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Summary: Having studied Valyrian history and sorcery, you perform a ritual to save Jace's life after the battle of Gullet, except he's not quite who he used to be after he comes back from death's doorstep.
a/n: Reader is Daemon's daughter but it's not indicated from which marriage, take your pick.
The sea was grey that morning, mirroring the stone of Dragonstone itself. You stood at the window of your chamber, a heavy tome resting against your chest, its pages filled with script so old the ink had begun to flake away like dried blood. Below, the waves crashed against the volcanic rock, and high above, the clouds swirled in a slow, mournful dance. The whole world seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for a death that had not yet come.
Jacaerys had been lying in the maester's chamber for eight days.
You had counted each one. Eight days since Baela had landed Moondancer on the cliffs, screaming for help, her face streaked with salt and soot and grief. Eight days since they had carried his body, his body, not him, you had refused to think of it as him, from the dragon's back, wrapped in a cloak soaked through with seawater and blood. The Battle of the Gullet had been a victory, they said, but it did not feel like one. It felt like the world had been cracked open, and all the light was spilling out.
You remembered the sight of him when they brought him in. His face had been so pale it was nearly grey, his lips bloodless, his dark hair matted with salt and gore. Three arrows had struck him. One in the shoulder, one in the side, and the third, the one that made the maesters exchange those terrible, silent looks, lodged in his neck, just above the collarbone, so close to the great vessels that carried life through the body that even the most experienced of them had hesitated before touching it.
He had not drowned, they said, because he had been found clinging to a piece of driftwood, his fingers locked around it so tightly they had to pry them loose. Vermax had not been so fortunate. The young dragon had crashed into the waves, pierced by bolts and arrows, and the sea had taken him. Jace would have felt that, you knew. Even bleeding out into the water, he would have felt his dragon die.
You had not wept when they told you. You had stood very still, your hands clasped in front of you, and you had listened, and then you had gone to your chamber and opened the oldest book you possessed and begun to read.
Now, eight days later, you had read everything. Every scrap of text, every fragment of lore, every whispered rumor that had ever been committed to parchment about the old Valyrian ways. You had read until your eyes burned and your head ached and the words blurred together like blood in water. And you had found something.
The accounts of King Maegor the Cruel were not pleasant reading. His reign was a litany of atrocities, his name a curse upon the lips of even the most loyal Targaryen historians. But buried within the chronicles of his brutality was a single, strange thread: the story of his survival after the Trial of Seven. Maegor had fallen in combat, struck down by blows that should have killed him. He had lain insensible for nearly a moon's turn, his wounds festering, his body failing. The maesters had given him up for dead. And then, somehow, he had risen. He had opened his eyes, and he had stood, and he had walked out of that sickroom with a fury that would consume the realm.
The official histories attributed this to the will of the gods or the strength of his dragon blood, but you had found other writings. Theories scrawled in the margins of old texts, penned by maesters too afraid to speak openly. They pointed to Tyanna of Pentos, Maegor's wife. She had been rumored to practice dark arts, blood magic, the forbidden sorceries of the East. And there were those who believed that when Maegor lay dying, Tyanna had not healed him. She had remade him. She had poured life into him through sacrifice, through the transfer of vital essence, through a ritual that bound flesh to will and pulled a soul back from the abyss. Some texts even dared to name what he had become: a fire wight, a creature of flame, animated not by the natural processes of the body but by the burning power of blood and magic.
It was, the most cautious of the writers had noted, remarkably similar to the tales told by the red priests of R'hllor in far-off Asshai and Volantis. Their god could raise the dead, they claimed, could breathe fire back into cold lungs and set hearts beating again. But the price was always blood. Always life. Always a piece of the one who performed the working.
You had closed that book with trembling hands and gone to find your father.
Daemon Targaryen had returned to Dragonstone three days prior, summoned by a raven from your stepmother. Rhaenyra had called him back from Harrenhal not to mourn, but to act. The war had paused for no grief, and the Queen needed her husband's fire and his ruthlessness and his terrible, unwavering certainty. You had watched him arrive on Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm's crimson scales a slash of violent color against the grey sky, and you had seen the way his face had tightened when they told him about Jace.
Now, he stood in your chamber, the door closed behind him, turning the pages of your book with the same hands that had wielded Dark Sister for decades. His expression was unreadable.
"This is dangerous knowledge," he said at last. "Where did you find it?"
"Here," you said. "In the library. In the vaults below. Dragonstone is old, father." You swallowed hard. "Tyanna was not the only one who knew these rites. The Valyrians practiced blood magic for thousands of years. They used it to bind their dragons, to shape the very stone of their towers. This is just…another application."
Daemon looked at you, and for a moment you saw something flicker in his gaze. Pride, perhaps, or recognition. You were his daughter, after all, no matter which marriage had produced you. You had his blood in your veins, his fire, his refusal to accept the world as it was when you could bend it to your will instead.
"You want to do this for the boy," he said.
"He is my betrothed," you said, and your voice cracked on the word despite your best efforts. "He has been my betrothed since I was old enough to understand what the word meant. I was meant to marry him, father. I was meant to stand beside him when he took the throne. I was meant to…" You stopped, pressing your lips together, forcing the tears back. You would not weep. Not yet. Not while there was still something you could do.
Daemon was silent for a long moment. Then he closed the book and set it aside.
"The maesters believe he will die," he said. "They will not say it to Rhaenyra's face, they value their heads too much for that, but they have stopped trying to remove the arrow from his neck. They say it is too close to the artery. They say he has lost too much blood. They say even if he wakes, the wound will fester and poison him from within." His jaw tightened. "He is dying, daughter. Slowly but surely. If you do nothing, he will be dead anyway."
"Then I have to try," you said.
"Yes," Daemon agreed, and there was something almost gentle in his voice, something you had not heard from him in a very long time. "You do. And I will help you."
"Rhaenyra..."
"Rhaenyra must not know." Daemon's voice hardened. "She is already half-mad with grief. If she knew what we were attempting, she would forbid it. Or she would hope too much, and the disappointment would destroy her if you failed. No. This stays between us. I will stand guard outside the door. I will make certain no one disturbs you. Whatever you need, candles, herbs, a blade, I shall provide it. The rest is up to you."
You nodded, your heart beating so fast you could feel it in your throat. "Tonight," you said. "It has to be tonight. The maesters say the hour just before dawn is the most dangerous. If he survives until morning, it will be a miracle. I need to act before then."
Daemon reached out and put his firm hand on your shoulder. "You are my daughter," he said. "You have my blood. Whatever you need to do, do it without hesitation. Do it without doubt. The magic will know if your will wavers."
"I won't waver," you said.
He looked at you for a long moment, and then he nodded. "I know you won't."
The hour was late when you made your way to the chamber where Jacaerys lay. The castle was quiet, the servants and guards moving through the corridors like ghosts, their footsteps muffled by the weight of impending tragedy. Everyone knew. Everyone was waiting. The heir to the heir, the bright young prince who had flown to the Gullet with fire in his heart, was slipping away, and there was nothing anyone could do.
Except you. You could do something. You would do something.
Daemon walked beside you, a silent shadow in black and red. When you reached the door to Jace's chamber, he stopped and turned to face you.
"I will be here," he said quietly. "No one will enter until you open this door from the inside. Take as long as you need."
You nodded, not trusting your voice, and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
The room was dim, lit only by a single candle on the bedside table and the faint glow of the hearth fire. The windows were shuttered against the night air, and the scent of medicinal herbs hung thick in the air: poultices and tinctures and the smell of boiling wine used to cleanse wounds. But underneath it all was the smell of blood, old and new, and the sickly-sweet undertone of a body fighting a losing battle against death.
Jacaerys lay on the bed, and the sight of him made your heart clench like a fist.
He was so still. Jacaerys, who had always been in motion, always talking, always planning, always reaching for the next thing, lay utterly motionless beneath the furs. His face was ashen, his cheeks sunken, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes. His lips were cracked and dry, parted slightly, and his breathing was so shallow you had to watch his chest for a long moment to be sure it was still moving. The arrow had been removed from his shoulder and the one from his side had been cut out, the wounds stitched and bandaged. But the third arrow, the one in his neck, was still there. The maesters had cut the shaft short, leaving only a few inches protruding from the swollen, angry flesh, but they had not dared to remove the head. It was lodged against something vital, and any attempt to pull it free would tear the vessel and kill him in moments.
You stood beside the bed for a long time, just looking at him. Remembering.
You remembered the first time you had met him, when you were both children, before you understood what betrothal meant. He had been solemn and serious even then, trying so hard to be worthy of the inheritance that had fallen to him. You had thought him stuffy at first, too concerned with duty and honor to be any fun. But then he had smiled at you, a quick, surprised smile, and you had seen the boy beneath the prince, and something had shifted in your heart.
You remembered the day your dragon died. The Battle of Rook's Rest. The sky had been full of fire and screaming, and you had been on your dragon's back, trying to stay alive, trying to fight, trying to do something, anything, to help. And then Rhaenys had fallen. Meleys had plunged from the sky in a tangle of scarlet wings, and Vhagar had turned. The ancient she-dragon had fixed her terrible eyes on you, and Aemond's voice had echoed across the battlefield, shouting something you could not hear over the roar of wind and flame. He had wanted to take you, you learned later. A prize. A hostage. A trophy to hang on his wall. But your dragon had fled, faster than Vhagar could follow, and had carried you all the way back to Dragonstone before succumbing to her wounds. She had died on the beach, her great head resting on sand, her eyes fixed on you with an apology you could not bear to receive. You had held her until the light went out of her, and then you had stood and walked up to the castle and begun to plan how you would make the Greens pay.
Jace had held you that night. He had not said anything, there was nothing to say, but he had held you, and let you weep into his shoulder, and when you were finished he had kissed your forehead and told you that you were the bravest person he had ever met.
Now he was dying, and you were going to save him, no matter what it cost.
You set down the small bag you had brought with you and began to prepare. From the bag you drew a candle of black wax, a small silver knife, a bowl of beaten copper, and a roll of parchment covered in the symbols and words you had copied from the old texts. You arranged them on the floor beside the bed, your hands steady despite the trembling in your heart. Then you drew back the furs and looked at Jace's wounds.
The bandages on his shoulder and side were fresh, changed that evening by the maesters. But the wound in his neck was the one that mattered. You leaned close, examining it in the dim light. The flesh around the arrow shaft was red and swollen, hot to the touch even from inches away. The skin had begun to take on a greyish tinge at the edges, and when you inhaled carefully, you caught the faint, foul scent of corruption beginning to take hold. The maesters were right. If the arrow was not removed, the infection would spread. It would poison his blood, and he would die in fever and delirium. But if they tried to remove it, the arrowhead would tear the great vessel in his neck, and he would drown in his own blood in moments.
Unless you changed the rules.
You had studied the accounts of the Valyrian blood mages for years. You had devoured every scrap of knowledge you could find about the old sorceries, the fire magic that had raised the Freehold to its terrible glory. And you had learned that blood was the key. Blood was always the key. Blood was life, and life was power, and power, properly channeled, could reshape the world.
The ritual Tyanna of Pentos had used, or something very like it, was described in fragments throughout the texts you had found. It was not healing in the traditional sense. It was something older, darker and more profound. It was the transference of life force, the binding of spirit to flesh, the rekindling of the inner fire that kept the soul tethered to the body. The subject would not simply recover. They would be remade, their body repaired not by natural processes but by the direct application of magical will. And the cost would be paid in blood. Not Jace's blood. Yours.
You knelt beside the bed and lit the black candle. The flame burned with a strange, bluish light, and the air in the room seemed to thicken, growing heavy and still. You picked up the silver knife and positioned the copper bowl on the floor before you.
"I don't know if you can hear me," you said quietly, looking at Jace's still face. "But if you can…hold on. Just a little longer. I'm going to bring you back."
Then you set the blade against the inside of your left forearm and cut.
The pain was immediate. Blood welled up from the wound, you held your arm over the copper bowl, letting it drip down into the metal basin. The candle flame flickered, then steadied, burning brighter than before. You closed your eyes and began to speak.
The words were High Valyrian. They were harsh, full of consonants that scraped against your throat and vowels that burned on your tongue. You had practiced them for hours, mouthing them silently in your chamber, but speaking them aloud was different. They had weight. They had presence. Each syllable seemed to hang in the air, resonating with something deep beneath the world.
We ask the Lord to shine his light, and the debt of blood to be paid.
With fire and blood, the debt shall be paid.
Your blood continued to flow, more than you had expected, more than seemed safe. The copper bowl was filling, the dark liquid swirling in the candlelight, and you felt a strange pulling sensation in your chest, as if something vital was being drawn out of you along with the blood. The candle flame rose higher, no longer blue but a deep, angry red, and the shadows in the room began to move.
You reached out with your bleeding arm and pressed your hand against the wound in Jace's neck, your fingers circling the broken arrow shaft. The moment your blood touched his skin, you felt it: a connection, a bridge, a channel opening between your life and his. You could feel his weak heartbeat, fluttering against your palm like a trapped bird. You could feel the poison spreading through his veins, the infection that was eating away at his flesh. And you could feel the arrowhead, a cold sliver of metal lodged against the pulsing wall of his artery, a hairsbreadth from the arms of the Stranger.
No, you thought, and poured yourself into him.
It was like falling. Like drowning. Like being unmade and remade in the space of a single heartbeat. Your vision went white, then red, then black, and you were somewhere else, somewhere vast and dark and full of fire. You could feel Jace there, a flickering ember in the darkness, barely holding on. And you could feel something else, something vast and hungry, watching you from the shadows. The magic. The old power. It wanted what you were offering. It wanted the blood, the life, the sacrifice. It wanted you.
Take it, you said, or thought, or screamed into the void. Take whatever you need. Just give him back to me.
The darkness surged forward, and you knew nothing more.
You woke in your own bed, with sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of shouting echoing through the corridors.
For a long, disorienting moment, you had no idea where you were or how you had gotten there. Your body felt strange, heavy and hollow at the same time, as if someone had scooped out your insides and replaced them with lead. Your left arm throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and when you lifted it to look, you saw that someone had bandaged it. The white linen was spotted with red, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped.
The shouting grew louder. Footsteps pounded past your door. Someone was calling for the maester, and someone else was weeping, and beneath it all was a rising tide of voices, excited and frightened and disbelieving.
And then you remembered.
You sat up so fast the room spun around you. You grabbed the bedpost, steadying yourself, and swung your legs over the side of the bed. Your head pounded, your vision blurring, but you forced yourself to stand, to walk, to open the door and step out into the corridor.
A serving girl was running past, her eyes wide and her face flushed. You caught her arm.
"What's happening?" you demanded, and your voice came out rough and strange, barely recognizable as your own.
"My lady!" The girl's words tumbled over each other in her haste. "It's the prince! Prince Jacaerys! He's awake! He's awake, and the maester says his wounds are healing, and the Queen is with him now..."
You let go of her arm. She kept talking, but you were already moving, pushing past her, walking as fast as your unsteady legs would carry you toward Jace's chamber.
The corridor outside his room was crowded with people, servants and guards and minor lords, all craning their necks and whispering among themselves. They parted when they saw you, their eyes wide with surprise or curiosity or something else you didn't have the presence of mind to identify. You didn't care. You didn't care about any of it. You only cared about the door at the end of the corridor and what lay beyond it.
Daemon was leaning by the door. He saw you coming, and his expression flickered, relief and what might have been pride or might have been concern. He stepped forward to meet you.
"It worked," his voice was pitched low so only you could hear. "The maester examined him this morning. The swelling in his neck has gone down. The corruption is receding. They were able to remove the arrowhead safely an hour ago. He is weak, but he is alive, and he is awake."
You closed your eyes for a moment, swaying on your feet. The relief that flooded through you was so intense it was almost painful. "I need to see him."
"Rhaenyra is with him now. She has been there since they told her. She is…" Daemon paused, searching for the right word. "Overjoyed. She thinks it's a miracle."
"It is a miracle," you said.
Daemon's eyes met yours. "Yes," he agreed. "It is. But not the kind she thinks." He put his hand on your shoulder, steadying you. "You did well, daughter. Better than I dared to hope. But be careful with him, he hasn't quite come back to himself yet."
He opened the door, and you stepped inside.
The first thing you saw was Rhaenyra. The Queen was sitting on the edge of the bed, her silver-gold hair unbound and disheveled, her face wet with tears. She was holding Jace's hand in both of hers, and she was speaking to him in a low, urgent voice, her words tumbling out too fast to follow. She looked exhausted, wrung out, the way a person looks when they have been holding themselves together for so long that the relief of letting go is almost as painful as the fear.
And then you saw Jace.
He was sitting up against the pillows, his dark hair brushed back from his face, his eyes open and alert. The bandage on his neck was fresh and white, and his color was better than it had been in days, still pale, but no longer grey, no longer the ashen hue of a corpse waiting to happen. He was thinner than before, the bones of his face more prominent, but he was alive. He was alive.
He looked up when you entered, your eyes met, and you felt as though your heart would burst.
"Jace," you breathed.
His expression shifted. For a moment, he looked almost confused, as if he didn't quite recognize you. Then his face cleared, and he smiled, a small, tired smile, but a real one, and held out his free hand to you.
"There you are," he said. His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse, but it was his voice. "I was wondering when you would come."
You crossed the room without thinking, barely aware of Rhaenyra moving aside to make space for you. You took his hand, his fingers closed around yours, and he was warm. He was warm. You had been so afraid that he would be cold, that the ritual would have taken something essential from him, that he would be a shell wearing Jace's face. But his hand was warm, and his pulse beat steady in his wrist.
Except.
Except there was something different in his eyes. A gleam. A light that hadn't been there before. When he looked at you, you felt the weight of his attention, focused and intense. There was none of the softness you remembered, none of the gentle uncertainty that had always lurked beneath his princely composure. This was a Jacaerys who had looked into the darkness and come back with something of it still burning behind his eyes.
"Your Grace," you said to Rhaenyra, remembering your courtesies even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "I came as soon as I heard."
"He's going to be all right," Rhaenyra said, and her voice broke on the words. "The maester says he's going to be all right. I don't understand it. None of them understand it. But I don't care. My son is alive." She pressed a hand to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks again. "I'm so relieved. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd lost both of you."
She meant Luke, you realized. Lucerys, who had died at Storm's End, whose death had started the cascade of violence that had led here. Rhaenyra had lost one son already. She could not bear to lose another.
Jace's expression softened. "I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere. But if I could speak with my betrothed now. Alone, if you don't mind."
Rhaenyra hesitated, looking between the two of you. Then she nodded, pressing a kiss to Jace's forehead before rising from the bed. "I'll be just outside," she said. "I'll send for some broth. You need to eat. You need to regain your strength."
She left the room, and the door closed behind her with a soft click. You and Jace were alone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were still holding his hand, and he was still looking at you with that strange, intense gaze, and you didn't know what to say. What did you say to someone you had pulled back from the edge of death? What did you say to someone who might owe their life to a ritual you barely understood and a power you had no right to wield?
"You did something," Jace said at last.
You opened your mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come. His eyes were too sharp, too knowing. He could see right through you.
"Yes," you said quietly. "I did."
"What did you do?"
You told him everything. You were too tired to lie and too frightened to hold it in, and because he deserved to know what had been done to him.
When you finished, he was silent for a long moment. Then he reached up with his free hand and touched the bandage on his neck, his fingers tracing the edge of it with a strange, detached curiosity.
"I died," he said. "Didn't I?"
"No," you denied quickly. "No, you were still alive. The maesters said..."
"The maesters said I was going to die. They said there was nothing they could do." His eyes met yours again. "I remember the water. The cold. I remember Vermax screaming. And then…nothing. Darkness. Just darkness, for a long time. And then something else. Something pulling me back. It felt like fire. Like dragonfire, but inside me. In my blood. In my bones." He paused. "Was that you?"
You swallowed hard. "I don't know. I don't know what I did. The texts said the ritual could transfer life force, could bind spirit to flesh, could rekindle the inner fire. But they didn't say how. They didn't say what the cost would be. I just…I couldn't let you die. I couldn't. Not when there was something I could try."
Jace looked at you for a long moment. Then he pulled you toward him, and before you knew what was happening, his arms were around you and your face was pressed against his shoulder and he was holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.
"You foolish, brave, tricky woman," he murmured into your hair. "You could have died. You could have killed yourself. For me."
"There was no choice," you said, your voice muffled against his chest. "There was never a choice. Don't you understand? Without you, there's no point. There's no point to any of it."
You felt him exhale a shaky breath. His hand came up to stroke your hair, gentle despite the new strength you could feel in his grip. "I understand," he said. "I understand better than you know."
You pulled back slightly, looking up at him. Your eyes were wet, you realized. You had been crying without noticing it. He reached up and wiped the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, his touch warm and achingly familiar.
"When I was pulled from the darkness," he whispered, "I dreamed. I dreamed of fire and blood and a throne made of swords. I dreamed of our enemies burning. I dreamed of Aemond Targaryen dying in the mud, with my hands around his throat. I dreamed of victory, absolute and total, with no mercy and no quarter and no hesitation. I dreamed of everything I was too weak to do before." His voice hardened, and that gleam in his eyes grew brighter, more dangerous. "I'm not weak anymore."
You stared at him. There was something new and terrible and fierce in his voice. The boy you had known was still there, but there was something else now, something that had been forged in the darkness and brought back with him into the light.
"The Greens took my brother," Jace said. "They took my dragon. They took my birthright. They tried to take my life. They tried to take you." His hands tightened on your arms. "They will fail. They will all fail. I am going to recover from this. I am going to get out of this bed, and I am going to be there when my mother takes King's Landing. And then I am going to find Aemond Targaryen, and I am going to make him pay for every drop of blood he has spilled."
"Jace," you said, and you didn't know if it was a warning or a plea or a prayer.
"When I woke up," he continued, as if you hadn't spoken, "I felt different. I feel…more. More alive, more aware. Better, altogether." He laughed without humour. "I feel like someone lit a fire inside me and it's never going to go out. Is that what you did to me? Is that what the magic made me?"
"I don't know," you whispered. "I didn't know what it would do. The texts said…"
"The texts said Maegor came back changed. Crueler. Stronger. Unstoppable." Jace's eyes met yours. "Maybe that's what I am now. Maybe that's what you made me."
"No. You're not Maegor. You're not cruel. You're not..."
"I'm not what I was before." He said it calmly, as if stating a simple fact. "I can feel it. The part of me that hesitated, that second-guessed, that worried about being good enough, worthy enough, it's gone. Burned away. All that's left is the fire." He cupped your face in his hands, his palms were warm against your cheeks. "But I'm still me. I'm still yours. That hasn't changed. That will never change."
He kissed you. It was not like the gentle, tentative kisses you had shared before. It was fierce, demanding, full of that new fire, and you found yourself responding to it despite your fear, despite your uncertainty. His lips were warm, his hands were strong, and he was alive. He was alive, and that was all that mattered.
When he pulled back, his eyes were still burning with that strange, fierce light. "You brought me back," he said. "You gave me a second chance. I'm not going to waste it. I'm going to win this war. I'm going to put my mother on the Iron Throne. I'm going to marry you, and we are going to build a dynasty that will last a thousand years." He smiled, and it was a crazed and beautiful thing. "I swear to you."
You looked at him. Your betrothed, your prince, the boy you had loved since before you understood what love was, and saw the man he had become. The fire in his eyes. The steel in his voice. The fury and the purpose and the unshakeable certainty. The old texts had warned that those brought back by blood magic were never quite the same. They came back changed. They came back wrong. But looking at him now, you couldn't bring yourself to believe it.
He wasn't wrong. He was more.
"Rest now," you said, pressing him back against the pillows. "Regain your strength. The war will still be there when you're healed."
He caught your wrist, his strong grip still surprised you. "Stay," he said. "Stay with me."
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised.
You stayed by his side as the days passed, watching as his strength returned with unnatural speed. The maesters marveled at his recovery, calling it a miracle, a blessing from the Seven, the indomitable will of the dragon blood. They didn't know. They couldn't know. Only you and Daemon knew the truth, and you kept it locked away in your hearts, a secret that bound you together in shared complicity.
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Rn I'm tagging those who commented that they'd like me to post this fic: @ilovefoolishknights @mellowpeacequeen @disturbedturtle @pinkypurplez @oh-miniso @brlghtflame
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꩜𖦹༄ author's note: based on request!! let me out of my cage. pls. 😭 dadaman aang also tew fine in the new movie....
the silence here is a lie.
they tell you the air nomads were all about peace and detachment, drifting through life like clouds that never touch the earth, but the way aang is holding you right now feels like gravity being reinvented. he’s supposed to be the bridge, the monk, the vegetarian boy with the easy smile and the heavy burden, but in the dark of the sanctuary, he’s just a man who has discovered a different kind of hunger. he’s a good man, truly, the kind of soul that would weep over a broken wing, but right now his hands are bruised-purple against your hips and his eyes are dark with a craving that feels almost sacrilegious.
you used to think of him as something holy, something separate from the evil of this world. he’s the avatar, the master of four elements, the one who is meant to bring balance. but there is no balance in the way he’s folding your body into the furs, his weight a constant pressure that makes your lungs ache. he’s an airbender, but he’s moving like the tide, relentless but rhythmic, driving into you with a stamina that feels entirely supernatural. his tattoos glow faintly, blue lines tracing the curve of his muscles as he works, a divine light illuminating a very human, very pervy desperation.
"look at you," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly rasp that's so unlike the cheerful man who plays with lemurs. he’s kissing your jaw, his tongue hot and wet, tracing the line where your skin meets the cold mountain air. "my girl. my perfect, beautiful girl. you’re taking all of it, aren’t you? every bit of me."
he’s sweet with his praise, calling you precious even as he uses his bending to hitch your legs higher, pinning your knees to your chest in a mating press that leaves you completely open to him. his cock is a thick, pulsing intrusion, sliding through the slick remnants of the last two times he’s come inside you.
"i want to see it leak out of you," he whispers, his words turning filthy as he thrusts deeper, hitting that sensitive spot that makes your vision go white. "i want you so full of me that you can't even walk straight. i'm going to put so much in you that your body has no choice but to keep it. you’re going to carry my children, okay? we’re going to bring them back. all of them."
the dirty talk is a shock to your system. this is the boy who blushes at a compliment, yet here he is, describing exactly how he wants to ruin you with a clinical, pervy specificity. he’s using his airbending instinctively now, small puffs of air circulating around your sensitive spots, keeping you in a state of constant, vibrating overstimulation. your clit feels like it’s being buffeted by a storm, and your internal walls are clamping down on him in desperate pulses, trying to find some kind of release that keeps being pushed just out of reach by his tireless pace.
"please... aang... i can't—" you babble, your voice breaking as he hitches your hips even higher. your back is arching off the furs, your fingers clawing at his forearms, where the blue arrows glow. "it's too much... it's too much..."
"it's not too much," he counters, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that pins you in place. "you can take more. i know you can. i want you to feel every inch of me filling you up. i want you to remember this feeling every time you look at the sky. i’m the avatar, right? i’m supposed to restore the air nomads. and i’m starting right here. with you. i’m going to fill you so full of my seed that there won't be room for anything else."
he begins to move faster, the slow, deep grinds giving way to sharp, staccato jacks that make your entire body jolt. he’s being so sweet with his hands, cupping your face, brushing the hair back from your sweaty forehead, yet his lower body is a machine of pure, unadulterated lust. the contrast is dizzying. he’s praising you, calling you his everything, his soulmate, his world, while his hips are delivering a relentless pounding against your pelvic bone.
the overstimulation is peaking. you can feel the pressure building in your lower belly, a tight, coil of heat that’s about to snap. your breath is coming in short, ragged gasps, and the room is starting to spin. the smell of him—that sweet, peachy scent of his skin combined with the raw, salty musk of his sweat—is the only thing keeping you grounded. you’re lost in the rhythm, lost in the sheer, overwhelming presence of him.
"aang, i'm... i'm gonna—"
"go for me," he groans, his own voice hitching as he senses your climax. "let it go. squeeze me. show me how much you want it."
he delivers one final, deep thrust, his cock hitting your cervix with such force that your vision literally flashes white. your cunt clamps down on him like a vice, milk-hot and desperate, and that’s what finally breaks him. aang lets out a string of inaudible words, his back arching as he slams himself into you one last time. you feel the his third release flooding into you, a thick, scalding torrent that feels like it’s filling you to the brim. he pumps into you over and over, his balls drawing up tight against your folds, his entire body shaking with the sheer volume of his climax.
the silence that follows is thick, broken only by the sound of your frantic, synchronised breathing. aang collapses onto your chest, his weight a comforting, crushing blanket. he’s panting, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against your own. you can feel the hot slickness of his cum beginning to overflow, a warm, wet trail sliding down your thighs and onto the blankets.
he stays inside you for a long time, unwilling to break the connection. he’s soft now, but the intimacy of the moment is even more intense than the sex was. he lifts his head, a lopsided, boyish grin returning to his face, though his eyes still hold that dark, lingering hunger. he reaches down, his fingers tracing the wetness between your legs, his touch gentle and possessive.
"i think i did it," he whispers, his voice light but filled with an underlying gravity. "i think i put enough in there to start a whole new generation."
he kisses you then, a soft, lingering press of lips that tastes like salt and peaches. he pulls back just an inch, his eyes sparkling in the dying candlelight as he watches a thick, white glob of his seed leak out of you and onto the dark furs.
"look at that," he murmurs, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "you’re practically wearing me. i told you, i’m not going to be the last airbender for much longer. we’ve got work to do."
i'm actually sobbing. please. what do you guys have me writing.
“aang. put it in… it hurts.” you whine, wiggling your hips at him enticingly as your cheek catches on the futon. for a second, he’s too mesmerized to imagine anything else while his sights are set on you. the position you’re in has him straining against the inseam of his pants, biting hard onto his lower lip as he watches your pussy drip for him.
bewildered, and reverent, he responds dumbly, “it… hurts?” it makes your insides ache, a pitchy keen pushing out from the back of your throat as you arch further, opening yourself up to him in a way that puts strain on your spine.
“please, aang, i can’t wait anymore.” you plea, clawing into the covers to subside some of that tension to no avail.
“what hurts?” he asks, and the futon shifts as he walks on his knees closer, one-by-one, until he settles right up against you. you can’t tell if he’s being sincere or he’s playing with your talk. he’s never heard you speak like this. a big hand palms your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. boyishly, he gives it a little jiggle for himself, and you thrash in his hold to try to get him to take you seriously.
“i need you.” you iterate, and you can’t twist your spine to see him very well. what you can see is his taut abdomen flexed and at the ready to angle his base into you. the very idea of it has your cunt perspire into fat gobs of pre that travel down your thighs. “you wanna help me… don’t you?” you beg pitifully.
“want me to make it feel good?” he tests, fishing himself out of his pants to hold his heft in his palm, giving it a few experimental yanks. you gasp and lean forward onto your cheek when you feel the tip brush your hole like it burns. “running away…” he muses, and that hand clamps down deliberately, curtly drawing you right back to sit on it. you cry out as the head breaches your pained sex, “how are you so tight?” he hisses through his teeth, pausing to breathe through how you’re pulsing n clenching down on him and he’s not even halfway in. you’re slick, but the position is too narrow for someone of his endowment to just muscle through. “what if you ride me—?”
“no! aang, just fuck me!” you insist, and the avatar can’t say no to you. he adjusts, effectively mounting you, sinking your knees into the cushion with his weight as he begins the ritual of pushing in inch by inch. in a little, out all the way, in a little more, out all the way. “it hurts - god, it fucking hurts so good.” you whimper, squeezing a tear from your eye as you envision the way he must look right now as every muscle in his body flexes to show off, rutting into your hole to ask permission for it’s acceptance.
“let me take care of you - i wanna take care of you.” he coos shakily. the pace quickens, and you let those shrill moans escape you as shoves them out of you. his length can’t bottom out, the skin of last inch or so rolling as it’s squished against his base. he groans, throwing his head back as his other hand grabs onto the other side of your ass to steady himself. a chuff of air puffs from his mouth as he guides you into his thrusts. “can feel you opening up…” he observes, and you can’t say anything in response. “does it still hurt? feels like this is as far as i can get in.”
warnings: SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS! the plot of the story im making is very heavily based on the movie, so if you’re not planning on watching it yet, def be aware of spoilers in this! there’s probably some ooc, cursing, and idk lmk if there’s anything i missed!
+slow burn won in the poll so here we are!
wc 2.2k
The relationship you and Zuko had was…complicated.
You’d known each other for years, being a part of the “Gaang” back when it was still just a chaotic group of kids.
Until you ruined it.
At least, that’s how it felt.
You’d had a crush on him for years prior to actually telling him. Stolen glaces. Lingering touches. Quiet moments you convinced yourself meant something more.
So, you went looking for answers.
–
As you walk down the hallway, you feel the dark, warm, atmosphere of the Fire Nation enveloping you. Feeling that familiar uneasy feeling churning in your stomach as you’re inching closer and closer to his chambers.
Each step you take feels louder than the last.
This is stupid.
I shouldn’t be doing this
You feel your stomach turn.
What if Katara’s wrong? What if there’s nothing? What if-
Your thoughts are cut off abruptly as you hit something, something firm enough to cause you to wince as a result. You slowly open your eyes, hoping, even praying to whatever god may exist that whatever is in front of you isn’t a person. And perhaps sometimes God answers prayers, because you ran straight into the door leading to Zuko’s chambers. Embarrassing, but still better than the real thing.
Taking a deep breath, you ball up your fist, the uneasy feeling in your stomach becoming more intense as you finally knock on the firm door in front of you.
The knock echoes too loudly.
Too final.
Too late for you to back out now.
Seconds feel like hours as you await his presence, but only a few moments later do you hear the sound of the door hinge swinging open.
Zuko stands in the doorway. That same scarred face. Same guarded expression. Same intensity behind his eyes.
“What’re you doing here?” The confusion is evident in his voice as he stares at you with furrowed brows.
“Uhh.. I just.. I really needed to talk to you”
“Alright then, here I am.” He looks at you expectantly.
Fuck, I didn’t think this far.
How the fuck didn’t I think about what to say before now??
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
You brace yourself for impact, looking away from his cold stare.
Fuck it.
“Have you ever thought that there might be… y’know, something between you and I?”
Your words hang in the air immediately after you say them. You look up at his face, attempting to gauge his reaction.
“No,” he says.
A pause.
“ I haven’t thought of you in that way, before.” His tone was clean, final, unmistakable.
He parts his lips to speak again, but you don’t hear it. You’re already turning away, running. Tears brim your eyes as you round the corner, leaving the estate...swearing to yourself you wouldn’t see him again.
–
Well, never again until the infamous avatar, Aang, sends a letter to you via- pigeon? Dove? Whatever bird it was- 12 long years later.
“Hi,
Katara and I have been waiting for you to stop by again for dinner. Stop ignoring the letters please, she misses you. Anyways, I need your help collecting this really cool staff I heard about. Meet me ASAP. Thanks.
-Aang”
You stare at it for a long moment, letting out a deep sigh as you pinch your temples.
“..Of course.”
A few days later, you find yourself in Republic City, quite different from what you’re used to. Busier. Lighter. Changed in ways you still can’t fully comprehend. After settling down, you begin making your way to meet up with the others.
Along the way, you see a few people you’ve meant to check in on. Cabbage man seems to be doing well. You buy a cabbage from him. Thanking him for his consistency. After a few more irrelevant stops, you arrive at the meet-up spot.
You see Katara first, and immediately begin running towards her.
“Katara! It’s your favorite!”
Immediately, Katara’s face lights up as she rushes towards you, greeting you with a warm hug. “It’s been too long!”
“Katara, I saw you like two weeks ago. You came to my house and literally dragged me out here to eat with you.”
“We don’t need to get into specifics!” She takes your hand and brings you towards the others.
“You help save the world one time and forget all about me?” Toph teases, a faint smile evident on her face.
You can’t help but let out a laugh at her comment. “God, I’ve missed you, Toph”
“I’d miss me too, I’m wonderful.” Toph turns away, distracted by something Katara’s saying-
And that’s when your gaze finally drifts over to Sokka and Zuko, who are talking off to the side.
Sokka’s looking over guiltily while Zuko is seemingly trying to avoid eye contact.
You roll your eyes at the sight.
It’s been twelve years. How’s he still like this?
You begin walking over towards the pair, in spite of your better judgement.
Zuko’s demeanor shifts as you come closer, his posture stiffening as he notices that you’re approaching. You hear the remains of their conversation fizzle out more and more with each step you take.
“That doesn’t mean it’s not weir- Oh hey! Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Sokka scratches the back of his head with a big grin on his face.
“You don’t need to show all 32 teeth, Sokka, you’re a terrible liar”
“Yeah,” he mutters underneath his breath. “I’m still working on that.”
Your gaze then shifts towards Zuko
“Long time no see”
He lets out a forced, awkward laugh- almost as if he’s not sure what the right response is. “Yeah, been a while”
There’s a lull of silence before he picks the conversation up again.
“How have you been?”
“Fine. Can’t complain.”
He nods at your response, as if he’s not sure what to do with it. You briefly look up to see his eyes tracing your features, almost as if he was seeing them for the first time. “You’ve.. changed.”
A genuine laugh slips out of you, “That tends to happen after twelve years.”
Your eyes can’t help but wander over his newly developed features. His broader frame, longer hair, and sharpened features that had somehow shifted into something steadier over the years.
“I guess you have too.”
“Are you guys coming or not?” Katara’s voice brings you back to reality.
You turn first, nodding your head before you begin walking over to Appa with the others.
Katara takes a seat near the front, while Toph and Sokka sit next to each other behind her. At the sight, you cringe a bit, recognizing what this means for the long ride you have ahead of you. You turn your neck ever so slightly, peeking behind you to see Zuko’s eyes burning into the back of your head before he quickly looks away.
He takes a seat next to you, stiff and hesitant.
Toph and Sokka are bickering as usual, while Katara tries- and fails- to quiet them down as she focuses on finding Aang.
And in the midst of the chaos in front of you, there’s complete silence where you sit.
You start picking at your nails, suddenly made aware of the roughness of your cuticles, when a voice pulls you out of your thoughts.
You turn your head towards Zuko, whose face looks slightly flushed, his breathing heavy and louder than usual.
“Uhm..”
He hesitates a bit. Your gaze lingers on him for a moment- just long enough.
“About what happened-”
“Save it. The words come off a bit more harsh than intended. “Don’t really think that’s something we have to talk about. Let’s not make this more awkward than it is..”
He nods slowly, turning to look away.
“Wow. Real friendly back there” Toph says aloud. Causing Sokka to immediately try to shush her before they return to their bickering.
After a while, the only sound is Appa’s steady breathing and the wind as it passes you by.
Until
A low rumble sounds.
You frown, glancing around, looking for where the sound came from.
“You guys heard that too, right?”
Before anyone can respond, the mountainside gives way, massive chunks of rock breaking loose and crashing downward. A violent gust of wind spirals upward from the fracture, pulling at your clothes, causing your balance to slip as Appa lurches violently. You feel yourself hovering midair, the unmistakable feeling of your heart dropping to your ass as you panic
A hand clamps around your wrist.
“Watch it!”
Zuko yanks you back into place just as Appa dips to avoid a jagged slab of falling rock. The movement is rough, unsteady- more reaction than intention.
Another chunk of rock crashes past.
He lets go almost immediately, turning away to brace himself against the saddle.
“Stay down,” he mutters.
“Well, I wasn’t planning on jumping,” you shoot back.
Another strong gust of wind pushes forward as you finally spot Aang… along with someone else.
A boy- no, a man- definitely a man- arms raised as he swiftly bends the air. Wind spirals outward towards a falling rock, holding them back from being crushed.
Just as the man’s body was about to give out, Appa’s body quickly moved through the chaos, sweeping low beneath them.
You’re barely able to process what’s happened. Next thing you know, Aang and the man- who is definitely easy on the eyes now that you’ve gotten a better look at him- are sitting safely on Appa.
“Aang!” Katara shouts as she runs up to embrace him.
Toph crosses her arms, walking a bit closer to the pair. “Couldn’t wait a day before you ran off to get yourself killed, huh?”
Your gaze drifts from Aang’s figure to the unknown one sitting beside him.
“I thought we were here looking for a staff,” You say, glancing at Aang. “At least that’s what your very detailed letter said.”
Aang hesitates, staring at the man for a while before finally uttering his next words.
“He’s.. an airbender.”
His words land heavier than expected. The man’s head tilts slightly at the mention, almost like he heard it but couldn’t bring himself to respond. His eyes flutter gently before he slumps forward, unconscious.
–
Eventually you make it back to the Kingdom, everyone’s gathered around the man as Katara works to heal him.
“He smells good for an old guy, my senses are telling me he’s pretty attractive” Toph says
Everyone's eyes cut towards her at the blunt comment.
“C’mon, just give me a straight confirmation”
“Yes, he’s attractive.” Zuko and you say it at the same time.
You’re met with some confused and shocked stares, Zuko with more than you.
Moments later, the group starts talking again, their overlapping voices filling the space.
But you stop following most of it.
Because Zuko shifts slightly beside you.
“You almost fell.”
His voice is quieter now.
You don’t look at him. “I didn’t.”
A pause.
“I had it,” you add.
“…Right.”
He doesn’t sound convinced.
“Yeah,” Toph cuts in. “You totally had it. That’s why Sparky here grabbed you like you were about to drop off a cliff.”
“Sparky?” Sokka snorts.
“Not helping,” Katara mutters.
You exhale sharply. “Can we not do this right now?”
Silence again.
Zuko doesn’t say anything after that.
But he doesn’t move away either.
CORA’S NOTES🤤😛
man this y/n girl dramatic af if dadaman zuko saved me from falling I would’ve fell onto that dih next😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂😂👀👀👀😂👀👀👀😂👀👀👀👀👀
⋆✴︎˚｡ Husband!Zuko who lovesss putting you in a head locking during sex
You were completely, shamelessly addicted to Zuko’s arms.
It wasn’t just that they were big now—thick, powerful, corded with muscle from years of firebending, sword training, and carrying the weight of a nation. It was the way they felt when he used them on you. The sheer strength. The way the veins stood out when he flexed. The way his biceps bulged like warm steel when he wrapped one around your throat and held you exactly where he wanted you.
And nothing compared to doggy style.
Nothing.
Tonight the palace was quiet, the heavy curtains drawn, only the low glow of firelight flickering across Zuko’s bare chest as he stood at the edge of the massive bed. You were already on all fours in the center of it, knees spread, back arched deep, ass up and waiting. Your pussy was dripping down your thighs before he’d even touched you.
Zuko climbed onto the bed behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His big hands gripped your hips first, squeezing the soft flesh, thumbs digging in possessively.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Already soaked for me.”
You pushed back against him, whining. “Zuko… please.”
He leaned over you, chest pressing to your back, and you felt it—the heavy, thick length of his cock sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance. Then his right arm slid around your throat.
Your whole body lit up.
He didn’t choke you. He headlocked you. His massive bicep curled under your chin, the thick muscle pressing firmly against your neck while his forearm locked across your collarbone. His left hand braced on the bed beside your head for leverage. You were completely trapped, caged by his body, his strength, his heat.
And you moaned like you were in heat.
“Fuck—yes,” you gasped, tilting your head back into the crook of his arm. Your pussy clenched hard around nothing.
Zuko chuckled darkly against your ear, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back. “You really are crazy for these arms, aren’t you?”
You nodded frantically, already grinding back against his cock. “I love them. I love when you lock me up like this. Makes me feel so small… so owned.”
His grip tightened just enough to make your head spin in the best way. Then he pushed in.
One long, slow thrust and he buried every thick inch inside you, stretching you open until you felt him in your stomach. The headlock kept you perfectly arched, ass up higher, back bowed deep so he could sink even deeper.
Zuko groaned, low and filthy. “So fucking tight like this.”
He started moving—deep, powerful strokes that made the bed creak. Every time he bottomed out, his hips slapped against your ass, his heavy balls hitting your clit. The bicep around your throat flexed with every thrust, the muscle bulging harder against your skin. You could feel the raw power in it, the way it could crush you if he wanted, but instead it just held you right there for him to fuck.
You were drooling.
Your mouth hung open, eyes rolling back as he pounded into you. Every thrust forced a broken moan out of your throat.
“Harder,” you begged, voice hoarse. “Zuko, baby—please, use me. Fuck me like you own me.”
He snarled and gave you exactly what you wanted.
His pace turned brutal. The wet, obscene sound of his cock slamming into your soaked pussy filled the room. His left hand left the bed and reached underneath you, two thick fingers finding your swollen clit and rubbing tight, fast circles.
The headlock never loosened. His bicep stayed locked tight under your jaw, keeping your head pulled back against his shoulder so he could growl filthy praises right against your ear.
“That’s it… take this dick. Such a greedy little thing for me. You love being locked up in my arm while I ruin this pussy, don’t you?”
“Yes—yes, fuck yes—” You were shaking, thighs trembling, pussy fluttering wildly around his thick dick.
He flexed his bicep deliberately, the peak of the muscle pressing harder into the side of your neck. The pressure made everything sharper, hotter. Your vision sparkled at the edges.
“Come for me,” he ordered, voice dark and commanding. “Come while I’ve got you trapped. Let me feel how much you love my arms.”
You shattered.
Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your arms gave out. You would have collapsed face-first into the pillows if Zuko’s headlock hadn’t held you up. Your pussy clamped down on him like a vice, gushing around his cock as wave after wave rolled through you. You screamed his name, body convulsing, tears of pleasure slipping down your cheeks.
Zuko fucked you straight through it, hips never slowing, growling praises and curses as your walls milked him.
Only when you started to go limp did he loosen the headlock just enough to let you breathe properly. He pulled out, flipped you onto your back in one smooth motion, and shoved your knees up to your chest.
Then he slid back inside you in one thrust and started chasing his own release
His arms caged you again—this time both of them, one on each side of your head, biceps flexing as he drove into you hard and deep. You wrapped your legs around his waist and clung to those massive arms, kissing and biting at the thick muscle while he fucked you into the mattress.
“Gonna fill you up,” he panted, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. “Gonna put a baby in you tonight.”
You moaned, nails digging into his biceps. “Yes—please, Zuko. Come inside me. I need it.”
He buried his face in your neck and came with a deep, guttural groan, hips stuttering as he pumped you full, hot and thick. You felt every pulse, every spurt, and you clenched around him like you could keep it all inside.
When he finally collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you with his full weight, his arms still surrounded you—loose now, but protective.
You pressed lazy kisses to his bicep, the one you loved so much, and whispered against his skin, “I’m never getting enough of these arms. Especially when you headlock me like that.”
Zuko laughed breathlessly, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest. His hand drifted down to rest over your lower belly, thumb stroking gently.
“Good,” he murmured, voice warm and satisfied. “Because I plan on doing that every single night until you’re round with our baby.”
You smiled, already feeling the familiar heat building again as you nuzzled into his chest.
“Promise?”
He flexed his arm around you, letting you feel the hard swell of his bicep one more time.
“Promise.”
dividers - @/cafekitsune
an - Hiiiiii my babies! I’ve missed y’all so much, so sorry for the ghosting! I lowkey couldn’t catch a break (lmao), but I’m back and ready to serve now 𓏲ּ𝄢
ft. moon ki-yong (the salesman) x f! reader — squid game
╰₊✧ you don’t need your husband to be perfect, you just want him to be honest┊3.3k words; part two (here)
contains: written before s2 came out!! probably ooc or inaccurate, angst with spots of fluff & a bittersweet ending? reader’s pov mostly, suspicions of cheating, lack of communication, mentioned age gap, random inaccurate lore for the salesman
➤ author's note: yeah, i saw the sudden uptick in notes on that gong yoo post i made and realized season 2 came out which i completely forgot about. i intend to watch it soon as possible and write fics for it as well as (probably) add new characters to my writing list, but for now, please be content with this!!
₊˚ʚ 💌₊˚✧ this fic was heavily inspired by “emotionally intoxicated” by aurasaurora!
moon ki-yong is the poster image for the ideal husband. he’s always been like that from the moment you met him, and you can’t help but feel like you’re the luckiest woman in the world when he calls himself yours. he’s tall and handsome, someone who catches everyone’s eye despite his only being focused on you. he’s wealthy and hard-working, able to call a luxurious mansion your home, and willing to buy you anything your heart desires as long as you ask for it. he spoils you rotten with that money, gifting you expensive things even if you didn’t ask if it reminded him of you. he’s doting, always sure to smother you in affection with kisses and cuddles whenever together to make it known how much he adores you. the sex is great too, he makes you feel wanted and desirable without ever leaving you unsatisfied.
most importantly though, you love him, and he loves you. the last two years of marriage have been so blissful, and there isn’t a single thing you would change.
at least that’s what you believe most of the time.
you like to think you know a lot about him, and in a way, you do. you know his favorite color, how he likes his coffee, what he usually orders at restaurants, the type of wine he prefers over beer, the exaggerated shocked fasces he likes to make, how his favorite chore is folding the laundry, how his least favorite is doing the dishes because he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty, the name of his childhood pet, what positions he likes to cuddle or fuck in, the names he’s thinking of giving to your child when they are finally born— there are so many little details you know about him, yet at times you feel like you don't know anything at all.
you don’t really know much about his childhood aside from a few random stories, he claims there’s nothing really notable and that it was as standard as can be. you don’t know who his parents were or what they were like because he said they died when he was young, but surely that’s an important loss which must have impacted him and made youth difficult in some way? you don’t know about his past partners if he even had any, but you doubt you were his first as he was yours with a face like his. you don’t know any of his secrets, like an embarrassing moment or something sinful he might have committed in the past.
he knew all of these things about you and the little details of your life, so why don’t you know any of the most basic things regarding your own husband?
these periods of uncertainty are few and far, but once the icy tendrils of doubt creep in, it’s difficult to shake them off when you realize you only know these things through observations and not him actually telling you. it’s a miracle your stupidity allowed you to make it this far in falling head over heels for him, getting married, and carrying his child (not that you completely regret it, you still love him, but you wish you had given it more time).
they say there are no such things as stupid questions, yet the main question you have is exactly that as it’s something every wife should know even before the marriage. it would be impressive how long you’ve been clueless about this matter if it weren’t for how often and how skilled he is in managing to evade your curiosity and steer the conversation elsewhere. you didn’t want to press on it since he seems to shut it down every time the topic is brought up and you don’t want to fight over something you technically didn’t need to know, but it weighs on you and presses into your chest with the knowledge you were being kept in the dark.
what did your husband do for a living, exactly?
his schedule is always unpredictably changing with little rhyme or reason and it confuses you. sometimes you’ll go an entire few days without seeing him, sensing him wake up in the morning before the sun is even up, feeling him kiss you on the cheek before getting ready, and not coming back until long after you fall asleep with no communication aside from a note on the table telling you he’ll be gone for the day along with a wad of cash for you to treat yourself while he’s gone. other times he’ll be chilling at home for an entire week, waking you up with aggressive cuddles (or morning sex), making you breakfast with the morning news on in the background, and taking you out to wherever you want to go on his card in his rare casual clothing and messy wavy hair rather than the typical fancy suits and hair styled with gel.
as far as you’re concerned, he’s a businessman of sorts, although you don’t know what company he works for or what position he has in terms of hierarchy or how an occupation of that type allows such flexibility in hours or anything at all.
“what if he’s having an affair?”
you paused for a second before continuing the motion of slicing the cheesecake with a fork and savoring the taste in your mouth. “that’s ridiculous,” you stated simply after swallowing. “he loves me very much, and it doesn’t explain his weird schedule either.”
today was spent with some friends you met back in high school, but honestly, you were only attending out of politeness and tradition since you honestly feel like you’ve disconnected from these girls long before the current. still, you treasure the memories shared in your more formative years and wouldn’t ever say no to them if they wanted to hang out like old times. ki-yong doesn’t bother to hide his distaste for them, calling them a miserable lot who try to drag you down at every opportunity out of jealousy for your happiness. you laugh it off, but you know deep down he’s right and yet you’re still sitting here at the cafe with them with bright smiles like their words don’t cut deep.
“maybe he’s dating the boss— a sexy office siren type— she gives him plenty of days off and he stays with her at her beach house at jeju island or something to keep her company, and then she gives him lots of money in exchange.”
“oh my god, could you imagine?”
“can you be realistic? it sounds like you’re just writing a plot for a new drama,” you giggled, not allowing the feeling of a twisting blade in your abdomen to show on your face or the venom to drip from your words at the mere thought of the man you loved being stolen away a faceless woman who was everything you wished you were more of: more beautiful, more wealthy, more experienced, more intelligent—
“you don’t know because he’s your first love or whatever— and you’re so lucky to have been able to marry him— but men are dogs, and i don’t see why he would be the exception.”
“but he treats me so well—”
“maybe he only treats you well because you’re pregnant— he probably just feels guilty. i mean, when i was pregnant and had my first, my husband wasn’t attracted to me anymore and demanded a divorce unless i lost the baby weight.” she shrugged like it was so simple, so common, like the notion of marriage wasn’t something so deeply important and could be thrown away so easily.
“we aren’t suggesting you get a divorce, but we’re just saying you should keep an eye on him— you know? a handsome guy like him was always bound to get a lot of attention…” her laugh was shrill and high-pitched, making goosebumps erupt on your skin.
“right… thanks guys…”
that night, you couldn’t stop twisting and turning on the large sectional couch with thoughts rushing through your head of your husband with some other woman. the jealousy from these fictional scenarios without evidence of existence plagued you. it made you want to vomit up the negative feelings and go back to the person you were a few hours ago without the images of him cheating planted in your mind, which didn’t go unnoticed by him and caused him to ask what was bothering you as it wouldn't be good for the baby.
you hesitated for a moment, “could you tell me about your exes?”
“why are you suddenly curious about that?” he chuckled, knowing damn well that it was because of those stupid snakes masquerading as people (it truly takes one to know one) running their mouths again, but still feigning obliviousness for your sake.
“just wondering,” you muttered. “i mean, you’re the first person i’ve fallen in love with, but you’re a bit older than me so…”
“and i hope to be the only one too,” he smirked confidently, making you laugh as he plopped down on the ground and rested his head on the cushion next to yours.
it was such a casual setting in such a vast space, bringing you back to the days in your little apartment inviting him over for chicken and beer before you knew about your immense wealth and got embarrassed over your cheap dates when he was so used to expensive restaurants. he found it very endearing though, knowing you liked him for him and not his money.
“well, if you’re so curious…” he trailed off, but you weren’t quite sure if it was because of hesitation or because he simply didn’t know where to start. you can’t remember the last time a conversation like this was held to learn more about him since it was usually about you, maybe back when you first started dating and briefly discussed his late parents.
he started with his crush when he was in middle school since that was his earliest recollection of feeling love, who didn’t really count as a girlfriend or love because nothing was established and because of their age, but she was his first kiss that he ran away from right after because of how nervous he was, and it was never addressed again. apparently it was his second girlfriend who taught him everything he knew before he met you, saying she basically “trained him like a dog” to create a gentleman out of an inexperienced boy who still wasn’t quite sure how to treat a woman like a queen. she was a bit mean though, and he didn’t realize he dodged a bullet until later after realizing she was unnecessarily cruel to him for no reason multiple times if he didn’t do things exactly her way.
you suppose you always knew your husband wasn’t always the suave charmer you know him to be, but the image of younger him being clueless on matters of romance made you burst out laughing because of how you could hardly picture it.
he reached over to pinch your cheek affectionately, “are you of all people really making fun of me when you were too scared to hold my hand for me to escort you out of my car?”
“oh my god, that was on our first date, i can’t be blamed! i was shaking like crazy on that day— you had to tell me that you didn’t bite.”
“i was actually thinking about calling off our date last minute because of an emergency at work,” he confessed, “but i’m glad i didn’t and met the love of my life instead.”
“aw, you flirt.” the memory made you smile and feel all giggly inside, all the fears you had about him possibly having an affair falling away, yet there were still some lingering at the back of your mind with the mention of his job. “what happened at work?”
“nothing that important,” he said instantly like clockwork. “just some boring business things.”
you didn’t push it, not wanting to ruin the mood, but once again, your curiosity was just itching to ask more questions about his work life even if it was truly as boring as he says. you wanted to know every mundane detail whether it was what his office looked like or what the annoying co-worker did on a daily basis, anything to satiate your need to know more about this mysterious man you had made life-long vows with.
it all came to a head one night while you were cooking dinner, you heard the doorbell ring a dozen times in quick succession and answered it to find an older man with fiery red hair that seemed to match his temper. when he addressed your husband by name and verified your relationship with him, he began spewing all kinds of insults about the blood he had on his hands by luring innocent people to their deaths and you felt your heart drop. you tried to reason with him that there must have been some sort of mistake, barely able to get your words out in a fit of confusion and surprise at the absurd accusation, but he wouldn’t hear you out and pointed a finger in your face, asking if you had any idea what moon ki-yong was doing behind your back.
at that very moment, he was suddenly seized by two anonymous men in all black, causing him to yell out in panic as they dragged him away and stuffed him in the back of a car before quickly driving off into the night without a trace. it all happened so fast, you just stood there with your mouth open in shock, wondering if you should call the police on what looked like an abduction.
then your husband comes running up the steps with his locked briefcase in hand, shouting out your name, asking you if you’re okay, pulling you back inside the comfort of your shared home, and checking you all over to make sure you aren’t harmed in any way. when you ask about who that man was and what he was talking about, he simply told you he was some crazy customer who was dissatisfied with the company, was looking for someone to blame, and promised to tell you the details later.
you didn’t tell him that you didn’t believe him, just pursed your lips and furrowed your brow for a second then let go of the topic like you always do, taking his coat off his shoulders with a peck on the lips asking how his day was. he reciprocated the kiss, said it was fine without anything special, and that he would shower before having dinner, something he didn’t really need to say since you already knew but stated anyway as per evening routine.
as he headed up the stairs and disappeared from sight, you stared at the locked briefcase resting crookedly on the little entryway table and paused for a moment. if you did this, it would be a breach of privacy and a sign of growing distrust in your husband, but it could also answer all of the questions that never cease.
your hands wouldn’t stop shaking involuntarily as you felt the cold black metal underneath your fingertips, marveling at the smooth material clean of any scratches or dents. fidgeting with the built-in combination lock, six number sequences started rushing through your mind as you started to hastily run through your options with a focus on dates. you were determined to only do this three times since you had no idea if an alarm would be set off or if it would close off permanently.
his birthday?
an electronic beep went off indicating you were incorrect, making you nervous.
your birthday?
wrong again, you only had one attempt left. you swallowed, shaking the accumulating sweat off your hands.
the date of your wedding?
you gasped as the locks suddenly flipped open and lightly knocked against the briefcase. it was undone, you could open it at any moment now and see it all.
and yet you still hesitated during this golden opportunity. was it the fact that the passcode to his most secret possession was the day you got married? was it guilt for going behind your husband’s back for answers instead of directly asking him? was it because you were afraid of what you would find if you discovered the red-haired man was telling the truth?
whatever it was, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and locked it again, leaving it looking untouched and went back to playing dinner.
there was a heavy tension present at the dinner table that night, the only conversation present being him interrogating you about what the red-haired man talked about word-for-word. not really interrogating since his tone of voice was still calm and gentle as he asked questions, but you could see him fidgeting with his fork and not leaving much room for any other topic until he was sure you told him everything. he then sighed and claimed the man was insane, a gambling addict who was too deep in debt to afford treatment and was trying to drag him into his misery after meeting at the subway station.
“ki-yong?”
he froze for a second, not used to hearing you use his real name rather than a pet name. “yes?”
“what do you do for a living, exactly?”
a pause, you watched him fidget with his chopsticks and shift the grains of rice around. “you know, business stuff— nothing you need to concern yourself about—“
“but i don’t know! that’s the thing!” you felt tears starting to well up behind your eyes, letting two years of frustration trickle through. “i know it doesn’t seem that important for me to know, but is it really so important that you leave me in the dark about it for the three years we’ve been lovers? and now some guy comes to our doorstep and tells me about how your job is playing games with people at the subway station to make them participate in death games?!” you took a deep breath, calming yourself down, “please, be honest with me, that’s all i want…”
“i-i…” that was the first time you’ve ever heard him stutter, and if the situation wasn’t so tense, you would be proud you finally got one-up on him. “i can’t say… it’s for your own safety and mine.”
“so he was right?”
he remained silent, trying to think of some way to counter what seong gi-hun had told you, but if you didn’t believe the elaborate lie he already told you and wanted to learn more, then he knew this was the end of the road.
“i-i need some time to think…” you looked defeated and it broke his heart. “i’m going to my mom’s house tonight, i’ll be back tomorrow—“ you got up, not bothering to pack anything aside from your phone and your wallet.
he had prepared for you to start screaming and crying (not that he would blame you, i mean, who would willingly stay with a man who was complicit in mass murder), demanding a divorce and packing your things to shut the door for him never to be seen again with your unborn child. the strangely calm reaction was both a relief and extremely unsettling to him.
“i won’t be mad if you decide not to come back” he stated plainly, defeated in a state you’ve never seen him in before. “whatever choice you make, i’ll support you, just know i love you— more than anything else in this world.”
you stared at him blankly through the open doorway. perhaps your husband isn’t the perfect man you believed him to be, but he was as honest as he possibly could have been with you regarding the matter, and that’s enough.
“i love you too, i’ll be back in the morning.” that’s how you feel at the moment, but you don’t know if you’ll feel the same way tomorrow morning when it sinks in.
When you broke up with Shigaraki Tomura at the end of high school, you never expected him to stalk you for years, and when you and Chisaki Kai got married, you thought you'd finally broken free. But life with Kai turns quickly from a dream into a waking nightmare, and with every month that passes, you can feel your chances to escape dwindling. Almost out of time, with no good choices left, you turn to the one person who swore he'd never give up on you -- and hope he's less interested in stalking you than he is in saving your life.
AU - no quirks. Past (and future) Tomura x reader, present Overhaul x reader. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Depictions of dubcon, domestic violence, and reproductive coercion (Overhaul). Discussion of miscarriage. References to past stalking behavior (Tomura). Angst. Hurt/no comfort for the majority of the fic. If you find any of the above too triggering to read about, please go check out some of the other fics in the fandom! there are lots of them waiting to be discovered and loved. beta-read by @threadbearsweater, dividers by @cafekitsune
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5
Chapter 6
You know it’s stupid. You know it’s dangerous. You know that Himiko will give you plenty of warning if Kai leaves the meeting, and you know the video camera in your office is playing a loop to make it look like you’re still there. You’ve made it as safe as can be, and still — stupid. Dangerous. You’re dead on the spot if Kai catches you. Tomura will be, too.
And at the same time, you can’t back out. You don’t want to back out. You want to see Tomura, and so after Kai kicks you out of his office (no sex, just lunch) to start the videoconference, you make your way down the back staircase with the shoddiest camera coverage and into Records.
You’ve gotten sort of familiar with Records in the few days you’ve been working here, because what Kai hired you to help with is a massive audit. The old CEO dragged his feet about going digital, and Kai’s decided that the best get-well gift he can give is to get it all taken care of before the CEO comes back. You’ve given yourself half a dozen paper cuts as you go through box after box of files, removing duplicated documents and scanning the originals into the new cloud storage system. You’ve flipped through some of the research studies while waiting for the scanner to come back to life. Hassaikai Corp ran some weird experiments back in the day, and their documentation is shoddy — some of the duplicate files have the wrong dates on them. The wrong researchers’ names, too.
Himiko told you to save the duplicates with errors. She’s collecting them for Kai to review later. So your office now has three piles of boxes in it. One for scanned files, one for new files, and one for the duplicates that Himiko empties every few hours. It’s almost mind-numbing, but not quite. Not enough that you couldn’t spend every spare second panicking over the meeting with Tomura.
Records has a fair number of empty rooms, most of which are locked. Himiko’s instructions are to try each of the doors until you figure out which one Tomura’s behind. You get lucky. The third door you try opens, and Tomura’s waiting on the other side.
He’s in disguise today, which makes sense. He would have had to come in through Hassaikai Corp’s service entrance to avoid being spotted by someone who knows what to look for. He’s in disguise, and something about him seems off. “Hi,” you say cautiously.
“Hey.” Tomura won’t make eye contact. He’s looking everywhere but at you. “Toga said you wanted to see me.”
“I do,” you say. He glances at you, then glances quickly away. “Tomura, are you okay?”
“Why do you want to see me?” Tomura asks abruptly. “Toga says you think I’m going to screw up and get you killed. Is that why?”
“I don’t —“
“You could have just told her to pass it on. You don’t need to tell me to my face.” A patchy flush is creeping down the side of Tomura’s neck. “I don’t need you to tell me I fucked up. So if it’s that, just say that. Not like you’d be wrong.”
“Tomura,” you start, confused, and something falls into place. He’s not snapping at you for no reason. You’ve seen this from him before. “Are you nervous?”
“Shut up,” he snaps, and while the same words leaving Kai’s mouth would make you cower, hearing them from Tomura relaxes you. “I’m not nervous. Why would you think that?”
“Because you don’t like feeling like somebody’s hiding something. You feel like somebody’s set a trap, and you’d rather set it off on your terms than deal with the suspense.” You see Tomura’s eyes widen, and you come closer. “Sometimes I want to do that, too.”
Tomura’s entire face is flushed at this point. “Okay. I’m nervous. So what? Answer my question.”
“I wanted to see you,” you say. “Part of it is — I try to explain, but I don’t think people — they don’t understand how dangerous he is. I don’t think you do.”
“Actually, I do. Better than you, even.” Tomura doesn’t seem to mind you glaring at him. He stares back. “I’m looking at this from the outside. I’m free. I don’t have to go back home and sleep in the same bed with someone I’m scared of. Trying to survive him takes up your whole life, but I don’t have to think about surviving him. I only have to think about winning.”
“You’re missing the point,” you say uselessly. “Maybe you can beat him. I know you’re — I know. But if something happens, if he guesses, if — anything. I’ll have to pay for it. And I don’t know what he’ll do to me anymore. He’s — off.”
“Yeah, and he should be. You’ll know why soon.” Tomura sits down on the floor, then holds out his hand for yours. You take it and let him pull you down. “What if I promise?”
“What?”
“I promise you won’t have to pay for it,” Tomura says. You shut your eyes. “Come on. When have I ever broken a promise I made you?”
Never. That was the thing about Tomura, the thing that made him different from the boys your friends dated. He kept his word. Part of it was that he didn’t make promises he didn’t plan to keep in the first place, but he kept every one he made — little ones, big ones, and then two enormous promises, two promises that shaped the rest of your life. I won’t stop loving you, he said, the night you broke up with him. And then, on the back of the photograph he left for you: I’ll wait.
“You don’t,” you say, and Tomura nods, satisfied. “I know that. I just can’t see a way out.”
“I couldn’t either. When it was me,” Tomura says. “Sensei was a different flavor of creep, but they’re all the same underneath. They make it hard to see the exit. You can’t see it, but I can. Trust me.”
You close your eyes. You keep forgetting that Tomura spent most of his childhood under somebody’s thumb. “Okay.”
Tomura’s grip on your hand tightens. “You said that was only part of why you wanted to see me. What’s the other part?”
The part that could get you killed. “I missed you.”
“Really?” Tomura looks shocked, then pleased. No, pleased isn’t strong enough. Happy. He looks happy. “You wanted to hang out?”
“Yeah. Like we used to.” You always felt more grounded after you hung out with Tomura, way before you felt butterflies. After you spent time with him, you felt more like you. “It’s been a really long time since we talked. I want to hear about you.”
“Are you joking?” Tomura’s face is flushing again. “Why?”
“I want to know,” you say, biting down on what I missed before it can escape. “Please.”
“Okay,” Tomura says warily. He keeps glancing at you, like he’s expecting you to change your mind, but eventually he starts talking. “I mean, you know some of what I was doing. I was watching you. But I was doing other stuff at the same time. Me and the others all went to different schools at first — or I guess training academies, too — Dabi’s a firefighter now. Can you believe that?”
“No,” you say. The Dabi you remember loved setting fires, not putting them out. “Does he still go by Dabi? His coworkers must love that.”
“He says it cracks them up.” Tomura adjusts his grip on your hand without letting go. “Spinner switched schools to my school. It had a better computer science program. And that turned out to be a good thing, because I was in game design, and I can’t code worth a damn.”
Tomura’s dyslexic. You forgot about that, but you can see how it would make coding difficult. “Did you guys team up?”
“Yeah. We got our first game up and running the same year you met him.” Tomura doesn’t say Kai’s name, but a shiver runs through you. “I sort of threw myself at it. I couldn’t watch.”
He glances at you, almost guiltily, and you shake your head. Kai hid who he really was until it was too late for you to leave. At first there was nothing to see. “Tell me about the game.”
Their first game was a point-and-click storyline with tasks scattered here and there. Tomura tells you that it was a solid game, but the difficulty level was too high, and after graduation, he and Spinner went back to the drawing board. Their next game was really simple. The player character is fighting a giant, and the goal was to stay alive as long as possible. “We got better with that one. The difficulty scaled up slower,” Tomura says. “And it was on mobile, so it got way more downloads than other games released at the same time. Now we’re working on something new, and — what are you doing?”
You freeze in the act of tipping over to put your head on Tomura’s shoulder. “Um, listening. I just want to listen like this.”
“That’s —” Tomura breaks off. “I don’t want you to do this.”
Oh. You sit up straight, let go of Tomura’s hand, edge away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to —”
“No, get back here. Listen.” Tomura stops you as you’re trying to stand up. “Listen. I don’t want you to do this and think it doesn’t mean something to me. Everything you do means something to me. It’s only casual to you.”
Casual? “I just put my head on your shoulder.”
“Yeah. And one time in high school I popped a boner because our hands touched when you handed me a pencil,” Tomura says, and you dissolve into semi-hysterical laughter. “This always mattered more to me than it did to you. Stop messing with me.”
“I’m not messing with you,” you say. Now your face is turning red, too. This is a nightmare, or maybe you’re in hell. “I don’t touch people anymore. Everything always hurts and I have to hide it, and I don’t feel safe anywhere, ever. And I — I remember when — I have to use us to get through it with him. And I hate it. It ruins everything. And I don’t have very much left.”
“You think about me when he fucks you,” Tomura repeats. When he says it like that, it sounds awful. It is awful, but Tomura doesn’t look disgusted with you. Not at all. “And it messes up your memories of us.”
You close your eyes. “Yes.”
“It sounds like you need some new ones,” Tomura says. You look up, startled, and find him leaning in.
The first time he ever kissed you, it was just this unexpected. Like it was second nature, like he’d been doing it forever, like you weren’t the first girl he ever kissed. That was the first time you got butterflies from him. Not anything close to the last, and you can’t remember the last time you felt anything other than the knot of dread that twists you up inside when Kai touches you. You let Tomura kiss you, and you tell yourself you’re just checking. Just seeing if it felt the same as it did before.
It does. You kiss him again, and that feels the same, too — and then you’re unfolding yourself from his side, crawling into his arms in a way you never would have when the two of you were just kids. Tomura wraps his arms around you and holds on tight. You remember that from before. Just like you remember kissing him with more intensity than you meant to, wanting to see what he would do in response. Some things never change.
“Fuck,” Tomura groans against your mouth. “When do they want you back?”
“Later.” You checked Kai’s schedule yourself. His meetings tonight run two hours past when you’re supposed to go home. “Why?”
“This is going to take a while.” Tomura shifts you in his lap so that you’re straddling him. This is where you wound up most of the time when the two of you made out, and you get comfortable. “I don’t want to skip anything.”
“Don’t, then.” You kiss him again, daring him to respond, and he does.
Sex with Kai always felt one-sided, even at the beginning before you knew there was something wrong. It’s not that he didn’t care about getting you off, more that it was clear that it was an item on the checklist, not something he wanted or looked forward to. Sex is something Kai does to you. You’re not really expected to participate except when the script requires it.
Tomura was different, and Tomura’s still different, so different that it makes your head spin. Part of it is just that Tomura remembers things from before, things you’d forgotten about or told yourself you didn’t need — and he still asks, asking if you still like this as he makes you squirm and gasp and hide your face in his shoulder. Part of it is how clear it is that he’s into this, into you, so into knowing that you want him that his entire body tenses and jerks when you whisper it in his ear. This isn’t something being done to you. If you stopped participating, it would stop happening.
The two of you are on the same page, even if you’re out of practice with each other. Not out of practice enough to make it awkward, and not out of practice enough to make you hesitate. The only thing that pauses either of you is the fact that neither of you were expecting to hook up, and neither of you has a condom. You’re both quiet for a second. “I’ll pull out,” Tomura says.
You nod, but you know that’s not anything close to foolproof. “Can Himiko get the pill for me?”
“Tell her what you need. I’ll make sure.” Tomura buries his face in the curve of your neck, and although you know he’s dying to leave a mark, he keeps his mouth to himself. He shifts beneath you. The word leaves his mouth in a groan. “Please —”
You’ve never ridden him before, and as you sink down on his cock, you realize you were missing out — not just for how it feels to you, but what it does to him. Tomura gasps against your shoulder, grabs fistfuls of your shirt, thrusts uselessly upward, and you move slowly, your body winding tighter as he unravels beneath you. You remember seeing him like this for the first time, how messy and desperate he was, how shocked you were to find that you like it. You still like it. And it’s a relief to know that you can still feel this way. A relief to know that not everything’s been taken away from you.
Tomura manages to unclench one fist, to slide one hand into the scant space between his body and yours to run his fingers over your clit. Your body seizes in response. “Tomura —”
“Say it again,” he murmurs against your skin. His hands are shaking, the one still buried in your shirt and the one rubbing insistently at your clit. You say his name, softer this time, and he groans. “Sounds so good when you say it.”
“Tomura,” you say again, stuttering when he thrusts upward. The uneven pressure of his fingers makes you squirm, your body tensing around his cock. Even lost in his own pleasure, Tomura notices your response. His fingers caress your clit with more intention, stripping away your ability to think clearly, or at all. That’s why you say it. The only reason you say it. “I should have stayed with you.”
Tomura’s eyes widen in shock, and you stare helplessly down at him — but his fingers are still moving, and before you can walk it back or say anything at all, your body gives up the fight and you come, your muscles spasming and clenching tight around Tomura’s cock.
Panic crosses his face. “Wait. Don’t. I have to — damn it —”
Pull out, you realize, at the same time as it becomes clear that it’s way too late. You have the thought that you should get off him, but your legs are too shaky and it’ll make too big of a mess and he’s so pretty like this. You remember thinking that before, watching him come all over your hands during your first try at third base. You were right then. You’re right now.
Tomura slumps backwards, letting you go and letting his weight fall back on his hands. You get out of his lap, and as you pull away from him, your sanity starts to reassert itself. You just cheated on your husband. That’s bad enough, already something you thought you’d never do, but it’s the person you cheated with that he’ll kill you over if he ever finds out. It’s not like you did this somewhere secret — you did it in the basement of your husband’s company’s headquarters. And then there’s what you said to Tomura. You’ve officially lost your mind.
You turn to look at him. He’s staring off into space, dazed, and you touch his shoulder. “Tomura —”
“We’ll talk. After. After this is over. We’ll figure it out.” He doesn’t look your way, and he starts getting dressed. “You should go back before he comes looking for you.”
You start straightening your clothes, too. Your hands are shaking, and your eyes are welling up, and when you hear Tomura’s footsteps, hear him open the door, you bury your face in your hands. Why did you do this? He was safe. You were safe with him, and you ruined everything.
Tomura’s arms come up around you, and he pulls you in against his chest. “Listen,” he says in your ear. His voice is soft. You shake your head. “Listen. It wasn’t a mistake. I should have done it the right way.”
“The right way?”
“Yeah. So I wouldn’t have to send you back to him afterwards.” Tomura’s hands find their way beneath your shirt again, settling on your hips. “Next time I’ll get it right.”
It occurs to you that Tomura’s worried about your safety. That as much as he might get off on the idea that you can’t get through sex with Kai without thinking about him, he’s worried about what will happen if Kai finds out that you’ve seen him again even once. “Next time,” you echo. “I think I should go first. Then you.”
Tomura hangs onto you for another moment before loosening his grip. “A few more days,” he says. “Then it’ll be over.”
You nod, draw away, and step out of the empty records room. It’s hard for you to walk away from Tomura. It’s been hard every time you’ve done it. But it’s never been harder than it is right now, not just because of what you’re leaving or what you’re going back to, but because of what you just said. Because you don’t know if you meant it. Because you’re scared you do.
Kai doesn’t drive you home. Kurono drives you home, and Kai doesn’t even come out of his office to say goodnight. That’s probably for the best. You need to clean up, and you don’t need Kai asking questions about why. You stay in the shower long enough for the water to get cold, then stumble out, changing into a t-shirt and sweatpants you’ve had since before you met your husband. You’ve always liked these, always put them on when you’re not feeling well, and when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, you finally understand why. The sweatpants are nothing special, just old, just loose, just comfortable. The shirt, though — it’s not one you bought for yourself, and it’s not one anyone else bought for you, either. It’s one you borrowed from Tomura, and never gave back.
Your family was going on a summer vacation, and Tomura was mopey about not being able to see you for two weeks. You were mopier about it than you thought you’d be, knowing you’d most likely be too busy to text or call. You tried to think of something to do, and came up with a silly idea the night before you were supposed to leave. Let’s swap clothes, you said. I’ll take something of yours to wear, and give you something of mine. We can trade back once I’m home.
Tomura had looked skeptical at first. Your shirts are too small for me.
I can give you something else, you said. But I want a shirt of yours to sleep in. If you want to give me one.
You were surprised by how much you wanted one. You weren’t much of a hoodie stealer. Tomura looked even more skeptical than before. Why?
It’ll smell like you, you said. At least until I wash it.
Tomura didn’t end up borrowing a shirt from you — instead you gave him the bracelet you always wore, and when you got back from your trip, he gave it back. You tried to give back the shirt, and he wouldn’t let you. He didn’t ask for it back when you broke up with him, and he didn’t steal it back, not even when he was breaking into your apartment and lifting things that only mattered to you. He left it, just like he left your half of the friendship necklace. And you kept them both.
Why didn’t you get rid of them? Tomura was following you. Stalking you. You should have hated him, and you’re sure you did — and at the same time, it was his shirt you’d curl up in when you needed to feel better. You did that before you met Kai. Into your marriage with Kai. Even now, as the world feels like it’s coming to an end.
You don’t know what Tomura’s planning to do to Kai, except that it’ll happen soon. Kai doesn’t even know that Tomura’s back, but you’re willing to bet that somewhere in the back of Kai’s mind, he’s got plans for how to handle it. You might be overestimating the threat Kai poses to people other than you, but everyone’s underestimating Kai when it comes to how he’ll make you suffer. Even if Tomura wins, Kai will always have his hooks in you. And if Tomura wins, are you really going to go back to him? He says he wants you to have a choice, but you know he’s hoping you’ll choose him — probably expects it, after today. Is that really how this ends for you? If that was how it was going to end up all along, you were telling the truth this afternoon: You should have stayed with Tomura. Then you’d never have had to survive Kai.
Your phone rings, and you snatch at it. It’s Emi. “Hi,” she says when you answer. “Is now an okay time?”
“Yeah. He’s not home,” you say. “How are you?”
“I’m okay. Work was super boring without you to talk to. They put this new girl in your old cubicle and she’s so quiet. She never talks to anybody.”
“I was pretty quiet when I started,” you remind her. “You won me over. I bet she’ll come out of her shell.”
Something occurs to you. “Speaking of winning people over, how was your date with Aizawa?”
It’s quiet for a second. “That’s kind of why I called,” Emi admits. “We’re going on another one tonight.”
“You’re kidding. That’s awesome!” You feel yourself light up, honestly happy like you haven’t been in a long time. “How was the first one? Tell me everything.”
“Okay. The first one. I said we should meet up for drinks after work, and he just looked at me and went “I thought we were going on a date.” So then I asked him what he thought a date should be and he wanted to go out to dinner —”
Aizawa’s kind of old-fashioned. You wouldn’t have guessed that, but you like that for Emi. She deserves a guy who will take her seriously, who won’t look at her bubbly, outgoing, go-with-the-flow personality and think they don’t need to put the effort in. Sure, they didn’t go to a particularly nice place — Emi phrases it that way, but you have a feeling she’s being polite — but the fact that he wanted to have a sit-down dinner and talk to Emi instead of just letting her talk at him seems like a good sign to you. You say so, and Emi breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s good to hear you say that. If anybody —”
You hear her clap her hands over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean —”
“It’s okay.” You should be pretty good at picking creeps out of a lineup by this point. You’ve dated two of them, and you married the second one. “Are you asking if I see any red flags?”
“I mean, kind of?” Emi sighs. “I usually date losers who don’t treat me right. He’s got a good job and people at work like him —”
Kai has a good job, too, but other than Kurono, you don’t think he has any friends at work. “He has this photo in his office of him and his friends from high school, and he told me they all still hang out a lot,” Emi continues. “If they like him —”
Tomura’s had friends since high school, and they like him a lot — enough to help him stalk you, enough to infiltrate Hassaikai Corp a full year before you sent up the distress signal. “I think hanging onto friends is a good thing,” you say. “I don’t think most people can pretend all day, every day, for however long it’s been since he graduated high school. Hiding something that big is hard to do.”
This is one of the differences between Kai and Tomura, the first really big one — Tomura doesn’t hide who he is, or how he feels. That means he makes bad decisions sometimes, and that means you can trust him. Tomura was pretty erratic sometimes, but at least you knew it was really him. Kai, though. You don’t know if you’ve ever seen who Kai really is underneath the mask and gloves, what he’s like if you take away the goal he’s chasing and the facade he’s desperate to maintain. The closest to it you’ve seen are the times when he’s hurt you badly, when you know he didn’t mean to lose control. He’s almost scared, then. He’s almost lost.
You’re lost in thought, and only remember that Emi’s there on the phone until she asks if you’re okay. “Yeah. Sorry,” you say. “I’m here. I think I’m just saying that Aizawa seems like he’s the same person everywhere. I don’t think he’d put in the effort it takes to hide who you are.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Emi says. You nod even though she can’t see you. “So, uh — if it’s our second date, and we’re getting dinner again, how nice should I dress up?”
“Depends. What’s the goal?”
“A third date,” Emi says. That strikes you as pretty reasonable. “I’m not trying to get laid or anything. I could go for a handhold. Or an arm around my shoulders. Stuff like that. Should I dress like it’s summer so I can say I’m cold and he’ll give me his jacket?”
“I think that could backfire,” you caution. “Knowing him he’d just say to dress warmer next time.”
Emi snorts. “He would, wouldn’t he? What if I cover up way too much and overheat so he’ll tell me to take something off?”
You laugh in spite of yourself. “I thought you weren’t trying to get laid.”
“No, but if I take off my third sweater really slow like a striptease I bet I can make him blush.”
Now you’re just cackling into the phone. Emi always makes you laugh. “Wear something you feel comfortable in that also looks good,” you say. “Don’t overdo it. If he’s just being him you should just be you.”
“I’m gonna wear my bandana. You know the one,” Emi says. She must have you on speaker. You can hear her bustling around the room. “How are you doing? How’s the new job?”
“It’s okay,” you say. “I don’t really know anybody yet.”
“What’s it like working with that — with Kai?”
You almost wish Emi had finished the first thought. Tomura hasn’t really gone off about Kai, probably because he knows you’re scared and knows it would ring pretty hollow coming from him, and it would be nice to hear someone tear into him for once. “It’s okay,” you say again. “We see each other a little more during the day, but he’s really busy. Today I went home on schedule, and he’s still over there. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”
“You could go,” Emi says. “Right now.”
“I don’t have a car.”
“So call a rideshare. Or I’ll come get you. You can chaperone me and Aizawa on our date.” Emi’s voice takes on a note of intensity you’ve never heard before, and your stomach drops. “Pack the stuff you need and I’ll come get you right now. It’ll be easier to leave when —”
You hear the key in the front door. Kai’s home. “I have to go,” you say. Emi protests. “I have to go or he won’t let me talk to you anymore. Go on your date and have fun. I want to hear about it the next time we talk.”
You aren’t playing around, and Emi must be able to tell. “Okay. Be safe,” she says. “Remember. If you need —”
You can hear Kai’s footsteps on the stairs. You power off your phone, set it on the nightstand, and curl up on the bed, faking sleep. It’s the only excuse he’ll understand for why you didn’t greet him at the door — understand, but not accept. He could punish you for this, easily. He walks across the room with short strides and shakes your shoulder. “Have you eaten?”
You fake a slow, confused wakeup. “I was just going to lay down for a bit. What time is it?”
Kai tells you, and you fake surprise. Convincingly, maybe. “I’m sorry. I should have started dinner.”
“If you’ve waited this long, you can wait a while longer.” Kai shrugs out of his jacket. “I can wait, too.”
He wants to have sex right now. You feel a scream building in the back of your throat. You needed your memory of Tomura to last longer than this, not to burn through it immediately — and worse, what if there’s evidence? You tried to clean up as best you can, but what if you weren’t thorough enough, and Kai sees? You can’t let that happen. It’s not like he eats you out very often, but you’re going to make sure the thought never crosses his mind.
You sit up, shift to the end of the bed, and get to your knees. Kai looks startled, but he conceals it, only for it to come back in force when you make eye contact. “Dr. Chisaki,” you say, and sure enough, his ears turn red, “I missed you today. I didn’t think you’d invite me to your office just for lunch.”
“I seem to have given you the impression that intercourse is the only activity I enjoy with you.” Kai’s eyes shift from yours as you undo his tie, set it carefully to one side. “Conversation is equally enjoyable.”
You’ve never seen Kai enjoy anything, at least not the sense that other people do. “Of course,” you say. “Still, though. I was kind of —”
Don’t say disappointed. You can’t tell him you’re disappointed in him. You search for the word with increasing desperation. “I guess I felt rejected,” you say, and Kai’s thin eyebrows race for his hairline. “And I thought maybe you were bored with being the one who gets things started, so —”
“I’m not bored,” Kai says. He kisses you.
Kai doesn’t kiss you a lot. He has a problem with germs, and mouths are full of them. You kiss him back and you’re surprised at how little you feel. You wonder if it’s because you know he’s only kissing you because his script for this encounter allows it. If you tried to kiss him any other time, he’d refuse. You remember the first time that happened, when you asked for a kiss and he turned you firmly away. It hurt so much more than it should have. You should have seen it for what it was.
You don’t have to try hard to wind Kai up. A few more questions, tagged with Dr. Chisaki as an entry point or a follow-up, and he’s pushed you back on the bed. Sex is something Kai does to you, and it’s never more evident than when he’s turned on. He fucks you from behind, rougher than usual, and even if you weren’t already a little sore from Tomura, it would hurt. You bury your face in a pillow and wait for it to be over.
You’re so focused on enduring it that you forget to fake an orgasm, and Kai comments on it, of course. “Have I been neglectful?” he asks. He’s breathing hard, but he’s somehow still lightning-fast when he catches your shoulder and hip and turns you to your back. You barely get your expression under control, but he’s not looking at your face. He’s already pulling you to the end of the bed, kneeling down, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and pushing the other one open far enough to strain your muscles. “I’ll remedy it.”
Some part of you that’s not recoiling from everything about this notes that even if you weren’t able to clean up completely, any evidence Tomura might have left is mixed with Kai’s cum. He won’t notice. A knot of nerves unties itself in your stomach, and you sigh with relief. It doubles as a faked response to Kai eating you out, and he throws himself at the task with significantly more enthusiasm than usual. All you can feel is discomfort, disgust. An intense wish that you’d remembered to fake when he was fucking you. A question of why this feels so much worse than everything else.
Your mind might feel strongly against this, but your body’s apparently decided that it’s taken enough punishment for today, and it responds to Kai’s efforts. Horrible sounds are leaving your mouth instead of the words you need — no, don’t, stop, too sensitive, don’t feel well, words you know wouldn’t stop him when your body’s providing so much feedback to the contrary. Your mind can’t hold the self-hatred and disgust without cracking under the strain. You can almost hear it happen — a quick, bright snap as a thought you haven’t had in two years shoves its way to the forefront. Dead would be better. You would rather be dead than suffer through another second of this clash between your emotions and your body. You would rather die.
You don’t die. You come, and it’s an effort to hold it together when you sit up and see the self-satisfied expression on Kai’s face. He gets to his feet and heads for the bathroom, throwing an instruction over his shoulder. “Clean up and we’ll order in. We have better things to do tonight than cook.”
This is going to happen again, tonight. You’ll have to deal with it again, as many times as it takes for Kai to get bored. The disgust and self-hatred and despair that overwhelms you is too vast and hollow to be soothed, not even by crying. You cry anyway, from the time Kai turns on the bathroom fan to when he switches it off, clutching Tomura’s old shirt to your chest and wishing you’d never put it on today. You’ll never be able to wear it again without thinking of this.
I’d rather be dead, you think, every time Kai touches you. Maybe you won’t have to kill yourself. Maybe Tomura’s plan will fail, and Kai will finally snap and do it for you. No matter how it happens, the truth still remains: I’d rather be dead than do this again. I’d rather be dead.
When you broke up with Shigaraki Tomura at the end of high school, you never expected him to stalk you for years, and when you and Chisaki Kai got married, you thought you'd finally broken free. But life with Kai turns quickly from a dream into a waking nightmare, and with every month that passes, you can feel your chances to escape dwindling. Almost out of time, with no good choices left, you turn to the one person who swore he'd never give up on you -- and hope he's less interested in stalking you than he is in saving your life.
AU - no quirks. Past (and future) Tomura x reader, present Overhaul x reader. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Depictions of dubcon, domestic violence, and reproductive coercion (Overhaul). Discussion of miscarriage. References to past stalking behavior (Tomura). Angst. Hurt/no comfort for the majority of the fic. If you find any of the above too triggering to read about, please go check out some of the other fics in the fandom! there are lots of them waiting to be discovered and loved. beta-read by @threadbearsweater, dividers by @cafekitsune
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Someone calls your name as you’re walking back from the cafeteria at work, and you almost jump out of your skin. You also drop everything you’re carrying, but thankfully, the snack you grabbed for later in the day is prepackaged. You pick it up and turn around. “Yes?”
Aizawa’s approaching. He walks with a slight limp, but you’ve seen him turn on the speed before. “Come with me.”
You’ve been to the security office exactly once, when your boss brought you by on your first day as part of a tour, but you know Emi spends a not-insignificant amount of time here. You can see evidence of that when you step through the door – a cheesy inspirational kitten poster hanging up on the wall next to Aizawa’s desk. Unfortunately, you can also see that you’re not alone in here. Your boss is here, too. “Um, Mr. Sasaki?”
“You aren’t in trouble,” Mr. Sasaki says. You’re going to reserve judgment on that until you figure out what this is about. “Aizawa, explain.”
“Last night, after hours, an unfamiliar individual attempted to access this facility. When confronted, he claimed that he was acting on your behalf, retrieving a belonging from inside,” Aizawa says. Your heart sinks. “He attempted to use your expired ID badge to gain entry.”
“You stated that you lost track of your expired ID when everyone else turned theirs in,” Mr. Sasaki says. “Is it possible that someone took it?”
“I guess,” you say uncertainly. If it’s the missing ID, then it’s probably not Tomura – that ID went missing way before he stepped back into your life, and why would he start using your ID to get into the building when he’s been managing just fine without it? “I don’t know who would do that.”
“Understandable. Luckily, we have evidence.” Aizawa sits down at his desk, wakes up his computer, and calls up a photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”
You do, but it’s not Tomura, and you know instantly that you’re going to lie. You have to lie, because it’s Kurono Hari, Kai’s only friend, and you know exactly where he got your missing ID from. A surge of panic wells up within you, closing off your throat. You thought you were safe from Kai at work, but you aren’t. The fact that Kurono got caught won’t matter to him. Kai will keep trying until the day you move to Hassaikai Corp and find yourself permanently under his thumb.
“Do you recognize him?” Aizawa prompts.
You shake your head. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Mr. Sasaki says severely, and you cringe. His tone of voice when he’s disappointed reminds you all too much of Kai’s. “In any case, Mr. Aizawa has confiscated the ID. When the next round of badges come out, be sure to return your old one.”
You bow your head. “Yes, sir.”
When you get back to your desk, there’s something waiting for you – a vase filled with flowers, with a note attached. “Your hubby sent those,” Emi says, peering over the divider between her cubicle and yours. “The delivery guy was totally turned around. I helped him find your desk.”
You feel sick. Again. “Thanks.”
Emi nods, but she doesn’t sit back down. “Did you two fight or something? He’s sent something for you every day this week.”
If you lie and say nothing happened, it’ll look suspicious. “We didn’t fight,” you say. You lower your voice. “I had a miscarriage.”
“Oh.” Emi’s expression melts into sympathy. She reaches over the wall of the cubicle to try to hug you, then gives up and hurries around to your side. She gives really tight hugs, and your eyes well up from pain more than anything else. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m – kind of. I don’t know.” You fumble the words. You feel like that’s the right thing to do. “I mean, it happens, right? Like fifty percent of the time. It just – I never thought I’d –”
Never thought you’d cause one on purpose. Never thought you’d purposely goad Kai into beating you. “That’s terrible,” Emi says. “Are you sure you should be at work? I mean, I don’t know much about this stuff – I’m at least a year away from talking about kids with Aizawa –”
“I’m okay. The doctor cleared me,” you say. “It’s better to be here. More distractions.”
“And at least Kai’s making himself useful by sending you something to smile at,” Emi says. She touches the petals of one of the flowers. “He’s so thoughtful.”
“He is,” you say. “Kai thinks of everything.”
After so long married to him, you know it’s true – but you know, too, that there are limits to his imagination. It would never occur to him that you’d trick him into causing your miscarriage. It would never cross his mind that you’d turn to Tomura for help escaping him.
You set the flowers aside, out of the way, and find something that must have wound up on your desk first. You’ve only seen it once before, but it’s easy to recognize – the claw clip Tomura was wearing in his hair when he came to visit you in the hospital. You’d teased him about it just a little, hesitant because teasing gets you in trouble these days, and he’d taken it with the half-smirk you remember all too well. You’re just jealous, he said, and you laughed, startled. You wish you had one, too.
And now you do. His. You’d wear it if you could get away with it, but you can’t wear it home – Kai will see, and Kai will want to know why you’re wearing plastic when he’s bought you nicer accessories. You pinch the clip open and close it around your wrist instead. You’ll wear it as long as you can bear, then leave it here in your locked drawer, and when you come home with red marks on your wrist, Kai can guess for himself where they came from. Just like you can only guess why he sent Kurono to break into your office.
Whatever Kai’s reasons were, his response to the failure is negligible when he comes to pick you up from work. He has the same question he’s had for you every day this week. “Did you give notice?”
“I was reading the handbook,” you lie. “They need a letter or they won’t let me cash out my vacation time.”
“We’ll write one this evening,” Kai says. “I know you haven’t written one before.”
“And you have?” You’re too sharp, and Kai looks surprised – but he lets it go. If he follows his usual pattern, you’ve got until your bruises go from purple to green before he decides he’s clear to hit you again. “I’m sorry. I just – I like my job. I’ll miss my friends. I don’t want to leave.”
“It’s for the best.” Kai doesn’t pretend you’ll make friends at your new job, just like he doesn’t pretend to care what you want. “You and I don’t spend enough time together as it is. Sharing a workplace will be good for our marriage.”
Maybe he actually thinks that. Maybe he’s convinced himself that the way he treats you is good for you, that being around him will make things better. Better for him. You stare out the window and don’t speak for the rest of the drive home. When Kai puts his hand on your leg, you don’t even flinch.
He helps you write the resignation letter, and you hand it to Mr. Sasaki the next day, holding back tears. He reads it slowly, his eyes narrowing line by line. When he gets to the end he looks up. “This doesn’t sound like you.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve read dozens of emails and memos you’ve written. This doesn’t sound like you.” Mr. Sasaki’s tone is bland and pleasant, but his eyes are focused. “Were you assisted in writing this?”
He’s guessed. You can say it. “My husband helped me.”
“I see,” Mr. Sasaki says. “Am I correct in assuming that your new position is at Hassaikai Corp?”
You nod. “Things are tough over there right now. My husband needs my help.”
“I see,” Mr. Sasaki says again. He slides your two weeks’ notice into a drawer on his desk and laces his fingers together. “Well, should you ever desire a change in workplaces, reach out to me. I’m confident that a position will always be open to you.”
Your eyes are burning, and your throat feels like it’s been packed full of mud. You barely manage to thank Mr. Sasaki and duck out of his office before you start to cry.
You’re able to stumble into the nearest bathroom without being spotted, and you shut yourself in a stall, struggling to breathe. There’s a weight on your chest that you can’t lift off, a heaviness to your bones that makes it hard to move, and in spite of the fact that you know Tomura’s watching, know he’s promised to help, your life feels more inescapable than ever. Kai’s cutting off your escape routes one by one, stealing you from your workplace and your friends and your last shred of independence. People here care about you. People worry. You know your friends will miss you. At Hassaikai Corp, you’ll have no one at all. No one who doesn’t answer to Kai.
Emi cries when you tell her you’re leaving, but that’s just Emi – she’s quick to cry and quicker to laugh, and she’s horrified to see that her tears make you cry, too. She wants to throw a going-away party for you, at a bar, but you nix that idea at speed. If you have a party after work, Kai will come, too. And you need one more day alone.
Emi throws your party on the last day, and it’s well-attended. Free cake always brings people out of the woodwork, and it makes them magnanimous, too – people you’ve barely talked to in the years you’ve worked here come over to wish you luck in your new position. Emi’s even dragged Aizawa out of his office, somehow, and he lurks around the edges of the party, speaking when spoken to but not otherwise. The only person he talks to without prompting is you, and it’s not to wish you well.
“I’ve determined the identity of the man who tried to access the building on your expired badge,” he says. Your heart sinks. “One Kurono Hari. Based on his LinkedIn page, he was recently promoted to acting CFO of Hassaikai Corp.”
“Oh,” you say. That’s a step up for Kurono, but you aren’t surprised. He’s loyal to Kai, loyal enough to ensure that he goes where Kai does. If you were as devoted as Kurono is, Kai would probably never hit you again. “That’s – weird.”
“Can you think of any reason why Hassaikai Corp’s acting CFO would attempt to access our building after hours?”
“No,” you say. The obvious reason, that Kai’s spying on you has leveled up, is one you wouldn’t admit with a gun to your head. “Industrial sabotage or something? But that wouldn’t make any sense – we’re a security company, and Hassaikai Corp is in the medical sector –”
“In your work at Hassaikai Corp, I’d advise being careful,” Aizawa says abruptly. “There are some – concerns.”
“Like what?” you ask. Aizawa shakes his head, and you feel a surge of frustration. “Like what?”
Aizawa shakes his head. “The fewer questions you ask, the less risk there will be.”
He sounds like Tomura, telling you that the less you know, the less you’ll have to lie. A chill runs down your spine and you stand up straighter, fighting a grimace as your back spasms in protest. “I get it,” you say. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“I should thank you, also,” Aizawa says. You’re confused, and it shows. “Are you or are you not the one who’s been reining Fukukado in?”
Oh. “That’s me,” you say, and Aizawa nods. Since you’re leaving, you decide to offer some advice. “If you keep ignoring the problem, she’ll keep at it. Reject her outright and she’ll stop.”
“I’m aware.” Aizawa looks tired. “You know her better than I do. Is she –”
He trails off. You don’t have any idea what he was planning to fill the gap with, and it looks like he doesn’t, either. Finally he pinches the bridge of his nose and spits it out. “Is she as flighty as she acts?”
“No,” you say. Is he thinking about it? Is he thinking about saying yes? You think through your next words carefully. “She likes to have fun, but she get serious when it counts. Emi’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
You can see her across the room. She’s laughing, like always, with the firm’s newest hire in half a headlock and a cupcake in her free hand, and you realize all at once how much you’ll miss her. How much it’ll hurt when Kai clamps down on you, forcing you to cut communications so completely that people stop responding even when you do text. You know she’ll wonder if it’s her, if it’s something she did, and your throat tightens up at the thought. It’s an effort to get the words out sounding even semi-normal. “Anybody would be lucky to have her.”
“I see,” Aizawa says, and he wanders off. You go back to picking at your piece of cake. If nothing else, you’re confident that you didn’t make Emi’s chances with Aizawa worse.
You sneak out of the party halfway through. You still haven’t cleaned out your cubicle, and there’s a bunch of stuff in there that you can’t take home. You leave that drawer for last, and you’re just opening it when you hear running footsteps. You turn halfway just in time for Emi to barrel into you full-force. She hugs you so tight that you can’t hold in a whimper of pain, but she’s practically vibrating with excitement. “What did you say to Shouta?” she asks. “He just asked me out!”
“He did?” You weren’t quite sure, but you’re happy, and sort of impressed with Aizawa for just going for it. “I’m glad he got with the program and realized what a catch you are.”
Emi laughs, her cheeks flushed. “I saw you talking to him. What did you say?”
“I told him the truth. Anybody would be lucky to have you,” you say. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
You qualified it talking to Aizawa, but the longer you think about it, the more you realize that it’s true. Childhood friends don’t count when you haven’t seen them since. Your friends in high school were hit and miss. Tomura was your boyfriend first and your friend second, you couldn’t trust the friends you made through him, and in college you were so strange and paranoid that nobody wanted to spend time with you. You’ve gotten to be yourself with Emi, albeit with one huge secret, and you know she’s here for you. There’s only been one other person in your life who’d notice that you’ve been gone a while and come to see if you’re okay. You hope you’ve been half as good a friend to her as she’s been to you.
Your eyes well up, and so do Emi’s. “I’m really going to miss you,” she says, and you nod wordlessly. Emi sniffs, wipes her eyes, and pastes on a grin. “Okay, what are we doing here?”
“You should go back to the party. I can take care of it.”
“If I go back in there and look at Shouta anymore I’ll explode in a cloud of rainbows and glitter,” Emi says, and you laugh in spite of yourself. “He might change his mind if he sees that, so it’s for my own good. What do you have left?”
“Just the cabinet.” And the locked drawer.
You and Emi sort the cabinet quickly – mainly old files, with a few memos that need to get photocopied into the record. The locked drawer looms in your mind, the question of how to hide what’s in it kicking endlessly through your head. But maybe you don’t need to hide it. Emi doesn’t know what it means, and maybe she knows somebody who needs the Plan B. When Emi asks about the drawer, you unlock it. “Anything in here is yours if you want it.”
“Are you running an underground pharmacy? I’ve never seen that much Plan B in my life,” Emi jokes. “Sure, I’ll take it. I’ll keep up the good work.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, this stuff,” Emi says. “You’re keeping it for other people, right? Since you and Kai are –”
She breaks off suddenly. She looks down into the drawer, then up at you. Then back again, and when she meets your eyes again, there’s an emotion you’ve never seen written across her face. “What’s going on?”
“Um, I don’t –”
“Your husband wants a baby and your desk drawer at work is full of morning-after pills.” Emi’s speaking fast, through clenched teeth. Is she mad at you? “Something’s not adding up here. What’s going on?”
She doesn’t give you a chance to answer, already closing in on the next step, the inevitable conclusion. “You don’t want to leave us. He’s making you do it,” she guesses, and you take a step back, like that’s going to change anything. “Are you scared of him? Does he hurt you?”
Kai’s won. It doesn’t matter anymore. There’s nothing she can do, so there’s no reason for you to lie to her. “Only sometimes.”
Emi’s anger collapses. Silence falls between you, and you can only guess at what she’s thinking – that you’re pathetic, that you’re stupid, that you’ve been lying to her for as long as you’ve known each other. She was happy when she came over here, and now she isn’t, and it’s your fault. “I’m sorry.”
Emi shakes her head. “What can I do?”
“Nothing,” you say. Her eyes flash, and a surge of foreboding strikes hard. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“You’re kidding,” Emi says. “You just told me your husband hurts you –”
Her voice is pitching upwards. You gesture desperately for her to quiet down, and she lowers her voice. “And you expect me to – not just do nothing, but not even tell anybody? What kind of shitty friend would I be if I didn’t –”
“The kind of friend who doesn’t want me to be hurt any worse,” you say. She stares at you, and you try to explain what’s been crystal clear to you the entire time. “Kai, he knows everything. He’s thought of everything. If I try something and it doesn’t work – and it won’t work, because he knows – whatever I try, I’ll pay for it. Whatever anyone tries, I’ll pay for it.”
Kai made that clear to you early on, when he found out you’d been to a therapist. He knocked the wind out of you, and while you were doubled over, gasping for breath, he leaned down to whisper in your ear. You’re not unintelligent, he said softly. Think about your history. All those phone calls to the police over what they thought was nothing – anyone who sees that will see paranoia and nothing more, no matter what you tell them.
He was right and you knew it, and for a moment, you hated Tomura more intensely than you’d hated anyone before, or since. You looked crazy because of him. If it hadn’t been for him – but your hatred drained fast as reality set in. Kai didn’t need to explain more, but he did. No one will believe anything you say.
But Tomura believes you. Emi believes you. She doesn’t know your history with Tomura, doesn’t know what his omnipresence turned you into – she knows what she sees in front of her, and she believes you. Not that it changes anything. You believe Tomura when he says he has a plan to save you, but at the same time, you don’t believe anything will work. It’s too late. Years too late.
“Okay. I won’t tell,” Emi says, and your shoulders slump under the twin weights of relief and despair. “But – please. There has to be something I can do. Even if it’s small.”
“You can take these,” you say, gesturing at the six or seven boxes of Plan B rattling around in the drawer. “And this stuff, too. I can’t take it home and I can’t throw it away.”
Emi doesn’t ask questions about why not. She takes the boxes of Plan B away to store in her desk, then comes back with a small box. “The other stuff can go in here,” she says, and you start lifting things out of the drawer.
Rocks. Gel pens. Pieces of candy you saved instead of eating. Tomura’s claw clip, which you don’t want to let go of. And finally, the picture Tomura left for you when he stepped aside.
You and he both look so young. You are so young — seventeen at the absolute oldest, a year away from university, time sprawled out endlessly before you, an enormous number of paths you might choose to walk. You don’t remember which of Tomura’s friends was snapping the picture, but they caught him mid-smirk, absurdly pleased with himself for whatever he’d just said or done. You aren’t looking at the camera. You aren’t looking up at the sky or down at your phone or anywhere else. You’re looking at Tomura, and you look — content, maybe, or happy. Or maybe just at peace, looking at the person who kept you grounded, who had your back, who loved you so much more than you loved him.
You don’t have any other pictures of the two of you together. You don’t know what you looked like in them. But this is the first photo you’ve ever seen of yourself and Tomura where it looks like you love him the way he loves you.
Maybe that’s why he chose it. You’re staring at it, hollow inside, and Emi’s staring at something else. “Who wrote this?” she asks, tapping the message on the back of the photo. “How many creeps do you know?”
You shake your head and drop the photo into the box with everything else. “Thank you,” you say, and mean it. “I couldn’t face getting rid of it myself.”
“I’m not going to get rid of it,” Emi says. “I’ll save it. For when you come back.”
She doesn’t understand. How could anybody understand, when nobody sees Kai like you do – who he is when the world isn’t watching, who he is when the curtains are drawn and the lights go out? There’s no way to explain that makes sense to anyone else, and even if there was, you couldn’t find it. The part of your life where you had freedom is over. Everything about you exists inside Kai’s closed fist.
“Save it if you want,” you say dully. “I’m not coming back.”
“You don’t believe that.”
“I do.”
Emi’s eyes widen, but only for a moment. She looks away, and when she meets your eyes again, her expression is as serious as you’ve ever seen it. “That’s okay,” she says. “I’ll believe it for both of us, until you do, too.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Emi can tell. She takes the box back to her office, then comes back to you. Sits down on the floor of your empty cubicle, gestures for you to do the same. “I won’t tell anybody,” she says, “but I’m your friend. I need to know what happened to you.”
You want to tell her. You try. But every sentence you speak winds back on itself, trapping you in a sea of justifications and qualifications that sound hollow even to you. You keep trying, the same as you kept refreshing your notifications, waiting for some sign that Tomura had seen the photo you posted. No matter what happens to you now, two people have seen. Two people other than you and Kai know the truth. It’s no comfort at all, but as the last hours of your last day of freedom dwindle away, it’s all you have.
When you broke up with Shigaraki Tomura at the end of high school, you never expected him to stalk you for years, and when you and Chisaki Kai got married, you thought you'd finally broken free. But life with Kai turns quickly from a dream into a waking nightmare, and with every month that passes, you can feel your chances to escape dwindling. Almost out of time, with no good choices left, you turn to the one person who swore he'd never give up on you -- and hope he's less interested in stalking you than he is in saving your life.
AU - no quirks. Past (and future) Tomura x reader, present Overhaul x reader. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Depictions of dubcon, domestic violence, and reproductive coercion (Overhaul). References to past stalking behavior (Tomura). Angst. Hurt/no comfort for the majority of the fic. If you find any of the above too triggering to read about, please go check out some of the other fics in the fandom! there are lots of them waiting to be discovered and loved. beta-read by @threadbearsweater, dividers by @cafekitsune
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3
Chapter 2
When you and Kai get home at three in the morning, dragging your suitcases through the door, you know instantly that something’s off. Maybe it’s the temperature of the air. Maybe there’s a different scent, something subtle but out of place. Maybe a shadow just inside your doorway that shouldn’t be there. You can’t put your finger on what it is, but you’re dead certain: Something’s happened. Someone was here.
Or maybe you’re just insane. Kai hasn’t noticed anything at all. He’s in a bad mood, shoulders hunched, jet-lagged or something worse. He drops his suitcase in the hall. “I hate this part.”
He doesn’t say things like that very often. “Go shower off,” you tell him. You help him out of his coat, surprised when he lets you. “I’ll unpack and get the laundry started.”
Kai glances your way, the motion unusually slow and heavy. “Why?”
“You did such a good job planning our trip,” you say. “We saw everything I wanted to see, and I didn’t have to worry about a thing. I can take care of this. Go shower. You’ll feel better afterward.”
Kai must be feeling bad. He doesn’t argue. He goes upstairs to shower, and as soon as you hear the water switch on, you leap into action. You don’t have much time. You have to figure out what happened here before Kai comes out.
The first thing you do is check the doors and windows. Sure enough, the one in the downstairs bathroom is slightly cracked. Like that, it’s too small for a person to fit through, but if it was entirely open, someone with a slim build could easily slither in and back out. You shut it, your heart racing like it used to in college, back when you’d discover some clue that Tomura had broken in. He always left something for you to find.
He always took something, too. If Tomura really was here, he’ll have taken something that isn’t for everyday, something valuable only to you. At first you’d thought he was doing it to hurt you, to punish you for leaving him, but something about that explanation didn’t track. It took almost a year of him stalking you for you to understand what he was really doing – taking things that mattered but didn’t, hoping you’d reach out to ask for them back. What would he have taken this time? You try to keep quiet as you move through the house, but your heart is hammering so loudly the neighbors can probably hear it. What would you notice missing that Kai wouldn’t? Nothing. Kai notices everything.
You’re still holding Kai’s coat. You stifle the urge to ball it up and leave it on the floor and hang it neatly instead. You unpack the suitcases, separate the dirty clothes, load the washing machine but hold off on starting it. You turn down the sheets on Kai’s side of the bed, and as you straighten up, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror at the back of the walk-in closet. You look frantic, just as struck by anxiety as you feel, and the earrings Kai bought you are still in your ears.
All at once they’re too heavy. You take them out, pulling almost hard enough to hurt, and turn to your jewelry box – and that’s when you see it. The lid of your jewelry box is ever so slightly askew.
You make your way carefully towards it, like you’re trying to catch it by surprise or something. Paranoia’s made you do weirder things. You’re meticulous as you sift through it, checking in on every piece of jewelry Kai bought you first, then onto everything you bought for yourself or inherited from somebody else. Then the things that are sentimental and nothing more, and at first you think nothing’s been taken. Maybe you left it like this the last time you looked in it. But then you look a little harder, and you realize with a jolt that something has been taken – and replaced, with something that looks almost identical.
You and Tomura had been dating for two months on Valentine’s Day, and Tomura’s friends and yours had been razzing him about getting you a gift. Tomura didn’t have any money, not since his dad went to prison, and you told him over and over again that he didn’t need to get you anything. He really didn’t. You hadn’t gotten a boyfriend because you wanted presents. If he wanted to get you something for your birthday, he could, but you weren’t worried about it. You were consistent. Sometimes you thought he believed you.
But your friends’ boyfriends went all out for the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, showering them in chocolate and presents, and you knew it bothered Tomura that he couldn’t do the same thing. On Valentine’s Day, you presented him with a box of chocolates you’d made yourself. I wanted to get you a fancy one, but they always have weird stuff in them, you remember saying. This way it only has the stuff you like.
Tomura didn’t thank you, but the way he held onto the box white-knuckled for a moment before setting it aside told you what you needed to know. Then he reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out something small enough to fit completely in his closed fist. I got you something, too.
Tomura –
Just take it. He was averting his eyes, embarrassed already. You held out your hand and he dropped two necklaces into it. The charm on one of them said Best. The other said Friends. You were speechless, and in your silence, Tomura started talking. They said to get jewelry or something. I can’t afford that stuff – not the nice stuff. We’re not best friends. We’re dating. This was stupid. I just –
You kissed him. I think it’s really nice, you said. He gave you a skeptical look. I couldn’t date somebody who wasn’t my friend, too.
And maybe he was your best friend by that point. You two spent a lot of time together, about the same as all your other friends added up, and you liked spending time with him a lot. More than your friends liked spending time with their boyfriends. You remember thinking that meant something good. I really like it, you told Tomura. Which one do you want?
Tomura picked Friends. You got Best, and even when the two of you broke up, you kept it at the bottom of your jewelry box, never wearing it again but always knowing it was there. But your half of the friendship necklace isn’t there anymore. The charm on the tarnished chain says Friends.
He was here. You can’t tell if the feeling that cuts the tendons in your legs and drops you to the floor is relief or fear, but you know you got your wish. Tomura’s here, somehow. He’s watching, again. That was the first step. Now what?
Even as you’re weighing the question, you’re aware that you have to figure out what’s wrong with Kai. It’s clear to you that he picked something up on the plane home, but he won’t go to the doctor or even admit he’s not feeling well, meaning that he’s short-tempered and sharper than usual with you. You’ve seen Kai like this a few times in the past. You know it’ll fade at some point, but for now, the tension in the house is palpable.
The two of you took an extra day off after the trip to recover from jet lag – Kai’s idea, so you can both go back to work at your best. You suggest to Kai that he should actually rest instead of just working from home. The curtness with which he responds to you tells you not to open your mouth on the subject again.
But when the two of you are making dinner, sharing the kitchen as usual, you realize that you can’t let it go any longer. Kai’s hands are shaking where he grasps the knife he’s using to cut up the ingredients, and he’s this close to amputating a finger. When you brush against him, you find that he’s drenched in cold sweat, and his face has taken on a pale, clammy cast. “Kai, are you okay?”
He mumbles something through clenched teeth. You don’t dare ask him to repeat himself, and he says it again without prompting. “I’m fine,” he says. “I –”
His expression contorts, and he whirls away from you, throwing up in the sink – mostly. The mess is bad enough. You know how much Kai hates a mess. The imperative to clean it up as much as possible, as quickly as possible, clashes with your need to get out of here before something worse happens, and somewhere in the middle of it is a vestigial urge to reach out to someone who needs help. The latter urge wins out. “Kai –”
“Stay away.”
He sounds awful. He needs help. You have a strong immune system, and you can wash your hands. You take a step forward. “Kai, I’m worried –”
“Stay away!” He doesn’t turn on you, but he lashes out with one hand. The hand that’s still holding the knife.
The blade catches you in the shoulder, pierces through your shirt, drawing a jagged line across your chest. The pain is sharp and agonizing, and it comes as such a shock that you don’t even scream. The sharp gasp you let out is more of surprise than anything else. Kai drops the knife, straightens up. His eyes are wide as he stares at you. You’ve seen that expression maybe once before, when you regained consciousness after he knocked you out. Surprise at seeing what he’s done, shock that he went this far. If Kai told you right now that he didn’t mean to hurt you, you’d believe him.
There’s blood staining your shirt, vomit in the sink and on the counter and the floor, and your sick husband is staring at you, stunned like he’s the one who was just attacked with a knife. Kai’s not functioning right now. You are, mainly because Kai’s hurt you so many times that you know the world can’t stop because of it. You pull an empty mixing bowl off the counter, hand it to Kai, and shoo him out of the kitchen. “I’ll clean up and come check on you. Don’t drink or eat anything. I’ll bring you some water once I’m done.”
Kai doesn’t argue with you. You leave him on the floor of the living room – he won’t sit on the couch – and go back to the kitchen. The food’s a loss, and everything needs disinfecting. You know Kai’s exacting standards, know how unlikely it is that you’ll meet them, and at the same time, you think you might be safe for a little while. He won’t be back in the kitchen any time soon. If he had just admitted he was sick – if he had just listened to you –
You crumple the thought into a ball and throw it away. Kai hurt you again. He did it with a weapon this time. You can’t make any mistakes.
It takes you half an hour to disinfect the kitchen, time enough that it should be safe to give Kai some water. You bring it in a clean glass, filled with water from the filter in the refrigerator, and set it down on the coffee table – on a coaster, so you don’t ruin the wood. He’s punished you for that before. There was a while where his preferred method was pinching you so hard you’d get bruises.
Kai doesn’t look like he’s in pinching shape right now, but you never know. “Do you feel any better?” you ask him from well out of reach. “Please don’t lie. I can’t take care of you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“Fever. Nausea.” Kai shivers. “Chills. It’s viral. I don’t need a doctor.”
Good. Kai hates going to the doctor. He looks at you through hazy eyes, and to your horror, his gaze sharpens. “You should.”
“I’m not sick,” you say, bewildered, and Kai lifts one shaky hand and points. You look down to find the front of your shirt stained and shiny with blood. In your race to clean everything up, you completely forgot. “Oh. Um –”
“Urgent care. Now.”
He must really be sick. As much as he hates the doctor for himself, he hates sending you there even more, because any trip to the doctor creates a record of suspicious injuries. “I don’t think it’s that –”
“I was cutting meat with that knife. It was in my hand when I vomited. That wound won’t close on its own.” Kai shuts his eyes and leans back against the couch. “Call a rideshare. If you get lightheaded, you won’t be able to drive.”
All at once, you see the upside of a visit to the urgent care. Kai can’t drive you. Kai’s too sick to stand up straight. If you go to the urgent care, the likelihood that you’ll be prescribed something is high, and you’ll have to go to the pharmacy to pick it up – and you can buy more Plan B while you’re there. But you can’t sound too excited. “I’m worried about you –”
“I’ll contact you regularly. Go.” Kai sounds like he’s done with everything, you included. “And change your shirt.”
You do, while you’re waiting for the rideshare, but peeling off the stained shirt rips off the scab that’s formed when you pull it away from the wound. By the time you get in the rideshare you’re right back where you started, and the driver spends half the trip staring at you in the rearview mirror. The nurse who checks you in at the urgent care stares, too, and sticks you in an exam room before she’s even asked you to confirm your address. While you’re waiting for someone to examine you, your phone buzzes with a text from Kai: Tell them it was self-inflicted. With your history they’ll believe it.
Is anybody who looks at this going to believe you did it to yourself? In your opinion, claiming it was you is like claiming you fell and hit your face on the doorknob. It looks weirder than telling some version of the truth. When the doctor asks how you were hurt, you tell him it was a kitchen accident, and you’re so practiced, so composed at lying about what Kai’s done to you that the doctor buys it without a second thought. You get seventeen stitches and a prescription for three days of antibiotics, which gets sent to a pharmacy across the street. To keep up appearances, you text Kai where you’re going and ask him if he needs anything. He responds with a list.
That complicates things. You were going to pay for the antibiotics and the Plan B with your card. With all of this stuff, you’ll have to pay for it and the antibiotic on the shared card, then run a separate transaction for the Plan B. You take a deep breath. It’s not a complication, it’s just an extra step. It’s fine. Everything will be fine.
Your prescription’s not quite ready when you’re done collecting everything on Kai’s list, so you sit down in the waiting area. There’s only one other person there, an auburn-haired woman who’s wearing sunglasses inside and reading a gossip magazine. She looks up after a few seconds of you rustling around with your shopping basket, and her eyebrows lift sharply. “What happened to you, honey? You’re looking a little too much like a final girl for comfort.”
A final girl. You’ve heard that phrase before, but you can’t think where. “Kitchen accident. I’m just waiting on my antibiotics.”
“What kind of kitchen accident leaves that kind of mark?” She’s counting your stitches through your shirt. “You could run into his knife ten times and that would still look more accidental than this does.”
You catch the Cell Block Tango reference and feel a slight smile come to your face. “If that’s the scenario, shouldn’t I be the one with the knife?”
“If you had the knife, it wouldn’t be an accident,” the woman says. Her expression is serious as she gestures at you. “Just like this isn’t.”
You should have asked the doctor if you could have a scrub shirt to wear over this one. “Maybe I’m into that.”
“If you were into that, you wouldn’t have done something that needed stitches. And nobody who’s into that would do it right there.” She gestures again. You don’t know enough about people who are into knifeplay to argue. “You’re in trouble. You’re crazy if you think nobody sees it.”
You know nobody sees it. Kai’s too careful, and you’re too afraid of what Kai will do if anyone finds out. This is his biggest slip-up since your suicide attempt, and you know already that it’ll be a one-off – or if it’s not, Kai will stitch you up at home rather than letting a doctor have a look. Your life looks perfect from the outside. And even if somebody could see what was happening underneath – “It doesn’t matter who sees it if nobody does anything.”
The bitterness in your own voice shocks you. The woman sits forward, setting her magazine aside. “If somebody wanted to do something, would you let him?”
Before you can answer, or figure out why that question feels like being hit by lightning, the pharmacist calls you up to the counter. You stumble through your separate transactions, spend a while at the cash register trying to store everything in two separate bags, call your rideshare, and stumble out past the waiting area. The woman who called you a pathetic battered wife is nowhere to be found. Of course. And she left before you could give her the real answer to her stupid question: Nobody’s coming to save you. And of course she assumed the person saving you would be a man, or else she wouldn’t have said –
You stop in your tracks just inside the door. She called you a final girl. You’ve heard that before, all the way back in high school, watching horror movies with Tomura. For some reason he liked the old movies with the hokey special effects, and you remember him dissecting the movies while you listened and tried to ignore the fountains of fake blood onscreen. Sure, it’s probably a widely used term among horror fans, and sure, a person with blood all over their shirt draws attention no matter what – but that woman talked to you. She wouldn’t let it go. And when she asked if you’d let someone save you, you don’t think she was asking about just any someone. She asked about him. Like she meant one person in particular. Like she was asking for somebody else.
Tomura’s never sent someone to spy on you directly before, or if he has, you’ve never caught them at it. Why would he change his MO now? What if it wasn’t Tomura who sent that woman at all? What if it was Kai, testing you, testing your loyalty? You tried, but you must not have tried hard enough, or you wouldn’t feel sick to your stomach. When your rideshare arrives, the driver has to lean on the horn to get your attention. You’re too busy throwing up in the gutter to keep an eye out for the car.
When you get home, Kai doesn’t give any indication that he sent someone to keep an eye on you. He’s sleeping facedown on the couch, snoring slightly, the bucket and water glass empty on the floor beside it. You used to think Kai was cute like this, cute when he looked rumpled and awkward and human, and maybe it’s still true – but only when he’s asleep. When Kai looks like this wide awake, he’s so terrifying that it’s hard to believe you ever thought you loved him.
He was terrifying like that today, and you didn’t realize until it was too late. He’s never used a weapon on you before, and even if it was accidental, that line’s been crossed now. Crossing it will get easier for him every time he does it, just like it did the first time he struck you with a closed fist instead of an open hand, just like it did the first time he kicked you after he threw you to the ground. Maybe it’ll be like it was after he knocked you out, but maybe not. Brain trauma can’t be fixed, but you can always get a blood transfusion.
As you conceal the Plan B in your workbag, your mind wanders, back to the waiting area, to the woman telling you how much trouble you’re in. As if you didn’t know. As if you weren’t sitting there with seventeen stitches after your husband slashed you with a knife, already scared of what you’d be walking into at home. Maybe you imagined her. She was gone before you got back, and you didn’t hear anyone else get called up to the counter. And like any good daydream, she told you what you wanted to hear – that Tomura wants to save you, if you’ll let him. But as much as you want to believe that, you don’t have the heart. Nobody would want to save you. You’re on your own.
Kai’s sick all week long, so sick that his boss sends a doctor to the house to check on him, since his boss is apparently well aware of how much Kai hates the urgent care. Kai’s own diagnosis turns out to be right – a virus, specifically a norovirus – and as soon as the doctor realizes what it is, he bans you and Kai from interacting at all until Kai’s been symptom-free for twenty-four hours. Kai was unhappy about that, and so were you – he’s pissed when you aren’t available when he wants you to be, and you don’t like what happens when he’s pissed at you. Everything would be easier if you could take care of him.
The doctor was firm. “I believe you and your wife are looking to start a family. Undue stress on her body – such as the stress provided by an illness like this one – will make that more difficult, not less.”
That’s enough to keep Kai quiet. The doctor’s instruction to rest is enough to keep him still. And the quarantine is enough to keep you driving to work, going for a walk, having dinner out rather than cooking in the contaminated kitchen – and doing all of it by yourself. Or sometimes by yourself. When Emi figures out that you’ve got a night to yourself for once, she drags you out with her crew for dinner and drinks.
You protest that Kai’s expecting you home, and they’ve got a whole set of excuses for you to give him. Big project, staying late at work, deadline moved up, boss unhappy. They’ll back you up if anyone asks. It strikes you as a little weird that they thought far enough ahead to give you what you’d need to lie, but then again, maybe Kai’s not unusual in wanting to know exactly where his wife is when she isn’t at home. Maybe that’s just a guy thing. The fact that no one comments on you leaving your phone in your car at work and hitching a ride to dinner with Emi just proves it.
You’ve never been to the bar they take you to, but you know it’s the kind of place you’d have loved – a little dingy, a little eccentric, full of character and characters. Somewhere that’s trying to be so many different things that it’s not sure what it really is. Kai hates places like this. You know exactly what he’d say after a good look around: This is beneath you. He’d say that, but he’d be wrong. You’re a stereotypical battered wife married to a sociopath, shotgunning Plan B so you won’t get pregnant with his baby, and you’re so twisted up inside that you’re hallucinating about your ex-boyfriend who you dumped ten years ago coming to save you. A place that doesn’t know what it’s doing is exactly where you belong.
Going out is kind of fun. You forgot about that. You get one drink, drink it early, and eat, knowing you’ll need to sober up completely before you risk going home. Emi has way more friends at work than you do, but she folds you in among them effortlessly, and whenever the topic of your husband – you’re the only one who’s married – comes up, she steers the ship away. “Hey, she’s a lot more than her husband! And she just went on a big trip. I want to hear about Cairo.”
“It was amazing,” you say, and as the words leave your mouth, you feel a smile come with them.
You tell the stories like you wish they’d happened, like you’d done this alone or with a friend, instead of trying to enjoy somewhere ancient and fascinating with your husband hovering over your shoulder. Kai looms large over every aspect of your life, but sometimes you can edit him out, and this time you do. Visiting the pyramids and the sphinx at Giza, wandering through museums, checking out the open-air market –things you could imagine doing, on a trip you planned yourself, one where you could spend as much time as you wanted before moving on.
But even as you paint your trip in broad brushstrokes, Kai haunts the details, and he makes it back into the conversation eventually, when a girl named Kaoruko who’s had three to your one asks if you flew first class or economy. “First class,” you say. “Kai insists.”
That’s not all Kai insisted on. There was what happened in the first-class bathroom, and the memory of Tomura you had to feed through a mental paper shredder to stay even marginally sane. Across the table, Kaoruko sighs enviously. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and land somebody like him.”
Yue from Marketing laughs. “Somebody rich?”
“No. Somebody who pays that much attention,” Kaoruko says. “All the little things that go into a trip like that. Don’t you want somebody who knows you so well? Somebody who can make everything perfect?”
“No,” you say before you can stop yourself. Everyone looks at you, and you struggle to scrape together a follow-up that doesn’t make you sound as crazy as you feel. “He’s not perfect. You should hear how he snores.”
That gets a laugh, just like you were hoping it would, but you know how Kai feels about even gentle teasing. You know what will happen to you if Emi ever brings up what you just said in front of him, just like you know you can’t ask everyone at the table to forget what they heard. Maybe Kai already knows. Maybe he has somebody following you, listening to you. Maybe he’ll be waiting when you get home, fist closed to strike you, foot drawn back to kick. Or maybe this time he’ll have a knife.
The panic closes its jaws around your heart tight enough to crush it, but you’ve been through this before. You know better than to show it. You excuse yourself to the bathroom, walking with slow, measured steps, praying that at least one bathroom is single-occupancy. You get lucky – they’re all single-occupancy – but at first they all look busy. Then you take a second look, realize that the one on the end is open, and lock yourself in. By the time the motion-activated lights come on, you’re already crying silently, your face buried in your hands.
You can’t escape Kai. No matter what you do, he’s everywhere – his name, his voice, his hands, his will. Even if you could get away from him, even if you could make it stick, you’d always be looking over your shoulder. You’ll never be safe, never be free, and those two thoughts play on repeat in your head until your head hurts too much to cry.
It’s time to start damage control. You can’t look like you’ve been crying in a restaurant bathroom when you head back out there. You blow your nose with a paper towel, then wet another one with cold water to press down over your eyes. Once it turns lukewarm, you lift it off and turn to the mirror to check what progress, if any, has been made. The first thing you register is that you still look like shit. The second thing is that you aren’t alone.
For one heartstopping moment you’re sure it’s Kai. But Kai’s taller. Kai’s sick at home. Kai wouldn’t be caught dead in a hoodie. Pale hands rise to grasp the edges of the hood and pull it back, and you watch through the mirror as Tomura reveals himself for the first time since the night you broke up.
In the seven years he spent stalking you, you never saw him even once. He stayed frozen in time when you thought about him, with messy blue hair and dry skin around his eyes and a mouth that was always one wrong move from turning down into a pout. Ten years out from the breakup, he’s changed. He’s gained at least ten centimeters in height, and his shoulders have broadened enough to change the way he holds himself, even as he leans back against the wall in a pose you could describe with your eyes closed. The biggest difference of all is his hair. It’s longer than you’ve ever seen it, falling loose and wild past his shoulders. And it’s white.
Still, his eyes are the same. The languid, almost careless way he moves is the same. Even the hand that rises to scratch his neck is familiar. All the awkward, endearing traits you remember are right where they belong – but when you look at Tomura, not a kid any longer, everything you recognize only serves to make you more uncertain. He’s not who you knew before. He’s something more.
All you can do is look at him as he takes one step forward, then another. His voice has barely changed from the last time you heard it. “Maybe you should turn around.”
You do. He’s close enough to touch, but he’d have to reach, and he’s not grabbing for you. You’d almost trust him more if he did – thanks to Kai, you read stillness to be just as threatening as motion. Tomura doesn’t prompt you, doesn’t ask a question you’re doomed to answer wrong. He just stands there, waiting for you to find your voice.
When you do, it’s awful. “I thought I imagined it,” you say. “You came back.”
“I kept my distance. I never left,” Tomura says. “I thought maybe he was right. You were better off with him.”
Your vision zooms in and out. “You talked to Kai?”
“He talked to me,” Tomura says. You didn’t know. You didn’t have a clue. “Said if I really loved you so much, I should fuck off – no, he said make myself scarce – and let him make you happy. I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t looked it. Even after you had that accident.”
An accident. He doesn’t sound like he’s mocking you, which means he bought the story Kai fed everyone, that you were in a hit-and-run accident instead of that you stepped into the road. Kai is that good. “I left you that picture, and I kept an eye on things,” Tomura says. “There wasn’t anything to see until a week ago.”
Your mouth’s gone dry. You swallow a few times. “A week ago?”
“A week ago. When you made that post.” Tomura doesn’t wait for you to respond. “With that fucking bite mark. I know damn well you’re not into that.”
“Maybe I am. It’s been a long time,” you say. You can’t raise your voice louder than a whisper. “We were just kids.”
“We were watching Hellraiser. The one with the Cenobites. You said you couldn’t figure out why anyone would try to solve the Lament Configuration, and I said there are people who are into that.” Tomura has a better memory than you thought he did, at least when it comes to you. “And you said you wouldn’t like being hurt by somebody who loves you. And then you got all embarrassed and looked at me and said –”
“Sorry,” you murmur. You remember Tomura giving you the weirdest look after you apologized. Don’t be stupid, he said, and spent so long kissing you that the two of you missed all but the last ten minutes of the movie. I wouldn’t solve it, either.
“You do remember.” A smile lights Tomura’s face, and something twists inside you. The smile fades fast. “I know you. I know you didn’t want that. And there’s no fucking way you wanted this.”
Kai would touch it. He’d run his finger over the line of stitches, and you’d hold still, knowing what would happen if you flinched. Tomura draws the line across his own chest with a hand that shakes, and when he speaks, it’s through clenched teeth. “This has been going on for a while, right? If he’d slashed you with a knife out of nowhere, you’d leave. Don’t answer that. I know. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I told you that you couldn’t run from me forever. Why did you keep trying?”
He’s not asking why you didn’t leave. The fear of that question, of the shame and judgment that would follow it, has kept you silent so many times, kept you from reaching for help when it was tantalizingly close. Sometimes you wonder if Kai knows that. But Tomura’s not blaming you for staying. He wants to know why you didn’t let him know. Because if you had let him know –
“Don’t say you’ll keep me safe,” you say. Tomura opens his mouth, and you cut him off. “Kai said the same thing about you.”
Tomura’s expression twists. “Don’t compare me to him. I didn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”
“No, you just followed me. For years! I was –” Not scared. Never scared. Frustrated, on edge, anxious, uncertain – but not scared. “I never got to be alone. I never had to time to think, because I knew you could be watching – because you were always there –”
“I didn’t come here to talk about that,” Tomura says. You feel an odd twinge of relief when you realize that he isn’t denying it. “And that’s not why you called for me. Tell me why you posted that picture.”
The words of the woman from the pharmacy ring through your head: If someone wanted to help you, would you let him? “Kai – he hurts me,” you say. You’ve never said it out loud before, and you thought it would be a relief, but it isn’t. “He has for years. And now he wants a baby, and I can’t – I won’t. I don’t know what to do.”
That’s wrong. You do know what to do. “I need to leave,” you say. “I need to leave and I don’t know how. I don’t know if I can do it alone.”
“If you could, you’d have done it by now,” Tomura says. “I’ll get you out of there.”
He’s confident. That’s a similarity between Tomura and Kai, maybe the only similarity – once they’ve decided how something’s going to be, they’re unshakeable. “How?”
“Let me worry about that,” Tomura says. “The less you know, the less you’ll have to lie.”
Is Tomura going to kill him? You don’t want that – or do you? One of your half-formed escape plans ends with Kai dead, but it always struck you as the most implausible, eclipsed only by the idea that he’d ever let you go in peace. What you want, more than anything, is to be free, to know you’ll never have to see Kai again. But if you can’t have that, you’ll settle for a clean break. Or any break at all.
But even that feels fantastical, hallucinatory. Too easy. “Tomura –”
He smiles, softer than before. “I missed hearing you say that.”
The twist inside you hurts more this time. “I don’t understand,” you say. “It’s been so long. I broke up with you. I married him. Why would you still –”
“I don’t care about that.” Tomura reaches across the space between you, slowly enough that you don’t flinch. His hand lands carefully on your shoulder, well clear of your stitches. “I care that you called for me.”
Your eyes prickle, then start to burn. You glance down and away, and Tomura lets you, where Kai would grab your chin and make you look. Tomura’s hand shifts, sliding down along your arm until he’s got a clumsy grasp on your hand. Tomura’s always had a strange way of holding hands. No matter what else he does, he holds on tight, like he’s trying to fuse your fingers with his. Kai’s hated holding hands since you met him. Tomura never wanted to let go.
And he doesn’t – not until someone knocks on the bathroom door, startling him and scaring you. “Hey, are you okay in there?” Emi asks. “It’s been kind of a while, and you didn’t look so good when you stood up.”
Tomura glances at the door, then back to you. “She’s good,” you say as quietly as possible. “A friend.”
“Good.” Tomura raises your hand to his mouth for a long moment that’s not so much a kiss as a puff of breath against your skin, then lets it fall. “Go. I’m here. I’ll find you again soon.”
“Okay,” you say, and he lets you go, melting back into the shadows behind the door. You open it and face Emi, seeing the worried look on her face. “Hi. Sorry. I just got nauseous for a second.”
Emi’s worry doesn’t fade the way you wanted it to. But since it’s Emi, she covers up by cracking a joke. “You’d better not be getting morning sickness on me. Who’s going to listen to me talk about Aizawa if you’re on maternity leave?”
“No morning sickness,” you say, forcing a smile. “Maybe it was the alcohol.”
“You had one drink. Who knew you were such a lightweight?” Emi teases. She links her arm with yours as you step out of the bathroom. “Come on. I want to hear about Istanbul.”
Back at the table, you talk about Istanbul – and Kai, when the story can’t avoid him. It feels ever so slightly easier than it did half an hour ago, and it’s because of Tomura, because of the weight of his hand on your shoulder, the warmth of his fingers folded around yours. His promise to help you isn’t one you can believe, but you never hoped for that. All you wanted was someone to see, someone to know. Now he knows. And you feel a little less alone than you did before.
11. YOU CAN’T RUN FROM ME FOREVER (scarier prompts) if you are open to it for Shigaraki Tomura
Hi there, anon! When you sent this prompt, it lit my brain on fire, and produced a fic that's cleared 50k words -- and a fic that's much darker than what I usually write. Your call on whether it counts as scary or not. If you hate it, send me another ask with any kind of prompt, and I'll rewrite the fic for you!
Savior - a Shigaraki x f!reader fic
When you broke up with Shigaraki Tomura at the end of high school, you never expected him to stalk you for years, and when you and Chisaki Kai got married, you thought you'd finally broken free. But life with Kai turns quickly from a dream into a waking nightmare, and with every month that passes, you can feel your chances to escape dwindling. Almost out of time, with no good choices left, you turn to the one person who swore he'd never give up on you -- and hope he's less interested in stalking you than he is in saving your life.
AU - no quirks. Past (and future) Tomura x reader, present Overhaul x reader. Dead Dove Do Not Eat. Depictions of dubcon, domestic violence, and reproductive coercion (Overhaul). References to past stalking behavior (Tomura). Angst. Hurt/no comfort for the majority of the fic. If you find any of the above too triggering to read about, please go check out some of the other fics in the fandom! there are lots of them waiting to be discovered and loved. beta read by @threadbearsweater (thank you so much!!). dividers by @cafekitsune
Chapter 1 Chapter 2
Chapter 1
Before you got married, going out with Shigaraki Tomura was the worst mistake you’d ever made. Sometimes you try to reassure yourself that you were in high school, that high school is where people are allowed to make mistakes. But most people’s high school mistakes are little things – a bad outfit, a bad haircut, a bad grade, a speeding ticket or a broken curfew. Things parents yell over, and ground you over, too. They’re not the kind of mistake that follows you for the rest of your life. Short of getting pregnant and dropping out of school, dating Shigaraki Tomura was the biggest mistake it was possible for you to make.
He didn’t look it. They never do. He was quiet and kept to himself for the most part. The friends he did have were delinquents to a fault, who picked on most people but never on you. Nobody picked on you. You found out later that it was because of him, but not because he told you. Looking out for you wasn’t something Tomura expected you to be grateful for. It was just something he did.
And Tomura wasn’t bad, exactly. He was a perfectly typical high school boyfriend, the quiet almost-loner that girls like you think needs fixing, the kind of boy girls like you leave in the dust when you realize they won’t change. You stuck it out a lot longer than most, because you liked being with him and he treated you well – so well that your friends were jealous, even friends who’d never date him in a million years. But the two of you were never going to work long-term, so you broke it off the night before you moved away for university. It broke your heart more than you thought it would, but you told yourself it was the right thing to do.
But it wasn’t. It wasn’t, because instead of accepting it and moving on, Tomura followed you. He followed you for the next seven years.
He never threatened you or did anything to make you legitimately scared, but that also meant that he never did anything you could point to when you called the police. No angry emails or notes. No forced entry – the cops always assumed you forgot to lock the door or shut the window, no matter how many pictures you took of the door or window after you locked it. No stolen valuables, but when something turned up missing, you always knew who had it. You knew Tomura would give it back, whatever it was, if you asked – but then you’d have had to ask him, which meant talking to him. Stonewalling was the best you could do, even if it didn’t work. At least he wasn’t stealing your underwear.
You tried to hold it together, but by your third year at university, you were a wreck. Your grades crashed and kept falling, and you couldn’t tell anyone. All you could do was keep it together and hope no one noticed. Eventually, someone did.
You met the man you married in the tutoring center your senior year, when you were trying to salvage a chemistry class you’d failed as a sophomore and were in the process of failing again. Kai was a grad student, tutoring because someone made him, and he was better at it than everyone else combined. One night you were there late, almost to closing time. It was dark out, and even though Tomura had never threatened or hurt you, the idea of being followed through the darkness by something you couldn’t see terrified you. You panicked. Kai saw.
What is it? he asked in that dry, calm voice he always used to explain things you couldn’t grasp. Are you afraid of the dark?
No, you said. It’s just –
What?
You wouldn’t believe me, you said. Kai didn’t put up with excuses. You knew that already. It’s fine. You should go.
You were both standing up, backpacks slung over your shoulders. Kai sat back down. Try me.
You explained everything. It spilled out in a stammered wash of tears, your chest tightening until you could barely speak, and all the while Kai sat across from you, perfectly calm. He was going to tell you that you were crazy. You wanted him to. You wanted him to say you were out of your mind, that nobody would stalk you of all people for going on four years straight, and you’d use his reassurance that you were crazy to be scared to force yourself to walk home in the dark.
Kai, who never touched anyone, reached across the table. You thought he was going to put his hand on your shoulder. Instead he cupped your cheek, smudging away your tears with his thumb. His behavior is ridiculous, but I can’t fault the impulse, he said. I’d have a hard time letting go of you, too.
A warning bell rang distantly in your head, but the relief of being listened to, being believed, drowned everything else out. I’ll walk you home, Kai continued. He took his hand back. You don’t need to be scared of him as long as you’re with me.
And Kai was right, because Kai is always right, because the laws of the universe would bend and break before they’d do anything but prove him correct. You don’t need to be scared of Tomura any longer. Now, almost four years after you married Kai in the culmination of a whirlwind romance, you know that there are worse things than Tomura – and you married the worst thing of all.
Your cheek stings, and you keep your face pressed against the cool tile floor of the bathroom, knowing better than to try to rise. Kai looms over you, expression perfectly calm, barely a spark behind his eyes. “Go on,” he invites you. “Make another excuse.”
You shake your head, and he kicks you – not in the stomach, but hard against your hip. It’s one of his usual targets, and there’s a bruise still healing there from the last time you let him down. You whimper in pain. “Tell me how it isn’t your fault,” Kai continues as you cringe away from him. “I’ve been to the doctor. There’s nothing wrong with me. Are you really going to sit there and tell me it’s my fault you aren’t pregnant?”
“It’s nobody’s fault,” you whisper. Kai kicks you harder this time, and you slam both hands down over your mouth so you won’t cry out. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
Apologies are worth nothing when Kai’s like this. It doesn’t matter to him whether you apologize or not. He’ll stop when he thinks he’s made his point, and not before. The words sneak out of your mouth anyway. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry –”
“I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry.” Kai seizes your arm and the collar of your pajama shirt and hauls you upright, putting you face to face. “I want to hear what you’ll do to fix it.”
“I’ll exercise more, like the doctor said. And take the vitamins. I won’t forget.” Your voice rattles. “I’ll keep track of my cycle like I’m supposed to. I can fix it. Please let me fix it. I know I can.”
He studies you. You stare hopelessly in his eyes, searching for something, anything you recognize as human. But there’s nothing. Kai’s amber eyes are flat and pitiless, like always. “Good,” he says. He drops you abruptly, and you fall back to the floor. “Get dressed. I’ll drive you to work.”
Kai likes to drive you to work. He says it’s important for the two of you to spend time together. Maybe he thinks that’s true, but you only know the effect it has – it means you don’t have a car at work, that you’re dependent on him to get home, that you don’t have even a spare second to think or regroup. You have to do it under his watchful eyes, which is how you do everything. You can’t even put your makeup on to cover the red handprint on your cheek without getting feedback. “Do the other side, too,” Kai instructs. “It’s uneven.”
You do, your hands shaking. You make the mistake of glancing down at the negative pregnancy test still sitting on the counter and spill setting powder into the sink. “Next time, use the spray,” Kai says. “Hurry. You don’t want to be late.”
No, you can’t be late. If you’re late, Kai will be late, and you’ll pay for it – later, when you’re not expecting it, when you’ve made the mistake of thinking he’s let it go. You get dressed the rest of the way, pick up the workbag you packed last night, and hurry to the door. Or try to. Kai’s hand comes down on your shoulder with a bruising grip. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Your head swims with terror, and worse when you feel his hands wrap around your neck. But he’s not choking you – just putting a necklace on you, one he bought for you on your birthday a few weeks ago. “Make sure your idiot coworker sees that. I’m tired of hearing about how she thinks I don’t treat you well.”
Your coworker doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just joking, because you and she are friends, because she assumes your husband is the rational, normal man he appears to be instead of someone who took a joke about your work wife stealing you from him way too literally. You nod, and you force the words out of your mouth, the ones you know he’s waiting for. “It’s beautiful,” you say. “No one’s ever treated me like you do.”
You turn back to face Kai and see him nodding, satisfied. No matter how many times you say those words to him, he never hears what you really mean. He thinks about himself in comparison to Tomura, your loser of a high school boyfriend who could never get a job like Kai’s job, never make the kind of money Kai makes, buy the kind of gifts Kai can buy. You think about Kai in comparison to Tomura, too. Tomura stalked you for years. Kai might kill you one day. There’s no comparison at all.
The drive to work isn’t quiet like it usually is, because Kai always goes back to asking human for a little while after he beats you. You’re familiar with the cycle. He never apologizes, never pretends it won’t happen again, but he acts the way he used to when the two of you were dating. You both know it’s fake, but sometimes it amuses him to play the part of a good husband in private as well as public. You might as well go along while it lasts.
“I’ve been asked to represent the company at a conference in Dubai next month,” he says, and you smile at him. Your cheek hurts. “I’ll take you with me. Where else should we visit while we’re in the region – Istanbul, or Cairo?”
You’ve dreamed about visiting both of them. You’re also convinced that they’d be great places for Kai to kill you, dump your body, and blame it on the locals. But you know he won’t do that. There’s a specific image Kai is cultivating, and until that image requires him to be a widower, he needs you. “Istanbul,” you say.
“Hmm. I favor Cairo,” Kai says, and you freeze in your seat. It’s either freeze or flinch, and Kai hates flinching more. “Why not both? We might as well travel now. It’ll be more difficult after the baby is born.”
“You don’t want our baby to be a world traveler?” You keep your voice light, playful. “Think how far ahead they’d be by the time they went to school.”
“Only an idiot would expose an infant to the kind of pathogens present on an airplane,” Kai says. “Neither of us are idiots. We’ll have plenty of time to travel once our child receives a full course of vaccines.”
“Of course,” you say. “I shouldn’t have forgotten. I just got too excited about it. Us traveling as a family.”
“Yes,” Kai says. His hand leaves the steering wheel to settle on your thigh, and you force your muscles to relax. “This month was a setback, nothing more. Next month we’ll succeed.”
He’s let it go for now, at least. You allow the relief to carry you the rest of the way to work.
Kai’s been playing the good husband since you got in the car, but once he reaches your office building, he kicks the performance into overdrive. He parks the car in a no-parking zone, comes around to your side, and opens the door for you, hand extended to help you out. It looks like a grand gesture, but you know why he’s doing it – if he kicked you too hard, it’ll show when you step up onto the curb. Sure enough, you stumble, and Kai steadies you, setting you back on your feet. “Careful,” he admonishes. “The nurses at the urgent care are busy enough without adding you to their list of patients.”
“I’ll be careful,” you promise. You’re conscious of eyes on you – so many eyes, always. As the heir apparent to the biggest pharmaceutical company in the region, Kai’s a local celebrity. His comings and goings are always an event, and you know your role by heart. “Do I get a kiss goodbye?”
“It’s appalling that you think you need to ask.” Kai cups your cheek with hideous gentleness and kisses you in full view of everyone in your office who’s standing by a window, like he’s a soldier going off to war trying to give you something to remember him by. As if you needed anything else. “I’ll be back at five pm, precisely.”
He lets you go, and you head to work, turning back just once to wave at him. He’s still there. You know from experience that he won’t leave until you enter the building.
Once you’re inside, you duck into your cubicle and sit down as quickly as possible. The fewer people see what your walk looks like right now, the better. Emi, your work wife, flops down on your desk. “Saw you and your hubby making out,” she says, and pops a bubble of gum. “You guys are gross. When Shouta finally realizes I’m the one for him, it’s payback time.”
Emi’s had a crush on Aizawa Shouta from the security division for as long as you’ve known her. Most of the people in the office think she’s insane for liking him, given how scary he is, but you’re on her side. You know what scary looks like. You know that Aizawa, who’s gruff and grumpy but never cruel, isn’t it. “How’s it going with Shouta? Any progress?”
“Little bit. He lets me eat lunch with him now instead of walking away.” Emi sighs dreamily. “We’re going to have five kids. I’ve already picked out their names.”
“Five is a lot. You’re going to have to grow an extra arm.”
Emi laughs. “What about you? Have you and Kai had the talk?”
“About kids?” Your cheek stings. Your computer pings and gives you an excuse to look away. “Not yet.”
Windchimes sound over the loudspeaker, signifying the official opening of business, and Emi blows a kiss to you before ducking back into her own cubicle. As soon as she’s gone, you turn to the locked door in your desk and open it to check on your supplies. You’re almost out. You have a little over a month to figure out how to get more.
Kai thinks he has you under control, and for the most part he’s right, shamefully so. But since you went off birth control, since the two of you started trying for a baby, you’ve been keeping a stash of Plan B at work. Every time you and Kai have sex, you take one within three days.
When Kai brought up trying for a baby, you knew instantly what it meant. If you have Kai’s baby, you’ll guarantee that he won’t kill you, but you’ll wish he would, because you’ll lose every scrap of freedom you’ve managed to cling to. You’ll have to quit your job, which you’ve only kept this long because it suits him to project the image of the young power couple, both decidedly going somewhere in life. The baby will be the only excuse he’ll ever need to keep you tied to the house, to him. And if threatening you ever stops being enough to keep you in line, he’ll have someone else to threaten instead.
You’re terrified that it’ll work, and at the same time, you’re scared it won’t work at all. The bottom line is that you can’t have a baby with Kai. You’ve been sneaking morning-after pills for months now, well aware that you’re running out of time. At some point Kai will get suspicious. At some point he’ll suggest fertility drugs, artificial insemination, IVF, and then you’ll have only three ways out, none of them good. Kill Kai. Try to leave him, which means he’ll kill you. Or kill yourself, make it stick this time, and be done with all of it for good.
There’s one more thing in your locked drawer, other than the Plan B. Something that was waiting for you at work, when you got back after your suicide attempt three years ago, in a plain envelope with your name written in handwriting that triggers only a faint shadow of the anxiety it used to. Tomura didn’t send a letter. Just a picture of the two of you hanging out in Toga’s backyard, with a message scrawled on the back. You can’t run from me forever. I know you don’t want to. I’ll wait.
It’s the last message you ever got from Tomura. If he’s stalked you since, he’s left no trace. And on days like today, when you’re hiding bruises and battling a headache and sick to your stomach with terror, you almost wish he would. At least then someone would see what was happening to you. At least then you’d feel a little less alone.
You knew Kai was being too nice about the Dubai thing, but it’s not until you’re packing for the trip that you understand the full scope of the disaster. The trip lasts for seven days – three in Dubai for the conference, two in Cairo, two in Istanbul. It maps almost exactly onto the point in your cycle when you’re ovulating. And neither Plan B nor any other form of emergency contraception is going to be easy to get while you’re abroad. You spend the night before the trip in a panic, then the morning of the trip talking yourself down. When Kai notices that you’re anxious, you tell him you’re just worried about the flight.
“What about it?” he asks. “The airline has an excellent safety rating.”
“They all do until something happens.” It’s easy for you to summon up tears. “It’s just – things are going so well, and whenever that happens it means something’s going to go wrong –”
You remember sharing the same set of worries with Tomura one time, except it was about something silly – your lines in the school play, or maybe a presentation you had to do. You remember how he shrugged. Yeah, it might go wrong, he said, and you protested, indignant. I still love you, though.
“Nothing will go wrong,” Kai says, perfectly calm. “Everything will go as planned. And if it doesn’t –”
He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. You know exactly who he’ll blame.
Everything does go as planned – the ride to the airport, the always-fraught stumbling through security, and the settling into the airline’s VIP lounge with two hours to kill. Kai orders drinks. One for him and one for you, which is strange, because he’s been harping on you not to drink since you stopped taking birth control. “Is this okay?”
“Yes. I know for a fact that you aren’t pregnant right now.”
You don’t want to be pregnant, so it shouldn’t sting – but somehow it does. “I guess I should enjoy it while I can,” you say. “Thank you.”
The drink is pretty. It comes in a pretty glass, with a flower garnish, and you take out your phone and snap a picture with it, even though you haven’t had social media to post it on in years. But as the shutter clicks, a idea pops into your head. You set your phone aside, take a sip of the drink, and glance at Kai. “I’m thinking about redownloading Instagram.”
He’s just taken a sip, too. He coughs. “Excuse me?”
“I was talking to my supervisor,” you say. “About promotions. She said that when upper management is looking to hire, they check on candidates’ social media to see what their personality is like. If I want to get promoted –”
“You’ll no longer be able to work once the baby is born.”
“They don’t need to know that. And in the meantime, I should try to make as much money as possible, right?” Your mind is screaming at you to shut up, to walk it back, but you keep talking. “I wasn’t doing anything strange on my old account. If I post a picture or two every week, it’ll at least look like I’m active.”
“I suppose,” Kai says. He takes another sip of his drink. “My account serves a similar function, after all.”
You’re featured on Kai’s account a lot. Most of his rivals for the top spot have messy personal lives, and Kai’s veneer of domestic bliss gives a leg up. “Still,” Kai continues, “I’m surprised to hear you bring it up. Aren’t you concerned?”
“About?’
“Your ex.” Kai’s eyes narrow slightly. “You took down your social media because of him. Aren’t you worried about attracting his attention?”
“He hasn’t done anything in three years. He’s lost interest by now,” you say. “And even if he hasn’t – you always told me I didn’t need to be afraid of him while I’m with you. I should finally start taking your word for it.”
Kai looks pleased. You reach for your drink, but he lifts it out of your hand and sets it back on the table. Then he takes out your paper boarding passes and fans them out, revealing the first-class stamp along with the destination. “Now take the picture,” he instructs. Oh. You pick up your phone. “If you’re curating your image, always consider what lies in the background. This looks sophisticated. Your first photo looked cheap.”
Sometimes Kai reminds you of Hannibal Lecter. You snap a few photos, then come up with an idea. “Hold your hand out,” you say. He extends it across the table to you, and you take it with your left hand. Kai raises his eyebrows. “So my ring’s in the picture. It’s sophisticated, too.”
“Yes,” Kai agrees. “It also says you’re taken.”
You nod. Your heart is hammering, and you draw your hand away from Kai’s before he can feel your pulse. You redownload Instagram, then give Kai your phone, letting him choose the photo from the several you took and edit it to his satisfaction. He adds the tags, too, but leaves the caption for you.
What do you even caption it? That depends on why you’re posting it, and even you aren’t sure. Finally you tag Kai’s account and type a caption that sounds fun, maybe. Flirty, but it’s okay, because you tagged your husband. And a little bit of something else, something you don’t want to look at head-on. Run away with me.
Kai’s personal phone pings and he consults it. “The caption is rough, but passable for now. You’ll do better next time.”
“Yes,” you promise. Your hands are shaking.
The flight goes well, but that’s not to say there’s no turbulence; a particular patch of unstable air over the Indian Ocean scares everybody except you and Kai out of their seats. Kai’s not easy to rattle, and you’re so rattled from everything else that it doesn’t make much of an impact. Once the air smooths out, the other passengers fall back to sleep quickly. Kai stays awake, and alert. “What is it?” you ask.
“The bathrooms are empty. We should take advantage.”
That makes as much sense to you as anything else. It’s not until you’re up there, opening the door to one, that you figure out what Kai actually meant. As tiny as airport bathrooms are for one, they’re smaller for two, and you have no idea how Kai expects the two of you to have sex in here after he’s yanked you into the one he just opened. “I don’t think this is going to work.”
“Use your imagination.” Kai shuts the door. The click of the lock is unbearably loud.
You don’t have a clue where he got the idea that the two of you should join the Mile-High club in the middle of an eleven-hour flight. Then again, you don’t usually know where Kai gets his ideas for spicing up your sex life. This one feels far enough out of his usual zone to be the result of something he heard or something he read. Kai likes things clean and orderly, and he doesn’t like to be rushed – and he doesn’t like needing too much active participation from you to make something work. You can’t imagine why he thinks fucking you in an airplane bathroom is a good idea. You’ve never been more uncomfortable in your life.
And that’s it, you realize. Your discomfort is what’s getting Kai off here, the fact that you clearly don’t want to do this but are putting up with it anyway, just because he said to. He likes the reminder of your obedience, and you think he probably likes to forget where it comes from. Either way, he’s into it, and you’re as bent as it’s possible to be over the sink while he makes quick work of your clothes. You catch a glimpse of your own face in the mirror, see the resigned, vacant look in your eyes, and squeeze them shut.
Your experience with men is limited. You dated a guy or two in college, but your constant paranoia about Tomura scared them off, and you and Tomura only got farther than third base a handful of times. It was never scripted, always awkward, because you didn’t have a clue what you were doing – and at the same time, it was good. Good because it wasn’t a performance, because you weren’t playing a part, because it wasn’t about anything except feeling how you felt. That was another reason it took you so long to break up with Tomura. When the two of you were together, you felt good.
There’s something twisted and wrong about thinking about the guy who stalked you while the guy who might kill you someday fucks you from behind, but you have to think about something. Kai expects a certain performance from you, given the effort he’s putting into being kinky and spontaneous, and you can’t do it off the top of your head. So you come up with some memory of Tomura, try to pretend you’re there instead of here, while Kai’s thrusts shove you hard enough against the sink to leave bruises on your stomach and hips.
“Look at yourself,” Kai hisses in your ear. His hand brushes against your neck, and even the suggestion of it spurs you to look up. “Look. Who else would do this for you?”
He’s doing it for you? You could almost laugh if you weren’t so sickened by your own reflection. You can make the right faces, mimic the moves he likes with the scant space you have, but you know what Kai really wants from you. Noise. You would almost rather he choked you to death right here than that he forces a single sound out of your mouth. There’s nothing he can make you feel that’s worth it. Not even your memories are enough.
But Kai doesn’t leave things to chance. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, and you cry out before you can stop yourself. Your husband doesn’t try to stop himself either – he pins you against the sink, fucking you fast and hard until he comes inside you. “No one else would do this for you,” he pants in your ear, as undone as he ever gets. “Don’t forget that.”
Kai never makes the comparison to anyone but Tomura, because in his head, he’ll always win. And you know he’s right. Tomura wouldn’t have dragged you in here. If the idea had come up, it would have been as a joke. You wouldn’t be in first class, you’d be in economy, and you’d have woken up with the turbulence and gone back to sleep.
Kai pulls out. You’re dully surprised that he manages it, given how little space the two of you are working with. “Clean up,” he orders. “I’ll be waiting.”
Cleaning up takes a while. Kai’s cleaned up, too – when you get back to your seat, the entire row smells like hand sanitizer. He looks you up and down and nods in approval before he lets you into the window seat. Your phone, which you left screen-down on your seat and connected to the plane’s WiFi, is inundated with notifications, almost all of them from Instagram. People from high school, from college, from the life you had before this one, all excited to see you back, most of them asking for a life update. Asking about the ring, about the husband – about the drink, in one case. But once you clear those notifications away, there’s one last banner glowing up at you. From your period tracker, informing you that you’re ovulating as of today.
As the Dubai trip unfolds, it starts to feel like you’re leading three separate lives. One where you’re Kai’s arm candy with a brain, an integral part of his power-couple image. One where you’re putting up with his attempts to get you pregnant at least twice a day and talking about how excited you are for a baby that hasn’t been conceived. And one where you’re a normal person, posting photos of your vacation on Instagram.
You do a lot of scenery posts. A lot of food posts. If there’s a photo of you, Kai’s usually in it. You’ve been getting DMs from old friends, and the comment sections of your photos get a little lively. Your favorite ones are probably the ones where Emi tags Aizawa, who you didn’t realize had an Instagram until now, and demands to know why he never takes her anywhere this nice. Kai sees you smiling while you read one and comes over to investigate. “No wonder she makes so many ridiculous comments about me. Her partner can’t measure up.”
“They’re not actually dating,” you say. “She likes him, and he’s either gay or dumb about it. I think she’s just having fun.”
“Fun,” Kai repeats. He scoffs. “You should set a higher bar for friends.”
You heart-react to Emi’s comment once his back is turned, then go scrolling through y our notifications. There are a few usernames you haven’t seen yet, although you know they’re still active. If none of them interact with you, you’ll know it hasn’t worked.
Kai is busy during the day in Dubai, and you try to make good use of the time. You spent a lot of time trying to hunt for emergency contraception, a lot of time trying to see the things you want to see, and the rest of the time you’re on Instagram, messaging your old friends, queuing photo posts with meticulously crafted captions that call back to inside jokes from your high school days. The captions won’t make sense to Kai. He didn’t know you back then. The person whose attention you’re trying to capture did.
You’re aware of just how insane this is. Tomura vanished out of your life three years ago, and the best thing you can hope for him is that he’s moved on, found something else to do, found someone else to love in a healthier way than he loved you. So what if Tomura left you that picture? He can’t have meant it. He wouldn’t wait for you, not when you married somebody who’s as different from him as it’s possible to be. He wouldn’t wait for you. Who would?
And even if he did wait, even if this does work, what you’re doing is still incredibly far-fetched. Have you really given up on saving yourself so completely that you’re trying to get someone else to do it for you? You don’t think so. You just know that Tomura’s good at watching. Good at picking up details. You want someone to watch what happens to you, no matter what it is, and know the truth.
At night you go out to dinner or drinks with Kai and his colleagues. You know what part to play, almost well enough to put the whole thing on autopilot, and when you’re not answering questions about your career goals or telling someone how proud you are of your husband, your mind is sipping off in a thousand directions, hoping that one holds a way out.
You’ve done your research about domestic violence, and you know your position is better than the position a lot of people find themselves in when they start trying to leave. You have a degree, you have work experience, you have a credit score, and best of all, you have your own money set aside, a quarter of each paycheck going into an account with nobody’s name on it but yours. You and Kai had a fight over that account a couple months after the wedding. You call it a fight because it was the first and last time you held your ground and won, as well as the first and last time he actually knocked you unconscious. It’s the only time either of you ever went that far.
You have money. That puts you in a stronger position. And for right now, for as long as possible, you don’t have a kid. If you want to leave Kai, now’s the time.
It looks possible on paper. In practice it’s not. There are too many moving parts, too many times where things would have to go exactly right, and Kai’s the only person who has that kind of luck. Even if you got clear somehow, Kai could find you. He’d find you through the lawyers when you tried to divorce him, or he’d find you all on his own, and once he did, it would all be over. He’d kill you and get away with it, or worse, he’d find a judge, wave your extensive history of paranoia and your past suicide attempt in front of their face, and get legal guardianship over you in a heartbeat. Leaving Kai won’t work, not unless you leave him without the ability to come after you again. He’s too smart to get caught in the act of abusing you, so you can’t trust the law to protect you from him. That only leaves one option. And that option is unthinkable.
So here you are. You do exactly what Kai wants you to do for the entirety of the Dubai leg of the trip, and he buys you a pair of earrings that cost more than the downpayment on your house. You’re wearing them as you get on the plane to Cairo. He insisted.
Kai has an itinerary in Cairo, like he does everywhere, but because you haven’t messed up yet, he’s made sure everything you want to see is on it. He steers you through the city with an arm around your waist, effortlessly confident in the way that made you fall for him, before you knew what it meant. And he’s more lenient with you than usual, too. If you get tired, if you need to stop for water, if you take one look at a crowded market and panic a little bit, Kai indulges it. It takes you a while to figure out why. He’s been giving a hundred and ten percent at the task of knocking you up. Too much stress and it might not stick.
His indulgence continues through Istanbul, and because you go above and beyond to please him, you’re able to convince him to take the picture. Just one picture, of just you, inside the Blue Mosque, the place you were most excited to see. Kai gives instructions like he’s directing a photo shoot, about where you should stand and how you should angle your face to best catch the light, and instead of getting one picture, you get three. One where you’re smiling. One where you’re looking up in awe. And one where you’re glancing back over your shoulder, the neckline of your shirt pulled aside, the faint shadow of the bite mark visible beneath it.
Kai doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He wants to post the pictures on his instagram, but you talk him out of it, compromising by giving him photographer credit in a caption Emi promptly calls out as “simping”. You embed the photo in the middle of a three-photo post before you leave the hotel, and you don’t check the notifications until the plane back to Tokyo has reached cruising altitude. The instant you do, your heart stops in your chest.
You’ve been waiting, hoping, but nothing prepares you for what it feels like to see it at last. togachan817 has liked this.
Himiko’s had that same handle since high school, and you never blocked her, not even when you realized she was feeding information about you to Tomura. You’d thought the two of you were friends, and you’d been too hurt to do anything but deactivate your account. And you’re glad you never blocked her. Now she’s seen your post. You know she’ll tell Tomura. And now it’s out of your hands.
Which of the photos did she like? You tap the notification, and the center photo appears. The one where you aren’t smiling. The one with the bite.
Or maybe he was still there—buried beneath layers of shadows, ambition, and hunger.
Every day, she watched him change. The warmth in his voice cooled into calculation. His laughter—once rich and real—turned into something sharp, something cruel. Even the way he touched her shifted: no longer tender, no longer human, but heavy, possessive, like a king clutching his crown.
She sat in silence, always in silence.
When he spoke of power, she nodded.
When he ranted of enemies, she lowered her gaze.
When he boasted of victory, she forced herself to smile.
It was safer that way.
But at night, when he thought she slept, she could feel the tremor of his hand resting near hers. She could hear the way his breath hitched, almost as if something in him still ached. As if the man she remembered—the one who had once whispered dreams instead of domination—was trapped inside the prison of his own making.
Her silence became its own form of betrayal.
She should have stopped him. Should have spoken. Should have begged him to turn back before the darkness swallowed him whole. But the fear pressed against her ribs like a blade. What would he do if she defied him? Would he snuff her out as easily as he snuffed out every opponent, every friend, every trace of resistance?
One evening, she finally dared to meet his eyes across the long, dim hall.
“All for One,” she whispered, her voice smaller than she intended.
He turned, and for a fleeting moment, she swore she saw him—the man, not the monster. But it was gone in an instant, smothered beneath the weight of that cruel smile.
“What is it, my dear?” he asked, his tone smooth, indulgent, like a predator humoring its prey.
Her lips trembled. Her throat tightened.
But nothing came out.
She shook her head, forcing a smile, and whispered, “Nothing.”
He reached for her hand, gloved and commanding, and she let him take it. His thumb brushed her skin as though she were the most precious thing he owned.
Owned.
Not loved.
And she remained silent. Because fear was stronger than hope. Because hope was already dying inside her.
In the quiet, she realized her greatest agony was not that she had lost him.
It was that she was still here—watching, enduring, unable to speak—while he slipped further and further into the abyss.
cw: dead dove ‼️ consent is given but it still borders on dubcon so read at your own risk! smut, porn without plot, oral sex, blowjob, slut-shaming, verbal degradation, body mutilation (he pierces reader's forehead/brain)
an: like i've said before, this is the first and only time i'll write anything dead dove !! i’m not usually into it at all but this specific idea just kind of stuck in my head and I had to write it down. mdni please !! | wc: 1k
✧˚ · . The room Nakime has summoned you into is eerily silent, only the faint taps of the demon king’s approaching footsteps filling the space. You're kneeling on the cold floor, head bowed, every nerve alight with fear.
Your mind had been wandering too much lately. Slivers of a life you weren't supposed to remember, faces, names that usually meant nothing under 𝐌𝐔𝐙𝐀𝐍’s command kept clawing their way back into your thoughts, and he found out. Of course, he found out. And he wasn't about to let his favorite demon, his most efficient weapon get away with such treason.
"Foolish woman." his voice cuts through the air, low and intimidating. "Clinging to scraps of a life that will never be yours again." He steps closer, his eyes burning into the the back of your head as you maintain a bowing position. "I gave you my blood, shaped you into what you are and still…you dare let thoughts I did not grant you flicker in that empty skull of yours?"
His hand is in your hair before you can move an inch, the grip vicious, yanking your head back so your eyes snap up to his. He drinks in your shame, lips curling into a cruel smile as he speaks, the sudden fake tenderness in his tone making your skin crawl.
"You need to be reminded of your place."
You open your mouth to speak, to beg, but Muzan shoves two fingers between your lips before you get the chance, pressing down on your tongue.
"Don’t waste my time with excuses. You’ll make yourself useful in the one way you consistently manage not to disappoint. Does that seem fair to you?"
You don't resist. You give the tiniest nod you can manage under his grip, a subtle sign of consent.
You’ve been in this position before, countless times. Being Muzan's favorite comes with its own privileges — 'privileges' he never hesitates to turn against you the second you disappoint him.
His fingers slip out of your hair, the sharp tug fading into a warm sting along your scalp. His hands fall to his belt instead, the buckle clicking open as he frees himself.
Your heartbeat stutters at the sight of him. Pale, heavy and flushed at the tip, thixk veins stark against the smooth skin. The instant he allows it your tongue traces up the underside of his cock, a soft offering before you open your mouth to take him in, working your head as best you can, hungry for any scrap of approval and forgiveness.
Your lips stretch as you take him deeper, letting the thick weight of him reach the back of your throat. The intrusion makes your eyes water almost instantly, tears gathering at the corners as you force yourself to relax, to take him the way he likes.
A low, cruel laugh rumbles from Muzan’s chest the moment you gag, your throat instinctively closing at the wrong moments. A tear slides down your cheek as you try to take him to the hilt, jaw trembling with the effort.
Muzan’s fingers stroke your scalp, deceptively gentle before tightening in your hair again.
"…How shameful." he deadpans. "My dearest creation, reduced to shaking and tears over something even the weakest mortal could handle. I wonder why I bother elevating you at all."
He holds you there, buried to the base and unmoving, your throat convulsing helplessly. The hand in your hair is unyielding, keeping you impaled while your nails dig into your thighs for balance.
"I am sick and tired of incompetence." he snarls. "You'd think the strongest demons alive would at least be good for something. But they disgrace me every time they breathe. Every last one of them stumbles, fails, and whines, always returning to me with excuses instead of results."
Tears spill freely from your eyes now, saliva slicking your chin as he fucks into your mouth, the last word punctuated by a cruel thrust. You attempt to steady your breathing, to show some shred of strength…but Muzan immediately catches on, groaning as he slams deeper until your vision sparks and you choke, hard.
"Worthless. All of you."
Your chest burns for air, body trembling as you claw weakly at your thighs, coughing and swallowing around his cock. He only groans in satisfaction, fingers pinning your head harder against him.
When he finally lets you pull back, a thick string of spit and pre cum still connects your lips to him.
Muzan’s free hand rises and that sharp, pointed finger of his presses against your forehead. A cold, searing pain runs through your entire body as it pierces through skin and bones, pushing effortlessly into your brain.
"If you can’t withstand another drop, you’ll die here like the worthless creature you are." He pushes all the way to the knuckle, the flood of blood instantly doubling. Muzan tilts his head and crouches to meet your eyes, watching with predatory calm. "But if you do...." his voice turns almost gentle, his finger twisting. Your vision blurs, sharpens, only to blur again as your body fights to stabilize the influx. "If your body doesn’t fail… if you survive what should kill you…then you’ll become something greater than anything this world has ever seen. And you will remember nothing, except who made you." he continues softly, leaning in close enough for his breath to ghost over your cheek. "Tell me, Upper Moon. Do your precious memories mean anything now? Do they matter when all that exists inside you… is me?"
Your throat works around a broken sound, eyes already clearer, devoid of memory. "No, Lord Muzan."
"...Very good." He withdraws his finger from your forehead with a slick pull, your skin instantly regenerating.
You watch as Muzan rises back to his feet, his hand cupping your cheek in a deceptively gentle stroke, a mockery of tenderness now that you're back under his control.
"Now open wide. Every drop goes down your throat, or I’ll tear it out myself."
Fully Human, Chapter 21 (Sci Fi AU, Marco x Reader, DARK, dead dove, NON CON, humans as pets)
18+ MDNI | on Ao3 | the other chapters
Notes at the end! This one fluffy.
Marco POV
Marco left you dozing on his bed, your supple body worn out after the previous activities. Marco loved seeing you like this, so docile and sweet. He meant what he had said before, this version of you wouldn’t last forever, but he cherished each of your moods. Marco equally liked when you were sassy and cheeky, or when you were unsure and nervous, or relaxed and thinking. You were interesting to be near, and he often wondered about your reactions to various situations when you weren’t with him.
Really, Marco enjoyed being around you all the time, he thought as he carefully removed the red bow of your head and set it on the bedside table. Marco checked your vitals one last time before he closed the door. Just as he suspected, Izou was waiting for him outside the door.
“We have a few things to talk about,” Izou said as Marco double checked the lock on the door. He still hadn’t recovered from when Ace had harmed you, even after the debrief with Pops. Yes, Marco knew you were safe, but only the tug at the door ensuring it was locked made him able to walk away from you sleeping within.
“I’m going to retrieve Luna’s enhanced suit from the lab for our excursion. Would you mind coming with me while we chat yoi?” Marco asked as he began heading back to the lab. Izou gave him a grin and kept pace easily.
“Of course not, brother. It’s rather kind of you to get her an enhanced one,” Izou remarked, a tentacle curling tightly. Marco frowned, Izou’s intelligence tricks didn’t work on him. Mostly.
“It’s for our trip down to Kyuka. She will continue to wear her current suit underneath, but this one is more suitable for travel and trips to planets. It is far more durable and protective, even given the relaxed surroundings of Kyuka. This mitigates the risk of her being injured from only wearing the thin, soft material of her normal suit,” Marco explained. Izou hummed and nodded his understanding.
“Even though the suit she wears was designed for highly volatile younglings who enjoy fighting and could absolutely keep her secure. Not to mention that you will be at her side, protecting her from any potential threats and healing her from any harm that may come to her,” Izou concluded, his eyes sliding over to Marco. Marco pursed his lips but didn’t answer.
“Speaking of your trip, Luna mentioned to me that she’s never been on a planet before,” Marco stopped in front of the doors to the lab, his eyebrows hitched in the middle.
“What? Did she mean on her previous ship yoi?” Marco questioned. Izou shook his head.
“No, I asked her that as well. She clarified that she has never been on any planet. Not with her merchant ship as she was the last member to join, but also not before then either,” Izou said. Marco looked down and to the side, trying to think through what that could mean.
“Then where could she be from? How could she never – maybe a moon? With limited abilities to fly to the main planet?” Marco thought, tapping his chin. Izou nodded again.
“That was my thought too. It’s best to get information out of her when she’s not paying attention to what she’s saying. We can try another time, see if she says more. I hope she behaves herself and enjoys the planet,” Izou remarked as Marco frowned.
Frankly, he felt sorry for you – he would have done your training after visiting the planet if he’d known you’d never been anywhere before. Marco would have to make your visit memorable, he was glad he’d spent the time studying the flora and fauna of the planet for you. His mind set on curating a positive experience, Marco opened the door to the lab and retrieved the enhanced suit disc from his supply closet as Izou lingered in the doorway.
“She’s starting to formulate her plan for escape, though it’s not obvious to me exactly what she’s organizing. She hasn’t taken any notes on her Controller, but I’m not sure if anyone explicitly taught her how to. I did plant the basic schematics of the ship on her controller like we had discussed, which she’s spent many hours studying. Other than that, she’s been taking many Common courses as well as taken a picture of Thatch-”
“What?” Marco asked, putting the suit disc in his pocket.
“Is that a problem? I allowed her Controller to take pictures in case she needed them to send queries to you,” Izou explained, his tentacles squirming against the cool floor.
“No, of course not. Not a problem yoi,” Marco said with feigned nonchalance. Why hadn’t you asked to take his picture?
“She was looking over the engineering areas the most as well as the aft of the ship where the old escape pods are, but I redacted that information from her schematic. She can see where the newer ones are, so we can remotely control the one she chooses when the time arises,” Izou said, tucking his hands into his sleeves. Marco ground his teeth as they began walking back to his room.
Marco didn’t like the plan to allow you to escape, no matter how controlled it was. There were too many variables that would allow you to get injured or hurt or even captured by others. But, Marco couldn’t think of another way to get to Lafftale, especially when you claimed you didn’t even know where it was. Marco felt slightly mollified that they’d be able to control the pod from afar but it wasn’t enough to make him feel secure. Marco’s hand was held up to unlock the door as Izou spoke again.
“Something else I noticed is that you enjoy her calling you ‘Marco’ during sex,” Izou said with a smug smile. Marco blinked slowly, his fingers curling into his palm.
“Outside of the bedroom Luna seems to be fairly well trained, calling you Master as you requested. But during sexual activity, you seem to revel in her calling you by your name,” Izou continued.
“I don’t-”
“You didn’t correct her,” Izou interrupted before Marco could defend himself. Izou smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“It is no business of mine, brother. Is it simply what I noticed. Enjoy your time on Kyuka,” Izou said, before sauntering away. Marco frowned, opening his fingers once more. He would correct you the next time you called him by his first name during sex. He would. No matter how much he liked to hear his name tumbling from your lips while you came around him, rules were rules. And he’d personally given you the rules so he would have to abide by them as well. It would be confusing for you if he wavered on his decisions, so he would have to remain firm. Entering the room, Marco sat at his workstation and began reviewing charts quietly, encouraging you to sleep your fill.
About an hour later, Marco noticed you were rousing. He crossed the room to the bed, not wanting to miss the time when you were warm and sweet, though slightly grumbly. When you woke up was one of Marco’s favorite times to be near you, all cosy limbs and fuzzy mind as you slowly returned to consciousness. Marco ran the backs of his fingers up your cheeks, making you groan and pull the blankets over your head.
“Come along, bratty little human. We can go to Kyuka now yoi,” Marco said with a chuckle. You whipped the blanket off your head, revealing your bright eyes and smiling face.
“Really? You’ll still let me go?” you asked, biting your lower lip. Marco nodded.
“Yes, I told you as much. I have yet to lie to you yoi,” Marco replied. You rolled your eyes, but Marco let it slide. He’d just put you through a lot and an eye roll wasn’t terribly disrespectful. He handed you your glass, already filled with an electrolyte solution he’d prepared for you. You gulped it down like you always did, making Marco rub his forehead. He took the now empty glass from you and put it back down on his nightstand.
“Come here, I have another suit for you,” Marco beckoned, as you hopped out of bed. You looked at him skeptically but drew near.
“What kind of hic suit?” you asked, your eyes narrowed in suspicion. Marco’s eyes widened as rubbed his hallux over the apple of your warm cheek in affection. You jerked your head away before hiccuping again. Was he really seeing the rumored involuntary contraction? He had read about it in his ancestor’s journals but he’d never seen it captured on any vid. Unfortunately, there was so much about humans that hadn’t been studied beyond a line or two in various articles. Most beings were only interested in humans for their sexual functions and nothing else. Marco, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about humans. He always had, ever since he saw his first vid. Small gestures, reactions, expressions – those interested Marco greatly.
He had read an offhand remark from his ancestor that hiccuping occurred when humans were excited or when they drank very quickly. He had been hoping to see some given your propensity for quick consumption, and now he was finally being rewarded. Hiccups wouldn’t harm you, but it was so cute he couldn’t help but want to record it for the future.
“What hic are you staring at now?” you said, shifting your weight to one foot and crossing your arms over your chest. Marco reached down to his controller, feigning disinterest in you to start a recording.
“Hic you are so strange,” you said, but didn’t ask him to stop the recording. Marco smiled – really, you were too adorable for your own good. The small sound coupled with the way your body jumped made him want to squeeze you tightly in his arms. He believed the human term for this was cuteness aggression. Marco forced himself to focus on what was happening in the present and answer your questions.
“I have an enhanced suit that goes over your current one yoi. It is armored and has better defensive capabilities than the one you wear,” Marco explained as he placed the disc on your chest and pressed a few buttons. You hiccuped under Marco’s fingers, your chest quickly moving. You looked down, watching his every move.
Pressing a few buttons, Marco activated the suit, which quickly expanded over you, excluding your Controller. You squealed in delight, turning in a quick circle as the suit covered you completely. You kicked up a foot to look at the boot-like endings of the suit before clapping your hands together rapidly, another hiccup coming from you.
“Thank you Master!” you said happily, your eyes almost closing with your wide smile. Thinking back to Izou’s earlier words, Marco felt a pang of regret. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t made you call him Master all the time. He wanted to hear you thank him, not your Master. He’d reconsider at a later time, after you were back on the ship safe and sound. Marco turned off the recording, pleased with what he had captured.
Your POV
Holy fuck you were so excited. Not only were you going down to Kyuka, your first planet, but Marco had even given you a better space suit. You’d definitely find a way to bring this thing with you once you left. You did a small twirl of happiness, the new suit so vastly superior to the soft one you normally wore. Well, really, you were glad to have both. But the new one made you feel like you could actually do something. Like a space pirate warrior goddess. You threw a few fake punches as Marco watched you bemusedly, his chin in his palm.
“Wait,” you said, now that you had finally looked around the room. You’d practically been a puddle when Marco had put you in the bed for a nap, not even opening your eyes before falling asleep.
“What’s all this stuff?” you asked, noticing a bunch of furniture that definitely hadn’t been in Marco’s room before. There was a giant, comfortable looking black lounge chair, a tan couch, with a neatly folded stack of blankets on it, and some kind of hanging swing chair. Your fingers twitched with the desire to run your hands over the soft looking material.
“I ordered them and they finally arrived yoi. I had them delivered while we were in the lab,” Marco said offhand, sending a message on his Controller.
“Really? Why?” you asked, looking at the oversized chair again. You would love to curl up in that thing and do your modules, you just knew it.
“Humans enjoy having multiple soft surfaces to sit and recline on, as well as many choices of blankets. So I ordered some for you,” Marco said simply, closing his messaging screen. OK, that was actually considerate. He didn’t have to get you anything, and you’d certainly survived with less for your whole existence thus far. You did like the luxe looking furniture and were excited to try it out.
You started walking towards him, and your still aching legs reminded you that Marco could also be less considerate. But whatever, you weren’t going to let the memory of your time with Marco and Izou ruin the nicest chair you’d ever seen. The chair hadn’t done anything to you. And if it was anything like Marco’s bed, that was going to be your new favorite spot, you could just feel it.
“If you don’t like any of it, I can return the pieces yoi,” Marco said, his back stiffening. Oh, no he didn’t. Time for fawning, you thought. He wasn’t going to get rid of the furniture before you even had a chance to really try it out. You could practically see yourself lying across the sofa, your legs on Marco’s lap as he massaged your tired feet. Wait, what? You shook your head to rid yourself of the mental image. You’d be reclining alone, not with Marco. Marco could go sit in his stupid, rigid, ugly work chair. By himself.
Thinking back, you remembered a trick you’d seen some of the women do to the men on Lafftale when they were pleased with something or other. It always worked on the men, so you hoped it would work on all males, not just human ones. You walked right up to Marco and put both of your hands on his forearm. You tugged at him slightly, pulling him down a little. Marco raised his eyebrow at you, but lowered his torso a touch.
“No, farther down,” you ordered.
“If this is some kind of misbehavior-”
“It’s not. Just come down here. So suspicious,” you chided, as Marco angled his face towards you. He did have reason to be that way, just not this time.
“What is it you desire yoi?” Marco asked dryly, though you knew he was interested by the gleam in his eyes. You reached over and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek. You went back down on your heels as Marco stood back up fully.
“Thank you, Master,” you said sweetly, meaning it for once. It was actually a nice thought for Marco to get you new furniture, without you even asking. You didn’t know how expensive it was, but surely the quality pieces he’d bought cost him quite a bit of money. It wasn’t like you needed it, but you certainly wanted to relax on all of it.
“C-come along, Luna. We have a pod pilot waiting for us yoi,” Marco said, beckoning you while looking at the door. Marco’s pants had tented in the front but you didn’t remark on it. Of all the things, he got hard from you kissing his cheek? What a fucking weirdo, you thought.
“Wait, you’re not gonna pilot it?” you asked, a little surprised. Marco shook his head.
“I’m a passable pilot but it’s not my strength. So, no, I had to ask-”
“Can I fly us then?” you asked hopefully, bouncing on the balls of your feet.
“No. If it was up to me, you’d never fly again,” Marco said with finality, taking your hand in his own. If it was up to him…? What did that mean? Were you going to get lessons? You pondered over Marco’s slip of the tongue as the two of you made your way quickly down to the shuttle pods.
You tried your best to commit everything you passed to memory, despite the map of the ship that was in your Controller. Which, if you were remembering everything correctly…wasn’t quite adding up. The schematic was almost right, but it felt like there were small sections of the ship that were missing from it. In fact, the longer you walked down the halls, the more sure you were. Something you’d have to think about later.
Walking through the halls this time was better than the first, but not by much. You still gripped Marco’s hand as other beings passed by, though you didn’t need to be carried. Everyone was still staring, but no one said anything. Maybe Marco had talked to everyone in an effort to make you feel more comfortable? You waved at a flustered Deuce as you passed him in the halls, making him drop the data pad he was carrying. You laughed, and Marco squeezed your hand, smiling as well.
“Hey Marco! Hey Luna!” Thatch said as he passed by. His normally deep green hue was a little grayish around his hands and face, though you weren’t sure why.
“Hello Thatch,” Marco greeted in return, while you waved.
“Are you going down to Kyuka yoi? You can travel with us if you’d like,” Marco offered. You inwardly groaned. Just what you didn’t want – to be sandwiched between controlling Marco and pervy Thatch on a space flight and down on the planet itself. Between the two of them, you wouldn’t get a moment of peace.
“No, I was already there. Besides, I feel like this,” he said, flipping you and Marco off. You bit your lips and closed your eyes to keep from laughing out loud as Thatch replicated the gesture with both hands.
“Oh? And what does that mean?” Marco deadpanned, squeezing your hand.
“Luna taught it to me! It’s human for ‘I’m tired.’ Isn’t that great?” he beamed at you. You looked straight ahead as Marco turned to you.
“Did she now? How interesting yoi,” Marco said dryly. You gave him a quick nod and smile.
“Yep! I taught it to my whole division. It's an easy shorthand, we love it. So I would normally love to go with, but I have dinner prep soon and like I said,” Thatch continued, flipping you off again with both hands. “Have fun you two!”
“Bye, Thatch,” you said, avoiding Marco’s gaze.
“Goodbye, Thatch,” Marco echoed, rubbing a circle into your palm with his hallux.
“I have seen that human gesture before, and I recall reading something about it. At the present time, I cannot be completely sure of its meaning, though I am fairly certain it does not indicate exhaustion yoi,” Marco said as he resumed walking. “I will research further and determine a course of action at a later time.”
“Would you believe me if-”
“No.” Marco replied immediately, cutting you off. You pouted, though the mental image of the Fourth division flipping each other off constantly did bring a smile back to your mouth. Looking up at Marco in your peripheral vision, a smile was playing Marco’s lips too, so how mad could he really be?
Soon, you were at the shuttle launching station. There were several craft, ranging from 100 being freighters to single person pods, and Marco led you to one of the smaller ones. You were on high alert – your original plan was to steal an escape pod but if that didn’t work, you would also be open to taking any one of these space craft.
As Marco led you to one yellow ship, you became even more excited. It was making your heart race just looking at it – the ship was sleek and aerodynamic and almost looked like a flying egg and holy fuck you wanted to fly it so so badly. It was unique, and well designed and you would bet your bottom berri that it could sail through space incredibly fast. Terra would love this thing, you were sure of it.
“This is the ship we’ll be taking,” Marco said, opening the hatch to allow you entry. You popped your head in to check it out from the inside, this ship was cool as fuck. “Now don’t-”
“Yo,” Ace said, from in front of the controls.
“Absolutely not,” you said, your hands up as you retracted your head and backed away from the shuttle. “Is this a fucking joke?”
“Mind your language, Luna. And no, this is not a joke. Board the vessel,” Marco said. He had moved to stand a few steps behind you, cutting off your path of escape. Your mouth opened in outrage as you spun to face Marco.
“No way! That fucker-”
“Luna,” Marco growled, his hand gripping your chin. “I understand how you feel, but this is your final warning. Ace is a Commanding Officer on this crew, equal to me. Speak respectfully to him and about him. I would not wish to have to stall our trip for another punishment.” You gulped, you didn’t want that either.
“OK, OK, I’m sorry for the rude language,” you said sullenly. Marco nodded and allowed you to continue.
“But that Commander grilled me like a steak! I’m not going anywhere with him. Can’t you find someone else?” you begged, removing your face from Marco’s hand.
“I understand your hesitation, but Ace is the best pilot in the crew yoi,” Marco explained, his hand encircling your upper arm. He didn’t squeeze or grip you tightly, just held your arm as if to steady you. Marco’s careful handling only made you more annoyed.
“I’m good too! Ace said so himself! So why can’t I fly us?!” you balked, trying unsuccessfully to flail your arm out of Marco’s grasp.
“Because you can’t fly this ship,” Ace said, now coming around the other side. Somehow he had gotten a gigantic piece of meat on a bone that he hadn’t been eating moments before. His tail was flicking as he approached, which made you remember how it felt when it wrapped around your middle. You unintentionally backed into Marco, who put his arm around your shoulders.
“You are a good pilot. But this is my personal ship, and no human will ever be able to fly it,” Ace said, watching you closely.
“Tch. I knew you hated humans,” you scoffed, lying out your ass. You didn’t think Ace was humanphobic, but it felt good to say it in an attempt to hurt his feelings. And whatever, if he didn’t want people flying his stupid ship, you didn’t really want to fly it that much anyway.
“I don’t hate humans. This ship is powered by my own fire, there’s no other source of fuel. And as far as I know, humans can’t do that,” Ace explained, the barb easily dismissed as he took another large bite of his food. You looked at Marco, hoping your displeasure was evident in your frown. Marco sighed, running his free hand over the top of his head.
“Pops said that the two of you need to make amends. There can’t be serious discord among the crew,” Marco said, looking off to the side. His arm gripped your shoulders tighter as he spoke again. “And I will be with you the entire time.”
“So this wasn’t your idea?” you asked him, looking up at him.
“No, yoi. I thought you would have a negative reaction to seeing Ace so soon after the incident. But Pops is right, it is best to repair your relationship given that you are both members of the crew.”
“Am I now?” you asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“You know what I meant yoi. Let’s travel down to the planet and enjoy ourselves. Izou told me you’ve never been on any planet before, and this one is a pleasant one. There are many plants and animals I believe you will find interesting,” Marco replied, herding you closer to the hatch once more.
“It’s been like over a week now since that happened! How long are you gonna be mad about it?” Ace grumbled as he finished the meat he was eating.
“You really hurt me, Ace. I’ve never been injured that bad before,” you said quietly, looking up at his golden eyes. Ace looked away, licking his chops for a moment.
“I’m – I’m sorry. I didn’t know how bad I hurt you in my room. I knew it wasn’t good, but Marco explained it to me after and I felt like I almost killed you. I wanted to visit you a couple times after to say sorry but I wasn’t allowed. I even got you a bow as an apology because I know you love ‘em but I just – I’m really sorry. I won’t do it again. I know now how to treat you and humans and stuff, Marco taught me. And I’ve been leaning on my own too, all the stuff about what you need. I won’t hurt you or any other human again,” Ace said, kicking his boot on the floor. He seemed sincere, but your guard was still up. And what was this about other humans?
“Ok. I forgive you,” you said, even as you pressed yourself back into Marco. Ace was your only way onto the planet and it sounded like Whitebeard himself wanted you to accept Ace’s apology. Ace immediately brightened, and threw the old bone on the ground.
“Great! So you’ve never been to any planet? How’sat possible?” Ace asked, crouching down to get into the pilot’s seat.
“Just is,” you said neutrally. You bit your lip, you still didn’t want to say too much about the subject. Marco rubbed his hand on your back in slow circles. At least he’d be with you this time when you were with Ace. After all, once burned, twice shy. Or something like that.
“C’mon. Maybe Marco will let you sit next to me. You can watch me pilot Striker – there’s a lot of controls that are similar to other craft. It’s not completely pointless even if the fuel source is different,” Ace offered, waggling his eyebrows. OK, now that was an attractive offer. You widened your eyes and looked up at Marco, jutting out your lower lip slightly. Based on your experience, Marco tended to listen to you more when you did this.
“Could I, Master? Please?”
“Ew, you still make her call you that? So gross,” Ace huffed with a roll of his eyes. You mentally willed Ace to shut up, but you were pretty sure everyone on board had those thoughts and they hadn’t worked yet. If Marco was feeling criticised, he wasn’t going to let you sit next to Ace, and you did want to watch him pilot the ship. You needed every bit of information you could get and that even included ships you couldn’t operate. If that meant sitting next to Fire Boy, so be it. Marco would probably kill Ace and then himself if anything happened to you again.
“He likes me calling him that. It’s what well trained humans do,” you retorted, before turning to face Marco. At this point, you’d call Marco pretty much whatever he wanted to better your chances of escape.
“Please can I sit next to Ace, Master? I’ll be good,” you asked, giving him your best pleading human eyes. For maximum effect, you put your fingertips on Marco’s bare chest.
“Alright, if you feel comfortable yoi. It’s not a long flight down,” Marco said, with an indulgent grin.
“Thank you, Master,” you said with a smile. He bent down slightly, like he was expecting something but you turned and entered the ship. You weren’t going to reward him with a kiss for just anything, he had to earn it. You were going to train him just as much as he thought he was training you, you thought as you settled into the seat next to Ace.
Note: The hiccuping is @starrlo0ver 's idea <3
We didn't make it down to the planet yet lol
NEXT CHAPTER IS TREASURE ISLAND RELAXATION ISLAND
Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. A continuation to Growing Strong. Can be read as a oneshot.
Can you do one when Duncan attacks him so he ask for trail of the seven, but then she changes his mind (maybe even telling him she’s pregnant) snd bealor lives 🙂↕️🙂↕️
Deep in the Meadow
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes,learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game. A continuation to Growing Strong and Married Life. Can be read as a oneshot.
Warnings: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle, manipulation, emotional control, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, Aerion is a little shit, alternate ending to show/book because we want Baelor to live, consequently Westeros politics.
The road to Ashford stretched long and dusty beneath the summer sun, banners snapping lazily in the wind as the Targaryen party rode toward the meadow. Knights in polished armor surrounded them, servants and wagons trailing behind, and everywhere eyes turned when the dragon banners passed.
You rode beside Aerion, back aching from the saddle after hours on the road. You had not wanted to come but as a relatively new lady wife of a prince, you were required to be seen by the realm.
You had been married five moons now. Long enough to learn when his silence meant contentment and when it meant trouble. Today it meant boredom.
He rode with restless energy, fingers tapping the reins, gaze wandering toward the distant pavilions rising on the horizon.
“Finally,” he muttered. “Something worth looking at.”
You smiled faintly. “You say that now. Wait until you’re sweating in armor under the sun.”
He scoffed. “I intend to look glorious.”
The procession slowed as they approached the encampment, horses shifting restlessly. Aerion dismounted in one fluid motion and turned toward you expectantly.
Your legs protested when you tried to swing down. You grimaced.
“Gods,” you muttered. “If I never see a saddle again...”
A large hand appeared at your side.
Not Aerion’s.
A tall young man, broad-shouldered, plain-faced but earnest, had stepped forward to help you down. His hands were careful, respectful, steadying you as your boots touched the ground.
“Thank you,” you said warmly.
The young man flushed slightly.
Before he could answer, Aerion’s voice cut sharply through the air.
“You there,” he said, already turning away, assuming obedience as naturally as breathing. “Fetch me and my lady wife a glass of wine.”
The man blinked, startled.
“I can fetch it myself,” you said lightly.
“No,” Aerion replied, already taking your arm. “I’m tired of feeling only a horse’s saddle beneath me today.”
He practically dragged you along, impatience in every step.
You glanced back apologetically at the young man, offering a small smile.
He nodded awkwardly. You would later learn his name. Duncan.
The tourney grounds swelled with noise and color. Knights in shining armor moved between pavilions, banners from every corner of the realm fluttering in the breeze. The air smelled of sweat, roasted meat, and summer grass.
The Targaryens drew attention instantly.
You noticed the glances people gave Aerion.
You settled among the nobles while preparations were made. Aerion paced like a caged animal, eager for the lists.
When you caught his sleeve before he left, he paused.
You held out your favor - a strip of cloth embroidered with a subtle golden rose.
“For luck,” you said softly.
He smirked. “I don’t need luck.”
“No,” you agreed. “But I would like a respectable win. One worthy of your name.”
His gaze sharpened. You knew what he heard beneath the words. No cruelty. No spectacle. A victory that elevated him.
He leaned in slightly, clearly put out.
“As you wish, my rose.”
He rode into the joust with new purpose.
When Ser Humfrey Hardyng met him, the clash thundered across the field.
Aerion’s lance struck true.
The knight was thrown cleanly, armor clattering into the dirt.
Aerion lifted his helm, looking toward you.
You smiled brightly.
His chest swelled with pride.
The evening fell warm and restless.
The pavilions glowed with lantern light, music drifting across the meadow. You had been pulled away by ladies eager to know the new Targaryen bride, leaving Aerion to wander.
You didn’t see the puppet show. You didn’t see the moment the dragon puppet died. But you heard about it later. The shouting. The crowd scattering. By the time you found him, Aerion’s knuckles were bloody. A woman cried nearby, clutching her hand, her fingers twisted awkwardly.
And standing between her and Aerion was the same broad young man who had helped you down from your horse earlier.
“You shame yourself,” the young knight shouted.
Aerion laughed, bright and cruel.
“Shame?” he sneered. “I am a dragon.”
Dunk struck him.
The sound shocked the crowd into silence.
Aerion reeled back, blood bright against his lip.
Guards surged forward instantly.
Duncan was dragged down.
Somewhere nearby, a small boy shouted in panic.
You pushed through the crowd too late to stop anything.
Later, in the pavilion, the atmosphere felt suffocating.
Aerion sat while you cleaned the cut on his lip, your movements gentle despite your frustration.
He bristled like an affronted cat.
“He struck a prince,” Aerion hissed. “He should lose his head.”
“You dared raise your hand against me,” he said coldly to Duncan. “I want his head.”
You dabbed the blood away carefully.
“Hold still,” you murmured.
He ignored you.
Duncan looked toward Baelor, desperate but proud.
Before anyone could dismiss you, you spoke.
“I wish to stay,” you said clearly.
Aerion turned sharply. “This is no place for you.”
“I would like to know what happened,” you replied calmly.
You let your hand rest briefly on his arm, a subtle pressure.
A gesture not only he noticed. Baelor noticed too. So did Maekar. They exchanged a glance. If you stayed, Aerion might remain calmer.
Baelor nodded slowly.
“She may stay.”
Aerion looked displeased but didn’t argue.
You resumed cleaning his wound, keeping your expression neutral while listening carefully.
Duncan stood accused.
The pavilion felt smaller than it should have. The air smelled faintly of blood, wine, and the heavy tension of men deciding another man’s fate.
“I struck Prince Aerion to protect the weak and innocent. ,” he said, voice steady despite the circumstances. “It was my duty as a knight.”
Aerion gave a sharp laugh that bordered on a hiss.
Baelor’s expression softened slightly. He studied Duncan with that maddening calm that so often made Maekar impatient. “If you are indeed a knight,” Baelor said thoughtfully, “then you are owed the rights of one. Trial rather than immediate execution. You may choose trial by combat.”
A ripple passed through the room.
Aerion stiffened.
You felt it before you saw it, his pride bristling at the idea that the man who had struck him might fight his way free.
You looked at Duncan properly then.
He was enormous. The sort of man who could overwhelm most opponents by sheer size alone.
And suddenly, you understood exactly where this might go.
You set the cloth down slowly.
“If I may, my lords,” you said softly.
Every gaze shifted toward you.
You rose gracefully, smoothing your skirts, your expression calm and warm, the same gentle charm that had soothed nobles and commoners alike. The voice you used now was not confrontational. It was curious.
“Ser Duncan,” you said politely, “you spoke of your knightly oath. Do you remember all of it?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “A knight must protect the weak and innocent. Defend women and children. Fight fairly and honorably. Obey his liege.”
You inclined your head slightly, encouraging him.
“And who,” you asked gently, “is your liege?”
He frowned. “The king…and his house.”
You smiled faintly. “Just so.”
Silence stretched as your words settled.
“You say you acted as a knight,” you continued, voice still light. “Yet before a crowd, you struck your liege - a prince of the realm. You publicly assaulted the blood of the king.”
Duncan shifted uncomfortably.
“He hurt Tanselle” Duncan said, more forcefully now. “He broke her finger.”
You nodded, unflinching.
“Yes,” you said. “Cruel. Unnecessary. But not fatal. Not permanent harm.”
Aerion glanced at you sharply, surprised by your candor, but you did not look at him.
“You, however,” you continued calmly, “struck Prince Aerion in the face. You could've simply pushed him away. But no, you punched and kicked him before witnesses. A blow placed differently might have done far worse than loosen a tooth.”
Duncan opened his mouth to argue, but Baelor raised a hand.
“Ser Duncan clearly did not intend to kill a prince,” Baelor said.
“No,” you agreed immediately. “I do not believe he did.”
Your voice shifted slightly, firmer now. “But that is not what the crowd saw.”
The pavilion stilled.
“They saw a hedge knight strike a prince,” you said. “They saw blood. They saw that it was possible.”
You paced slowly now, drawing their attention without raising your voice.
“If we allow trial by combat,” you went on, “what message does that send? That any guard, any knight, can shed royal blood and walk away if he is large enough to win a fight?”
Maekar’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
You continued, your tone quiet but cutting.
“I have been among the smallfolk these past months, doing some charitable work,” you said. “I hear what you do not.”
Baelor watched you carefully now.
“They do not revere the Targaryens as they once did,” you said plainly. “Some still call them, and forgive me for repeating, "incestuous bastards", despite efforts to marry outside the family. Despite attempts to live like other Westerosi houses. Despite our Good King Daeron and the Hand of the King being fair and just, house Targaryen is still not liked amongst people.”
Aerion’s jaw tightened.
“And since the dragons died,” you added softly, “house Targaryen is no longer feared, either.”
No one spoke.
“Smallfolk are not scholars,” you said. “They believe what they see. They once marched into the Dragonpit and killed dragons because they believed they could, after seeing a dead dragon paraded through the streets.”
Your gaze swept the room slowly.
“Tonight they have seen a prince struck. More than once. The word is sure to spread as fast as wildfire.”
The silence deepened.
“What if next time it is Daeron,” you said, glancing toward him briefly, “drunk and unguarded? Or little Aegon? Or Valarr speaking for his family?”
Baelor looked down, thoughtful.
“Will honor protect them then?” you asked quietly.
Baelor’s expression grew grave.
You softened your tone again.
“I do not doubt Ser Duncan’s intentions,” you said honestly. “I believe he thought he was doing right. But actions carry meaning beyond intention. That meaning must be considered, or this will happen again.”
Even Aerion was quiet, watching you with open fascination.
Baelor rubbed his jaw, contemplative.
Maekar folded his arms, weighing your words.
The tension stretched long enough that you could hear the distant sounds of the outside: laughter, music, unaware of the decision hanging here.
Aerion recovered first. He straightened slightly, voice cold.
“My wife speaks true,” he said. “Cut off his head and be done with it.”
Duncan stiffened.
Baelor looked troubled.
And you saw it, the hesitation. The part of him that still believed Duncan had acted honorably.
You stepped in before the moment hardened.
“My prince,” you said gently, turning toward Aerion, “too much cruelty carries risks as well.”
Aerion blinked, surprised.
“If we execute him immediately,” you said calmly, “people may make a martyr of him. A brave knight who stood against tyranny.”
Baelor’s eyes flickered with agreement.
You continued smoothly.
“The girl’s loss can be repaired. I shall reimburse her for her puppet theatre, provided she and her family agree to stage more respectful performances. I shall speak to her myself.”
Maekar nodded slightly.
“And Ser Duncan,” you said, turning back toward the giant knight, “should publicly admit he acted rashly, that he has disgraced himself as a knight, and ask forgiveness. If he wishes to serve as a member of the City Watch or a Kingsguard one day, he must learn to take responsibility for his actions, and measure twice before he strikes.”
Maekar gave a short nod. “It ends the matter without spectacle.”
Aerion opened his mouth to object. You touched his arm. He turned, irritation flashing, until you said softly, just for him: “I recently discovered I am with child.”
The words landed between you like a secret flame. His expression shifted instantly. Shock. Then unmistakable satisfaction.
You held his gaze steadily. “I do not want to see my husband risking himself in trial by combat over one simpleton's disrespect,” you murmured.
He exhaled slowly, pride battling pleasure. Finally, grudgingly, he nodded.
“So be it,” he said sharply. “But only because of that.”
Baelor watched the exchange closely but said nothing.
All eyes returned to Duncan.
He hesitated. He had the understanding that refusing might mean death. And somewhere in that hesitation, something else flickered: fear that deeper questions might reveal he was not truly knighted at all.
At last, he lowered his head.
“I agree,” he said quietly. “For the girl. She deserves compensation.”
Relief, faint and fragile, settled over the pavilion.
The decision should have ended it. Duncan bowed stiffly, relieved to still be breathing. But Aerion was not finished. As soon as you left, he snapped: “This is nonsense. He struck a prince. He should bleed for it.”
“Aerion,” Baelor said calmly, “the matter is resolved.”
Aerion whirled on him. “Resolved? A peasant strikes me in front of half the realm and we ask him politely to apologise?”
“He is a knight,” Baelor replied, patient as ever. “And you...”
“Then I invoke trial of seven,” Aerion cut in. “If he wants knightly justice, let him face it properly.”
Baelor’s expression hardened slightly, rare for him.
“No,” he said simply.
Aerion blinked, stunned by the refusal.
“I am a prince,” he hissed. “It is my right.”
“It would undo everything we just settled,” Baelor replied. “You know that.”
Aerion scoffed. “So we coddle overgrown hedge knights now?”
He looked around the room like someone expecting support and finding none.
“The matter,” Baelor repeated, voice firmer now, “has been decided.”
Aerion bristled, ready to argue again, but Maekar moved suddenly, a heavy hand gripping his shoulder hard enough to stop him.
“Enough,” Maekar said quietly.
Aerion glared at him.
“You think this makes us look strong?” Aerion demanded. “You think letting him walk away...”
Maekar leaned closer, voice low but cutting.
“You’re done embarrassing yourself tonight.”
Aerion’s nostrils flared.
Maekar didn’t release him. Instead, he gave a slight shove toward the exit.
“Go to your wife,” he said flatly. “And stop speaking of old Andal fuckery.”
Aerion stared at him, offended.
“The trial of seven is hardly nonsense...”
“It is finished,” Maekar interrupted. “Walk away while you still have dignity.”
For a moment it looked like Aerion might argue further. Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned and stalked out.
Outside, the air felt cooler. The noise of the tourney grounds drifted faintly through the night. Aerion walked quickly, long strides catching up to you. You kept pace without speaking.
He was quiet for several moments, tension still visible in the rigid set of his shoulders.
Finally, he spoke.
“He should have been punished.”
You sighed softly. “He was.”
“Not enough.”
You didn’t answer.
He glanced sideways at you, irritation softening into something more complicated.
“You made them all agree,” he muttered.
“I kept the peace,” you corrected.
He huffed.
“They listen to you too easily.”
“That’s because I don’t demand beheading,” you said mildly.
He almost smiled at that, but the mood shifted quickly again.
His gaze dropped briefly to your stomach. The memory returned. You were with child. His expression changed, pride creeping back in, mingling with possessiveness. He reached for your hand, gripping it firmly as if grounding himself.
“Well,” he said after a moment, voice quieter now, “the child better be a son.”
You laughed softly, tired but amused.
“And if it isn’t?”
He frowned as if you’d asked a foolish question.
“It should be,” he said stubbornly. “Strong. Silver-haired. A proper heir.”
“We don’t even know yet.”
“I know,” he said confidently.
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
“Aerion...”
He stopped walking suddenly and turned toward you, expression intense but no longer angry.
“A son,” he repeated. “Someone to carry my name.”
There was something unexpectedly vulnerable beneath the arrogance, a boy who wanted certainty in a world that often denied him respect.
You touched his arm gently.
“Healthy,” you said. “That’s what matters.”
He looked unconvinced but didn’t argue. Instead, he placed a hand over your stomach, protective and warm.
“My son,” he murmured, as if the child could already hear him. “You’ll make up for tonight.”
You laughed again, letting him have the fantasy.
Together you continued walking through the darkened camp, the tension of the evening finally ebbing away, though the echoes of it lingered.
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Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Once married against both of your wishes, learning how to charm a Targaryen prince as mad as Aerion is not easy, unless you know exactly how to play the game.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, manipulation, emotional control, pregnancy themes, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
a/n: Reader is Margaery Tyrell coded and plays Aerion like a fiddle. Possibly ooc because it's filthy smut.
You had been taught since girlhood that a Tyrell maiden did not survive by strength of arms, but by knowing when to bend, when to bloom, and when to let thorns show only in shadow. Still, no amount of lessons in smiles and silks had prepared you for being traded like a piece on a Cyvasse board to a prince whose name was spoken in half-whispers and sharp warnings.
Aerion Targaryen.
Brightflame.
Mad.
The words followed him like smoke.
In Highgarden, your protests were received with gentle hands and firm voices. Your father spoke of duty. Your mother spoke of alliance. Your grandmother spoke of survival and said that roses learned early how to grow around stone.
“He is Maekar’s problem no longer,” one of your uncles said with forced humor. “He will be yours.”
Yours.
You had wanted Valarr. Everyone knew it, though no one had said it aloud. Gentle, courteous Valarr, who bowed and smiled and spoke kindly to squires and smallfolk alike. But Valarr was too valuable. He'd probably be betrothed to a Baratheon. An Arryn. A better match. You were to be used to bind a wound no one else wished to touch.
So you went to King’s Landing with your head high and your stomach knotted, wearing green and gold, a rose thrown into dragon fire.
The Red Keep smelled of salt and old stone and power. You were brought before Prince Maekar first, a man carved from stern lines and disappointment. His eyes lingered on you only briefly before flicking away, as if already weary.
“You ought to be patient,” he told you, not unkindly, but without warmth. “My son is…difficult.”
You almost laughed at the understatement.
Aerion did not come to that first meeting. You were told he was training. Or breaking something. Or both.
When you were finally presented to him, it was in a long gallery lined with banners and the bleached skulls of dragons, vast and terrible and beautiful in their dead silence.
He did not bow.
He looked you over the way one might inspect a horse.
“So,” he said, voice sharp and bright as a drawn blade. “This is the rose they mean to bind me with.”
You curtsied, low and perfect, as if he were already your king.
“My prince,” you said softly. “I am honored to meet you.”
His mouth twisted. “Honored,” he repeated. “Do you know what I am?”
“A Targaryen,” you said, lifting your gaze just enough. “Of the blood of the dragon.”
That pleased him, you saw it instantly. The smallest shift in his eyes, the straightening of his shoulders.
“And you?” he pressed. “A pretty little Reach flower. Soft. Common.”
You smiled anyway. “Roses have thorns, my prince.”
He barked out a short, humorless laugh. “You will learn your place quickly. I will give you children. That is your purpose. I suppose you're pretty enough, I can imagine enjoying bedding you. But they will not be brown-haired little gardeners. I will not have it.”
You did not flinch.
“I would never wish to disappoint you,” you said. “Valyrian blood is…otherworldly. To think that my body might carry even a spark of it is more than I ever dreamed.”
That was a gamble.
It paid off.
His eyes sharpened with interest. “You’ve heard the stories.”
“Of dragons,” you said. “Of Old Valyria. Of fire made flesh.”
He turned then, abruptly, stalking down the gallery. “Come,” he ordered. “If you are to bear dragon blood, you should know what it comes from.”
He dragged you from skull to skull, gesturing with restless energy. Balerion’s massive jaws. Vhagar’s curved horns. He spoke of conquest and fear and how men had once trembled at the sound of wings.
“They forget now,” Aerion snarled. “They look at us and see only men. They should see gods.”
“They should,” you agreed quietly. “It must be…infuriating. To be born to such legacy, only to watch it fade.”
He stopped and turned to you, studying you anew. “You understand.”
You tilted your head. “I try.”
From that moment, he talked more. Too much. About dragons. About bloodlines. About how his father did not see him, how the realm did not respect him. You listened. You nodded. You validated every grievance, every simmering fury, as if they were reasonable and righteous.
When he spoke of how he had wanted a sister-wife, you did not recoil. You said, gently, “It is a tragedy, to be denied purity by fate. But perhaps the gods mean to test you. To see if your fire can burn even through lesser blood.”
He liked that.
When he spat about small lords growing bold, you said, “They forget who conquered them. It is your right to remind them.”
He liked that too.
He informed you, bluntly, that he would not be gentle on your wedding night.
You lowered your lashes and said, “Dragons are not gentle creatures.”
The courtship, if it could be called that, was a strange dance. Aerion did not bring you flowers. He did not write poetry. He prowled around you. But you made it into something else.
You let him drag you through the gardens, your skirts gathered in your hands as you laughed and ran, letting him chase you like a predator playing with prey. When he caught you, he would grip your arms, breath hot, eyes bright, and you would laugh into his shoulder and murmur, “The dragon has captured me.”
He liked that more than he should have.
He liked when you watched him train. You sat in the shade with your ladies, clapping softly when he struck true, praising his strength, his form, his speed. Other knights noticed. So did he.
He liked that smallfolk began to recognize you. You made certain of that.
You had bread and coins handed out. You stopped to listen to old women’s stories. You let children touch the embroidery on your sleeves. Soon, whispers followed you through Flea Bottom and the markets.
The Golden Rose. The Dragon’s Lady.
When people spotted you, they bowed and blessed you, and Aerion noticed.
“They love you,” he said one evening, watching a group of women murmur prayers as you passed.
“They love House Targaryen,” you corrected lightly. “Through me.”
That pleased him immensely.
You prayed in the Sept, if only briefly. You never tried to bring him. You knew better. Instead, you let word spread that you were devout enough to soothe the Faith, but not so devout as to shame a dragon prince.
You made friends with your ladies, learning what they heard, what they whispered. You learned which courtiers feared Aerion, which resented him, which flattered him. You stored it all away like weapons hidden in silk.
In private, he began to call you his little rose. At first it was mocking. Then it was possessive. Then it was almost fond.
“You will give me sons,” he told you one night, pacing as you sat at a small table with embroidery you did not truly need. “Strong ones. Silver-haired. Violet-eyed. The gods favor giving your line sons, don't they?.”
“So they say of Tyrell women,” you replied smoothly. “We give the realm sons. They grow strong and healthy.”
He stopped pacing. “Good.”
He stood too close then, invading your space, eyes scanning your face, your mouth, your throat, your waist, your hips.
“At least you are well-proportioned,” he added bluntly. “Your body has merits.”
You smiled sweetly, as if it were a compliment. “I am glad to be of use to you, my prince.”
He did not touch you then but his eyes lingered.
At night, alone in your chambers, fear crept in. You had heard enough. You knew enough. Aerion was cruel. He was unpredictable. You suspected he would not be gentle. You suspected he would not be kind.
So you prepared in the only way you could. You made yourself indispensable.
You became the one person who did not flinch from his talk of dragons and fire. The one who agreed that the world had wronged him. The one who looked at him not with fear, but with admiration carefully measured. You laughed at his jokes, even when they were sharp. You praised his lineage, even when it edged into madness. You let him feel powerful in your presence.
And slowly, dangerously, he began to seek it.
He would send for you. He would ask where you were. He would grow irritated if you were with your ladies too long.
“My rose,” he said one afternoon, fingers tapping against the hilt of his sword. “Come walk with me.”
You rose at once. “Of course.”
As you walked, he spoke of the wedding. Of the feast. Of the bedding.
“They will cheer,” he said. “They will watch. They will see that the dragon has taken his bride.”
Your heart leapt to your throat, but you kept your smile soft. “It will be a night to remember.”
He glanced at you sideways, eyes dark. “For you.”
You did not look away. “I hope to make you proud, my prince.”
Something in his expression shifted. Not softened but sharpened with intent. Ownership. You saw it. You felt it. You also knew you had no choice now but to keep playing.
Three moons later...
It is the hour of the owl. The fire has burned low. His chambers smell of burnt wood, iron and wine.
Cold is beginning to creep in. Or perhaps it is merely your nerves.
Aerion stands near the hearth, his back to you, silver hair catching the low light. He's downing another goblet of wine. You had forgotten to keep count. Foolish of you, usually you were aware when to coax it out of his hand.
“Ten days,” he says, not looking at you.
You still.
“Ten days late,” Aerion continues, voice controlled in that way that means it isn’t. “You let me think.” His hand tightens slowly into a fist at his side. “You let me hope.”
You swallow. “My prince...”
“Don’t.” He turns then, violet eyes bright with fury and something far more dangerous beneath it. “For ten days, I counted. I imagined. I told myself it had finally taken.” His mouth twists. “I thought you were carrying my child.”
The words land heavy between you.
“And now,” he goes on, stepping closer, each stride eating away at your space, “your moon blood comes. As if to mock me.”
You keep your face soft. Careful. “These things...”
“Spare me septa nonsense,” Aerion snaps. “We have been wed for months. You promised me an heir, precious rose.” The endearment is sharp now, almost cruel. “You swore Tyrell women give sons easily.”
His gaze drags over you, taking in your face, your body beneath thin silk. Ownership. Disappointment. Hunger, all tangled together.
“I wanted to bury my head in your lap tonight,” he admits bitterly. “Let you stroke my hair and tell me it will come, like you always do.” His jaw tightens. “But I am tired of being soothed, wife.”
Wife.
The word is not gentle.
“I am tired of waiting.”
His hand comes up, catching your jaw, tilting your face up. His grip is warm, firm, inescapable.
“You will make it right,” he says quietly. “You will remind my body, and yours, what it is for.”
You don’t pull away.
You never do.
“My precious rose,” he murmurs, and then his voice hardens. “My wife. My only whore.”
The words hit different when he’s like this. When frustration twists them into something darker.
“You were late,” he says again, quieter now. “You let me believe. I was patient as a priest. I was faithful as a knight. I didn't let another get my cock wet, not wanting to waste a single drop of my seed.”
“I didn’t mean to...”
He cuts you off by unlacing your robe, fingers rough, impatient. Silk slides from your shoulders and pools at your feet.
“On the bed,” he orders. “On your back.”
You obey.
He strips quickly, efficiently. When he’s naked, his cock is already hard, thick and flushed, anger and need driving it.
He kneels between your legs, grips your thighs, spreads you wide. His gaze is unflinching.
“This is how you make it right,” Aerion says. “You take me. You take all of me. Until your body remembers its purpose.”
His fingers stroke through you without ceremony. One finger, then two, stretching you open. You gasp despite yourself, hips shifting, seeking friction.
He watches your face closely, smirking faintly when you can’t stop the sound that escapes you.
He withdraws his fingers, brings them to his mouth, tasting you while holding your gaze.
Then he positions himself, hooking your legs up, folding you open.
He pushes inside you in one long, brutal thrust.
You cry out, the stretch sharp, the depth overwhelming. He doesn’t pause. He pulls back and drives in again, setting a deep, punishing rhythm.
His hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise. The wet, obscene sounds fill the chamber as he uses you, thrust after thrust, deep and deliberate.
“You’ll take it,” he grits. “You’ll take my seed until it takes root. I will not be denied.”
Your body betrays you, growing slick, opening for him. The pressure builds low in your belly, tight and relentless.
His hand slides between you, thumb finding your most sensitive place, circling rough and insistent.
“Come,” he commands. “If you’re going to fail me, you’ll at least come properly.”
Your body obeys. The release tears through you, clenching around him, and he hisses, thrusts turning harder, erratic.
He buries himself deep and stills, spilling inside you with a guttural sound.
He doesn’t pull out.
He keeps you there, shifting you onto your side, holding you tight.
“Don’t move,” he orders. “Every drop stays where it belongs.”
His hand splays over your lower belly.
“We will try again,” he says. “And again. Until it works.”
He hardens again sooner than you expect.
“Stay laying on your back, you spoiled, soft petal. You can't even lean on your arms and knees long enough for me,” he murmurs darkly.
He drags your hips up and enters you again, deeper, rougher. Your cry is muffled by his fingers in your mouth as he grips your hip with the other. You bite down. He never minds.
“You will carry my child,” he pants. “I don’t care what your blood did tonight. Your body will learn.”
Then he is filling you again, fingers shoving his spend back inside you when it spills.
“Can’t waste it,” he growls. “Not when you’ve already disappointed me once.”
He props your hips up afterward, keeps you still, keeps you full, watching you like you’re something fragile and infuriating all at once.
“Stay,” he orders. “Let it settle.”
Aerion lies on his side behind you, his chest pressed to your back. His arm is draped over your waist, hand warm and heavy against your belly. His breathing is slower now, deeper, the edge taken off by exhaustion.
His palm moves in slow, absent circles over your stomach, almost tender. Almost thoughtful. As if he’s trying to imagine something there by force of will alone.
“There,” he murmurs, half to you, half to himself. “That’s where they’ll be. That’s where my heirs will grow. Inside my precious rose.” His thumb presses gently. “You feel warm there. Like fire under skin.”
You say nothing.
His nose brushes your hair. He exhales against your temple, eyes already heavy.
“They’ll have my hair,” he goes on quietly. “My eyes. They’ll be unmistakable. No one will ever doubt them.” His fingers spread. “And you’ll be their mother. You. Not some courtly fool, not some empty pretty thing. You’re the only one worthy to raise my children.”
It almost sounds like love. Almost.
“I won’t abandon you,” Aerion says, sudden intensity sharpening his voice even through the sleepiness. “Even if your body fails me. Even if you never give me what you promised.” His hand tightens briefly on your waist. “I won’t take another wife. I won’t replace you. You’re mine.”
His lips brush your knuckles when you shift your hand near his.
“I would keep you,” he continues, words drifting, unguarded in a way they never are in daylight. “I would keep you with me, always. You’d raise my children. You’d teach them. They’d call you mother.”
Then, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world, he adds:
“If you can’t give them to me yourself…I’ll take a whore with Valyrian blood. Some bastard girl from Flea Bottom. Silver hair, violet eyes. They’re there, if you know where to look.”
Your stomach turns, but you keep your face still in the dark.
“I’d take her somewhere quiet,” Aerion murmurs, almost thoughtfully. “Somewhere no one watches. I’d breed her. Just long enough to get what I need. I'd have to send you away somewhere as well, around that time.”
His thumb resumes its slow, idle stroke over your belly.
“And when she gives me a child,” he says, voice soft, almost fond, “I’ll kill her.”
The words settle into the room like ash.
“Then you and I will raise the child as our own,” he finishes. “No one will ever question it. No one will ever know.”
Your face twists in a way you’re grateful he can’t see in the darkness.
Aerion brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles, gentle as a lover, tender as a husband.
“So,” he murmurs against your skin, “give me an heir, petal. Save us both the trouble.”
His grip loosens slightly, fatigue finally winning.
“Sleep now,” he says. “You’ll need your strength. I’ll start again in the morning.”
a/n: I won't be caught dead simping for a blond unless it's a Targaryen. This deranged man has me in a chokehold helpppp 😭🥵. Comment if you want to be added to Aerion or Targaryens taglist, I'm thinking of making one in case I write more fics about them.
𝔄𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔩'𝔰 𝔩𝔦𝔟𝔯𝔞𝔯𝔶 @4ngelsthings - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
