, wet sounds of her pleasure.

“Just like that,” you managed to whisper, your voice a mere tremor as your body responded instinctively to her touch. The way she focused on you, her eyes flickering up to meet yours, filled you with an overwhelming sense of intimacy. It felt surreal – raw, tender, and utterly consuming.

Your body was alive, electric with need, and you could feel the tight coil of pleasure winding tighter, ready to snap. With each flick and stroke, she guided you closer to that edge, and you knew you were teetering, ready to fall into bliss.

“Please,” you whined out, the word slipping from your lips in a breathless plea, desperate for release. Ingrid showed no sign of stopping; instead, she responded with a low, approving hum that sent shivers down your spine. Each stroke of her tongue had you creeping closer and closer to that sweet, euphoric edge.

“Oh, my god, Ingrid,” you gasped, your hips grinding wildly against her mouth, seeking more friction, more sensation. You could hardly contain the wave of pleasure building within you. Instinctively, your hand flew to her hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands.

“Don’t, don’t stop. Holy shit,” you groaned, your voice thick “Just like that,” you moaned again, feeling your back arch as each flick of her tongue sent electric pulses radiating through your core.

Ingrid’s movements were relentless, her focus unwavering as she worked to bring you closer to that blissful release.

“Fuck, shit. Fuck, I’m cumming,” you announced, the words spilling out before you could even process them. The bubble inside you burst, a wave of pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, enveloping you completely. “Ingrid,” you shouted.

You felt your body tremble as the intensity washed over you, your back arching higher as you surrendered to the bliss. The room around you blurred, and all that existed was the exquisite sensation of Ingrid’s mouth and the intoxicating connection that enveloped you both. You had had orgasms before, but never one like that. Never ones that had you shaking, your thighs quivering around Ingrid’s head.

“Holy – ” you gasped, as the waves finally began to recede, you collapsed back onto the bed, panting for breath, a soft smile playing on your lips as you basked in the afterglow.

“That… was fucking hot,” Ingrid announced as she moved back up your body, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You were so loud, holy shit. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief and delight as she smoothed your sweaty hair back off your forehead, a tender gesture that sent a rush of warmth through you. “S-sorry,” you stammered, mortified at the noise you’d made.

“Kjære,” she paused, her tone shifting to something softer, more serious as she waited for you to meet her gaze. The warmth in her eyes was undeniable, and you couldn’t help but feel a flutter in your chest. “Don’t ever apologise. That was so unbelievably sexy.” Her words wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, and you felt the tension ease from your body. “Herregud, I thought I was going to cum from the noises you were making.”

Ingrid leaned closer, her lips brushing against yours in a gentle, lingering kiss, tasting yourself on her lips. “You don’t know how hot you looked, completely lost in pleasure,” she continued, her voice low and sultry. “It’s one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen.” You couldn’t help but smile at her words, a wave of warmth flooding through you. “I… I didn’t mean to be so loud,” you admitted, though the embarrassment was quickly fading.

“Good,” she replied, a playful grin spreading across her face. “I want you to be loud. I want to hear you. I want to know just how good it feels.” Her fingers traced delicate patterns along your arm, sending little shivers of excitement through you.

Ingrid settled down next to you, her hands smoothing soft patterns along your stomach.

“So …” You smirked. “All of that and I wasn’t even wined and dined.” You teased, your laughter mixing with hers.

“Just you wait, Kjære. I’ll wine and dine you for the rest of our lives, don’t you worry.”

“Rest of our lives, hey?”

“If you want,” She shrugged non-committally, but you could see the nerves in her eyes.

279 notes · View notes

bjlipss · 2 days ago

Text

— bug, part v.

contents: college!sukuna x weird!reader. weird as in just odd and confusing behaviour but nonetheless cute, nothing pervy-weird. reader wears glasses because yes. really awkward and silly hehe. also there is a use of “girlfriend” in here so ig fem reader should be mentioned.

part iv <- part v -> part vi

you are both in the library.

not because either of you are studying. not really.

you’re curled up in one of the weird, saggy armchairs near the back—hoodie too big, socked feet tucked under you, notebook propped awkwardly on your knees. you’re not even pretending to do anything academic. your textbook’s open on the table beside you, forgotten, while you scribble doodles into the margins of your notes like it’s a commissioned masterpiece.

there’s a frog with a sword. a duck in sunglasses. something that might be a hedgehog in a cape.

you’re also humming. low and wandering. not a tune he recognizes, and maybe you don’t either—you keep shifting the melody halfway through, then giggling softly to yourself like your brain changed channels mid-song.

sukuna’s sitting across from you, textbook cracked open on his lap, posture loose and lazy like he’s got all the time in the world. and technically, he does. he’s already skimmed the chapter. already skimmed the quiz. already skimmed three possible excuses to ditch group work next week.

but he’s not looking at the page.

he’s watching you.

he doesn’t even realize it at first—how long he’s been staring. how quiet he’s gotten.

your hair’s a mess. your glasses keep slipping down your nose. you’ve chewed halfway through your pen cap, and your shoelaces are still untied from this morning. and you’re not even trying to be quiet—just softly off in your own world, like it never occurs to you to shrink yourself down.

and somehow, he doesn’t want you to.

he glances down at his notes. blinks. tries to focus.

then looks at you again.

you’re drawing something new now. a little bat with cartoonishly huge eyes and a speech bubble that says “i crave blood and validation.”

his lips twitch before he can stop them.

you notice.

your gaze flicks up—quick, sharp. “what?”

his mouth opens.

and then he says, too fast, “you wanna come to my game?”

you blink.

“…what game?”

he clears his throat. suddenly, very interested in the pattern of the wood grain on the table.

“basketball. tomorrow night. we’re playing against southfield.”

you tilt your head, curious. “are they the ones with the scary mascot?”

“…it’s a goose.”

“yeah. terrifying.”

he huffs a laugh, soft and embarrassed. rubs the back of his neck. “you don’t have to or whatever. i just—figured you’d like it. it gets loud. chaotic. you like loud shit.”

you grin.

“okay.”

he blinks. “yeah?”

you nod. “i’ll bring a sign. and confetti. maybe a kazoo.”

he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “jesus. please don’t bring a kazoo.”

you lean forward, eyes bright. “you can’t stop me.”

he rolls his eyes, fighting a smile, and you go back to your doodles like he didn’t just invite you into his world a little bit. like it’s easy. like it means something.

—

the gym is packed. humid and echoey and full of noise.

the bleachers are overflowing. the ref’s whistle shrieks every two minutes. the other team’s fans are booing already, and someone spilled nachos on the court.

and you’re there.

front row. bouncing in your seat. wearing his hoodie—his actual hoodie, which he only lent you as a joke and immediately regretted because you looked so stupidly happy to wear it.

you wave when you see him jog out with his team, hands cupped around your mouth.

“GO SUKUNA! BREAK THEIR LEGS! OR RULES! OR BOTH!”

he snorts. tries not to smile. fails.

his teammates elbow him, whisper stuff, smirk, but he doesn’t care. not when you’re waving that crooked sign you made with sparkly markers and duct tape that says “#1 BASKETBALL MENACE” with what appears to be a drawing of him dunking a goose.

the game itself is rough. fast. brutal.

southfield’s team is good—long-legged and sharp-elbowed and fast on the rebounds—but sukuna’s better. faster. meaner. he scores three baskets in the second half alone. when he shoves past their point guard to land the final shot, the whole gym explodes.

they win by four points.

the whistle blows.

the crowd surges to its feet.

and then—before he can even breathe—you’re there.

you leap over the bleachers like it’s a war zone, stumbling slightly but recovering fast, and run straight to him across the court, absolutely beaming.

“THAT WAS AMAZING,” you shout, grabbing his arm with both hands. “you did that spinny jump thing! and then the swoosh! and then you yelled at the ref—oh my god, that was so hot—”

he blinks down at you, flushed and sweaty and grinning so wide his face might crack.

“you don’t know anything about basketball,” he points out, a little breathless.

you shake your head violently. “nope! not a clue!”

“you just called a layup a ‘spinny jump thing.’”

“yeah! and it was the coolest shit i’ve ever seen!”

he laughs. actually laughs. the sound cracks right out of him—bright and sharp and real. and you’re still holding his arm, squeezing it like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

he hesitates.

then says, quiet, “you wanna come over later?”

you blink. “like. to your dorm?”

“i can… tell you about the game. the rules. what the spinny jump thing’s actually called.”

you light up like he just offered you front-row seats to the moon.

“yes. absolutely. teach me all the ball lore.”

he snorts. “never say that again.”

“no promises.”

and then you’re walking beside him through the crowd, still rambling, still glowing, and he can’t help it—his hand reaches up, gentle and automatic, to push your glasses up your nose where they’ve slid halfway down again.

you blink, startled.

then beam at him.

and he reaches up again—this time to ruffle your hair, fingers combing through the mess like it’s something he’s allowed to touch.

you lean into it without thinking.

and somewhere in the blur of noise and sweat and laughter, he realizes:

you’re his favorite win tonight.

—

his dorm isn’t as much of a mess as you expected.

a little cluttered, yeah—hoodies draped over his desk chair, empty water bottles on the windowsill, a pair of sneakers half-kicked under the bed—but it smells clean. woodsy. like laundry detergent and something sharp underneath that’s just him.

you step inside, slow and curious, still holding the bag of vending machine snacks he insisted you didn’t need to bring.

“so this is the lair of the basketball menace,” you hum, peeking at his bookshelf. “i expected more… chaos. broken trophies. claw marks on the wall.”

he snorts, toeing the door shut behind you. “those are in my evil backup dorm.”

“ah. the one in hell.”

he chuckles, shaking his head, and crosses the room to yank a hoodie off his desk chair and toss it onto his bed. you settle into the chair without waiting for permission, crossing your legs and tearing open a packet of sour candy.

he raises an eyebrow. “that’s my chair.”

you grin. “i’m your guest. this is diplomacy.”

he doesn’t argue—just walks over and sits on the bed instead, close enough that your knees brush against his when he leans forward to grab a bottle of water.

“so,” you say, mouth full of sugar, “tell me the basketball secrets. what was that thing where you jumped like a frog and then spun like a gremlin and then landed like a swan?”

he stares at you.

“…a layup.”

“bless you.”

he huffs a laugh, dropping his head into his hands for a second like he needs to gather strength. “okay. alright. lesson one: do not describe sports like they’re cryptid mating rituals.”

“but that’s my only frame of reference.”

he throws a piece of candy at you. you catch it in your mouth with a triumphant squeak.

“focus,” he says, pointing a finger at you. “basketball. it’s about coordination. spacing. control. and momentum. you don’t just run around like an idiot trying to get the ball in.”

you tilt your head. “so it’s like murder chess. but fast.”

“jesus christ.”

“you’re doing great.”

he glares. but it’s a soft glare, the kind he aims at you more often now. like he’s not really mad. like he doesn’t know how to be.

he shifts on the bed, legs stretching out a little, one knee knocking gently against yours again.

you don’t move away.

“okay,” he says, quieter this time. “you saw when i blocked that guy at the end, right? that’s called a charge. you plant your feet, and if they run into you, it’s a foul on them.”

“ohh,” you nod, thoughtful. “so you baited him.”

“kind of.”

“like psychological warfare.”

he sighs. “sure.”

“can you teach me that?”

he looks up. “what?”

“the foot thing. the standing-your-ground move.” you gesture vaguely with your half-empty candy bag. “i’d like to charge people in my life. for crimes.”

“you’d fall over.”

“not if you believe in me.”

he laughs again—more like a puff of breath this time, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide how fond it sounds.

“i’ll teach you,” he mutters.

you beam.

for a moment, the room goes quiet—soft and buzzing and still. the lights are dim. the windows cracked open. your socked foot nudges against his again, deliberate this time, and he doesn’t pull away.

he watches you—really watches you. the way your glasses have slid halfway down your nose again. the way your hoodie sleeves have swallowed your hands. the way your smile hasn’t left since the moment you walked in.

“you’re happy,” he says quietly.

you blink. glance up at him. “of course i’m happy.”

“…why?”

you look at him like it’s obvious.

“because you invited me.”

he opens his mouth. closes it.

because he’s not used to that answer.

not used to people being happy just to be where he is. not without expecting something back. not without reading into it. not without laughing or pushing or prying.

you twist around in the chair a little, knee brushing his again, closer this time. “also, i got to yell about your legs in public, so. that was cathartic.”

he groans.

you laugh.

and then—softly, almost like you don’t realize you’re doing it—you reach forward. one hand, hesitant, rising to brush at his forehead, where it’s still a little damp with cool sweat. your fingers graze his temple.

“you’re sweaty,” you murmur, nose wrinkling.

he raises an eyebrow. “you ran to me.”

“yeah, because you were dazzling. like a sports anime protagonist.”

he laughs, quiet and helpless.

and then he reaches out, just as softly, and pushes your glasses up again where they’ve started to slip.

your breath catches.

and his hand lingers—just for a second—his thumb brushing the curve of your cheek.

then he pulls away.

you don’t say anything.

you just smile again—smaller this time, softer. and then you fold yourself into the chair, arms wrapped around your knees, and mumble, “i like it here.”

he leans back on his palms, still watching you. cute, his mind screams, as you spin around like a little kid.

—

it starts normal.

as normal as anything gets with you, anyway.

you’re flopped sideways on his bed like you live there, half under his blanket even though you insisted you weren’t cold. the game’s playing on his laptop, volume low, light flickering against the walls. he’s sitting beside you, legs on the floor, back to the edge of the mattress, trying to explain what a pick and roll is without dying of secondhand embarrassment.

you are, predictably, not paying attention.

“what if,” you murmur, chewing on a piece of candy you found in your pocket, “instead of doing basketball, they just kissed in the middle of the court?”

he doesn’t turn around. “they’d get fouled.”

“for passion?”

“for being weird.”

“bold of you to assume that wouldn’t raise morale.”

he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

and then your fingers find his hair.

slow. absent. like you didn’t mean to. like your hand just drifted down from the blanket and landed there, right against the back of his head, where his hair’s still a little messy from earlier.

you comb your fingers through it once. twice.

and then you go still.

he does, too.

his mouth goes dry. his heartbeat spikes.

you’ve touched him before—high fives, shoulder bumps, the flower behind the ear thing, even his hair a bit ago—but this is different. slower. deliberate. intimate.

and worse—you don’t move.

“you okay?” he says, voice too low, too tight.

“…mhm.”

he swears he can hear your smile.

and then, as if that wasn’t enough, you shift. twist around. and lean into him from behind—your chin resting right at the curve of his shoulder, your weight warm against his back, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

he straightens like he’s been electrocuted.

you don’t even flinch. just murmur, “comfy,” like that explains it.

his whole body’s locked up. tense. pulsing. his brain’s screaming at him to move, to shake you off, to tell you you’re invading his space and messing with his head and ruining him—but—

but you’re so soft.

and warm.

and he can feel your breath against his neck, feel the weight of you slouched against his back like you trust him enough to fall asleep there.

his hands curl into fists.

“…this is illegal,” he mutters.

“mm?” your voice is all syrup.

“this is a crime.”

you hum, noncommittal. “you’re warm.”

he covers his face with both hands. “you’re going to kill me.”

you don’t answer.

and when he turns, just slightly, he realizes—

you’re already asleep.

your face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. your glasses slipping crookedly down your nose. your breathing slow and steady and peaceful, like you didn’t just turn his entire bloodstream into static and curl up on him like a goddamn cat.

he exhales, long and quiet.

his hands hover awkwardly in the air for a second—unsure, unsteady—and then he reaches up and gently adjusts your glasses, sliding them off and placing them on the nightstand with shaking fingers.

then, hesitantly, he leans back into the bed. just a little. just enough so you’re not tilted.

just enough that you stay.

and he stares at the screen, watching the players run back and forth, hearing the echo of your earlier nonsense—

they should kiss for morale.

—and he lets out a breathless, silent laugh.

then slowly, very carefully, he lets his head tilt back against yours.

—

you wake up before he does.

not on purpose.

you’re just used to strange hours and uneven sleep, and the light coming in through his blinds is warm and gold and soft on your face. you shift a little, nose scrunching, and when you register the steady, heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, you freeze.

oh.

you’re still curled up on him.

very much wrapped around him.

very much drooling on the shoulder of his hoodie.

you lift your head slowly, blinking blearily. his arms are crossed over his chest, his jaw tilted slightly to the side, his brows a little furrowed even in sleep. like he’s suspicious in his dreams. his hair’s messy again, spiked worse than yesterday, one piece sticking up at an impossible angle.

he looks unfairly good.

annoying.

you shift again, trying not to wake him, and nearly fall backwards off the bed.

his hand shoots out, grabs your wrist without opening his eyes.

“don’t,” he mumbles.

you blink.

“…don’t what?”

“fall off and die. s’too early.”

your mouth twitches.

“oh? you care?” you whisper dramatically.

he grunts. doesn’t answer.

you scoot closer again, pressing your cheek back to his chest with a little huff. “you’re grumpy in the morning.”

“you never shut up,” he mutters.

“mm, false,” you say cheerfully. “i’m just excited to be alive.”

he groans.

you go quiet for a minute. a soft kind of quiet, like the hush after a snowstorm. the game on the laptop has long since ended. the blanket’s mostly fallen to the floor. everything feels slow and syrupy and safe.

you poke his arm.

he doesn’t react.

you poke it again. harder.

“i know you’re awake,” you sing.

no response.

“sukunaaaaa.”

nothing.

“sukunaaa, do you want to hear about my dream?”

his eyes crack open just enough to glare at you. “if it involves centipedes again, i’m leaving the country.”

you gasp. “how dare— it was butterflies this time, thank you very much. and one of them had your face.”

he blinks at you.

“…what the fuck.”

you grin.

he sighs, long-suffering, but there’s the faintest curl of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. like he’s trying to be annoyed. like he wants to be annoyed. but he can’t, not really. not when you’re looking at him like that. like he hung the sun. like this little morning moment matters.

“…hey,” you murmur, suddenly a little shy. “thanks for letting me stay. i didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

he stares at you. your sleep-mussed hair. your socked feet dangling over the side of the bed. the sleepy blush on your cheeks.

he reaches out. flicks you lightly between the eyes.

“you’re annoying,” he says. quiet. fond.

you beam. “you love it.”

he doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t have to.

because a second later, you’re back under the blanket again, leaning into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and he’s letting you, tucking you there with one arm, no complaints, no snide comments.

just soft breathing. and the sound of your heartbeat. and the golden hush of morning.

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callsign-fox · 1 day ago

Text

Let Go - Bob/Sentry

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

Warning: 18+ / Sex

Thanks for all the love, I love you guys xo

She found him leaning heavily against the sink, his posture strained, as if the porcelain beneath his hands was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. His hair was a tousled mess, his shoulders tense, and there was blood—too much blood—soaking through the side of his shirt.

“Sit down, Bob,” she said softly, already dragging one of the battered hotel chairs across the floor toward him.

“I’m fine,” he muttered without looking at her.

She arched a brow, tone firm but gentle. “You’re bleeding through your side. You don’t get to play invincible tonight.”

His jaw clenched, breath flaring out his nose. But after a beat, he sank into the chair with a reluctant exhale, hands resting on his knees—trembling slightly. He wasn’t afraid of pain. She knew that. She’d seen him endure things that would reduce lesser men to ash. But something else lingered beneath his stillness. Something quieter. Deeper.

“You need to take your shirt off,” she said, kneeling beside him.

He didn’t protest when she began to help, her fingers moving carefully to peel the fabric away from his broad shoulders. It stuck to the blood, to a raw, angry wound just above his ribs—and for a moment, her breath caught.

Not because of the gash.

Because of him.

Even wounded, even bleeding, his body was carved with strength—perfectly sculpted and powerful in a way that seemed otherworldly. He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. But she felt the heat radiating from him—not just from the effort of healing, but from something more volatile. Something burning.

She opened the first aid kit and reached for the antiseptic. When her fingers brushed the skin beside the wound, he flinched—just once.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be,” he said, voice gravel and shadow. “It’s not the pain.”

She looked up at him, brows drawing together. “Then what is it?”

His hands tightened on his knees, jaw flexing. His eyes dropped to where her hands were moving across his skin, soft and sure.

“It’s you,” he said, low.

She stilled.

“I spend most of my time holding everything back—my thoughts, my power, the Void…” His gaze lifted to hers, gold flickering faintly in his eyes. “But when you touch me, I feel like I could let go of everything.”

Her fingers were still against his skin, her touch light, trembling. The heat between them curled and built, heavy with the weight of unspoken need. The line between caution and surrender blurred.

“Then maybe,” she whispered, “you don’t have to hold it all back. Not with me.”

He leaned forward ever so slightly, something ancient sparking in his gaze. The golden light flared, just for a moment.

“Careful,” he warned. “You have no idea what I might become if I let go.”

She didn’t flinch.

“Maybe I don’t care.”

The air shifted—like the universe itself held its breath. But neither of them moved. The tension between their bodies was a live wire, humming with restraint, with longing, with power waiting to be unleashed.

He was still shirtless, breath shallow, golden light pulsing faintly under his skin like something divine trying to break through.

She rose slowly to her feet. His eyes tracked her, wary and wanting, and when she straddled his lap, he went utterly still.

His muscles were drawn taut like a wire about to snap, but he didn’t stop her. He only watched her, gaze dark with need, breath jagged as her knees settled against either side of his thighs.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasped, voice frayed at the edges, hands fisted on his knees like he was barely holding on.

She reached down and gently took his wrists, guiding them up to rest on her waist.

“Look at me, Bob.”

He did.

“I’m not afraid of what you are,” she said, her voice a promise. Her fingers ghosted over his chest, feeling the hum of impossible power just beneath her palms. “I want all of it. I want you—whatever that means.”

He swallowed hard.

“I might not be able to stop if—”

“Good.”

That broke something in him.

His hands gripped her hips, control slipping as the gold in his eyes burned brighter. And then—slowly—his hands moved, skimming up her sides, across her ribs, over her chest, his touch a trembling worship.

She mirrored him, sliding her palms over his chest, fingers mapping every muscle, every tremor, every hitch of breath. The way he watched her touch him—like he’d never been seen this clearly—made her heart ache.

“Let go,” she breathed, forehead pressed to his, her lips grazing his. “It’ll be worth it.”

He shuddered.

And then, he did.

His mouth crashed into hers, fierce and hungry, all the restraint melting into heat as he pulled her against him. She ground down, a moan spilling from her throat as she felt the hard evidence of just how long he’d been holding back.

“You don’t break me,” she panted. “You ground me.”

That undid him completely.

She rose to her feet, and he worked quickly to undo her jeans, dragging them and her underwear down in one breathless motion. When she settled back into his lap, his hands cupped her ass, squeezing tight as one hand slipped between her legs, fingers teasing through the slick heat of her arousal.

He didn’t rush.

Even trembling with need, even with desire coiled so tightly it threatened to snap—he took his time. Her hand slid to his pants, unzipping him, freeing him—and when she guided him into her, both of them gasped.

It wasn’t just sex.

It was surrender.

It was trust.

He buried his face in her neck, voice broken. “God, you feel so good.”

She moved slowly, rhythmically, riding him with a devotion that went deeper than physical. Every moan, every breath, every arch of her back was a prayer.

His hands gripped her thighs like they were his anchor. His eyes fluttered shut, gold glowing behind his lids. Power. Emotion. Something sacred.

She kissed him again—slow and deep—anchoring him to this moment, to her. And when he came, with a raw, guttural cry muffled against her skin, it felt like something ancient shattered in his chest.

But he didn’t lose control.

Because she never stopped touching him.

When it was over, when their breaths evened and their bodies stilled, she stayed wrapped around him, heart to heart. And he looked at her—really looked—like she was the only thing in the universe that mattered.

“You were right,” he whispered, voice hoarse with awe. His fingers brushed gently over her cheek. “It was worth it.”

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loulou-land · 18 hours ago

Text

'Cause all of my enemies started out friends

So, I have no idea what this is, I just needed to work through some feelings. This was a challenge to write because its 95% dialogue heavy and that's never been my strong suit. But I really needed Tommy and Eddie to argue apparently. Fair warning, this isn't Eddie friendly, though I really tried not to go into character bashing. Please let me know if I need to include a warning for that.

Spoilers for 8x17 | arguing, mentions of grief, mild physical altercation, dialogue heavy, mild hurt/comfort | 1,625 words

“What did you say to him?” Tommy asks when he comes into the kitchen.

“Oh, so now you’re talking to me?” Eddie doesn’t look at him, just keeps stacking dishes in the sink.

Tommy folds his arms, keeping a careful distance. “You’re the one who cut ties, Diaz. And believe me, I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have to.”

He hates that it’s come to this. Eddie had been a good friend—someone Tommy genuinely thought understood him. But then he’d dropped him without a word, like he was yesterday's trash. And yeah, that had hurt more than Tommy wants to admit. He gets it, loyalty is complicated, and Evan was Eddie’s best friend. Still, that doesn’t excuse whatever’s been going on between them lately. Not when it’s left Evan looking so small and acting skittish.

Eddie scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Tommy says, locking eyes with him, “I’m pretty sure Evan left a lot out when he told me what happened. He downplayed it. I can see it in how careful he is around you. Like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. So I’ll ask again—what did you say to him?”

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, shaking his head. “That’s what this is about? We had an argument. We moved past it—or at least I thought we did. But of course, Buck’s making it out to be bigger than it was. Making it all about him again. Has to be the one hurting the most.”

Tommy stills. His voice, when it comes out, is quiet but razor sharp. “Is that what you told him? That he’s making it about himself?”

Eddie finally looks at him, like he’s surprised Tommy’s even making an issue of this.

“Eddie,” Tommy continues, voice tight with restraint, “Bobby died. His father in everything but blood. Evan’s allowed to hurt. However loud, however long he needs to. You don’t tell someone how to grieve.”

Something shifts in Eddie’s expression, turning defensive, bitter. “I lost Bobby too. And you—god, you don’t have any idea what that was like for me. For any of us. You’re not part of the 118. Not our 118.”

The words cut straight through him, but Tommy doesn’t flinch. He takes a breath, rubs a hand through his hair, grounding himself.

“You’re right. I’m not part of your family. But Bobby still meant something to me. And I was there Eddie. I might not have seen what it did to you, I saw what it did to Evan though. You didn’t—”

He pauses, remembering how helpless he felt, watching Evan break through a tiny screen, being unable to get to him. He meets Eddie’s stare, “You didn’t watch him fall apart.”

“I should’ve been there,” Eddie says, sidestepping Tommy’s statement. Tommy wishes he could be surprised, but he’s starting to understand why Evan doesn’t feel like he can talk about his feelings. “I could’ve done something. I—”

Tommy lets out a bitter laugh. “I’m sorry, did I miss the part where you’re a miracle worker? A genius scientist with a cure in your back pocket?”

Eddie squares his shoulders, puffing up with practiced intimidation. Tommy nearly rolls his eyes, but he knows baiting him won’t help.

Still, Eddie stalks closer, jaw clenched. “Fuck you. You—”

“We all did what we could,” Tommy snaps, finally losing some of his own restraint. “I’m sorry you weren’t there. I really am. But don’t take your guilt out on Evan. He’s already drowning in his own and still trying to take care of everyone at the same time.”

Eddie scoffs. “He’s spiraling, that’s what he is. And what the hell do you even know about Buck’s guilt? His pain?” he shoots back. “You dumped him. Left him. And now what? He puts out one time and suddenly you think that gives you the right to waltz back in. He’s hurting, and you’re using that to your advantage.”

Tommy’s whole body tenses. He can’t believe Eddie is insinuating he’s using Evan. That he would be that kind of person. And using the worst mistake he’d ever made, leaving Evan, against him? Something he’s regretted from the moment he left.

He inhales sharply, fist clenched at his sides. Not because he’s thinking of swinging—never that. But the bite of his nails digging into his palms helps ground him.

“Don’t you ever say that to my face again, Diaz. Or to Evan, for that matter,” he says, trembling with anger. “I’m here for him—in whatever way he needs me. I’m not asking for anything. I’m not expecting anything. Which is more that I can say for you.”

Eddie reels back, nostrils flaring. His eyes flash angrily and Tommy braces himself.

“No,” Eddie growls. “You don’t understand. Don’t pretend you know anything about our relationship.”

“I know Evan!” Tommy interrupts. He refuses to let Eddie bait him with that dig.

“You don’t know what Buck and I have been through. The bond we have. He’s like a brother to me.”

Tommy stares at him, incredulous. “Brother?” He huffs out a sharp breath. “You barely treat him like a friend.”

Eddie’s face twists. He jabs a finger toward Tommy’s face. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand.”

Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just meets Eddie’s fury head-on.

“Diaz,” he says, voice tightly controlled. “Back off, before I break that finger.”

“I love Buck. He’s family,” Eddie snaps, using the words like a defense. Like that single word erases all the damage he’s done.

Tommy bites the side of his cheek to hold in his immediate response. He breathes through it. Damn it. He’s not going to throw a punch. Not at someone Evan still loves, still looks up to—even if they don’t deserve it right now.

He won’t be the one to hurt the people Evan holds close. Not even when they’ve done plenty of damage themselves.

Tommy exhales, slow and steady. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

“Excuse me?” Eddie asks, a hitch in his voice now.

Tommy meets his eyes, unflinchingly. “You call it love, Eddie. But love doesn’t make someone feel like a burden. Love doesn’t kick you when you’re down. Love doesn’t twist the knife when they’re already bleeding.”

The words seem to land like a strike.

Eddie flinches, staggering back half a step like the air’s been punched from his lungs.

For a second, Tommy thinks that’s it. That he’s finally gotten through to him.

Maybe now Eddie will actually take a look at himself—really look—apologize to Evan, try to do better.

He gives him too much credit.

Eddie’s face hardens, shutters down—and then he comes swinging. It takes Tommy off guard. He moves, but not fast enough, and the punch clips him on the side of the head. He’s already bracing to restrain Eddie when—

“Stop!”

They both turn toward the entryway, where Evan stands. He’s breathing hard, eyes wide, clearly upset. It’s obvious, he’s been there a while, listening.

Tommy feels a wave of regret crash over him. He never wanted Evan to hear any of this, let alone witness them like this.

“You should leave,” Evan says quietly.

Tommy’s heart sinks—until he realizes Evan isn’t looking at him. He’s staring straight at Eddie.

“Me? Are you serious right now?” Eddie asks, incredulous.

“Yes, Eddie. You.” Evan’s voice is sharp, angry. “You swung at Tommy. What the hell?”

“Oh, of course you’re taking his side,” Eddie mutters, rolling his eyes.

“This isn’t about sides,” Evan snaps. “You need to cool off. Before you dig yourself an even bigger grave.”

His voice shakes with fury, but there’s a note of something else underneath. Hurt, exhaustion. Tommy sees it in the tremble of Evan’s hands, the rigid way he’s holding himself upright.

“Just…leave. Don’t come back unless you’re ready to talk like a civil person, and apologize. To Tommy. And…to me.”

He meets Eddie’s eyes squarely, head held high. Tommy watches, quietly awed. He knows how much it’s costing Evan to say this, but he’s doing it anyway.

Tommy turns to Eddie worriedly. He can see it—the poison gathering behind his teeth, just waiting to spew out.

“Eddie,” Tommy says softly, tiredly. Almost pleading. “Please. Take a walk.”

Eddie glances between them. Something finally sinks in, because the fight drains out of him. He turns without another word and walks out the back door. The door slamming shut behind him.

Tommy exhales in relief. He looks at Evan, who’s still watching the door with a sad, distant expression.

“Hey,” Tommy says gently. “I’m sorry.”

Evan frowns, eyes welling with tears. “Tommy, you don’t have anything to apologize for. You—” he pauses, swallowing hard. “You stood up for me.” His voice cracks on the last word.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He moves toward him, and Evan meets him halfway. They fall into each other, hugging tightly, grounding themselves in each other. Tommy runs a soothing hand down Evan’s back, trying to steady the tremors in his body.

After a long moment, Evan whispers, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I…I could’ve done it. But th—thank you.”

“Anytime,” Tommy says fiercely. “I’m here for you.”

Evan shudders, then pulls back slightly, offering him a small, smile. “I know.”

He squeezes Tommy’s hand, then glances down at his lips.

Tommy lifts his hands, cradling Evan’s face gently, and kisses him softly.

They stay there, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync, taking comfort in each other.

They’ll have to deal with Eddie later. Sift through the wreckage and make sense of where they go from here. But for now, it’s enough that they have one another. They’re in this together.

#bucktommy #tommy kinard #evan buckley #eddie diaz #anti eddie diaz #<just in case #not eddie diaz friendly #cw grief #911 spoilers #fix it of sorts

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marvelstoriesepic · 2 days ago

Text

The Splinter and the Spark

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky x Neighbor!Reader

Summary: Your cabin’s heating breaks in times when you need it, so you try yourself at chopping firewood. But the last person you want help from is your smug, axe-swinging neighbor.

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: enemies to lovers; mild injury; slow burn tension; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Note: Gosh, this grew way too long for this challenge again. But I just didn’t want to cut anything. I love them so much. Thank you for sending me this amazing request, my lovely!! I hope you’ll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

It started with the axe.

Not a chainsaw - no, that would have been too simple, too civilized, too modern. It was the thud of an axe that first made you hate him.

Every morning at 6:17 sharp, right when the sky was still learning how to be blue, you’d hear it. The clean, smug crack of metal meeting wood. Again and again. Like a heartbeat that belonged to a different kind of human - one with too much muscle and not enough consideration.

That first time, you’d stormed outside barefoot in your robe, clutching a coffee as if it might serve as a weapon. You asked him if he could wait until at least 8 am and he’d only given you a slow, lazy grin that stretched too wide on a face carved too perfectly and said, “Didn’t know we were keepin’ princess hours around here.” You had half a mind to actually throw your coffee at him.

The next time, he only grinned at you, blue eyes glinting under the brim of his flannel-lined cap. “Mornin’, princess,” he had greeted you with a voice that suggested he knew exactly that you’d come out. “Don’t call me that,” you’d snapped. “Would sweetheart be better?” he only teased back with a spark in his eyes.

You’d gone back inside fuming.

And that was just the beginning.

Since then, Bucky Barnes - your lumberjack neighbor with the smug jaw and unfairly sculptured arms - had accidentally parked his truck partially on your side of the gravel driveway twice. He’d borrowed your Amazon package - “didn’t even look at the name, swear it” - so you were forced to walk over to him and ask for it back, which he finally agreed to only after a discussion lasting over thirty minutes.

You had tried to out-snark him. Out-quiet him. You even filed a passive-aggressive noise complaint with the HOA, only to find out he was on the damn committee.

You hate him. You hate how his flannel sleeves always roll up just enough to show his thick forearms. You hate that his hair always looks a little too perfect for someone who supposedly lives without WiFi. And you especially hate that he looks amused every time you get mad.

Today, you need firewood, yourself.

The heating in your old, overpriced cabin went out last night - again - and the guy who promised to come fix it flaked for the third time in a row.

Your backup electric heater fried with a dramatic sizzle that nearly took your cat down with it, and now you’re left with a fireplace, a stack of unsplit logs, and more pride than sense.

You tie your hair back.

You’ve got gloves. Thin ones - meant for gardening. But that’s close enough, you guess. It has to be.

You’ve got a borrowed axe from Mrs. Caldwell down the lane. Pink-handled. Surprisingly heavy.

And you’ve got determination. Stubbornness. An undying loathing for asking Bucky Barnes for help.

You’d rather die barefoot in the freezing cold than ask him for help. He’s already smug enough, with those thick hands and smirking lips and Jesus Christ, the way he wipes his forehead with the back of his hand when he is sweating as if it’s performance art.

The air is harsh on your cheeks as you step outside. The wind snatches at your coat. There are logs stocked beside the chopping block. You plant your boots.

You drag the axe overhead, trying to remember what your uncle taught you once at a campground years ago.

You let the axe down. And you miss. The log shudders under the dull weight of your poor aim, laughing at you, maybe. You feel the reverberation up your arms.

Gritting your teeth, you reset, and swing again. Nothing. Just a dull smack, as if hitting a pillow made of shame.

“You tryna kill the wood or yourself?”

You freeze. You curse internally.

But you don’t turn around right away. You can hear the grin in his voice and you want just one second to school your face into something that won’t betray your flustered rage.

“I don’t recall inviting commentary,” you state annoyed. Only briefly granting him a glare.

He’s already at the fence line, one hand braced on the top rail, other gripping a thermos. He’s chewing on something. A toothpick? A matchstick? His own smugness?

“Y’gonna hurt someone with that form, princess,” he assesses easily.

“Mind your own business, Barnes,” you hiss unkindly.

He grins. Pushes off the fence with the easy grace of someone who knows they’re built like mythology.

“Hard not to when you’re over here looking like an axe-wielding toddler.”

You roll your eyes. Hard. But a fire burns low inside your body. It’s as if you’re trying to summon the strength of the gods for this conversation.

“Don’t you have logs to scream at or whatever it is you do every morning? Why are you even looking over here?” you bite out through clenched teeth.

There is steam curling from the lid of his thermos and he’s got the audacity to sip it slow as if this is all very amusing to him “You’re louder than I am today,” he remarks smoothly, still grinning with sparkling eyes. “A real accomplishment, considering how much you complain ‘bout me.”

You huff out a breath. It clouds around you. You grip the axe tighter.

“I didn’t choose to do this, Barnes. But I can.”

“Oh, I believe you,” he eases, sauntering through the open gate now, because he has no respect for boundaries. “I just don’t believe the logs will survive your technique.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you turn back, lift the axe in indignation, and swing again.

Thunk.

“Y’know,” he drawls, getting closer, boots crunching across the frosted ground, “if you wanted me to come over, all you had to do was ask real nice.”

“I’d rather freeze.”

“Kinky.”

You spin, axe hanging at your side, panting more from rage than effort.

“Go away, Bucky.”

But he doesn’t. He only moves closer, ignoring you. As always. He smells of cedarwood and coffee and damn it, effortless masculinity. His beard is a little too neat, the plaid stretched a little too tight across those shoulders, and he’s looking at you with those annoying, laughing eyes.

He’s enjoying this.

You lift the axe again, jaw set, and swing.

This time, it lands. The log splits just a little at the top, not much, but enough to make you stand a little straighter.

Bucky whistles now. “Look at that. She’s got claws.”

“I told you I don’t need help.”

“I heard you,” he drones out, stepping closer again, and now his hand is on the handle of the axe with yours. The heat of his skin sears through your glove. “But I’ve also seen what you’re doing to these poor logs. You don’t have to be a martyr.”

You want to yank your hand back, yell, bite, something. But you just look up, ready to glare.

Suddenly, a sharp sting shoots through your palm. You flinch. Just subtly.

But he sees it.

“What is it?” he asks, voice shifting a little softer, quieter. Concern elbowing amusement out of the way.

“Nothing,” you lie, too fast.

He catches your wrist. Gently. His fingers are rough and warm and careful and it makes your stomach twist. “You okay?” he asks without sarcasm this time.

You want to say yes.

But your pride is bleeding out of your palm with the little splinter lodged deep beneath your skin, and somehow your hand is already in his.

“Lemme see.” He peels off your glove, gentle but fast, as if he’s done this a hundred times.

You try to pull away, but he holds on.

“Hold still.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. His face is different now - focused, brows knit together, all the flirt and teasing gone. And for the first time, you feel the quiet in him. As if under all that swagger and plaid, there’s a silence he doesn’t let out often. It makes your chest churn uncomfortably.

“I’ve got tweezers in the shed,” he says, voice low and grim. “Stay here.”

“I can-”

“Don’t argue.” His eyes meet yours. “You’ll dig it in deeper.”

You nod. Small and jerky.

He’s back in seconds, unsurprisingly quick, and he orders you to sit on a log before he kneels at your side. You expect him to be rough, maybe uncareful, but he’s not. He works delicately and precisely, eyes flicking up to yours every so often to check if it hurts, and when he finally pulls the splinter free, you don’t even feel it.

His fingers don’t let go. Not right away. Not even when the splinter’s gone completely and your hand is wrapped in the warmth of him. You feel the heat of his touch and you hate that it calms something in you. That it quiets the buzzing in your chest.

He’s still crouched in front of you, thick brows pulled together as though your skin is glass and he’s afraid to leave a mark. His eyes are focused entirely on your hand, sweeping over the lines of your palm. And it does things to his face. Softens it. Opens it. As if someone peeled away the cocky grin and the smart mouth and what’s left underneath is quieter, deeper.

You’ve never seen him like this.

And the worst part is, you don’t know if you want it to stop.

“You should disinfect this,” he notes, voice low, nearly hoarse.

“It was just a splinter.”

His gaze drifts up to yours. Locks in. But he doesn’t look at you like a man who enjoys the game. Not like the neighbor who calls you princess and sweetheart with a grin in his voice and a challenge in his eyes. This look he’s giving you right now scrapes across your bones. “Doesn’t take much. Even a splinter can fester. Get infected. They carry bacteria. Especially out here, with all the dirt and bark and- can get infected faster than you think. Fever. Swelling. Might need stitches if it goes bad. You don’t want to mess around with that.”

His voice is anything but teasing now. There is no glint in his eyes. Just steel. Seriousness. Something else that looks like concern.

It’s as if someone rearranged the pieces of his face and gave him a conscience.

You blink at him. He’s still holding your hand. Still cupping it as if it’s something valuable. As if you’re something worth careful handling. Just enough softness to keep you wondering.

You’ve fought with this man. Argued over property lines, over noise, over the fact that he whistles while he works like some Disney lumberjack. You’ve accused him of waking the dead with his morning routines. You’ve shoved snow back into his yard with passive-aggressive vengeance. He once left a Get Better Soon balloon on your porch after you sneezed twice on the way to your car.

And yet now. Now, his thumb brushes your wrist as if he forgot he was touching you. As if maybe he wants to keep forgetting.

“You’re starting to sound as if you care,” you murmur, maybe a little amused, but confused nevertheless.

Something flashes across his eyes. Behind them. He looks away for a second. One breath. Two.

“Next time,” he starts, quiet but sharper. Firm. “Come to me before you try to do something like this on your own.”

Your pride bristles, instinctive and stubborn. You straighten your spine, try to pull your hand back, but he doesn’t let you go just yet.

“If I remember correctly, and I do, I didn’t come to you at all, Barnes. It was you who walked into my-”

“I mean it, Y/n. You can always come to me. Promise me, you will,” he insists intensely, lowly.

There’s something in his voice that sits heavy in your chest. You feel it. All of it.

“Fine,” you relent finally, reluctantly.

Only then does he release you.

With the clear of his throat, he steps back. The loss is sudden. Cold. You almost feel foolish for missing it.

“I’ll disinfect it,” you say at last, trying not to sound too much as if you’re surrendering.

Bucky nods once. “Good. But go do it inside. Warm up.”

Your mouth opens immediately. “I’m not fragile, Barnes. A splinter doesn’t knock me out of the game.” You say it with a small teasing tone, but Bucky doesn’t seem to pick it up. Or he ignores it.

He only crosses his arms. Tight. His flannel strains across his chest. “Didn’t say it did. But that doesn’t mean you should be swingin’ an axe anytime soon. I’ll do it.”

He says it with a kind of dominance that makes you scoff. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“Don’t need you to ask.”

There is no grin. No smirk. Just the stubborn set of his jaw and the firm intensity in his eyes. It unnerves you. Not because it’s sharp - but because it’s gentle. Because he’s not teasing you. Because he’s worried, and you don’t know what to do with that version of Bucky Barnes.

So, with a sigh and slightly trembling hands, you turn and head inside. But the warmth in your cabin is nothing compared to the heat still lingering in your chest. You rinse your hand under water that runs slow and cold, and dab antiseptic. But your thoughts stay outside. Stay with those blue eyes watching for signs of weakness as though he’s reading a weather report.

He’s never been like that before. Never so serious. Never so close.

And when you step back outside, your breath catches.

Bucky is already splitting your wood.

His form is fluid, practiced. Each swing of the axe is poetry. Violence tamed. He doesn’t grunt or growl - he just moves with expertise. One hand on the handle, the other steadying the log, shoulders flexing beneath that worn flannel with every arc. The axe comes down like thunder. Wood cracks, clean and quick, falling in neat halves at his boots.

He’s got his sleeves rolled up past his elbows again, breath misting in the air. The sound of the logs cracking echoes through the trees like a song with no chorus.

You lean against the railing of your porch and watch him work.

And you hate that he’s mesmerizing.

He doesn’t look up. Just sets another log in place.

“Sit down,” he says, calm as a lake.

You stare. “What?”

“Or go back inside. Warmer there. I’ll finish up.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you seriously ordering me around?”

“Nope,” he deadpans, finally glancing at you. “I’m instructing you. There’s a difference.”

You’re still staring.

He gives you a look. Not mean. Not commanding. Just firm.

“You don’t have to do everything by yourself, you know.”

You flinch as if the words are sharp. As if they know something about you they shouldn’t.

You want to argue. To say watch me. To toss something sarcastic just to get back the balance.

But you don’t.

You sit. On the porch steps, cold wood stinging the backs of your thighs but you stay and watch him work.

His swings are controlled. His jaw is clenched. No more cocky remarks. No smile. Just focus. He splits like a man trying to prove a point - to you, or to himself, you don’t know.

“You can stop now,” you voice after a moment.

But he doesn’t.

“Bucky.”

Still nothing.

He sets another log. Lifts. Crack.

You cross your arms. Raise your voice.

“Barnes. That’s enough for now.”

Finally, he pauses. Looks over to you. His cheeks are flushed from the cold. He’s starting to sweat slowly. And still, he doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t tease.

“This won’t last long,” he says gruffly, nodding to the pile of wood at his feet. “You’ll be left freezin’ in less than a month.”

“That’s alright,” you try to argue. “I’ve got this guy coming by-”

But he interrupts you with the almost too-loud crack of another log splitting to pieces, his arms winding up to thunder down another time. He’s not even listening to you anymore. Just keeps going.

He looks so determined, it might even be endearing.

But you don’t say anything. You wouldn’t be able to bring out another word. Because this man surely is an enigma.

You didn’t know a man could be this quiet and still make so much noise inside your body.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, watching. But when he’s done, he gathers the logs in his arms as if they weigh nothing at all. Walks them to the side of your house, where the covered racks wait. He stacks them neatly. Tucks a tarp over them.

And then he turns to you.

His breath is ragged slightly, his eyes are unreadable, but there is something softened in them. Like thaw.

“You’re all set.”

You swallow, mouth dry, hands restless in your lap.

“Thank you,” you say. It feels like swallowing rocks.

He nods. Doesn’t say you’re welcome. Doesn’t wink.

He just turns and walks back to where the axe is resting. He picks it up. Fingers sliding over the pink handle. His expression is unreadable.

“Is this yours?” he asks, voice low, thick with something you never heard in his voice before.

You shake your head slowly. “Mrs. Caldwell’s. She loaned it to me.”

He nods. Slow. Thoughtful. As if he is filing that away in the same place he stores the weather, the weight of wood, the sound your boots make when you’re frustrated and trying not to show it.

“I’ll bring it back to her,” he voices. Deep and sure.

You’re thrown for a second.

There’s nothing performative about it. No smirk. No spark. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it - he just studies the axe again as if it’s dangerous.

You stare at him, hands curled into the sleeves of your coat. Trying to decide if the stuttering in your chest is from the cold or something far less logical.

Is he just trying to be polite? Returning something for you? Or is this about control? About making sure you won’t be getting your hands on that thing again?

You search his face for a clue, but he’s turned now, adjusting his grip on the handle as if he’s already taken care of this for you.

“You don’t have to,” you still try.

He moves around to you again, his gaze falling onto yours. “Nah, I’ve got it,” he insists, but his gaze is not as nonchalant as his voice is.

“Uhm, okay,” you start, a little unsure. “Thanks.”

Another one of his nods and it starts to make you uneasy. He keeps standing there for a moment too long, looking at you as though he might say something more.

But he doesn’t.

He just turns. Walks back across the yard, his boots crunching slightly on the ground, the axe hanging over his shoulder like some kind of burden he’s used to carrying.

You watch him disappear, into the warm glow of sunrise burning between the pines.

And you wonder.

You wonder what it means when the person you thought was your enemy touches you as though you’re important to him.

You wonder why it felt safer than anything else ever has.

279 notes · View notes

dantes-jacket · 2 days ago

Text

Just a little dip

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: my last request is done! You and Dante go camping and he convinces you to skinny dip with him. You can’t swim and he makes sure to make you comfortable. This is pure flufffffff

You’re humming a little tune while cooking dinner for you and Dante. He’s been swamped with calls and reports all day so you’re trying to make him something that’ll boost his spirits. You don’t have the ingredients to make a full pizza and you really don’t want to spend more money on buying one so you decided to make little pizza bites.

There was only enough ingredients to make a small sized thing of dough so mini pizza bites are going to have to work. This might have been a little spur of the moment idea but you’re having a lot of fun. You put the little dough balls in a muffin tin and are now customizing each little one. When you’re finishing the last one Dante is calling out to you.

“Babe, have you ever gone camping?”

“I haven’t. Why, what’s up?” You walk out of the kitchen and see his feet stretched on the desk and leaning far back into his seat. It’s a miracle he hasn’t fallen.

He leans his head back to see you once he realized you came into the room. “I want a little break and I thought camping could be fun. Especially since it’s spring time now the forest has to look great now.”

“Sounds like fun! When do you want to go?”

“This weekend. We can leave Friday morning and come back Sunday night.”

“Let’s do it!” You excitedly agree. That’s three days from now. You’ve never been but you and Dante alone enjoying each other’s presence while being surrounded by the beauty of nature sounds heavenly.

•

The next three by fast due to the excitement both of you are feeling. Somehow Dante was able to get all the stuff you two brought to fit onto his motorcycle. At this rate he is a man of many talents you think to yourself. The drive was peaceful and not too long. He pulls up to the “camping grounds.” It’s a spot he normally uses when he has a job up here. He knows there’s no demons lurking around here so he thought this was the perfect place to show you.

He hops off the motorcycle and helps you off. Then unloads everything off his bike and starts to set up the tent. You decide to unpack the little grill and food so you can make some lunch. You end up cooking some meat and vegetables so you two can stay full during your hike later this afternoon.

After the tent was pitched and you two ate, Dante is showing you all around. He takes you on a couple different trails that lead to different things. One lead you to a cave, another to an opening with a plain, and now the last one is lead you to a big pond.

Dante helps you down the uneven terrain so you two can get close to the water. Since you’re hot and sweaty from all the hiking you go straight to the water and splash some on your face.

“This feels great.” You hum in content.

“Hey baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I have an idea.” Dante declares.

You turn to him and see him already smirking. “This could be either really bad or really good and I can’t tell which one it is.”

“Hey rude!” Dante ignores your eye roll and starts to slowly strip. Oh now you’re not rolling your eyes at him. You’re licking your lips while you watch him get bare. As soon as he has nothing on he jumps into the water.

You look to see him break through the surface of the water and shake his head getting all the extra water out of his hair. He then brushes his hair back and simply says, “Strip.”

“What- you want to swim naked?”

“Yeppppp. Gotta cross skinny dipping off the bucket list somehow.” He says with a sly smile and adds a wink.

You gulp and stand back up again. You slowly strip out of your clothes.

Dante lets out a whistle, “Damn babe, you’re sexy.” You just flush more and kick your panties off to the side. Now you’re fully naked and standing at the edge.

“Um Dante?”

“Yes?”

“How deep is it?”

“Oh pretty deep I guess. It goes to my chest.”

“I don’t know how to swim.” You quickly whisper not even loud enough to have him hear you.

“What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“I- I don’t know how to swim…”

“Oh.” You bite your lip and turn away. You also cover your body to try and shield yourself from the embarrassment. You hear Dante swim closer to the edge and call out to you.

“Baby.” You don’t look at him. “Baby look at me.”

You relent and look at him. “It’s okay, I’m right here. I’ll hold onto you the entire time and won’t let your feet touch the bottom.”

“But what about swimming around and goofing off? We can’t do that if you’re holding onto me the entire time.”

“I think you underestimate how much I love your body pressed against mine. I much rather be holding you close and staring at those pretty eyes of yours instead of being far from you because we are trying to play some stupid game.” Dante is quick to reassure you.

“Okay…” you relent once again.

“Just jump in and I’ll catch you.” He pushes himself back a bit so neither of you have to worry about running into the ledge. You see him get in a little stance to show you he’ll catch you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath in and out. When you exhale to run forward and jump in.

You’re surrounded by ice cold water but feel two warm around wrapped around you pulling you from under the water. The moment your head is out from underwater you open your eyes to be met with Dante’s determined gaze. You let some air get back into your lungs and place your hands on his shoulders. He watches and feels you relax and his gaze changes to one of pure fondness.

“See isn’t this nice?”

“Yes but it is really cold.”

Dante chuckles, “You’ll get use to it.” You lay your head on his chest while he walks around and gets you use to the cold water.

While he walks around you keep feeling him change his grip on you. You have an idea but you don’t know how well it’s going to go. But at the end of the day you know you can always trust him.

When he fixes his grip again you unwrap your arms from his shoulders and push yourself back a bit. You feel him fumble on his hold, “Hey what are you-“ he is then hit in the face with a force of water you splashed him with. He freezes and tries to blink the water out of his eyes. Once he has clear vision again he sees you dying of laughter with tears poking out of the corner of your eyes.

He smiles at your joy but knows he has to get you back. “You little shit.” Dante grabs the back of your head and pulls it into his chest then throws himself backwards into the water submerging you both. He knows he could have only dunked you but you’d probably be scared and uncomfortable. So he knew he had to go under as well.

He holds you two down there for a couple seconds then brings you two back up. You both catch your breath and open your eyes. You two then break out into fits of laughter. You wrap your arms around his neck again and place your forehead on his while still laughing. Between laughs you admit, “I love you Dante.”

His laughter dies out and presses a simple kiss to your lips, “I love you too.”

You two go back in for a second kiss then a noise ruins the moment. You stiffen in his hold and Dante is immediately already looking around. He quickly walks the two of you over to the ledge where your stuff is by. He presses your back as lightly as he can against the rocked ledge of the pond. His whole body covers you so you won’t be able to be seen or hurt if it’s something bad. Dante slowly reaches for his gun.

You bury yourself more into his chest to ease your nerves. To help you Dante tightens his grip on you while staring in the direction of the noise. The noise gets louder and louder indicating whatever is coming is getting closer. The bushes then rustle and something jumps out of them. He quickly points his gun to see what it is.

He sees a fluffy little gray bunny. He drops his gun and bursts into laugher. He presses a kiss to your head, “It’s okay baby, it’s just a little bunny. Look it’s cute.”

You turn to look to see the adorable baby rabbit. The little thing just has the fluffiest and tiniest tail. You giggle at the situation. You two were both worried something bigger was going to show up and happen. Knowing Dante if it was a demon he would 100% fight naked and not care. That thought only makes you laugh harder.

“Hey clue me in. Why are you laughing so hard?” He blows some air into your face.

You flinch at the feeling but tell him, “I just thought if it was a demon you wouldn’t hesitate to fight naked.”

“Without doubt. I know the demon would be jealous of my killer body.” He says as if it is an absolute fact.

“You’re crazy.” You shake your head at his comment. This man really has the biggest slice of confidence and ego you have ever seen. You decide to change the subject so you don’t have to picture a naked Dante fighting a demon then getting into a discussion about his body. “This was fun Dante.”

He smirks, “Oh? Why don’t we have some more fun?”

You then feel his harden dick pressed against your stomach. Your eyes widen when you feel him grind just a little bit against you. You let out a little groan at the feeling.

“So what do ya same baby? Let’s have some more fun.”

#dante x reader #dante sparda x reader

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honeydippedfiction · 1 day ago

Note

Heyy bestie!! I've got a long one for you (sorry lol). Can I get from the established list 15, 21, 30, and 33 with Joe and Angel. Love you sweet cheeks - 🐯

Looooved writing this so much like you have no idea, need me a man like Joe is with Angel or I'm going to crash out😭

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#15. Sighing and pouting loudly because you haven't paid them any attention. #21. Playing with your hands or jewelry while they're focused on something else, #30. Falling asleep within minutes of you playing with their hair or scratching their back. & #33. Becoming your shadow and following you around the entire day.

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The morning sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting a warm, dappled glow across the Burrow family’s living room. The soft hum of Zariyah's bouncer filled the space as her tiny feet kicked excitedly at the air, toes wriggling in polka-dot socks. She let out a delighted squeal, the kind only six-month-old babies could make—half-laugh, half-song.

Angel moved effortlessly around the room, folding a baby blanket with one hand and reaching for a pacifier with the other. Her locs were pulled into a loose bun, gold hoops glinting in the light as she swayed with an easy rhythm that only came with sleepless nights and practiced grace. She wore one of Joe’s oversized LSU hoodies—stolen without apology—and a pair of biker shorts that left her legs bare and toned from carrying a baby on her hip all day.

Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, playoff warrior, and franchise golden boy, lay sprawled on the couch like a bored teenager. His arm hung dramatically over the back cushion, mouth twisted in a pout as he watched his wife with the same intensity he reserved for breaking down defensive formations.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh.

Angel didn’t even look up.

Another sigh, louder this time. She still didn’t turn around.

“Angel,” he finally said, his voice low and pitiful. “You haven’t even looked at me today.”

She chuckled quietly but kept folding Zariyah’s onesie. “Joe, it’s barely 9 a.m. I looked at you when you tried to floss your teeth and missed your mouth.”

“That doesn’t count,” he grumbled, sitting up straighter, resting his chin in his hand like a child in time-out. “You didn’t look at me with love. You looked at me like I was some man struggling with dental hygiene.”

Angel turned at that, finally giving him a full glance, one eyebrow raised with mock suspicion. “You’re not gonna start crying about it, are you?”

He didn't answer. He just gave her that boyish, lopsided grin that used to light up Baton Rouge and now haunted opposing defenses every Sunday. But here, in the quiet hum of domesticity, it was aimed only at her.

“You’re so clingy when it’s the offseason,” she muttered, shaking her head fondly.

“I miss you,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms like he hadn’t been draped over the couch for an hour. “During the season, I’m too busy to realize how much I need you. Now? It’s like withdrawal.”

He padded across the room in socks, stopping behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and press his face into the crook of her neck.

“You saw me twenty minutes ago,” she teased, leaning into him.

“Too long,” he murmured. “I get separation anxiety.”

“You’re worse than Zariyah.”

Joe chuckled softly, the sound rumbling against her back. “At least she can’t talk yet. I have to express my feelings verbally.”

She turned in his arms, eyes narrowing. “You followed me to the pantry earlier.”

“I thought you might need help grabbing the cereal.”

“To the laundry room.”

“Folding moral support.”

“To the bathroom, Joe.”

“That was an accident,” he said quickly. “Okay—a happy accident.”

She gave him a look, then stood on her toes and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “There. Better?”

Joe blinked, momentarily stunned into happiness, his lips twitching into a pleased little smile.

But then he frowned again. “Wait—that’s it?”

Angel pulled back, blinking. “I kissed you.”

“Yeah, but it was a cheek kiss,” Joe whined. “A friendship kiss. A cousin kiss.”

Angel burst out laughing. “Not a cousin kiss, Joe! Boy, if you don’t—”

“I want a real kiss,” he said, dramatically touching his chest like she’d betrayed him.

“I gave you affection and now you’re rating it?” she teased, turning toward the kitchen. “You are so spoiled.”

“I’m in love,” Joe corrected, trailing after her without hesitation. “There’s a difference.”

They moved into the kitchen, where Angel began warming Zariyah’s bottle. Joe leaned on the counter beside her with a deep, martyred sigh—his sixth of the morning.

Angel smirked but said nothing at first, pretending to focus on adjusting the formula. Meanwhile, Joe kept glancing at her from the corner of his eye, lips pushed out in an exaggerated pout. He drummed his fingers on the counter like a child waiting for his turn at the arcade.

“You’re really gonna keep pouting?” she asked, finally looking at him.

Joe didn’t even try to deny it. “I’m just a man,” he muttered, “standing in front of his wife, asking for one real kiss.”

Angel exhaled through her nose and turned fully to face him, bottle still in one hand. “You are too much.”

She stepped in closer, her free hand sliding up to the back of his neck, drawing him down slightly. Joe’s eyes lit up instantly, his breath catching like he knew what was coming.

Angel smiled—then kissed him.

Soft and slow, lingering. Her lips brushed his with a familiar rhythm, something warm and deep that wrapped around the heart before it ever touched the skin. Joe responded immediately, one arm slipping around her waist, the other resting on the edge of the counter behind her like he needed something to hold onto.

By the time she pulled away, his eyes were half-closed and a little dazed.

“Better?” she murmured.

Joe looked like he’d forgotten the day of the week. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Way better. That was like... an entire holiday.”

Angel laughed and gently tapped his chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But loved,” he said smugly, following her as she turned back to finish the bottle.

“Barely,” she teased.

“Still counts.” Joe beamed like she’d just handed him a championship ring.

｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

By midday, the house had settled into a rhythm of soft domestic hums—baby monitor static, the faint shuffle of slippers, and the bubbling hush of warming milk. Angel stood in the kitchen, gently bouncing Zariyah against her chest, the baby's soft curls pressed to her collarbone. Zariyah let out a content sigh, half-asleep in her mother’s arms, her chubby fist curled around a lock of Angel’s hair.

The warmth of the bottle slowly crept into the glass as it rested in a pot of hot water on the stove. Angel shifted from foot to foot in a slow, practiced rock that had become second nature, her other hand resting on Zariyah’s back, rubbing gentle circles through her lavender onesie.

Joe was planted just a few feet away, leaned against the counter like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Not because he was tired—he wasn’t—but because he had absolutely nowhere better to be. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Angel in at least ten minutes.

Every movement she made, from adjusting Zariyah’s position to tucking a stray loc behind her ear, he tracked with quiet attention. His fingers, meanwhile, had found her left hand, the one nearest him, and were toying idly with her wedding rings—sliding them up her finger, twisting them gently, then letting them fall back into place.

“You know that’s annoying, right?” Angel said casually, not even glancing his way.

Joe didn’t stop. “What is?”

“Messing with my jewelry like it’s a fidget toy.”

He finally looked up at her with the faintest smile. “I like your hands,” he said with a shrug, his voice low and calm, like he was sharing a secret. “They’re soft. And warm. And they’re yours. I get bonus points if I keep touching you.”

“Bonus points for what?” Angel asked, raising an eyebrow but fighting a smile.

“Affection. Hugs. Maybe some forehead kisses later if I’m lucky,” he replied, now stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb.

Angel laughed quietly under her breath, shaking her head. “You really are something else.”

“Something amazing,” he corrected, grinning as he slid his fingers between hers, letting their hands rest together on the edge of the counter.

The warmth between them lingered as Zariyah finally finished her bottle and dozed off in Angel’s arms. After settling the baby into her crib upstairs, Angel returned to the living room to find Joe already back on the couch, stretched out and waiting like a man who had ordered comfort and knew it was en route.

This time, he didn’t sigh or pout. He just looked at her with patient hope, tapping his lap twice like a drumbeat.

Angel gave him a look, one hand on her hip. “You need me to carry you to bed too?”

“No,” he said, tilting his head and cracking a small smile. “Just need you to do the thing.”

“What thing?”

Joe widened his eyes like a puppy caught in the rain. “You know the thing.”

Angel huffed out a soft laugh and made her way over to him. She sat down, legs tucked underneath her, and guided his head into her lap with practiced ease. As soon as his head hit her thighs, Joe exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day.

Angel began threading her fingers gently through his short curls. Her nails skimmed his scalp, slow and deliberate, with the kind of care only a woman in love could offer. Joe melted. His muscles unwound in waves, his breath slowing with each pass of her hand.

She shifted slightly to make room, and her other hand found his back. Fingertips traced lazy patterns beneath his T-shirt—light scratches that sent little shivers down his spine. Joe let out a soft sigh, the kind that barely made it out of his mouth before it disappeared into sleep.

Angel glanced down at him—this 6’4”, broad-shouldered man who’d gone toe-to-toe with some of the NFL’s best and looked like he wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped in his wife’s touch forever. There was a softness to his face when he was like this, eyelids fluttering, lips parted just enough to show the vulnerability underneath the calm, confident quarterback the world knew.

She leaned back into the couch cushions, her hand still gently raking through his hair, and let herself fully exhale for the first time that day.

Upstairs, the baby monitor crackled softly, then quieted. A moment later, Zariyah let out a sleepy, squeaky sigh from her crib—one of those tiny baby sounds that always made Angel smile.

“I swear, Zariyah,” Angel murmured, brushing her thumb across Joe’s temple, “you and your daddy are in a competition to see who can be more clingy.”

Joe shifted slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. Then, as if pulled from a dream he refused to let go of, he mumbled again—soft and sure:

“Me… Always me.”

Angel blinked, startled by the timing. She stared down at him, lips twitching with disbelief before laughter quietly escaped her.

“Well,” she whispered, still smiling, “at least you’re self-aware.”

As if responding to her voice, Joe let out a deep sigh in his sleep. His arm slid across her lap and curled around her waist on instinct, fingers gently gripping the hem of her hoodie like a child clutching their favorite blanket. His body relaxed even further, molding into her like he was subconsciously afraid she might get up and slip away.

Angel’s smile deepened, her heart pulling tight in her chest.

“Lord,” she whispered, shaking her head gently, “you’re hopeless.”

She leaned down slowly and pressed a gentle kiss to his temple, lips lingering there a moment longer than necessary.

“Yeah, baby,” she whispered. “I know.”

｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･::･ﾟ★,｡･::･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:

Extra - Angel's Turn

The morning light spilled softly across the hardwood floors, stretching its golden fingers through gauzy curtains and warming the quiet Cincinnati home that had grown used to baby coos, sleepy sighs, and the gentle cadence of an NFL offseason. The house, at least for now, was still—peaceful in the way only a house with a six-month-old rarely was.

Zariyah sat nestled in her bouncer in the living room, humming her own tune between a pacifier and the swirl of colors on the screen in front of her. The television murmured with the low energy of toddler cartoons, their cheerful voices bouncing off the walls like soft echoes.

In the kitchen, the coffee pot gurgled and hissed as it finished brewing, the rich scent of dark roast wafting through the air like a morning hug. Joe stood at the counter, freshly showered, clad in grey joggers that sat low on his hips and a fitted black T-shirt that clung to his shoulders. His damp hair curled gently, still tousled from the towel he’d raked through it minutes earlier.

With one hand wrapped around his mug, the other lazily scrolling through his phone, Joe looked every bit the picture of offseason ease—relaxed, grounded, and completely unaware of the quiet storm approaching him from behind.

Angel padded into the kitchen on bare feet, moving slower than usual, wearing one of Joe’s flannel shirts over her tank top and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Her locs were still slightly frizzy from sleep, half-pinned, half-wild, and her face was bare, beautiful in that effortless way Joe always noticed most when she wasn’t trying.

She didn’t say a word.

She simply walked up behind him and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist, resting her cheek between his shoulder blades with a long, dramatic sigh that practically melted into him.

Joe paused mid-scroll and looked down at the mug in his hand, then at her arms curled around him.

“Well, good morning to you too,” he said, setting his phone down.

“Mmm,” Angel hummed, her eyes closed, her body fully pressed into his back. “You smell good. Like soap… and unearned confidence.”

Joe blinked, caught off guard. “Unearned?”

She sleepily smirked without lifting her head. “You walk around like you’re the main character in a sports movie. Meanwhile, I’m the one raising your daughter and keeping you moisturized.”

Joe let out a low laugh, turning slightly in her arms. “I’ll have you know, this confidence is very earned. I’ve survived SEC defenses, Super Bowl pressure, and you in a mood.”

“Mmm,” she drawled, kissing the middle of his back. “Barely.”

He chuckled, taking her hands in his and spinning her gently around until she was facing him. “What’s your problem? You think I don’t deserve a little swagger?”

“Oh, I’m not saying you don’t deserve swagger,” she teased, her eyes gleaming mischievously. “You definitely earned it... but how you wear it is what cracks me up. It’s the subtle flex every time you walk by a mirror.”

Joe raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “And what’s so funny about that?”

Angel gave him a pointed look. “It's the ‘I’m so humble, but look at me’ vibe you give off. You don’t even realize it.”

Joe’s lips twitched, but before he could defend himself, Angel was already wrapping her arms back around him, her face settling back against his back like she hadn’t just launched a full-on roast.

“You can’t even deny it,” she said with a soft chuckle. “It’s endearing, though. In a way only you can manage.”

“Endearing?” Joe echoed, a hint of playfulness creeping into his tone. “I’ll have you know, I’ve got more swag than you’re giving me credit for.”

“Mmm,” Angel hummed, her arms still tight around him. “I’ll believe it when you manage to make the bed without me reminding you first.”

Joe turned his head slightly, looking at her with mock exasperation. “Not this again. I’m a grown man, Angel.”

“I know,” she grinned. “Which is why it’s so impressive that a grown man can’t remember the bed’s got sheets.”

He rolled his eyes but laughed. “Alright, alright. I see how it is. You’re just here to tear me down, huh?”

“You’re so easy to tease,” she said sweetly, standing on her toes to press a kiss to the side of his neck. “I love it.”

Joe gave her a sidelong glance, his voice lowering. “You’re lucky I’m so in love with you, or I’d start fighting back.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, taking a few steps back with a sly grin. “I’d love to see you try.”

He chuckled softly and relaxed into her embrace, one of his hands covering hers where they rested at his stomach. “You okay?”

“Nope,” she murmured without lifting her head. “I’m in a mood.”

Joe shifted, concerned but not alarmed. “What kind of mood?”

Angel pressed a lingering kiss between his shoulder blades, her voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt. “A Joe mood.”

He smiled then—one of those slow, lopsided grins she always caught glimpses of on game days and quiet mornings like this one. “A Joe mood, huh?”

She gave a tiny, sleepy nod and began to sway from side to side, still holding onto him like a weighted blanket. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just wanna be close to you. I feel... clingy.”

“You’re allowed to be clingy,” he said, twisting in her arms until he faced her fully. “You’re always holding me together. You think I don’t have days where I just wanna be wrapped up in you like this?”

“Well, now it’s your turn to deal with me like that,” she said, her voice teasing but her eyes soft and honest. “I need cuddles. Touch. Booty rubs. Head kisses. Blanket nests.”

Joe blinked. “Booty rubs?”

She smirked. “Don’t act brand new.”

He raised both brows but leaned down to kiss her forehead anyway. “Alright. I got you, baby. Come here.”

He reached down, lacing his fingers through hers, and led her to the couch like they were dancing slow steps to an invisible song. Zariyah, still entranced by the flashing screen and singing animals, offered them a gurgling coo as they passed by her to the couch.

Angel didn’t hesitate. As soon as Joe sat down, she curled into his lap like it was her rightful place, legs tucked beside him, her head immediately finding his chest. Joe pulled the throw blanket over them both, wrapping his arms around her as she melted against him with a contented sigh.

His hands were warm as they slid under her shirt, his fingers tracing circles on her bare skin, moving slowly to the small of her back. He gently kneaded her lower back with one hand, his other arm wrapped around her waist.

“Better?” he murmured.

Angel closed her eyes, nodding against his chest. “Mmm.”

“This,” she mumbled, cheek resting just above his heart, “is exactly what I needed.”

Joe kissed the crown of her head, rubbing slow circles into her lower back, his hand drifting comfortably and deliberately south, kneading her hip and gently cupping her as she relaxed deeper into him. “You okay for real?” he asked, voice low.

“I think I’m just tired,” she admitted. “Like emotionally tired. A little anxious for no reason. I just needed to recharge.”

Joe didn’t answer with words. He just held her tighter, hand still moving in a rhythm that made her hum with satisfaction.

“With physical affection?” he asked after a moment.

“With you,” she whispered. “I don’t even care if we talk. Just being next to you helps.”

The room settled around them. The only sounds were the low hum of the TV and the occasional rustle of the blanket as Angel shifted, burrowing even deeper into Joe’s warmth like she couldn’t get close enough. He rubbed her gently, deliberately—because he knew exactly what comfort felt like to her.

Which is why he gave her the much needed and begged for booty rubs.

“Mmmm, Joe,” she hummed, pressing a kiss to his chest and nuzzling deeper into him. “You can’t be out here flexing your fine self while I’m over here like a loose chihuahua.”

He chuckled. “So you wanna keep me all to yourself today?”

“I can’t help it,” she mumbled. “I’m just emotional as hell today and I need my husband to be my personal space heater.”

“Emotional?” He smoothed his hand over her hair, voice softening. “What are you emotional about?”

She sighed. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. I’m just feeling…”

“… in my feelings,” he finished, smiling.

“Yeah, exactly. And you’re gonna have to put up with me being all up under you because I just need…” She paused, searching for the right word. “I just need you, I guess.”

“Well, you can have me,” Joe said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Just don’t try to keep me here when I’ve got a Zoom meeting in an hour. I know you like to get clingy when I gotta work, too.”

“Shut up,” she laughed, pinching his side. “Don’t make me bite you.”

Joe only grinned and pulled her closer, his large hands gently kneading her ass through the fabric of her shorts, his chest rumbling under her ear when he chuckled.

“See, this right here?” Angel murmured, her words half-slurred with sleep. “This is the shit they don’t put on ESPN. They don’t tell you about the booty rubs, do they? Or the way you hold me just because?”

“Nah, they don’t,” he said, smiling as he trailed his lips across her forehead. “They don’t know shit about how I love you.”

“Mm… I know how you love me,” she hummed. “And I love how you love me.”

“Do you, though?” He grinned, squeezing her ass just enough to make her squeal. “Or are you just a sucker for the booty rubs?”

“Oh, I’ll suck something—” Angel started, but suddenly stopped short, feeling a pinch to her backside. “Joe!”

“Don’t say that shit in front of my daughter,” he scolded, pinching her again.

She rolled her eyes, smacking his hand away. “She’s six months old, Joe. She don’t know what I’m saying and how do you think she got here in the first place with your freaky ass.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “I’m not risking it.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes again. “Fine. Spoilsport.”

He only grinned, his lips grazing her forehead.

It was peaceful there, wrapped in the quiet of their morning. The house felt like a sanctuary, a place where the rest of the world could stay outside for a while. Zariyah babbled occasionally, her laughter punctuating the soft cartoon voices still floating from the TV screen.

Angel closed her eyes, listening to the steady rhythm of her husband’s heart.

Minutes passed.

Maybe an hour.

Zariyah eventually drifted off in her bouncer, her pacifier lolling sideways, a soft snore escaping her tiny chest.

When Joe tried to gently move Angel aside to grab his phone off the coffee table, she instantly tightened her grip around his waist.

“Nope,” she said into his chest. “Trapped.”

“I just need to—”

“Nope. I told you, you’re on emotional support husband duty.”

Joe smiled down at her, amused and fully surrendered. “Alright. You win.”

She let out a small, smug hum and began idly playing with the hem of his shirt, then tracing soft patterns across the toned skin of his stomach beneath it. Her fingers wandered higher, skimming the curve of his ribs and the dip between each breath he took.

“Now who’s the clingy one?” Joe asked, cocking his head.

Angel tilted her face up to meet his gaze, eyes half-lidded and playful. “I never said I wasn’t capable. I just like to pretend I’m the emotionally stable one.”

Joe laughed. “I like this side of you.”

“What side?”

“The melted marshmallow version. It’s soft. I kind of love it.”

Angel grinned and let her eyes fall closed again. “Good. ‘Cause you’re stuck with it all day.”

“I can live with that.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple, holding her close as the sun shifted in the sky and the house fell into a quiet, golden kind of peace—the kind made not by silence, but by being completely seen and utterly safe in someone else's arms.

“Do I get a scorecard for my cuddle performance?” Joe murmured.

“You’re doing great so far,” she whispered sleepily. “But I’ll need more data to confirm.”

“Got all day,” he said softly.

And he did.