˖ masterlists
latest work:
all my love, suguru (suguru x reader, multi-chapter)
i am an adult (20s)
Xuebing Du
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Sade Olutola
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
h
occasionally subtle
No title available

Love Begins
🪼

oozey mess
Show & Tell
YOU ARE THE REASON
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year

Kaledo Art

Janaina Medeiros
Mike Driver
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

ellievsbear
art blog(derogatory)
seen from United States
seen from Poland

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from India
seen from Germany
seen from Argentina
seen from Bangladesh

seen from Poland

seen from China
@chosos-mascara
˖ masterlists
latest work:
all my love, suguru (suguru x reader, multi-chapter)
i am an adult (20s)
the perfect blend
choso kamo x reader
part 1 part 2
barista!choso x masters student!reader, total comfort fic, fluffy, coffee lover au... choso is yuji's caregiver, mid-late 20s reader reposting part 1 cause i didn't have a title before now.......
Your frost bitten cheeks appreciate the shift in temperature when you step into the campus coffee shop, a sigh of relief slipping through your teeth as you join the end of the queue. Another Monday, another afternoon spent studying within these four walls. An expensive habit, you'll admit, running strong from your first year at Tokyo University, your masters course wearing you thin. In your defence, you don't tend to spend much on nightlife, instead focusing on the home stretch - it's only six months until you're finishing up, for good.
The difference between those first few months on campus and now is exceptional, yet one thing remains the same; study sessions in this coffee house. The coffee isn’t the only thing you’ve appreciated, though. You peek through the queue to see if he's there (though you know by now, he's always working Mondays), and sure enough, you can see those broad shoulders, and jet black hair.
Choso Kamo. A name you didn't hear much around campus, yet here, he reigned. Shift lead, according to his name tag; which also happens to be littered in little stickers from his younger brother, Yuji. This fact, among many others, is the reason you're head over heels for Kamo.
"Latte, please." You're happy to be at the front end of the queue, face to face with your half-a-decade long crush. These minute long encounters have somehow kept you going... though now you think about it, it's pretty pathetic. Every time you tell yourself you're finally going to make a move, you just can't stomach it, scraping up any excuse your mind can muster. For a brief period, he’d dated another barista, and you felt like you’d been shot in the chest every time you saw them work together. They broke up though, you’d learned through an overheard conversation that she’d moved away for her masters and he wasn’t into ‘long distance’.
You’ve spoken quite a few times, mostly in your freshman year, when he’d lived in the same halls as you. But he had sadly moved after the first semester, and now you were stuck having to spend money to see his face, and on rare occasions, a light conversation.
"You spend too much money here." Your total is written in small digits across the card reader and you pay using contactless, quickly putting your phone back into your hoodie pockets. A smile creeps over your face as he hands you the receipt, his painted nails brushing over your open palm. "Tell that to my overdraft." You giggle, making your way toward the collection counter. Choso moves with you, grabbing a mug and starting up the espresso machine.
Small talk is embarrassingly all you've been able to rouse while in his presence. Sometimes, it's asking how he is, and sometimes you’re able to stray from a basic interaction to make a joke. Today seems to be on the latter trajectory, meaning the conversation will have been dead and buried for the day. You're always left wanting more, though you can't muster the words to continue a conversation.
Watching Choso move behind the counter never gets old. Black painted fingernails contrast the white ceramic and long, vascular fingers making even the large mugs look small. Days like today, with the heaters on full blast to fight the winter air, he's rolled back his shirt sleeves, revealing pretty tattooed forearms. He pours the espresso, and then textured milk.
"You're graduating soon, right?" His continued chitchat catches you a little off guard, breaking your usual routine of conversation. You nod with some apprehension, cautious to give any form of verbal response in fear of embarrassment. He looks into your eye, and you feel the hair on your neck start to stand. You swallow.
"There's a careers event this weekend, you going?" He puts the mug in front of you, turning the handle to face your way. There's a lump in your throat as you watch his hands leave the drink on the side. "Oh, nah. I've got like, four days to finish this assignment." It's a stupid response - you should absolutely be going if Choso is asking you, yet your idiotic mind flicks into autopilot and leaves the dead braincells to do the talking.
"Oh, right. I'll probably be roped into overtime, anyways." His eyes drop to your drink, awaiting your departure from his countertop. The dishwasher needs to go on, and he'll have to grab another carton of milk from the fridge out back. You hesitate, but leave anyway, unable to find the spark of confidence to request his accompaniment.
A smaller table toward the back calls your name - your usual spot. There’s a charger port nestled in behind the chair, perfect for the unknown amount of time you were going to spend here, and it’s one of the only tables that doesn’t wobble. Pulling out your laptop, you're cringing at the interaction that had just taken place, internally screaming at yourself for denying what was practically an invitation.
You pull up the word document you've sold your soul to, a dissertation due in just a few days. Tens of thousands of words deep and you still think it's lackluster, despite the effort you've imbued. This is worth a hefty percentage of your grade, and will reflect years of your life. It's far too difficult to turn in one piece of work and act as though it speaks for all six years of your education, knowledge, and experience. For it to be torn apart and examined like some sort of lab experiment.
It doesn't help that you're completely distracted after speaking with Choso. Today is a flush, even with an empty mug, you're left with a few sentences strung onto that lengthy document.
It's nearing five and you're left with an ultimatum: another drink and some sort of miracle, or to just accept defeat and return home. Sighing, you pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes closed. The laptop screen is reluctantly closed, and you sit back in your chair for a few more moments.
"You're still here?" You think you've finally cracked when you hear Choso's voice from beside you. "It's been like, four hours."
You open your eyes slowly, and sure enough you're met with Kamo, a baggy hoodie embracing his wide frame, headphones hanging from his neck. He's got a tote bag slung over his shoulder with his thumb resting over the straps, clearly leaving for the evening. Your gaze flickers over to the counter, and you can see Gojo tying his apron, before fluffing up his own hair in the reflection of the espresso machine. Choso awaits a reply, lips pressed together, gaze boring into yours.
"I uh-" You stutter, cursing yourself for the second time today. "I'm heading off now. Gonna have to brew a pot at home." That awkward smile returns across your face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you off."
You grit your teeth and cringe, clenching your fists under the table. "No, I know." The eye contact you usually forced yourself to return is no more as you hang your head in shame. This might be the worst interaction you've ever had.
"Uh, I've never asked what you're studying." Choso pipes up again and you almost choke on your own breath as you glance back to him in disbelief. You rub your eyes, convincing yourself he is just a delusion stemming from exhaustion, but sure enough, when you look up he's still there. "English Lit. What about you?" A sentence left your lips that didn't make you want to scream into a pillow; progress.
"Fine Art, part time. Graduating this summer." He clears his throat, gesturing to the door. "Hey, you coming?" His hand presses against the glass as he’s glancing over his shoulder, two loose buns moving with his head, stray hairs falling to frame the sides of his face. He opens the door and steps forward, and you gain on him, taking the door’s weight in your palm. Your hand lands just beneath his, cool glass soothing your burning skin.
“You live near campus?” The cold air hits your cheeks, and you zip your jacket a little higher. He makes his way toward the university by turning right, and you follow. You’re not quite sure how far apart you’re supposed to stand, choosing to lag behind over getting too close.
“Yeah, in the apartments behind the dorms.” Choso nods, slowing his steps and looking over his shoulder. He stops until you catch up to his side, and then continues to plod on.
With winter in full swing, it’s almost dark out, the sun hidden behind buildings as the moon is sure to rise. Streetlights illuminate your path beneath a grey sky, a sheen over the concrete that you’re sure will turn to frost by tomorrow. You’ll have to dig out your trainers tonight, something grippy to offer support on route to lectures.
“What about you?” You enquire, glancing up at him. His eyes are on the pavement, brown, and half-lidded. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around, since you moved.” He swallows, and his eyes raise, before he tilts his head toward you, making brief eye contact. You can’t read his expression, but the air feels heavy. “I live in an apartment, I had to take custody of my brother.” His voice is low. “It’s not far from where we used to be, I got a hardship grant from the university to help, so it’s not all bad.” He stops as you near your building, pointing. “I cut through here.” He speaks, and you hide your disappointment.
“Well, thanks for walking me back.” You choke out, all too awkwardly. Choso seems a little entertained, with the side of his lip quirking up. You look at the black line painted over the bridge of his nose, then up to his eyes. You wonder if this’ll be the most meaningful interaction you’ll have before you graduate.
“I’ll see you around.” He pushes an earphone into his ear before turning, and you’re left alone as he walks his way home.
Still Life
✴︎ an upcoming CHOSO KAMO (and my first!) AO3 fic by ©bladebarbie
tags : choso x fem!reader, tattoo apprentice!Choso, older brother Choso, age gap, he doesn't fuck with you at first, angsty, mentions of depression, reader and Yuji are best friends, college au, no curses, hurt comfort, he's down bad, eventual smut, family issues, one original character, lil love triangle, other jjk characters ⭒
⸺ “You want to talk about who failed him? Really? Because I promise you that’s not a conversation you’re going to win with me, Choso”
"I can't"
summary ⭒ Choso Kamo packed up his entire life for his brother without thinking twice after a disturbing call. He left behind unfinished business and told himself he was fine with that, he had no other choice but to be. He resented you, his brother’s best friend, for reasons he knew weren’t fair, and you didn’t think much of him either.
And yet, after a lifetime of denying himself everything, you’re the first person who made him want more.
"I want it"
art creds: paanwny(on TikTok)
all my love, suguru
summary: after an unexpected night spent with your close friend, you find yourself pregnant, and unable to tell him so. will you be able to come to terms with this news, or will it destroy the delicate relationship you'd had left?
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of unprotected relations, declining mental health of suguru
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chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆
or here on ao3
completed
all my love, suguru
chapter 5
summary: after an unexpected night spent with your close friend, you find yourself pregnant, and unable to tell him so. will you be able to come to terms with this news, or will it destroy the delicate relationship you’d had left?
chapter warnings: mentions of declining mental health (suguru), general angst, secret pregnancy/child
masterlist
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30 months before
"I have something I wanted to talk to you about." You're watching him at his desk as you walk into his classroom, closing the door meekly behind you. The sickness coupled with this anxiety is overwhelming; exhausting. You're roughly ten weeks along, your first scan recently booked for two weeks time, all while Suguru is none the wiser to your current condition.
He's grading papers from a recent mock exam, and it's apparent he's much more interested in the stacks before him than you as his eyes barely rise, the red marker still between his fingers. You sigh. "Suguru, did you hear me?" He looks up from the reports, bags dark beneath his eyes. You pause in your actions as you mull over his expression. "Are you okay?" There's that concern you had for him that night, back again. You wonder if he realises that, too. Or perhaps you were only procrastinating by creating some sort of conversation, though it's better to open with something like this, isn't it?
"Sorry, what's up?" Suguru acts casual, but he can't deny that your visit is just adding to the mounds of stress he feels in this moment. He doesn't have the energy to pour into conversation, he can barely read these student's scrawny handwriting. "I was wondering if we could talk?" You begin to walk closer with some hesitance, stopping at his desk. He looks up at you, and finally puts that pen down.
"What about?" He's nervous. "Well, I just..." You trail off, your chest heavy. Your hands are shaking, even with one placed over the other. They're clammy, and god, you feel so sick. "That night, when we..." Again, you're not able to finish your sentence, instead averting your gaze to the wall and swallowing. "Listen," Suguru stands, and when you look back to him, you frown. "I don't think we should pursue anything."
You stand in silence for a few moments; he's completely missed the mark. Raising your hands, you shake your head, trying to gesture to him that this wasn't what you'd intended, but it's lost on him when he continues.
"It was a misjudgement, I didn't consider how this could impact our lives, and for that I apologise." You stare wide eyed. You couldn't tell him how yes, this really has impacted your life, because you realise now how wrong this would go. This truly was a secret you'd have to bring to the grave, because you're sure he'd never speak to you again either way.
"You're right, I'm sorry." It's weak, and all you manage to push out.
Suguru feels reams of guilt when he watches your head bow, hearing quiet, defeated words from your lips. He's lying to himself if he truly believes this is for the best, because no one makes him feel quite how you do.
He replays that memory most nights, wondering if he should have given you a chance - he didn't even let you get a word out before he was pushing you away. He spent years wishing he'd done something different, wondering if anything would change if only he'd had opportunity to speak to you again.
He thinks of that memory when he's walking to Yaga's office, opening the door to be met with you.
Suguru thinks he's finally lost it, because why, after two and a half years would you be here, sitting at Yaga's desk like you'd never really left? His hands are brought upward to rub into his eyes, and he blinks once, twice, squeezing them closed before finally focusing back upon your seated frame. You're definitely there, you're definitely real.
Suguru hadn't even noticed the child sat to your left until moments later, a small doll between her hands, her hair worn in a short ponytail. He doesn't linger over her presence for long though, because he's drawn back to you.
The door had clicked open moments ago and you had prepared yourself for Suguru's berating, though seconds tick by, and no words come. You're still sat in silence beside your daughter and opposite your old boss after a minute's pass, still an empty seat at your right. You know he's shocked by his hesitance to enter, but the suspense is only twisting the knife embedded into you upon his entry. In this limbo, you're left to ruminate on every doubt that had grown over the past few years, on every bad decision you've made leading up to now.
Finally, after a minute or so of deliberating, Suguru decides to discern the reason for this meeting, and uses his curiosity as encouragement to come and sit in that empty chair.
You've no alleviation from his stare even when he's seated. He's taking you in, the new you, the mature you, still contemplating his sanity as he wonders if you're just a fragment of his madness. There's still an internal struggle while he wonders why you're here, and what this could possibly have to do with him. Suguru does manage to voice a few words through his turmoil, ever downplaying his mental state with his relaxed tone.
"I thought you left jujutsu society?"
His voice still feels like honey in your ears, his presence beside you causing your skin to prickle with cold, goosebumps breaking the surface. Eyes that had been glued to Yaga's desk finally lift, and you turn your head to face him after all of this time. Brown eyes greet you, purple bags weighing the skin down. The glint of hope that Suguru could forgive you begins to ebb, your lips tightening.
"I did." Your answer rings true, at least. Your eyes falter when you can't take his gaze any longer, instead averting to sit at his lips, then shoulders. He looks the same as always, but his aura feels different. There's sombreness to him now, and you blame yourself for leaving.
"Should we begin?" Yaga clears his throat uncomfortably, and you're reminded of his presence. You nod with deep reluctance, removing your sight from the man that still holds a place in your heart. "Geto," Yaga begins, and you focus on your breaths. This is it, it's really happening. "You're being assigned a special case; a new student." He gestures toward your Keiko, and Suguru leans forward so he can look past you, his emotionless expression interrupted by disgust.
"She's a toddler?" His disapproval is thick. "Yaga, are you insane?" Suguru remembers the last person assigned to his care, and her untimely death. This was no world for a child, it was barely a world for him, either. Everyone seems to get on with their lives after witnessing tragedies, and he still doesn't understand how. He has never been left unscathed by the things he's seen, but he's sure to handle those massacres better than a child who would stand at his knee's height.
Yaga peers to you behind his glasses, and you can feel the luxury of your silence ending.
"She's at risk if she doesn't learn to harness her cursed energy." You speak, praying for his compliance. "I don't want her to get hurt, Suguru."
Suguru stares at your expression, looking up, and down as he processes your words among the many racing thoughts he houses. Who was this child to you, why would you care? But after all these years he's brewed upon his actions, paired with the fact he can stare into you and see nothing but kindness and care, his objection merges into something else.
He doesn't speak, but he doesn't have to, because you've already seen it on his face. He'll help.
"Thank you." Your words of gratitude are genuine, and they're spoken to him with care. It feels a bit like you're the only two people in the room, studying the other with a sense of longing. He swallows back the old feelings that are trying to push through, and turns to face Yaga once more.
Throughout this meeting Suguru glances to that girl, a question pushing the back of his mind. Who was she to you?
Keiko's in bed when he knocks. At first, you're spooked by the sound and your cursed energy is focused into your fist, though looking through the peephole eases your fears. Your flame dissipates, and you open, not sure what to expect from your night-time visitor.
"What're you doing here?" There's a small dip in your voice. "It's late." You try and mask your unease, though he's able to read you like a book.
"That evening, before you left - what were you going to tell me?"
When you look closer you realise Suguru's hair is loose, strays floating out from his bun, a redness at his ears from where he'd been toying with the lobes. It doesn't take you long to realise what he's referencing, and you open the door wider. You have to accept your fate, that it's now, or never. "Come, take a seat."
Those are words Suguru didn't want to hear. Since your meeting, he's been asking himself the same question, who is this child? And why should Suguru of all people be summoned to teach her, when he's sure Satoru would've not only volunteered himself, but been better at the job in every way?
Then he thought about her hair colour, and how he didn't get to catch her face. The timelines, the fact she's staying with you - the pregnancy test. He kicks himself for not questioning you at the time, and for dwelling over these surely disconnected details, until he thought to that afternoon, when he shut you down with haste. He thought about your body language, and how stupid he was to assume that's what you were going to suggest, how self centred he'd been the entire time.
He sits down quickly with his heart feeling about to leap out of his mouth, a warmth coddling his ears.
"A few weeks after we slept together, I realised I was late." You start from the beginning as you stand opposite him. You can't look at his face, arms crossed, you stare at his feet. "I wanted to tell you that evening, but you made it clear you didn't want anything else, and I got cold feet."
His anxiety fades, morphing into a feeling he can't quite place his finger on. It might be that in this moment, Suguru can truly say he's experiencing heartbreak, and the repercussions of his own actions. If he'd have just checked up on you, things would've gone so differently. "I have a child?" He speaks slowly, unsure of himself. It doesn't feel like it's sinking in, those words don't feel as if they are describing his own life.
"She's yours." Your confirmation sends prickles over his skin. Your things are still mostly in boxes, though there's a photo you've already set out beside the TV, one that you pick up and hand to him. It's you and Keiko, taken on her 2nd birthday. You'd had to celebrate alone, but you decorate anyway, a big '2' balloon within the background. She's smiling, her baby teeth showing while cuddled into your side. It'd taken a while to get a good photo with her, standing your phone on the couch and using the timer function, though after a few you had come out with this one. It was perfect.
Suguru holds the frame between his fingers, looking at the little girl beside you. She looked a lot like him, the same eyes, the same shade of hair, but she housed your smile. Tears clouded his vision as he wonders how he's missed out on two years with someone he should've been there for, he's missed so much already.
"Why did you come here?" Suguru asks, a warmth rolling over his cheek. "She inherited your technique." You swallow. "A few weeks ago, we came into contact with a curse, but before I was able to exercise it, she ingested it, just like you. A few days after that, she was witnessed by a grade three, and we were called upon by the higher-ups."
"I never wanted this for her, Suguru. I just wanted to watch her grow through normal means - I know it was a lot to wish for, but she's my baby. I can't bare to picture her dead in some ditch after they rinse her of everything she has."
"I'll refuse to teach her." He's desperate through his tears, mind racing. "Then they'll just find someone else. There's really no point, unless you're really adverse."
"Why couldn't you have just told me?" He talks as if his words are sapping his lifeforce, and you only watch as he slumps forward, heartbroken and confused. That guilty feeling has hit a new high. "Same reason you shut me out after that night - I was scared, and decided it was better to leave than to face what we did." It's wrong to defend your actions, they should be unforgivable. But, Suguru doesn't seem to put much energy into his disgust with you, because he's just too upset. "I've missed out on two years of my child's life, that's not the same." His hands shake, whether it's rage or distress, he can't tell.
"I'm so sorry." You bow your head, ashamed. "I was so scared, please forgive me." Suguru looks up at you, a heavy breath on his lips. It's not as if you hadn't tried to tell him; he'd practically shunned you. It wasn't fair to give you all the blame, even if it would save his sanity. "Do you wanna meet her?"
"Keiko, baby." She's clutching a small bear against her chest when she walks through the door, rubbing her eyes. The small girl's brown hair is a little messy, and she's still in a pair of cutesy pink pyjamas. "I want you to meet someone." You voice to her slowly while holding her little hand, your heart racing. There's no textbook answer when it comes to difficult parenting decisions, and uncomfortable situations. How do you tell a two year old they have a father in which they've never met?
Suguru's reluctant to look at the doorway when he hears you two coming through. This is the biggest moment of his life, meeting his child, his heartrate reflects this in it's unforgiving pace, his breaths leaving him before he's ready to breathe back in. He'll have to count down, he thinks, to force himself to look at his kin - there's no way he can surely meet her eye otherwise. Five seconds and he'll look, four now. Three, and he's sweating, shaking at two, swallowing harshly before he counts one, eyes forced from their spot over the floorboards to flicker up at the little girl standing at her mother's side.
God, it feels like nothing on this planet has ever mattered to Suguru, because in those brown eyes, there's so much innocence. He can feel his heart melt as he recognises so much of himself in her, his DNA, used to build such a perfect daughter with the cutest version of his character. Her huge, wide eyes, cute roundish nose - but her lips are all you.
This child is a part of him he didn't know existed, a jigsaw piece melded to fit right within his chest. There's some kind of primal urge to protect her at all costs, to hold her closely, which is why Suguru finds himself at his knees with open arms in search of her comfort, to have his forbearing body embraced by his entire world. A child he'd never known is suddenly the key to his happiness, because she is everything he isn't.
"Hi." He wants to say more, yet a million words couldn't describe how he feels. Suguru can't decide on what to say, so instead settles with that small greeting. She smiles at him nonetheless, and you watch as his eyes soften, a smile over his lips. "Hello." Her voice is small, much like her stature, and she's still sleepy. Suguru puts a hand over her shoulder, and you find yourself overcome with a grin you can't hide. Despite your anxieties, you know Suguru will love her as much as you do.
"Remember I told you about your daddy? This is him." You're gentle, and you're not sure she'll understand entirely, only seeing that family dynamic on films and tv shows. You'd told her a few times she has a daddy, though she's never seemed all too interested beyond that confirmation. Though she stares at him wide eyed, a smile growing over her cheeks.
"Daddy!" She repeats, and Suguru has to stop himself from breaking apart at that name. When he'd felt hopeless, weak and depressive, so many times he wondered if his existence would ever improve. Whether he'll be anything more than a sorcerer for jujutsu society to rinse, toss into battle and bury when things grew too difficult. He's grown to be Satoru's friend and not much more.
But with this child before him, he sees some form of light. There's a reason for him to keep going, because he doesn't want his girl to feel anything he's endured. He looks to you for the first time since laying his eyes on her, to your watery eyes, and his heart feels disgustingly full. This is what he's been missing out on.
a/n: sooo this is it. i hope it met your expectations, honestly i really wanted to put more into this ending and i feel i could've done better, but life has been such a whirlwind as of late. i think this is the last post i'll make before finding myself on a hiatus, so think of this fic as a semi-good-bye. thank you so much for all of the love i have received, it truly means the world!
tags-
@hojoslutoru @itztamar @magey0412 @strflp @kaeyakaikai @animeisforkings @emikisses @boredwithwrath @karazorel7 @tomiokasecretlover @mrsoharaa @magey0412 @thisbicc @aemiliabruno @zenys @sukunaspillow @caixgee @ssetsuka @pinkpunkdynamite @harlamarie @cephei-ea @dazailover1900
{jjk curse au} last one I promise-
ex-boyfriend villain!nanami - who you see in the middle of the battlefield. blood staining his cheek, covering his forearms, and the cursed tool in his hand. glancing over his shoulder to catch your eyes. you're exhausted from having fought so many curses. your body trembling from exerting it so much.
so many non-sorcerers around him it makes your heart sink. you've never known kento to be cruel. or vicious in any capacity.
yet, he coaxes you to fight him. circles around you begging for a dance on the battlefield. it infuriates you, sets your body on fire.
again, he doesn't lay a hand on you. drops his guard for you to land a few hits. but by the end he increases his output, and manages to turn the tables before pinning you against the concrete wall.
his eyes are so dark, devoid of any softness. one hand curls around your throat, the other lifting his cursed tool. you think for a second it's an execution, close your eyes as you wait for the inevitable.
but he merely slips the tool to the harness on his back. traces the column of your neck sweetly before leaning down to kiss your swollen lips. you shiver from the familiarity, your hands finding his shoulders to shove him away but he slips his tongue and you forget everything for a few seconds.
you taste salt, and iron, and kento. that sweetness never goes away. your fingers reach for his jaw tenderly, softly, seeking him out, coaxing him to return to you.
his hand drops to your waist, his palm flattening against the small of your back as he pushes you into his frame while deepening the kiss. you feel like you're floating on air.
"nanami," a voice calls out, halting the moment.
you both turn to find suguru standing there, his expression stoic and unmoved. he's neither reacting or being passive. the two men eye one another, an understanding passing through them.
you don't know what to do. you have them both at your sights. the longer suguru stands here the more you know that satoru might feel his presence.
"kento-" you murmur, curling your fingers around the collar of his black tee.
he looks back at you, his hand gently massaging your back. he arches forward, his hot breath against your ear.
"stay away from shibuya," he warns, "I mean it."
you shake your head in disbelief, "don't- please, ken..." you whisper,
he stops the warble on your lip with another kiss, his teeth lightly nipping the bottom.
"leave now," he insists protectively, "don't follow me."
floorboards creak under his weight.
apart from this, Satoru silently slips into the room. it’s late, the lighting dimmed and the curtains drawn with an empty dinner plate is placed on the coffee table in front of the couch.
the book you’re holding is one recently bought from the bookstore despite having multiple books at home begging to be read.
the paperback is close from slipping out of your grasp, hanging drearily over the edge of the couch.
your chest rises and falls to a slow tempo, eyelids gracefully shut.
how many times does he have to tell you to not stay up for him.
countless, he’s sure but you never listen anyways.
satoru shifts closer to you, footsteps now padded by the soft carpet under his feet. fingertips grab the nearest blanket he can find.
he’s sure that taking you to bed himself would awake you and judging by the dark bruises which seek shelter under your eye, sleep is much needed.
as gently as he can, the soft material is draped over you. the book is now placed on the table, adjacent to your empty plate.
you shift a little, murmur incoherent words. he freezes, afraid that you have awaked but only another pause passes before light snores are heard.
taking your plate and cutlery, satoru leaves you be, deciding to move you later. for now he lets the moonlight which has managed to sneak through the crack of the curtains keep you company — a single streak illuminates your face.
the beauty of the moon, he thinks, is nothing compared to yours.
all my love, suguru
summary: after an unexpected night spent with your close friend, you find yourself pregnant, and unable to tell him so. will you be able to come to terms with this news, or will it destroy the delicate relationship you'd had left?
warnings: pregnancy, mentions of unprotected relations, declining mental health of suguru... tbd
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chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 tba
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or here on ao3
likely gonna post every thursday!
bit of a delay with chapter 4 (being a mum means i don’t get all too much time to write) but should be out this weekend!
touch starved!satoru - your best friend whose never been touched, never been kissed. who watches you with lovers with curiosity. wondering if it's as lovely as it seems. who asks you if you can show him one night, cheeks so pink and eyes so soft. he's not embarrassed, he's maintained this distance by choice. but he needs to know. wants to know. he just can't imagine anyone else touching him other than you.
so, you oblige. smoothing back his soft, white locks. tracing the outline of his strong jaw. "I'll go slow," you whisper against his lips, feel the way his chest rises and falls against your palm.
he freezes when you kiss him, but it's a frost under sunlight that gradually drips. the first kiss is innocent, with you readjusting your position to straddle him properly. "I'm going to use my tongue now," you inform and he nods his head while trying to sift through his own dizzying thoughts.
he's half hard almost instantly when he tastes you - the warmth of your kiss sending a heat in his belly that has him fidgeting his hips. you moan when he finds the confidence to return the kiss - his naive tongue attempting to figure out this dance. he just didn't think it would overwhelm him so much. your spit slick lips, the wrestle of muscle and your sex pressed up against his erection. he didn't even notice himself trembling, the cold sheen of sweat tickling the back of his neck or the broken moan that leaves him when he suddenly cums in his pants.
he's crimson all over all over when he looks down at the mess he's made. nervous eyes searching for yours only to be met with such tenderness. "it's okay," you say with a kiss to his forehead, "you're okay," you soothe with your arms around his neck, keeping him in a tight embrace because you know better than anyone else that it's far too much for him to handle in such heavy doses.
Kagero
i need part five now (lol whenever no rush) but that geto series is so good, and i need to know what happens next. I cant wait to read what you write!
ahhh thank u anon! i’m so grateful for all the support i’ve had with this fic, it truly means so much!
i am still writing this part, i really hope you enjoy it, i may also do a bonus part afterward taking place years in the future, not sure yet!
all my love, suguru
chapter 4
summary: after an unexpected night spent with your close friend, you find yourself pregnant, and unable to tell him so. will you be able to come to terms with this news, or will it destroy the delicate relationship you’d had left?
chapter warnings: mentions of declining mental health (suguru), general angst, secret pregnancy/child
masterlist
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A brown head of hair follows you from your car to the apartment. It's an uncomfortable journey knowing you're back in Tokyo again, so close to a life that feels so distant from you now.
There are many boxes to unpack, and when accompanied by a young child, the task feels insurmountable. To credit her, she does make an attempt to help, picking out a few toys from one of the containers with a smile, though just as quickly becomes distracted by the prospect of actually playing with them. This does make things easier for a short while; you're able to unpack some dinnerware into empty shelves, folding down just one cardboard box before she's back at your side. "Mama!" She toddles to you with tears brimmed at her lash line, a doll in one hand, it's arm in the other. "Help, please."
You offer a soft smile, crouching and accepting the broken toy. It's easy to slot the arm back into place with some jostling (a manuvre you've learned from experience with this particular toy), and she's smiling once more, a shriek of excitement when the doll is returned to her in one piece.
Her expression lightens your mood, how beautifully she wears her emotions. There's so much innocence to children you hadn't expected before meeting her, so much joy. Her brown eyes are locked onto her barbie as she babbles, some nonsense, though some actual words do crop up - mummy, love, play.
You'd spent your entire pregnancy wondering what she would look like, whether she would take after you or her father, and to little surprise when she was handed to you, she was the image of Suguru. Even more so with age. Brown hair and eyes, and she has his nose too, with a calm temperament and warmth that you also accredit to him.
Being a single mother is hard, and seeing so much of him within her is bittersweet. He's the man you fell in love with, but he's also the man you had to leave. There's so much you've wanted to share with him too; her first steps, words, her first birthday. Despite this, you know even if alone you've raised her well, and she is so loved. You've brought her this far without sorcery, but now a blue flame surrounds her. She's an early bloomer in the cursed sense, and just as you'd feared, inherits her father's technique meaning she'll likely be a special grade... something you'd wished so deeply to avoid.
There was change on the horizon, beginning only a few days ago when you'd been told to pack these very boxes, and push your daughter into a future you hadn't willed. You feel sick when recounting the memory.
"No." The sight of his face brings a burning to your throat, a sinking feeling as if a bowling ball had been forced into your chest, dropping to weigh within your stomach. Two years in hiding, to end involuntarily by no one other than Gojo Satoru. White hair draped over his forehead, blue eyes meeting your own. They look tired, aged somehow, though you can't seem to care when that weathering is accompanied by remorse, lips downturned.
"Invite me inside." His voice is quiet, low. It's late, and you're sure he's exhausted, yet he's at your door instead of his own. There's a small spark of hope that perhaps he simply needs a place to stay, though this is snuffed out when you look back to his face. He knows. "Satoru, why are you here?" Your voice trembles on the verge of tears, but he doesn't comfort you, instead remaining silent as you try to steady your breaths, eventually regulating them enough to step to one side. There's some hesitance as he walks past you.
You lead him to the livingroom, and as he trails behind his gaze wonders the painted walls of your entryway, pictures decorating an otherwise bland white. Most of which appear to star a small child from the ages of infancy to two; the same dark hair and brown eyes that he recognised within his close friend. There's dimples in each cheek when she smiles with her mother's lips.
"You had a girl." He means it to echo a question despite already knowing, though it sounds to be a statement. Your eyes lift from the floor to meet his, and you nod.
"Keiko." Usually her name on your lips brings you joy, but telling Satoru only makes your heart ache.
"Satoru, please tell me why you're here." You swallow thickly, afraid of the news you're about to be privvy to. He offers little reprieve with his reluctance, and you expect the worse. "You have to come back, to Tokyo."
There's a numbness that begins at your throat, and slowly, like mould spore growing through a piece of fruit, you find yourself rotting before him. You're plagued with dread as you picture your daughter, only two years of age, opened up to a world you wished to shield her from. "Why would I need to do that?" You act as if you're unaware, yet you understand clearly. She's gifted, even if you hadn't wanted to give her this strength.
"She has Cursed Spirit Manipulation." When those words leave his lips, you realise you truly have lost this case. This is it, this is what she will be forced to use. Your jaw tightens as you form a response, though you're unable to begin when Satoru elaborates. "Two weeks ago, a small girl was seen chasing a grade four, and upon capturing it, the curse was ingested."
You frown. "Who reported this?" Satoru hears the panic in your voice, no matter how strong you try to be. Just like when you were teenagers, you feign confidence against him, yet in equal power, Satoru can see right through you.
"A grade three sorcerer working within this district reported it to the higher ups. They've decided her potential is too strong to ignore." You're staring at him wide eyed, and he feels guilt as he watches you grieve this life. Satoru wouldn't tell you how he'd practically pleaded with them to let her be a child before introducing her to the horrors of this world, because he didn't want you to know he'd failed you.
"What if I refuse?" "You know the answer, do I really have to spell it out to you? There is no other choice." His words imbue a hopelessness into you, and you finally give up, walking past him to take a seat on the couch. The cushions sink under you, and your hands rest upon each leg. There's one question you have left.
"Does he know?" Monotone, dead. Your tone sends a chill over Satoru's spine; he's never seen you so genuinely defeated. Even when he'd found out about your pregnancy, you held yourself together better than this. But even with all of Satoru's experience, his strength, he still couldn't empathise with that of parenthood. Megumi was the closest thing he had to that, though he understands that the relationship the pair share is nothing close to the love you would have for your own blood.
"You left with no word as to where you'd gone. If I told him it was to have his child, what would he have done?" There's some bitterness to his words, and you cringe. "Didn't he question the fact there's a child with his technique?"
Satoru moves from one foot to the other, crossing his arms as he watches your meek state. You're slouched and sweating, and your eyes haven't lifted from the same patch of carpet for the past two minutes. Though with his quietness, your gaze lifts, stopping at his lips.
"He doesn't know."
You nod once, taking your teeth between your lips. This is worse than being lectured, you think, enduring the judgement of a person you value highly, feeling their revulsion of a decision you made long ago. "Don't you think he had a right to know before all of this?" You stay silent, your arms closing in closer to your body as if to hug yourself. "It's only right he hears it from you, before this goes any further."
Only, you still haven't made that call, and told him the truth. You watch your daughter walk toward the school, her hand in yours, while Suguru is none the wiser. It's a secret you knew would be revealed within the next few hours, unrevealed as long as you'd been able.
Shoko's leaving the lab when you enter the halls. You don't notice her at first, instead preoccupied by the small girl beside you, though when your eyes lift from the little fingers wrapped around yours, you stop dead in your tracks.
Not many things shock Shoko. She likes to think she's seen all, and likely knows most of what goes on even if only surface level, but when she sees you in Jujutsu High with a child clutching at your hand, she comes to a standstill, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
Keiko takes a few steps, her little feet tapping on the hard floors, though soon notices her mother's halted action. "Mama, come on."
Shoko's brow raises, a sharp gasp on her lips as she pieces things together. The child looks to be around two, and not long before that you'd left - this must've been the result of that pregnancy test you'd requested long ago. And as she stares at her a little longer, taking in at the warm toned brown eyes, she realises why you'd left. This child had to be Suguru's, her features were far too akin to his to be coincidental.
She says your name, though it sounds foreign to her now. She wonders when the last time she'd called out to you was, and when you peer anxiously to her expression, she realises how you've matured, mellowed almost. There's a protectiveness she can sense, you're definitely more closed off, but that's understandable considering the fact you've been gone and likely without much social contact.
"Hi." Part of you had hoped for a better reunion, but with how things went it was only understandable that Shoko wouldn't be running to hug you anytime soon. "Your a mother, huh?" There's little goosebumps over your skin as you swallow, nodding slowly. Of course, she'd remember your offish self asking her for tests, and she'd be able to piece things together. "What's her name?"
You knew Shoko wouldn't bring harm to you both, and if she's worked out your daughter's father, she wouldn't press you on it. "It's Keiko." You look down to your daughter, who's holding your hand a little tighter in the presence of a stranger. Funny, growing up you'd thought these people would be your children's family, yet here your baby is, backing up at the sight of a woman she'd never met.
"Keiko," Shoko crouches to her eye level. "That's a beautiful name." Shoko offers her a smile, and Keiko's hand loosens up a little, though it's still clammy on your palm. "Thanks." It's spoken quietly, and the 'th' sounds more like an 'f', but it's coherent enough.
"What are you both doing here?" Shoko's looking back to you now, standing up to meet your level once again. Mouth opening, your free hand comes to your arm to fiddle with your jacket. "The higher-ups found out about her technique." "Manipulation?" You pause. So, she's figured it out. "Yeah. They want him to show her the way, I guess." "But he doesn't know." "No, he doesn't." You offer her a half smile in hopes she would forgive you. "I was kind of hoping he'd find out before i got here, but he hasn't."
Shoko wants to tell you it's your job to tell him and that you need to face your fears, but she keeps her mouth closed in order to save your feelings. Instead, she nods quietly, arms crossed. When the air is too stale to bare any longer, you breathe it in, deciding to take you leave before you would combust on the spot. "I've got to find Yaga, we have a meeting." Your words are rushed and you almost stumble as you walk past her.
"Who was that?" Keiko questions in her own muddled words, and you force a happy expression when meeting her gaze. "Mama's old friend, from school."
Suguru sits back in the beat up couch, bitter instant coffee still swirling as he places it on the low table. The staffroom has definitely seen better days, he was sure this furniture would've been used back when he'd attended Jujutsu High, with stains and scratches over old wood, rings from mugs of coffee much like his own. Budget cuts had meant money was syphoned into other things, much less into staff.
"A meeting, with Yaga?" He repeats Satoru's words carefully, brow creased. He watches as the brown liquid begins to settle, a few bubbles at the surface meeting in the middle. "Yeah, something about a new student." The explanation makes much less sense to Suguru, because this year he's supposed to be taking on more missions, and offering a supporting role rather than holding his own classes. "And why would that concern me?" His voice is tired, he's tired. The school is working them all into an early grave, he thinks. What was supposed to be more of a career break had somehow turned into more work than he's ever had, and he realises the only way out of this is to leave Jujutsu society for good - much like you did.
Suguru can't deny he feels responsible for your sudden leaving. As if a phone call would've fixed anything between you after he'd not only slept with you, but left you to fend for yourself afterward too. He thinks about you a lot, much to his own distaste. It's his fault you're not here, after all.
"You'll be teaching them part time." Suguru outwardly sighs, a hand flying up to massage his temples. "Of course." It was drenched in acidity, and Satoru shifts. He's still standing, muscles tense as he watches his friend stress himself further. It's been a difficult few years, and he is sure Suguru is at the end of his tether. Satoru worries that your return might just be the thing that breaks him entirely.
"What do you know, Satoru?" When he zones back into the room, glancing away from the disgustingly beige walls to peer into his friend's brown eyes, he realises he'd worn his concerns too evidently. "Not much," He lies, something he's found himself doing consistently as of recent. "She's young, though. A child." He tries to soften the blow by letting on that piece of information now, because he knows Suguru will be disgusted to find out they're having him begin training with a child who cannot yet read, let alone understand what a curse is.
"How young?" Suguru's intuition tells him that something is awry here, but he can't place his finger on what exactly it is. Satoru is definitely withholding something important, and he understands that he's not going to find out what until he's in Yaga's office. "Fine, don't tell me."
With a sigh, he pushes himself up from the couch, all the while Satoru is stood in silence, that pitying look he hates being bestowed unto him. The coffee on the table is going cold, not that Suguru has much of a stomach for it anyway.
a/n: soooo yes, reader ran from her problems (sorrrry) but it looks like suguru is about to find out everything...
tags - @animeisforkings @emikisses @boredwithwrath @karazorel7 @tomiokasecretlover @mrsoharaa @magey0412 @thisbicc @aemiliabruno @zeunys @sukunaspillow @caixgee @ssetsuka @pinkpunkdynamite @harlamarie @chilicopsticks @khoochie @hojoslutoru @karazorel @idkuluka @itztamar @magey0412 @strflp @kaeyakaikai
all my love, suguru
chapter 4
summary: after an unexpected night spent with your close friend, you find yourself pregnant, and unable to tell him so. will you be able to come to terms with this news, or will it destroy the delicate relationship you’d had left?
chapter warnings: mentions of declining mental health (suguru), general angst, secret pregnancy/child
masterlist
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A brown head of hair follows you from your car to the apartment. It's an uncomfortable journey knowing you're back in Tokyo again, so close to a life that feels so distant from you now.
There are many boxes to unpack, and when accompanied by a young child, the task feels insurmountable. To credit her, she does make an attempt to help, picking out a few toys from one of the containers with a smile, though just as quickly becomes distracted by the prospect of actually playing with them. This does make things easier for a short while; you're able to unpack some dinnerware into empty shelves, folding down just one cardboard box before she's back at your side. "Mama!" She toddles to you with tears brimmed at her lash line, a doll in one hand, it's arm in the other. "Help, please."
You offer a soft smile, crouching and accepting the broken toy. It's easy to slot the arm back into place with some jostling (a manuvre you've learned from experience with this particular toy), and she's smiling once more, a shriek of excitement when the doll is returned to her in one piece.
Her expression lightens your mood, how beautifully she wears her emotions. There's so much innocence to children you hadn't expected before meeting her, so much joy. Her brown eyes are locked onto her barbie as she babbles, some nonsense, though some actual words do crop up - mummy, love, play.
You'd spent your entire pregnancy wondering what she would look like, whether she would take after you or her father, and to little surprise when she was handed to you, she was the image of Suguru. Even more so with age. Brown hair and eyes, and she has his nose too, with a calm temperament and warmth that you also accredit to him.
Being a single mother is hard, and seeing so much of him within her is bittersweet. He's the man you fell in love with, but he's also the man you had to leave. There's so much you've wanted to share with him too; her first steps, words, her first birthday. Despite this, you know even if alone you've raised her well, and she is so loved. You've brought her this far without sorcery, but now a blue flame surrounds her. She's an early bloomer in the cursed sense, and just as you'd feared, inherits her father's technique meaning she'll likely be a special grade... something you'd wished so deeply to avoid.
There was change on the horizon, beginning only a few days ago when you'd been told to pack these very boxes, and push your daughter into a future you hadn't willed. You feel sick when recounting the memory.
"No." The sight of his face brings a burning to your throat, a sinking feeling as if a bowling ball had been forced into your chest, dropping to weigh within your stomach. Two years in hiding, to end involuntarily by no one other than Gojo Satoru. White hair draped over his forehead, blue eyes meeting your own. They look tired, aged somehow, though you can't seem to care when that weathering is accompanied by remorse, lips downturned.
"Invite me inside." His voice is quiet, low. It's late, and you're sure he's exhausted, yet he's at your door instead of his own. There's a small spark of hope that perhaps he simply needs a place to stay, though this is snuffed out when you look back to his face. He knows. "Satoru, why are you here?" Your voice trembles on the verge of tears, but he doesn't comfort you, instead remaining silent as you try to steady your breaths, eventually regulating them enough to step to one side. There's some hesitance as he walks past you.
You lead him to the livingroom, and as he trails behind his gaze wonders the painted walls of your entryway, pictures decorating an otherwise bland white. Most of which appear to star a small child from the ages of infancy to two; the same dark hair and brown eyes that he recognised within his close friend. There's dimples in each cheek when she smiles with her mother's lips.
"You had a girl." He means it to echo a question despite already knowing, though it sounds to be a statement. Your eyes lift from the floor to meet his, and you nod.
"Keiko." Usually her name on your lips brings you joy, but telling Satoru only makes your heart ache.
"Satoru, please tell me why you're here." You swallow thickly, afraid of the news you're about to be privvy to. He offers little reprieve with his reluctance, and you expect the worse. "You have to come back, to Tokyo."
There's a numbness that begins at your throat, and slowly, like mould spore growing through a piece of fruit, you find yourself rotting before him. You're plagued with dread as you picture your daughter, only two years of age, opened up to a world you wished to shield her from. "Why would I need to do that?" You act as if you're unaware, yet you understand clearly. She's gifted, even if you hadn't wanted to give her this strength.
"She has Cursed Spirit Manipulation." When those words leave his lips, you realise you truly have lost this case. This is it, this is what she will be forced to use. Your jaw tightens as you form a response, though you're unable to begin when Satoru elaborates. "Two weeks ago, a small girl was seen chasing a grade four, and upon capturing it, the curse was ingested."
You frown. "Who reported this?" Satoru hears the panic in your voice, no matter how strong you try to be. Just like when you were teenagers, you feign confidence against him, yet in equal power, Satoru can see right through you.
"A grade three sorcerer working within this district reported it to the higher ups. They've decided her potential is too strong to ignore." You're staring at him wide eyed, and he feels guilt as he watches you grieve this life. Satoru wouldn't tell you how he'd practically pleaded with them to let her be a child before introducing her to the horrors of this world, because he didn't want you to know he'd failed you.
"What if I refuse?" "You know the answer, do I really have to spell it out to you? There is no other choice." His words imbue a hopelessness into you, and you finally give up, walking past him to take a seat on the couch. The cushions sink under you, and your hands rest upon each leg. There's one question you have left.
"Does he know?" Monotone, dead. Your tone sends a chill over Satoru's spine; he's never seen you so genuinely defeated. Even when he'd found out about your pregnancy, you held yourself together better than this. But even with all of Satoru's experience, his strength, he still couldn't empathise with that of parenthood. Megumi was the closest thing he had to that, though he understands that the relationship the pair share is nothing close to the love you would have for your own blood.
"You left with no word as to where you'd gone. If I told him it was to have his child, what would he have done?" There's some bitterness to his words, and you cringe. "Didn't he question the fact there's a child with his technique?"
Satoru moves from one foot to the other, crossing his arms as he watches your meek state. You're slouched and sweating, and your eyes haven't lifted from the same patch of carpet for the past two minutes. Though with his quietness, your gaze lifts, stopping at his lips.
"He doesn't know."
You nod once, taking your teeth between your lips. This is worse than being lectured, you think, enduring the judgement of a person you value highly, feeling their revulsion of a decision you made long ago. "Don't you think he had a right to know before all of this?" You stay silent, your arms closing in closer to your body as if to hug yourself. "It's only right he hears it from you, before this goes any further."
Only, you still haven't made that call, and told him the truth. You watch your daughter walk toward the school, her hand in yours, while Suguru is none the wiser. It's a secret you knew would be revealed within the next few hours, unrevealed as long as you'd been able.
Shoko's leaving the lab when you enter the halls. You don't notice her at first, instead preoccupied by the small girl beside you, though when your eyes lift from the little fingers wrapped around yours, you stop dead in your tracks.
Not many things shock Shoko. She likes to think she's seen all, and likely knows most of what goes on even if only surface level, but when she sees you in Jujutsu High with a child clutching at your hand, she comes to a standstill, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
Keiko takes a few steps, her little feet tapping on the hard floors, though soon notices her mother's halted action. "Mama, come on."
Shoko's brow raises, a sharp gasp on her lips as she pieces things together. The child looks to be around two, and not long before that you'd left - this must've been the result of that pregnancy test you'd requested long ago. And as she stares at her a little longer, taking in at the warm toned brown eyes, she realises why you'd left. This child had to be Suguru's, her features were far too akin to his to be coincidental.
She says your name, though it sounds foreign to her now. She wonders when the last time she'd called out to you was, and when you peer anxiously to her expression, she realises how you've matured, mellowed almost. There's a protectiveness she can sense, you're definitely more closed off, but that's understandable considering the fact you've been gone and likely without much social contact.
"Hi." Part of you had hoped for a better reunion, but with how things went it was only understandable that Shoko wouldn't be running to hug you anytime soon. "Your a mother, huh?" There's little goosebumps over your skin as you swallow, nodding slowly. Of course, she'd remember your offish self asking her for tests, and she'd be able to piece things together. "What's her name?"
You knew Shoko wouldn't bring harm to you both, and if she's worked out your daughter's father, she wouldn't press you on it. "It's Keiko." You look down to your daughter, who's holding your hand a little tighter in the presence of a stranger. Funny, growing up you'd thought these people would be your children's family, yet here your baby is, backing up at the sight of a woman she'd never met.
"Keiko," Shoko crouches to her eye level. "That's a beautiful name." Shoko offers her a smile, and Keiko's hand loosens up a little, though it's still clammy on your palm. "Thanks." It's spoken quietly, and the 'th' sounds more like an 'f', but it's coherent enough.
"What are you both doing here?" Shoko's looking back to you now, standing up to meet your level once again. Mouth opening, your free hand comes to your arm to fiddle with your jacket. "The higher-ups found out about her technique." "Manipulation?" You pause. So, she's figured it out. "Yeah. They want him to show her the way, I guess." "But he doesn't know." "No, he doesn't." You offer her a half smile in hopes she would forgive you. "I was kind of hoping he'd find out before i got here, but he hasn't."
Shoko wants to tell you it's your job to tell him and that you need to face your fears, but she keeps her mouth closed in order to save your feelings. Instead, she nods quietly, arms crossed. When the air is too stale to bare any longer, you breathe it in, deciding to take you leave before you would combust on the spot. "I've got to find Yaga, we have a meeting." Your words are rushed and you almost stumble as you walk past her.
"Who was that?" Keiko questions in her own muddled words, and you force a happy expression when meeting her gaze. "Mama's old friend, from school."
Suguru sits back in the beat up couch, bitter instant coffee still swirling as he places it on the low table. The staffroom has definitely seen better days, he was sure this furniture would've been used back when he'd attended Jujutsu High, with stains and scratches over old wood, rings from mugs of coffee much like his own. Budget cuts had meant money was syphoned into other things, much less into staff.
"A meeting, with Yaga?" He repeats Satoru's words carefully, brow creased. He watches as the brown liquid begins to settle, a few bubbles at the surface meeting in the middle. "Yeah, something about a new student." The explanation makes much less sense to Suguru, because this year he's supposed to be taking on more missions, and offering a supporting role rather than holding his own classes. "And why would that concern me?" His voice is tired, he's tired. The school is working them all into an early grave, he thinks. What was supposed to be more of a career break had somehow turned into more work than he's ever had, and he realises the only way out of this is to leave Jujutsu society for good - much like you did.
Suguru can't deny he feels responsible for your sudden leaving. As if a phone call would've fixed anything between you after he'd not only slept with you, but left you to fend for yourself afterward too. He thinks about you a lot, much to his own distaste. It's his fault you're not here, after all.
"You'll be teaching them part time." Suguru outwardly sighs, a hand flying up to massage his temples. "Of course." It was drenched in acidity, and Satoru shifts. He's still standing, muscles tense as he watches his friend stress himself further. It's been a difficult few years, and he is sure Suguru is at the end of his tether. Satoru worries that your return might just be the thing that breaks him entirely.
"What do you know, Satoru?" When he zones back into the room, glancing away from the disgustingly beige walls to peer into his friend's brown eyes, he realises he'd worn his concerns too evidently. "Not much," He lies, something he's found himself doing consistently as of recent. "She's young, though. A child." He tries to soften the blow by letting on that piece of information now, because he knows Suguru will be disgusted to find out they're having him begin training with a child who cannot yet read, let alone understand what a curse is.
"How young?" Suguru's intuition tells him that something is awry here, but he can't place his finger on what exactly it is. Satoru is definitely withholding something important, and he understands that he's not going to find out what until he's in Yaga's office. "Fine, don't tell me."
With a sigh, he pushes himself up from the couch, all the while Satoru is stood in silence, that pitying look he hates being bestowed unto him. The coffee on the table is going cold, not that Suguru has much of a stomach for it anyway.
a/n: soooo yes, reader ran from her problems (sorrrry) but it looks like suguru is about to find out everything...
tags - @animeisforkings @emikisses @boredwithwrath @karazorel7 @tomiokasecretlover @mrsoharaa @magey0412 @thisbicc @aemiliabruno @zeunys @sukunaspillow @caixgee @ssetsuka @pinkpunkdynamite @harlamarie @chilicopsticks @khoochie @hojoslutoru @karazorel @idkuluka @itztamar @magey0412 @strflp @kaeyakaikai
BEG, BORROW, & STEAL - levi ackerman/f!reader (aot) NSFW 18+ MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT wc: 13k tags: enemies to lovers, neighbours to begrudging friends to lovers, food and wine writer!Levi, catsitter!Levi, Pancakes is the Real Star of this show, frequent and gratuitous descriptions of food and drink, frequent mention and consumption of alcohol, singular mention of loud domestic argument, smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, sensory deprivation play, blindfolds, hair pulling, no mention of condoms, honestly i'm not sure if fire escapes are actually safe to hang out on so tw for that too crossposted to ao3
Nestled in a quiet corner of Mitras’ budding east end, there’s a little five-storey building.
It’s stout, brick, and decorated with ivy that creeps up along the mortar and underneath its windows. Along the side of the building not facing the two lane street, running just above a narrow back alley, there’s a labyrinthine set of old metal fire escapes—rusted and weathered but still sturdy, a standing testament to bygone craftsmanship. It all comes together in stark juxtaposition to the design of the towering structures of concrete, steel, and glass that have been steadily cropping up in the neighbourhood as of late.
The architecture feels almost out of place among these new developments, understated and old among all the shiny and new, but it certainly has a lot of character.
The residents who inhabit the apartments inside are respectful, polite people, who mostly tend to keep to themselves—though they’re as a eclectic of a bunch as any, to be sure. Most have lived in their rent-controlled units for decades, made homes for themselves that they never plan to leave.
Since moving into the little brick building two years ago, you haven’t had any notable issues with any of your neighbours.
Well, except for one.
The miserable guy in apartment 304—one unit down and slightly to the left of your own, 405. He’d nearly chewed your god damn head off for using his trash can one time when you’d first moved in. His trash can of all things. It had been an honest mistake on your part, and you’d sincerely apologized for it when he all-but cornered you in the mail room off the lobby a few days after the fact. But after the unpleasant exchange, the curmudgeon bought himself a padlock for his trashcan and has sent withering glares your way ever since.
It’s been well over a year since then, but the chill has never quite broken between the two of you.
The dark haired man, who seems to be perpetually suit-clad—or at least he has been in all the times you’ve spotted him—is easy enough to avoid given the floor’s difference between your units. But sometimes ill-fated meetings are inevitable in such close quarters.
Your building (regrettably) only has one rickety old elevator. It’s an original feature from when the complex was first built, and it’s undergone minimal maintenance and sum total zero upgrades since it was installed decades prior.
All of which is to say: it merits nothing less than being called a complete and utter death trap.
And, as though the sluggardly descent from your apartment on the fourth floor down to the lobby isn’t harrowing enough, your ill-tempered neighbour standing less than a metre away from you in a tightly confined space surely makes it worse.
The elevator is old enough that it has two doors—an automatic door that opens on each floor, as well as a manual interior door that the passengers in the elevator are responsible for opening and closing themselves. Initially you’d found the antique system charming, quaint even, but after realizing that the interior door weighs about thirty pounds and only likes to open half of the time, it quickly lost its charm. You stare pointedly at the cursed iron grate of the aforementioned interior door as the elevator makes its slow downward journey to the lobby, cursing yourself for not just taking the fucking stairs.
The lights on the side panel tell you you’re only one single floor away from your destination. If you just hold your breath and pray hard enough maybe everything will be fi—
“If you and your boyfriend plan to continue going at it like animals until four in the morning without any consideration for your neighbours, you should at least have the basic human decency to close your bedroom window.”
The elevator makes it to the ground floor just as his eviscerating remark draws to a close, the car dipping slightly upon arrival and sending your stomach sinking with it. Without missing a beat, your sour-faced neighbour pulls the confounded metal door open like it weighs nothing. You, in contrast, are frozen stock-still in shock, reeling in the wake of his words with a singeing heat flooding your cheeks. He steps off in the lobby without so much as a momentary glance in your direction, and you watch his back (in a crisp navy blue suit jacket) as he walks away.
You’re so completely stunned that you almost forget to get out too.
Oh, you hate him.
You swear that you’ll forsake the cursed elevator entirely for the rest of your life, if only to avoid ever crossing paths with that bastard again.
Or, so you may have thought.
Weeks later, you find yourself on the fire escape outside your living room with tears drying on your cheeks. You sit quietly in the wake of a long, heated argument with your boyfriend. A loud argument. A relationship ending argument.
Things have been bad for a few months. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. He’s always been a bit mean, a little careless, a little wrong—and you knew he probably wasn’t the one. But that doesn’t make the sting of yet another relationship crumbling in your hands any more bearable.
And so, not for the first time, you find yourself drowning your sorrows in a bottle of cheap, overly saccharine white wine and hiccuping in breaths of the fresh air as you try to soothe the ache while the sting of alcohol sears down your throat.
“Your boyfriend sucks.”
You jump a little, looking down the stairs to your right only to see your most loathed neighbour on his own fire escape with a glass of red wine in his hand.
You’re not sure how long he’s been there, but you’re sure he heard most (if not all) of what had transpired in your living room if he had been home at the time. Your windows had been open, you realize too late to do anything about it.
“Yeah,” you scrub at your swollen eyes with the back of your knuckles, “he kinda does—”
You take a long, inelegant swig from the bottle of wine in your hand at the same time your neighbour lifts his own glass. This mouthful tastes more bitter than the last.
“—and he’s not my boyfriend anymore, in case it needs to be said.”
Your neighbour pauses with his glass at his lips. Based on the fact that your window had been open to the world at large, and your conversation with your now-ex had been less that even-toned, you doubt the point really stands to be highlighted.
“It doesn’t,” he replies, confirming your suspicions. “But sorry to hear that.”
You snort mirthlessly. “Are you really?”
The man tuts, a little click of his tongue behind his teeth. But it’s not a sound that implies that he cares, just one that says he’s been found out.
“No.”
You can’t help but laugh at his candour. It’s a nice reprieve from the tears.
And, strangely, things are almost… amicable after that.
Now in the evenings when both of you sit quietly on your fire escapes, where once you’d skitter back inside to avoid his cold glare and oppressive aura, neither of you moves to silently retreat.
Sometimes you even chat, as unlikely an occurrence as it once would have seemed to you. You talk about basically nothing—the weather, a new building that’s cropped up a few streets away, a noisy neighbour, the moon—and it’s usually just for a few minutes before you head to sleep. You tend to be early to bed and early to rise, but Apartment 304’s lights seem to be on at all hours.
Part of you wonders just how long he stays out on his balcony after you retire for the night. But, it’s sort of nice—this unlikely armistice you seem to have unspokenly signed.
You stick your head out the window one evening, a few months in to your ill-begotten amity, a little earlier than you normally would since you got home from work ahead of your usual return.
He’s already there.
“Hey—”
Your neighbour lifts his head to peer up from the pad of notebook paper he’s scribbling away on. He’s wearing glasses today. You’ve never seen those before.
“—what are you having for dinner?”
304 looks at you with a quirk of his brow.
“A 2001 Cabernet Sauvignon.”
You lean your elbows on the windowsill, angling yourself a little further out of it. “I just made a fuckload of food. If you split that red with me, I’ve got a plate for you.”
He eyes you, and seems to be considering your proposal.
“What is it?”
“Roast chicken, some vegetables. Nothing fancy.”
“This wine pairs better with red meat.”
“Yeah? Well my last bottle of wine cost me 8 dollars and a 2-day hangover. Do you want the food or not?” you ask him, rolling your eyes lightly at his comment.
There’s a long pause.
A sigh.
“Fine.”
You meet on the metal stairs halfway between your respective fire escape landings on the third and fourth floor; you're perched a few steps higher than your neighbour closer to your home, and he to his.
He pours you a serving of wine into a spotless glass that he must have retrieved while you were inside plating up the meal, having evidently tucked his eyeglasses away at the same time as they’re nowhere to be seen. He accepts the plate of food you offer him and hands you the drink in exchange. Your plates are mismatched, so is your cutlery, and they clash with the delicate wine glasses he’s brought to your unexpected soiree.
You watch cautiously as he takes his first bite, silently scrutinizing the way his brow furrows as he chews. After a moment the crease in his brow softens, and he seems content—or at the very least not repulsed. You almost laugh into the brim of your wine glass as you quietly read the expressions on his face.
You tip your glass back and take your first sip.
“Holy shit, this is great,” you say, the flavour of the wine lingering on your tongue even after you’ve swallowed it down. It’s neither too dry nor too sweet, evenly balanced, and it doesn’t have the lingering tannic bitterness of the reds that you’ve tried before. Theres something rich but not heavy in the notes that first touch your palate, fruity but on the right side of neutral. You reach a hand out for the bottle and he passes it to you—albeit hesitantly. Reading the label, all you’re able to surmise is that it’s french. “This must not be cheap.”
“It certainly cost more than eight dollars,” your third floor neighbour snorts. He catches the flat look you shoot him, and suddenly is very preoccupied with cutting into his next bite of chicken.
And so from that point on you continue your evening chats, and even eat dinner together on a semi-regular basis. Apartment 304 has yet to turn down your offer of a free meal—and he always supplies the wine.
You’re not friends per se, but you’re certainly no longer mortal nemeses either.
“Oi! 405!”
You hear your neighbour call to you late one afternoon, the sun rapidly slipping away along the city skyline outside, and rush towards your open window. You stick your head out onto the fire escape curiously.
Your neighbour is standing on his landing, staring up at you with a quirked brow.
“Did you lose something?”
That’s when you notice the bra dangling off his outstretched finger. Your eyes shoot to your laundry rack where that very bra had been previously pinned to dry, as though you really need to confirm where it had come from. There’s a clothespin resting on the grated metal deck of the fire escape beside the wire rack, having clearly blown off in the wind.
You swallow a mortified groan.
“How do you know that’s not Misses Miller’s from upstairs?” You sniff, unduly defensive. The argument is weak and you know it; Misses Miller occupies apartment 506, the unit at the top of the fire escape stairs connected to your own—she’s nearly 80 and likely requires a bit more support than what the dainty lace bra looped around your neighbour's index finger offers.
The dark-haired man’s lips quirk into something you might think vaguely reminiscent of a smirk if you believed him capable of it.
“I’m happy to go ask-“
“You’re a real jerk, y’know that, Third?” you cut him off before he can finish the thought, pulling yourself out through the window clumsily in your newfound haste.
He seems to be contemplating what you’ve said as you make your way down the fire escape stairs towards him, footfalls heavy with your indignation.
“Third?” he asks, peering up at you with his head titled inquisitively to the side.
“Third floor,” you explain, like it should be obvious.
“I don’t own the entire third floor.”
You lean down from your place on the stairs and snatch your bra from his hand. “Well you sure act like it.”
You turn and stomp your way back up the fire escape towards your own apartment, bra clutched in a tightly clenched fist.
“So, should I let Misses Miller know you’re returning that to her, or—“
You slam your window shut behind you before you can hear the end of his comment.
A few nights following The Bra Incident—or the deBRAcle as you’ve come to refer to it in your mortified inner monologue—you wake to the unpleasant sound of toppling aluminium in the back alley. Sleepily, you shuffle out into your living room and lift your window, peeking your head out into the cool night.
A quick glance to your right tells you that 304’s lights are off. It’s late, admittedly, and this should be normal—but you can’t recall a night you’ve peeked down towards his apartment and seen the window dark. It’s all a bit unusual.
What you hear next even more so.
“God fucking damn it—shit, fuck—mother of—“
“You alright down there?” You approach the railing of the fire escape and lean over the edge to peer down towards the ground.
Below you, beyond all odds or reasonable explanation, is your third floor neighbour. He’s dressed in a nice suit as usual, with his hair neatly slicked back, and he’s standing beside a knocked over garbage can with trash strewn about.
He blinks up at you owlishly.
It’s quiet for a moment as the two of you hold eye contact.
He speaks first.
“I forgot my house keys in my office.”
You raise a brow, propping your chin in your hand as you lean against the metal railing. “And so you picked a fight with an innocent trash can?”
304 narrows his eyes up at you, a resentful squint. The sharp line of his jaw becomes even more pronounced as he grits his teeth. “I’m trying to reach the fire escape.”
The ladder that connects the fire escape to the ground is retractable, and has to be pulled from the second floor. He’d clearly been trying to use the garbage cans as leverage to reach the lowest rung of the ladder and yank it down—a security measure that had clearly done its job.
You purse your lips, fighting back a laugh. “Are you drunk?”
Silence befalls the two of you once more, and your neighbours eyes only narrow further.
“A bit.” Reluctance weighs heavily in his monotonous words.
You push yourself off from the railing, heading back towards your window.
“Where are you going?” 304 calls indignantly after you, like now that you’ve spotted him you’re somehow obligated to come to his aid.
“I gotta grab something!” you chirp dismissively as you crawl back inside over the edge of the frame.
Something being your cellphone. Specifically to take a picture and commemorate the ordeal.
“You’re cruel,” your neighbour snarls from his place on the ground as you gleefully snap a few photos with flash, quickly turning his back to you in an attempt to preserve whatever remaining shred of pride he has left.
“And if you want me to drop this fire escape ladder then you’re at my mercy—so smile!” you cajole with a giggle as you lean precariously over the railing, pinching the screen of your cellphone to zoom in on his figure.
He flips you off over his suit-clad shoulder and it makes you laugh again.
Once you’ve had your fun, and taken (conservative estimate) 400 photos, you climb down the stairs all the way to the second floor balcony—creeping across the grated deck as to not startle your unsuspecting lower-level neighbours—and finally push down the fire escape ladder.
304 makes short work of clambering up the rungs, pulling himself onto the balcony with a heaving sigh. He stumbles slightly, and you grab him by the lapels of his suit to steady him.
“Take it easy, Third,” you say quietly, letting your hands unfurl from his suit jacket once you’re sure he’s regained his balance.
He rolls his eyes and pulls the creaky fire escape ladder up behind him once more. You both wait with bated breath, pulse spiking, to see if the lights inside the second floor apartment turn on. Mercifully the windows stay dark.
The two of you make your way back up to the third floor, and you’re just about to step onto the stairs towards your own apartment and return to the call of your bed as 304 move towards his window. He places both hands flat against the glass and pushes up.
Nothing happens.
It’s locked.
“Oh my god,” your neighbour groans miserably, letting his forehead rest against the fingerprint-smudged glass, his dark hair hanging around his eyes.
“Holy shit, did something just move in there?” You gasp in fright, spotting something streaking through the darkness of his apartment through the pane.
“Yes, the fucking beast that’s taken over my home.”
You tilt your head. “I’m lost.”
The man before you sighs, turning over so instead of resting with his forehead against the glass his shoulders are pressed to the brick just beside the window frame. He tilts his head back, and a strand of hair falls from his slicked back style and curls in front of his eyes. He breathes out frustratedly into the night. “I’m currently babysitting my acquaintance’s evil cat.”
“You have a cat?” you ask excitedly.
“No,”—he shoots you a pointed, irritated look—“it’s my acquaintance’s cat. And it’s the weirdest creature on earth. She can open windows and eats all of my bread.”
You press a hand to your mouth to try and hold back your giggles.
“Bread?” you ask him incredulously.
He nods solemnly.
“Well,”—you drag the toe of your fluffy slipper idly against the grating beneath your feet—“what’s her name?”
He stares at you blankly. Utterly unenthused. “Pancakes.”
And at that you have no choice but to openly and unreservedly laugh.
When you finally manage to get your giggles in check—exceedingly conscious of how the sound of your laughter seems to ricochet down the narrow, brick-lined alley you find yourself in—you manage to ask him a pertinent question.
“Does anyone have a spare key to your place?”
“My colleague, Erwin,” the man in front of you mumbles.
Acquaintance. Colleague. You’re starting to wonder if 304 has no friends, or just refuses to refer to them as such.
“Ok, so call him,” you encourage.
He shuts his eyes, his head still pressed back against the wall of brick behind him.
“…My phone is dead.”
You wince.
“Christ, third strike you’re out.”
Your neighbour looks ready to pitch himself clear off the edge of the fire escape.
“Get it? because you’re—“
“I got it.” 304 finally opens his eyes to shoot you a glare.
You do him the favour of not openly laughing in the face of his misfortune again, wracking your brain for something that may actually be helpful.
“Er, do you wanna come up to my place?” you ask. “I probably have a charger you can use for your phone, or you could just use mine to call. What kind do you have?”
The man in front of you rifles through the inside pocket of his suit jacket and hands you the dead device.
You survey it for a moment, turning the bottom of the phone up towards you to squint at the charging port in the dim night. It’s different from yours but all hope isn’t yet lost. “I think that ex of mine you liked so much had the same one, he left a charger up there. It’s all yours if you want it.”
It’s not like he really has any other choice.
As 304 follows you up the narrow fire-escape stairs towards your window on the fourth floor, you realize it’s the first time your neighbour has ever been to your apartment. Or even crossed the halfway point on the stairs, for that matter. You turn just before you get to the window, and suddenly realize how close you are on the narrow balcony outside of your home.
You pause.
“You know, I really shouldn’t be inviting a stranger into my apartment.”
Third tuts admonishingly. “We eat dinner together once or twice a week.”
“I don’t even know your na-“
“Levi.”
You’re a little taken aback in the wake of his offering, your eyes widening slightly.
“Levi,” you test the name over in your mouth like the wine the two of you so often share, and then you shrug. “Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Third, but I guess it’ll do.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?” he huffs.
You turn to crawl through your living room window when you feel a gentle touch on your hip calling for your attention. You look back, and Levi pulls his hand away quickly, like he’s realized what he’s done.
You can’t help but think he doesn’t need to seem so suddenly abashed.
He clears his throat a little as you look to him inquisitively.
“Your name?”
You smile a bit, your nose scrunching up at how shyly he poses the question, and you tell him.
He nods curtly, like he accepts it, and it almost makes you laugh.
You go about making two cups of tea while you wait for the phone to power back on once he’s plugged it into the charger—which you dug out of a box you keep shoved in the back of your coat closet full of things your various exes have left in your apartment over the years. Thankfully it is the right fit for the device.
A quick glance at the time on your stove clock as you’re boiling the kettle tells you it’s already well past two AM—far later than your usual bedtime, though you don’t feel particularly sleepy.
Once the tea has been prepared, you tote the steaming mugs into the living room where Levi is waiting. You sit curled in an armchair, while your unexpected guest rests perched on the very edge of your sofa closer to the outlet where his phone is plugged into the wall.
“So, what had you out so late tonight, Thir-Levi?” you ask, correcting yourself last minute from using the nickname you’re so used to. You blow over the surface of your very hot tea as you wait for his reply.
“Work thing,” he grunts dismissively, his knee jiggling impatiently while he cradles the still-dark cellphone in his hands. He picks up his own cup of tea and takes a sip. He seems pleasantly surprised by the taste.
“Okay,” you draw out the word, “and what exactly do you do for work?”
Levi looks at you over the brim of his mug, an almost skeptical expression on his face.
“I’m a writer.”
Your eyes widen. “No shit! Like a novelist?”
“Journalist,” he corrects you, his lips pursing forward like he’s contemplating whether or not to divulge any more. He decides to indulge you, evidently, when he further supplies: “I’m a food and wine writer.”
“Really?” You lean forward in your seat, suddenly very interested. “A critic?”
He looks like he wants to correct you, but doesn’t. “I write reviews among other things, yes.”
You slump back in your chair a little bit, kicking your legs up to loop over one armrest.
“Wow, a guy who writes about food and can’t even cook.”
“I can cook, I just choose not to,” Levi says defensively, his tone sharp.
“Sounds like something someone who can’t cook would say,” you say, punctuating the statement with a long sip of tea.
“I’ve eaten at some of the nicest restaurants in the world—there’s nothing I can make myself that could compare, so why try?”
“How fatalistic of you,” you say with a snuffle of a laugh against the edge of your mug. “You know, if I’d known you had such a refined palate I might have been a bit more self-conscious about serving you my cooking.”
Levi rolls his eyes. “You’re a decent cook.”
Your brows lift in surprise. A compliment?
“But you use too much salt.”
You bark out a defensive laugh. “I do not!”
You hear a subtle buzz of vibration and a soft chime as Levi’s phone, left momentarily forgotten on the arm rest of the couch, powers on. It seems to take you both by surprise.
“Well then, time to call your colleague in shining armour,” you say with an encouraging wave of your hand.
Levi leans forward to set his cup of tea down on the table in front of him.
“Coasters?” He pauses, looking around the room.
“I found this coffee table on the curb outside my dorm in college, I promise you it’s seen worse than a hot mug.”
Levi’s face pinches slightly before he sets the mug gently down atop the table’s edge.
You watch as he picks up his phone, tapping around the lit screen for a moment before holding the device up to his ear. He’s curved a little awkwardly towards the end of the sofa due to the power cord connecting the phone to the outlet, the material of his dress shirt pulling taught around his frame. His suit jacket hangs on the back of a chair at your kitchen counter, the knot of his tie is loosened at his throat.
It’s quiet for a moment, and then Levi pulls his phone away from his face and ends the call.
“He’s not answering,” he says with a frustrated huff, as though not answering a phone call in the dead of night is somehow unreasonable. He dials the number again.
“Well,” you say slowly, watching as the same series of events plays out once more, “it’s late. He’s probably asleep.”
“Oh, fuck,” he groans quietly, slumping back into your sofa.
“Do you think the building Super would be awake?” you ask. The Superintendent has keys to every unit, so he’s the next most viable option. He’s a nice, helpful man, and only lives down on the first floor, but you suspect a knock at the door in the dead of night would be worse than an impromptu phone call.
“No, but he’d probably wake up if I called him,” Levi mumbles. He clicks his tongue behind his teeth in irritation. “How humiliating.”
He looks miserable at the mere prospect, but still reaches for his phone.
And maybe it’s because of how late it is. Maybe it’s how warm and dozy and pliantly agreeable the tea that you’d prepared for the two of you has made you feel. Maybe it’s just because there’s something inexplicably comfortable about being around Levi that has your guard lowered.
“You could always crash on my couch,” you find yourself saying before you really think it through. He looks up at you, clearly taken aback by the offer. “Then you can call your coworker in the morning and get your spare key.”
Levi appears uncertain. “You’d let a stranger crash on your couch?”
“We eat dinner together once or twice a week, Levi,” you remind him with a little smirk, using his own words from earlier in your defence.
You bring out a pillow from your own bed covered in a fresh pillow case, and a blanket from your linen closet. You hand them to Levi, still seated in the same place on your sofa though a bit more at ease, and he dips his head in thanks while holding both items atop his lap.
“I have some clothes my ex left here that I would offer you, but he was a bit, uh…”—you make a vague gesture in roughly the same stature as your last boyfriend—“he had a different build than you.”
Levi looks at you flatly.
“You’ve already done enough,” he says, though not altogether unkindly.
“Alright, well… g’night,” you say with an awkward little wave, shuffling off in the direction of your bedroom.
Levi calls your name just as you step across the threshold, and you peek back through the doorway towards him. His face is illuminated only by the glow of the lamp atop the table next to the sofa, and he’s looking at you with an unexpectedly earnest expression as he undoes the top button of his dress shirt, his tie resting undone around his collar.
“Thank you.”
You smile, dipping your head in a little nod, and shut your bedroom door behind you.
When you wake the next morning, it takes a few languid blinks against the morning sunlight streaming in through the curtains and a couple moments more of proper consciousness to remember the events that had transpired the night before.
Well, that and the distant shuffling outside your bedroom door.
You pull on a sweatshirt, pat your hair down into something you think (hope) is a little less dishevelled, and amble sleepily out to your living room. It’s empty, but Levi’s suit jacket is still hanging on your counter stool, his tie neatly rolled up on the corner of your coffee table, and your window is open. You can see the edge of his back seated just beyond the open pane.
You poke your head out to see Levi on the fire escape. His button up shirt is undone to reveal the tight white t-shirt he wears underneath it, and his slacks are slightly creased from sleeping in them. His hair is messy—a hybrid between the loose hanging style you’re accustomed to, and the slicked back fashion he’d had it in the night before. He must hear you coming, because he turns to face you as you arrive. You look at him curiously as if to ask why he’s sitting outside.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he explains without you even vocalizing the question on your mind. His voice is still a bit hoarse from sleep, deeper and rougher than its usual smooth tone.
You crawl through the window, yawning a little as you take a seat cross-legged on the little balcony behind him. Levi turns to face you properly, shifting his whole body in your direction where he sits at the top of the stairs leading down to his own apartment.
“Any word from your spare key courier?” You blink through the tears that sprang to your eyes in your yawn, rubbing them away with your fist.
“He’ll be here in half an hour,” Levi replies.
You nod, a little tug at the corner of your mouth. “Thank God. Pancakes must be so worried all alone in there.”
Levi’s lip curls in an unhappy sneer. “I watched her eat half a loaf of three-day-old brioche through the window this morning. I’m sure she’s having the time of her life.”
There’s no choice but to giggle at the image of a cat ransacking your excessively type-A neighbour’s home, even if he can’t see the humour in it.
“D’ya want some coffee?” you ask, pushing yourself up towards the window again.
“I’d take another cup of that tea from last night,” Levi replies, his tone almost hopeful, and you nod before pulling yourself back inside.
You return to your place on the fire escape a few minutes later, this time with two mugs in hand.
It’s quiet while you sip your drinks, listening to the building hum of the city waking up around you.
“You always up this early?” you finally shatter the stillness with a question, but it’s not intrusive—slipping easily into the comfortable air around you.
“Yeah, usually,” Levi says, peeking over at you. He holds his mug a little strangely, you can’t help put notice—fingertips gripping the brim rather than the handle. It seems unduly precarious. “You wake up early too, huh?”
You tilt your head, wondering how he might know that.
“You sing a lot in the morning,” he explains, looking away by turning his gaze back towards the alley. “You’ve got terrible pitch.”
“Hey!” You reach out and swat at his shoulder. He’s warm to the touch, and even though it’s so basically human it still feels almost unexpected.
He huffs a little, neither a laugh nor far enough from one to discredit it; the sound is smug and indulgent.
“Yeah well you stay up too late,” you counter his observation with one of your own.
This time it’s his turn to be curious, lifting a dark brow as he peeks back at you over his shoulder.
“Your light’s always on,”—you tilt your head in the direction of his apartment down the stairs he’s seated at the top of—“and I don’t really take you for the nightlight type.”
“I don’t sleep much,” he admits.
You scoff. “What do you to with all those extra hours in the day?”
“Writing, editing, researching, emailing my editor,” he explains with a shrug.
You roll your eyes a bit, taking a sip of your coffee. “So you’re a real workaholic, huh?”
Levi drains the last mouthful of his tea, setting the mug down with a little clink as the porcelain meets metal. “There are worse things to spend your time doing.”
“There are better things too,” you counter.
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, socializing? Relaxing? Going out on a date?” You gesticulate with the hand not holding your mug as though to say ‘so on and so forth.'
“You think dating in this day and age is a fun way to pass the time?” Levi remarks flatly.
“Fine,” you concede, a sudden memory of your last ex coming to mind unwelcomely. You can’t help but note he doesn’t make mention of any partners of his own. “Don’t you have hobbies?”
Levi purses his lips, and seems to be wracking his brain. It takes a while.
You stare at him, unimpressed. “When was the last time you went to a museum? An art gallery? A play? The movies? Anywhere that wasn’t work related?”
“I went to the National Gallery downtown a while ago,” he offers.
“Oh yeah?” you ask, disbelievingly. “When?”
“A class trip in ninth grade.”
Your laughter echoes through the alley as it spills from your lips.
“You know they’ve always got new exhibits on display,” you say, gathering your composure. You lean forward, knees pressing into your chest. “You should visit again, I’m sure something has changed in the past eighty years since you were there last.”
Levi watches you curiously, a little too intently to be considered casual.
His phone jingles.
He blinks, and there’s a brief delay before he looks down at the device in his hand.
“That’s my key,” he says quietly.
You nod, standing. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blares. You hadn’t even noticed how noisy it’s gotten in the time the two of you have been sitting together, but the city is well and truly awake now.
One at a time, you both climb back in through the window—him letting you go first—and once you make it back into your living room you take Levi’s empty cup from his hand to take it to your kitchen sink and wash while he collects his belongings.
Levi steps towards your front door as you dry your hands off on a towel hanging from the handle of your oven. You watch as he buttons up his dress shirt—though he leaves it untucked from his wrinkled trousers.
“Thanks again for… y’know”—he stops buttoning once he gets about half-way up the row and gestures vaguely—“all of this.”
You lean your hip against your kitchen counter. “I’ll slip a bill under your door for room and board.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a soft sort of exasperation to his expression as he does it.
“You could just knock.”
You smile, and you feel a pinch in your cheeks from how wide it spreads. “Well, where’s the fun in that?”
You don’t see Levi again in the week that follows, as you’re stuck working late each night as you slog towards a project deadline.
You leave for the office in the morning when the sun has barely crested, and come home long after it’s set. You’ve been eating mainly takeout from restaurants near your work, and whatever happens to be hiding at the back of your pantry since you haven’t had the opportunity to grocery shop—all interspersed with whatever mediocre, half-stale baked goods your coworkers have brought in and left in the staff kitchen for everyone to share.
After one particularly brutal day, you shuffle in the door with nothing but a day-old donut and three coffees in your stomach, though the clock has ticked past eleven. You drop your belongings on your kitchen counter and wonder if you still have that old bag of microwave popcorn kicking around in the back of your cupboard. You ponder this question as you cross your living room to crack the window and let in a bit of fresh air.
Outside, perched unexpectedly just below the window frame on the fire escape, is a brown paper gift bag.
You glance to the right and see Levi’s lights are still on, as usual, but his window is closed.
Hm.
You pick up the bag and retreat inside, peeking at its contents as you go.
Inside you find a bottle of white wine—a nice bottle of white wine—along with a little piece of notebook paper, ripped along the edge and folded twice in half. You peel the edges of the page back to reveal neat scrawl in black ink.
This didn’t cost 8 dollars.
Thanks again for putting me up.
—3rd.
(Levi)
It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, what with all the late nights you’ve been pulling at the office, and you realize that your last encounter was the morning after he spent the night at your place.
You smile to yourself, shaking your head, and tuck the note back into the bag.
The next Saturday morning, mercifully freed from the project you've been slaving away at, you have every intention of sleeping in to makeup of the overtime you've been banking. Instead, you wake to a strange rustling sound.
It takes a moment for it to register to your hazy, barely conscious mind—a sound so gentle you hardly process that it’s unusual until it’s been going on for just a few minutes too long.
“Mrrrrphm!”
Your eyes shoot open.
Now that noise, you immediately know is out of the ordinary.
You creep out into your kitchen on your tiptoes, towards where the rustling seems to be originating from.
Perched atop your kitchen counter, you see the tail end of a four-legged, ginger-furred little creature—with its head tucked into the rumpled paper bag containing the croissant you’d been planning to eat for breakfast. Its long, bushy tail sways back and forth happily as it rustles around inside.
“Hey!”
The beast—soon revealed to be a cat once it pulls its head from the bag—has the remnants of your (now mostly-shredded) croissant hanging out of its little pink mouth. One of its ears is folded unnaturally, the fur around its neck is scruffy, and you realize upon closer inspection of your half-eaten breakfast that it has a snaggletooth.
The cat seems fairly sociable though, as it makes no move to run as you slowly approach.
“I’m guessing you’re the illustrious Pancakes, huh?” you say as you reach up to scratch gently behind her ears. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”
The cat lets out a cheerful little chirp, your ill-fated croissant still hanging from her maw, bumping her head against your wrist. You pluck the bit of bread from her mouth and quickly scoop her up in your arms, heading towards your door as she squirms unhappily—you don’t quite trust yourself to descend the fire escape with such precious cargo in-hand.
Down on the third floor, you rap sharply against a door.
It swings open moments later to reveal Levi’s perplexed face. Glasses on.
“Your demon cat ate my croissant,” you say, holding the offender out towards him.
She meows innocently.
“Not my cat,” he replies flatly, taking Pancakes from your hands and setting her down on the floor just behind him. She hits the ground on all fours with a little thump, and trots off happily into the apartment out of sight.
“But you two look so much alike.”
Levi responds only with a narrow-eyed glare.
Then he sighs.
“Sorry… she must have crawled out through the window when I wasn’t looking,”—Levi reaches up under the lenses of his glasses, pressing the tips of his fingers against his shut eyes as though they’re aching—“I’ll buy you another croissant.”
“It’s fine,” you assure him with a little laugh, and his fingers splay under the metal frames of his eyeglasses to peek at you through the gaps. You wave your hand dismissively. “It’s my own fault for leaving my window open last night.”
“That’s a good way to be home invaded,” the dark-haired man chides you sternly, a little furrow of disapproval making itself known between his brows. His hands drop from his face, only for his arms to cross over his t-shirt clad chest.
“Yeah, well they’d have to pass your window first—and it’s not like you wouldn’t spot them Mr. Sleep-When-I’m-Dead,” you say, shooting him a bemused look. “At least you’d have a description to give the cops.”
“All you care about is the killer being caught? Not avoiding being murdered in the first place?” Levi drawls.
“Well, at least I could end up on a true crime podcast, so long as you agree to be a good samaritan and assist the authorities in their investigation,” you joke. You peek over Levi’s shoulder to where his curtain is ruffling in the morning breeze. “Hey, do you mind if I just go out through the window?”
He shrugs, pulling his apartment door open a little wider to let you through. “Be my guest.”
Levi’s apartment is tidy and sparsely decorated, but it’s nearly identical to your own in terms of general construction. Your eyes can’t help flitter around the space as you shuffle through it towards the open window, your nosiness getting the best of you. There’s a steaming mug on the edge of his kitchen counter that he must have set aside when you came knocking at his door, a closed laptop resting on the edge of his coffee table next to a notebook, and there are bookcases lining the walls as you walk through the living room. You can’t resist pausing to take a closer look as you pass by one, and find a diverse variety of cookbooks and reference books on food, as well as beer, wine and spirits on the shelves.
Your fingertip traces the gold lettering adorning the thick spine of an immense tome—V I N.
“May I?” you ask, peeking over your shoulder as you pry the book from its place on the shelf.
“You already are,” Levi replies from the kitchen where he’s retrieved his mug, taking a sip. “But sure.”
You let out a little laugh, cracking open the inordinately heavy book.
“You speak french?” you ask, your tone lilting in surprise as your eyes trail over the language on the page in front of you—foreign, but distinguishable enough thanks to a few words you recognize from classes you took back in high school. The book seems old, antique possibly, and evidently well loved.
“Only a little,” Levi says noncommittally, but judging by the notes scribbled in the margins of the pages (in the same neat script scrawled on the scrap of notebook paper tucked into the gift bag on your kitchen counter) you suspect he’s underplaying his abilities.
You close the book and slot it back into its place on the shelf.
“Thanks for the wine by the way.”
“Did you enjoy it?” he asks.
“I haven’t cracked into it yet,” you admit, making the last few steps towards the open window. You tap your hand idly against the spotless frame, turning back to look at where Levi is leaning against his kitchen counter. “I had a big deadline this week at work so I’ve been staying late every day. By the time I got home it was all I could do to force myself to eat something before I’d pass out on my couch.”
Levi’s brows lift, though the rest of his body seems to untense a bit for reasons you can’t quite place.
“I’ll be sure to give you a full and comprehensive review of its bouquet—or whatever—once I finally get the chance to enjoy it,” you remark, half-teasing, and he rolls his eyes.
He takes another sip from his mug. He’s still holding it in that peculiar way he held your mug the morning after he slept on your couch. There’s something about it that you find almost endearing.
You lift your hand in a little wave, he nods in acknowledgement of the gesture, and then you crawl out through the window without another word.
You’re on the second step up the fire escape when Levi pokes his head out after you.
“Do you have breakfast plans?”
You pause, turning back to look at him.
You find him peeking up at you with an unexpectedly hopeful look on his face, if not a little guarded.
“Well, my plans are currently partially digested in your feline ward’s stomach, so... no.”
Levi blinks.
“Can I take you out for breakfast to make up for it, then?”
You tilt your head to the side, a flutter of something keen and eager tickling the pit of your empty stomach.
“Fine,” you concede, feigning as though you’re hard done by. “But I get to choose the place.”
Levi’s lips pull down in an unsubtle expression of his displeasure. “You know that it’s literally my job to—“
“I don’t care,” you interrupt him, waving your hand as though batting his interjection out of the very air into which he spoke it before it has the chance to reach your ears. “I don’t want some fancy micro-meal from whatever masters of gastronomy you write about. I want waffles. A lot of ‘em.”
Levi huffs, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath before replying a single, reluctant: “Fine.”
“Meet you in the lobby in 10 minutes?” you ask, your lips stretching in a grin.
His own lips purse, and you almost think it might be halfway to a smile. “Sure.”
The two of you wind up at an old greasy spoon diner two blocks away that you’ve been going to since college, where the staff always make sure to give you an extra perfectly golden-brown waffle. Levi sits across from you in a dark green knit sweater that looks incredibly cozy and, to your utter surprise, a pair of jeans. He looks more comfortable and casual than you’ve ever seen him.
“It’s good, huh?” you ask over the table as Levi bites into his own breakfast: 2 eggs, over easy, bacon and toast. You notice he’s carefully separated all three components of the meal on his plate so none of them are touching, and has liberally applied black pepper to the semi-firm yolks of his eggs.
He swallows the bite he has in his mouth, wiping the corners with his white paper napkin. “It’s food.”
You snort a little, shoving another piece of waffle into your mouth. “Are your reviews always so inspired?”
Levi shoots you an unamused look.
“C’mon, don’t tell me you only eat at fancy fine dining places?” you say, waving your fork around demonstrably. “This is what real food’s all about; little family run joints like this.”
Levi purses his lips.
“Have you ever even been to a fine dining restaurant?” he asks you skeptically.
“No,” you admit, drowning your plate in more of the cheap table syrup. Levi’s nose crinkles in disdain at the sight. The waffles are the same as always: just the right crispiness on the outside to not grow soggy too quickly under the river of syrup you douse them in, perfectly fluffy on the inside.
Fine dining, irrespective of being well outside your budget, has just never been your style.
“So who are you to judge?”
Now it’s your turn to purse your lips.
You stab your fork through a piece of waffle and syrup drips, slow and sticky, as you hold it up above your plate. You lift a brow challengingly as you stare him down across the table. “If you want to take me out to a fancy dinner so bad, all you have to do is ask.”
Levi’s expression doesn’t change.
“Fine.”
“Huh?” you nearly choke, though you haven’t yet put your next bite in your mouth.
“Go out to dinner with me,” he says.
“That’s not a question,” you remark, shoving your waiting forkful into your mouth just to give yourself something else to focus on.
Levi huffs exasperatedly. “Will you go out to dinner with me?”
You take your time to chew, the syrup making everything in your mouth indistinguishably cloying, and then swallow. “I’ll think about it.”
Levi’s jaw gapes, a look of betrayal flittering across his usually impassive features.
You laugh.
“Fine, fine. But only if we can go to the national gallery first,” you say, enjoying every moment of Levi’s palpable misery, setting your fork down and reaching for your mug and taking a sip of coffee. It’s tempered down to a drinkable heat, a little bitter and burnt tasting just like it always is, and there’s something nostalgic in that.
Levi fiddles with his fork, cutting into his egg so the sunny yellow yolk runs across his white ceramic plate. “…I already went.”
“Huh?” You place your cup back down atop the table, on the edge of your paper placemat.
“I went,” Levi repeats himself, though nothing is made clearer through the repetition.
“When?”
“A couple days after you mentioned it. I was reviewing a bistro down the road—terrible by the way—“ he interjects, though you didn’t ask, “and I had some time to kill afterwards.”
“So… what was your verdict?”
“Boring.”
“Oh, come on!” you say with a warm, pealing laugh, throwing yourself back in your seat. “You’re so uncultured! Didn’t you like their new installation on expressionism?”
“It was a mess.”
“That’s the point, it’s abstract!”
“If I wanted to see a disaster on canvas I’d look at those sneakers you’ve got on,” Levi says with a click of his tongue, but his eyes are bright and mirthful.
You peek under the table at your well-loved tennis shoes, gaping but still laughing. “You are so—!”
“Can I get you two some top-ups on those coffees?” The waitress who has been serving the two of you steps up to the table, coffee pot in hand, but she seems almost apologetic for interrupting.
It’s the first time you remember you’re in public, and you settle down a bit, covering your mouth to clear your throat bashfully.
“I’m alright, thank you,” Levi declines politely with a dip of his head.
“I’ll take a little extra please,” you say, and the waitress smiles and adds another bit of steaming, bitter coffee to your cup. It darkens the last few mouthfuls left from your already milk-and-sugared first drink; the deep brown of the fresh brew swirling into the tawny room-temperature remnants of the last.
Your eyes meet Levi’s over the table, and both of you quickly look away, fighting back your smiles.
The two of you walk back home once your meal has concluded and your bills have been paid—split at your insistence, though Levi seemed prepared to physically fight you on it.
Back at your building Levi gets out on the third floor after a brief goodbye, but before the door to the elevator can slide closed behind him, and you can close the steel grate of the interior door, his hand shoots out to keep them open.
You look up in surprise at the sudden gesture.
“I’m not kidding about dinner,” Levi says, standing just beyond the threshold to the ancient elevator, staring at you with an almost unnerving sincerity.
You blink, taken aback by how serious he is.
“What’s your cell number?” he asks when you can’t seem to find anything to reply.
You relay the digits to him and he scribbles them down into a little pocket sized, softcover notebook he produces from his jacket pocket. You’ve seen him scribbling in it before out on the fire escape, and realize he must take it with him everywhere he goes. Given the shape and size of it—only a little larger than the palm of his hand—you don’t doubt it’s the very book that the note he’d left with your bottle of wine had been torn from.
“I’ll send you a message and we can make a plan,” Levi says, tucking the notebook back into his pocket.
“Alright,” you agree and finally Levi lets his hand fall from where he’s keeping the doors open.
He steps away in the direction of his apartment.
“Be careful, Levi,” you say to his retreating back as you pull the grated metal door on the inside of the elevator car closed, “or I might think this is a date.”
He pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. Your eyes meet through the gaps in the metal, and in spite of the distance you can see the mirth in his gaze. “That’s exactly what it is, and it’s what breakfast was too.”
And with that, the door slides shut between you.
One week to the day later, you find yourself sitting across from Levi in a restaurant that feels almost too nice for you to be patronizing. Levi is dressed in a nice suit, as ever, and you’re wearing in the only truly nice dress you own—one you’d bought for a friend’s wedding a few years prior and never had the occasion to wear again.
Until now.
It’s nothing like the meals you’ve shared on your fire escape, or the boisterous breakfast at the diner on that Saturday morning. There’s no bitter coffee or table syrup to be seen, no mismatched plates and cutlery. It’s quiet, ambient even. All hushed conversation and warm candle light.
But you still enjoy yourself all the same.
And the food is really fucking good.
“I’m devastated,” you breathe out miserably into the cool night air as the two of you walk side-by-side along the quiet sidewalk in the direction of your little brick building.
Levi had offered to flag the two of you down a cab, but the evening weather was actually quite nice and the restaurant wasn’t far from home so you’d instead suggested to walk. Your heels are starting to hurt your feet a little bit, a pinch in your toes and the early-makings of a blister forming at the back of your ankle where the strap of your shoe rubs against your skin, but you still can’t quite bring yourself to regret anything about the evening.
Not the walk, not the dinner, not the company.
“You didn’t like it?” Levi asks, a lilt of concern in his voice.
You shake your head emphatically, turning to look at him with a grave expression. “It was too good.”
“That’s a new complaint,” he muses, his mouth pulling at the corner in thinly-veiled triumph.
“How am I ever supposed to enjoy any food again now that I know it can taste like that?” you complain, tossing your head back to look up at the night sky and passing streetlights overhead. Your shoes click against the pavement with every step, but otherwise it’s refreshingly quiet.
Levi laughs into his closed fist. “Now you see my problem.”
“Hey,” you say suddenly, bringing your chin back down so you can look at him, “can you bring me home your leftovers when you go write your little reviews for places like that?”
“No,” Levi replies immediately, decisively shaking his head.
You pout, sucking in a sharp breath as you prepare to plead your case.
“But I’d like to take you out again, if you’ll let me.”
He’s not looking at you, his eyes fixed ahead on the pavement as the two of you walk side by side, but you can tell he’s anxiously awaiting your reply with the way his hand is flexing and unflexing at his side.
You feel heat climb in your cheeks.
“Well, if it’s the only way to keep access to that kind of food, I guess I’d be stupid to say no.”
Levi hums, his gaze sliding to meet yours from the corner of his eye.
“Yeah, I guess you would.”
The elevator ride up to the third floor is quiet but not uncomfortable, though you both seem to be keeping your distance in the confined space—relegated to opposite sides, not dissimilarly to so many months ago when he was calling you out for fucking your atrocious ex-boyfriend too loudly. You could almost laugh at how much things have changed since then.
He says goodnight as he pulls open the grated door, sending you a brief look as he steps out.
“Goodnight, Levi,” you return the sentiment, hesitating to close the inside door between the two of you once more. “Thank you for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, and there’s an almost disappointing finality to his words, though you don’t dwell too long on it.
And then he’s gone.
Upstairs in your apartment, you kick off your heels as soon as you step through the door. You stretch your toes against the cool hardwood floor to let the blood flow back into them before padding into your kitchen. You drape your coat across the back of a barstool, and drop your purse on counter, pausing momentarily to eye the gift bag with the wine Levi had given you tucked away in the corner.
Maybe it’s time to crack it open—if for no other reason than to try and drown the niggling feeling of dissatisfaction you have squirming in your chest.
But first, you pad across your living room to open up your window.
At the very same time that Levi opens his, a floor away.
You pull yourself through without thinking, shivering a little bit against the cool breeze as it meets your exposed skin. Levi—his suit jacket shed, his tie loosened and collar unbuttoned—does the same.
You kneel at the top of the stairs, the metal of the fire-escape digging into your knees, and peer down at him.
“Y’know, I still haven’t opened that bottle of white wine.”
Your fingers fidget with the hem of your dress—it’s crept a bit further up your thighs thanks to the way you’re sitting. Levi’s eyes have caught the subtle rise, and through you see his gaze on your exposed skin, it soon flickers up to meet yours.
“It’s not really a nightcap,” he says quietly.
You huff, half frustrated and half amused, but the sound is entirely too fond.
“Are you coming up here or not?”
Levi climbs the stairs slowly towards where you’re seated at the top. That same feeling underneath your ribs that had once been dissatisfied blooms into something else entirely, crackling like a flame inside your chest as you catch his tie between your fingers.
You pull him down with your grip on the dark green silk—slowly, slowly, slowly—to press your mouths together.
The kiss is sweet. Unhurried. Decadent.
Levi cranes down a little further, his hands settling on the landing behind you, caging you underneath him. His proximity is more intoxicating than any of the wine you’ve ever shared. The feeling of his lips parting against yours and the gentle imploring sweep of his tongue is more satisfying than any food on earth could hope to be.
One of his hands trails up along your thigh, across that same skin you’d caught him eyeing moments prior. His touch is cold but still it burns. He gives your flesh a firm squeeze.
“Inside now,” he murmurs insistently against your mouth, “unless you want the neighbourhood to hear this.”
You pull away, peeking up at him through your lashes innocently.
“And what if I do?”
He swallows visibly, his tongue darting out to lave across his rosy lips before it disappears once more to click behind his teeth.
“Knew you were an exhibitionist.”
There’s a graceless, frenetic climb back through the window—with Levi’s hand cradling the top of your head all the while so you don’t knock it against the frame—and then the two of you are toppling down onto the soft cushions of your couch.
Levi’s body weight presses into yours as he hovers over you, mouths rapacious, your hips flush and hands greedy. You’re grabbing anything and everything that falls within your reaches: his hands on your waist, your thighs, your heaving chest; your own hands in his hair, cupping his jaw, fisting the fine cotton of his dress shirt. Your dress has rucked up around your waist in the excitement, and after a few moments of exploration Levi slowly breaks your kiss.
He sinks to the floor on his knees, and your thighs part for him without thinking.
His eyes trace the dark spot on the centre of the delicate lace over your aching cunt, his thumb soon stroking against it with the exact same eagerness as his eyes.
“Levi,” you say his name pleadingly as your hips wriggle to get closer to his touch, squirming further down the couch cushion towards him. “Please… more.”
Levi huffs a little; not a laugh, but something a little more chiding—a little more mocking. He leans forward so you feel every hot breath break against your skin on his exhales, his eyes still fixed to that little patch of wetness that’s caught his attention, the spot only growing larger the longer he toys with you. “Let me savour this.”
“Like a nightcap?” you ask him, aiming for levity but toeing the wrong side of breathless as his fingers follow the lace trim of your panties up along the curve of your thigh.
“An aperitif,” he rasps as he snaps the elasticated band against your hip, a sharp crack as it hits your tender skin, and his eyes flicker up to meet yours when you hiss. He smirks. “It makes you hungrier.”
Not once in all the time you’ve known him would you have denied the truth that Levi’s tongue is quick and vicious, but never would you have imagined its sedulity between your legs.
The flimsy material of your panties tugged swiftly down and kicked away, it’s as though the meal the two of you had shared that evening has been forgotten, a thing of the past.
Levi devours you like he’s been starved.
“Fuck, oh—“
Your hips jump on the sofa but his strong forearm slings across your lower abdomen to pin them down and keep you at his mercy. Levi glances up at you from his position on his knees, his head bracketed by your thighs, his eyelids hanging low over his hungry gaze. The tip of his tongue flicks against your twitching entrance, laving back up to your clit. The cycle repeats. It’s filthy and fascinating to watch.
“—Levi, nggh—oh my god.”
You grab for anything, borderline delirious. Your nails on one hand dig into the throw pillow at the end of your sofa while the other knots itself through Levi’s dark hair. You grip both with an equal roughness, but Levi doesn’t seem to mind—suckling with a renewed insistence at the swollen bundle of nerves between his lips.
He reaches up and pries your hand away from the strands of his hair, twining your fingers with his own as he pins it down to the sofa beside your hip. Levi pulls away from your pussy with a string of saliva keeping you connected, slick smeared along his mouth catching in the light of the lamp.
“Be gentle, would you?” he rasps, “I’d like to keep my hair for the foreseeable future.”
“Sorry,” you murmur, your chest heaving from the way your breaths come ragged. “It feels good.”
“Yeah?” he asks, slipping two fingers into his mouth. They shine with his spit when he pulls them from between his swollen lips. He leans back down towards your cunt. “How good?”
“So good,” you whine, his two saliva-slicked fingers slipping inside of you at the same time.
“God,” you toss your head back and gasp, those two fingers inside of you crooking in a way that makes you feel so good.
“You’re close,” Levi hums, not a question but rather a factual observation, before dragging his tongue up towards your clit again. His fingers keep curling against your walls with an almost unfair degree of skill, leaving you shaking and breathless.
“Y-yeah, gonna cum,” you whimper.
“You’re gonna cum for me?” he mumbles against your clit, goading you as he carefully watches the expressions on your face.
It's not as though you have any other choice with the way he’s playing you like an instrument he’s long-mastered.
“Yes, fuck Levi, there.”
One last gasp and the lewd, pointed suck with his lips wrapped around your clit has you melting, your thighs clamping against his ears as your back bows up off the sofa. A strangled, desperate little sound tears out of the back of your throat, and your fingers tighten around his own—still entwined beside you on the sofa.
As you come down from your high, you drag his hand up with yours to your chest, pressing his palm flat against your sternum so he can feel how fast your heart is knocking against your ribs underneath the fabric of your dress.
Your heart rate has nowhere near returned to normal when Levi stands from his place on the ground, wiping at his wet mouth with the back of his hand as he takes in your spent, trembling state. In one fell—impossibly deft—swoop, he picks you up and carries you off towards your bedroom.
“How the fuck are you so strong?” you gasp as you wriggle in his hold—but his grip is tight and he doesn’t waver.
He drops you down onto your bed, and you bounce lightly as you come in contact with the springy surface. You fall back, staring up at him as he peers at you with affront.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
You giggle a little as he crawls over your splayed form, his body warm as his lips find their way back to yours.
He kisses you again. And again. And again.
Your pretty dress comes off, finally—left discarded in a hapless puddle on your bedroom floor to be dealt with later. It's an end unbefitting of the nicest garment you own, though you can’t begin to bring yourself to care.
Levi’s fingers trace along the delicate lace of your newly revealed bra and you feel his lips curl up into a smirk against your own. He inches away, peeking down at your chest.
He dips down to mouth along the swell of your breast, his eyes still impossibly trained on yours, and your fingers tangle into the soft strands at his crown as you moan lightly at the gentle touch.
He sucks against the soft flesh, before pulling off with a little pop!
“Does poor Misses Miller know you kept her bra?”
You laugh in response to his teasing words, a reference to the early days of what you’d now call a friendship (if not something else entirely), tugging him away from your chest by your grip on his hair.
He quirks a brow at you with his head tilted back in your hold.
You pout playfully, slackening your grip on his hair and letting your hand slip down along the front of his dress shirt, petting over his chest. “You know, I think I liked you better with your mouth full.”
Levi clicks his tongue behind his teeth, watching raptly at the flash of pink as your own tongue peeks out to moisten your swollen lips. Something shifts behind his gaze, and he leans back on his haunches beside you, reaching up and fingering the loosened knot of his tie.
“Do you trust me?”
The question is a little bit out of the blue, and relatively unwarranted considering only moments prior he’d been three knuckles deep inside of you, but you entertain it nonetheless.
Your head lolls to the side on your bedspread as you look at him curiously. “I let you spend the night on my couch when we barely knew each other.”
He rolls his eyes at your intentionally indirect response, leaning forward until your entire field of vision is filled with nothing but him once more.
“Do you,”—Levi pauses with his lips ghosting over yours, soft as they brush—“trust me?”
A beat of tense silence stretches between you.
“Yeah.” You swallow lightly after murmuring the word. “I do.”
Levi pulls back again, and reaches up and tugs on the knot of his tie until it comes completely undone, hanging in two separated halves against his chest. Slowly he draws it out from under the fold of his collar.
“There was a trend in food criticism years ago,” he says, his grey eyes tracking up, up, up along your exposed body while you wait like eager prey beneath his gaze, “where critics used to think that you could taste better in the dark. Like the dulling of one sense would somehow improve the others.”
You swallow hard as he leans forward, moving slowly up the mattress towards you.
His tie is still in his hand.
He dips down and kisses you.
Brief. Teasing.
“They thought you could taste more…”
Levi loops his tie around your eyes, and your breath hitches. You feel the soft slip of silk against your skin, the pressure tightening (though not unpleasantly) as he knots it at the crown of your head to keep it in place. You see only darkness.
“…hear more…” Levi’s lips are right next to your ear; just a ghost of warm breath and his rich, deep voice that seems a little more strained than it had before.
You’re breathing heavier now, or maybe you’re just more painfully aware of the rhythm of your own respiration.
“…feel more.”
Warm fingers dance up along your ribs and you gasp aloud, not expecting the sensation. But as quickly as it appears, that feeling of his skin on yours, it’s gone again. You swallow. His touch continues in much the same way, fingers disappearing and then reappearing somewhere else, leaving you guessing. Leaving you wanting.
You feel goosebumps prickle up along your skin.
“Is that true?” you whisper as you push yourself upright and reach out blindly in search of Levi, though you aren’t quite sure where to find him.
“I don’t know—” Levi admits airily from somewhere before you, both nearer and further than you expect him to be. He takes your outstretched hand in his, pressing it to his cheek. It’s warm to the touch, and he turns his face towards your palm, pressing a barely there kiss to it.
Unexpectedly your bra falls forward, cool air kissing heated skin as the straps fall down your shoulders, thanks to a talented hand that had slipped behind your back unnoticed. You feel Levi’s lips curl into a smirk against your palm.
“—but let’s find out.”
Next is an obscured, indecipherable blur of hot, open mouthed kisses; of gentle grazes and rougher gropes; of moans, and groans, and needy whines that you aren’t sure are even yours anymore. Your pussy’s left a wet patch on the thigh of Levi’s slacks that you can’t see but that you can feel as the sticky fabric ruts against your clit, your hips grinding desperately against it as he consumes you and whatever senses he’s left you.
It’s infuriating.
It’s immolating.
It’s divine.
“Are you ready for me?” Levi pants against your stinging lips, his hand cupping your chin to keep your face tilted towards his even if you can’t see him.
“Yes,” you mewl debauchedly, rolling your hips against that same crease in his pant leg that’s been tantalizing you for what feels like hours. You should be ashamed—of your words, of your tone, of your actions—but you aren’t.
You feel every second of the stretch as the head of his cock presses inside.
You wonder what it looks like, what he must look like right now, but you’re left only to feel.
“Oh,” he groans, the deep sound sodden and drunk with pleasure. “Amazing. Fuck, you’re taking me so well. You’re perfect.”
The first proper thrust—the in and the out—almost pulls you under like the currents of a tide. You’re fighting a losing battle to keep your head above water, to keep air in your lungs.
The springs of your mattress creak as Levi picks up the pace and mercilessly fucks you down into it, your breaths coming in pants broken by moans. You feel your sheets against your sticky skin, his hands twining with yours, his breath against your lips.
“Is it good?” he asks, mouthing clumsily along your jaw as his hips rail down against yours.
“So good,” you babble in agreement, nodding dumbly as much as you can with such little control over your own body. “Feels so good.”
“I love hearing you say that,” Levi rasps, tucking his face into the crook of your neck and letting his teeth graze over your racing pulse. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of it."
He groans as you clamp down on him involuntarily.
You’re close, and think he must be too when you feel the way his cock throbs inside of you.
“Please,” you murmur, voice breaking pathetically as you beg. It sounds like you’re near tears but with the silk still covering your eyes it’s impossible to tell whether or not it’s true. “I wanna see you.”
“Make a deal with me,” Levi grunts, his pace suddenly slowing to a torturous grind. You’re sure that you must be crying now with how devastating the change in pace is—still deep, but just languid enough that the cresting pleasure in the pit of your stomach threatens to recede.
“A deal?” you ask, gasping as your nails drag along the musculature of his back.
“I’ll take it off,”—Levi’s touch trails up to your face, the tips of his fingers ghosting over your spit-slicked chin and searing cheeks—“but only if you let me take you out to breakfast.”
You’re in no position to be making counter-demands, or returning repartee.
“Anything,” you sob, clinging to him desperately. Your hips tilt up in a fruitless search for friction, your nails scrabble along his skin. “I’ll do anything. Please, Levi.”
He tugs the tie down, and your bleary eyes sting as they adjust to the light.
Finally, you see him.
Levi is practically glowing, bathed in a sheen of perspiration that you can feel when your skin slips against his own. His dark hair is pushed back, away from the lines of his devastatingly handsome face; his strong cheekbones and the sharp line of his tensed jaw. His abs flex as he carves his way inside of you in that impossibly slow grind, a little trail of dark, coarse hair spanning from his navel to his cock, where you see a glossy ring around the base from you.
He’s a feast to behold. To taste. To feel.
“S-so?” he stutters, half-hissing from how viciously your core has tightened around him. His eyes search yours, avaricious and wild. “How does it compare?”
“Better,” you moan, a tear tracking back towards your hairline as you throwing your head back into your pillows, fighting as much as you can to keep your eyes open, “this is better.”
Levi laughs, breathy and wanton as the sound might be, and his hands grip behind your knees before peeling them away from their vice against his waist and pressing them back into your chest.
He kisses you again—your mouths meeting desperately though they haven't long been parted—first chaste but then sloppily, bullying his way into your mouth like he wants to taste how sweet the words you’ve just said are off your own tongue.
He pulls back, a string of saliva stitching from his mouth to yours.
The corner of his lip ticks up in a smirk as his hips draw back, not in punishment but in preparation.
“Good.”
You wake the next morning with an ache humming in your bones and an effervescence sizzling in your chest. It takes you a moment to rouse, properly anyway, but when you do you feel the unmistakable weight of an arm curled around your bare waist, and a warm pressure perched atop your feet.
You open your eyes, blinking against the light that streams in through the curtains over your bedroom window—billowing gently in the morning breeze. You peek down towards the end of your bed, and see a little fluff of ginger fur sprawled out across your ankles. When you listen closely you can hear the little rumble of a purr.
Finally, you glance over to your side, and find Levi blinking back at you.
He looks sleepy and dishevelled, a sort of pleasant exhaustion in the rings beneath his eyes that you’re sure is mirrored in the shadows of your own skin. His hair is sticking up unkemptly at his temple, and there’s a line imprinted into his cheek from where it's been resting against your pillow. It’s a version of himself that you suspect Levi rarely shows to anyone, and right now it’s all deliriously, deliciously yours.
“Good morning,” your voice is so quiet when you finally risk shattering the stillness of your bedroom with a greeting.
“Good morning,” Levi rasps with a commensurate tenderness, even through the hoarseness of his groggy morning voice.
The city is waking up outside your window, the steady build of noise that will crescendo to a dull hum once the world gets underway. But for now it’s still quiet. For now you can still hear Pancakes’ slightly-wheezy purr.
Levi’s arm around your waist tightens, shifting you a little bit closer to him under the soft cover of your blankets. The gesture is hesitant. Half-committed. Like he’s still leaving himself open to be rebuked.
You smile, and close the rest of the distance yourself like crossing that final step along the fire escape. Traversing that halfway point. You curl into him and tuck your head underneath his chin as you rest your cheek against his chest.
Levi seems to soften slightly. To ease. To welcome your intrusion.
If it was ever that at all.
“So… breakfast?”
Had to make a meme to describe me currently
all my love, suguru
chapter 4
summary: after an unexpected night spent with your close friend, you find yourself pregnant, and unable to tell him so. will you be able to come to terms with this news, or will it destroy the delicate relationship you’d had left?
chapter warnings: mentions of declining mental health (suguru), general angst, secret pregnancy/child
masterlist
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A brown head of hair follows you from your car to the apartment. It's an uncomfortable journey knowing you're back in Tokyo again, so close to a life that feels so distant from you now.
There are many boxes to unpack, and when accompanied by a young child, the task feels insurmountable. To credit her, she does make an attempt to help, picking out a few toys from one of the containers with a smile, though just as quickly becomes distracted by the prospect of actually playing with them. This does make things easier for a short while; you're able to unpack some dinnerware into empty shelves, folding down just one cardboard box before she's back at your side. "Mama!" She toddles to you with tears brimmed at her lash line, a doll in one hand, it's arm in the other. "Help, please."
You offer a soft smile, crouching and accepting the broken toy. It's easy to slot the arm back into place with some jostling (a manuvre you've learned from experience with this particular toy), and she's smiling once more, a shriek of excitement when the doll is returned to her in one piece.
Her expression lightens your mood, how beautifully she wears her emotions. There's so much innocence to children you hadn't expected before meeting her, so much joy. Her brown eyes are locked onto her barbie as she babbles, some nonsense, though some actual words do crop up - mummy, love, play.
You'd spent your entire pregnancy wondering what she would look like, whether she would take after you or her father, and to little surprise when she was handed to you, she was the image of Suguru. Even more so with age. Brown hair and eyes, and she has his nose too, with a calm temperament and warmth that you also accredit to him.
Being a single mother is hard, and seeing so much of him within her is bittersweet. He's the man you fell in love with, but he's also the man you had to leave. There's so much you've wanted to share with him too; her first steps, words, her first birthday. Despite this, you know even if alone you've raised her well, and she is so loved. You've brought her this far without sorcery, but now a blue flame surrounds her. She's an early bloomer in the cursed sense, and just as you'd feared, inherits her father's technique meaning she'll likely be a special grade... something you'd wished so deeply to avoid.
There was change on the horizon, beginning only a few days ago when you'd been told to pack these very boxes, and push your daughter into a future you hadn't willed. You feel sick when recounting the memory.
"No." The sight of his face brings a burning to your throat, a sinking feeling as if a bowling ball had been forced into your chest, dropping to weigh within your stomach. Two years in hiding, to end involuntarily by no one other than Gojo Satoru. White hair draped over his forehead, blue eyes meeting your own. They look tired, aged somehow, though you can't seem to care when that weathering is accompanied by remorse, lips downturned.
"Invite me inside." His voice is quiet, low. It's late, and you're sure he's exhausted, yet he's at your door instead of his own. There's a small spark of hope that perhaps he simply needs a place to stay, though this is snuffed out when you look back to his face. He knows. "Satoru, why are you here?" Your voice trembles on the verge of tears, but he doesn't comfort you, instead remaining silent as you try to steady your breaths, eventually regulating them enough to step to one side. There's some hesitance as he walks past you.
You lead him to the livingroom, and as he trails behind his gaze wonders the painted walls of your entryway, pictures decorating an otherwise bland white. Most of which appear to star a small child from the ages of infancy to two; the same dark hair and brown eyes that he recognised within his close friend. There's dimples in each cheek when she smiles with her mother's lips.
"You had a girl." He means it to echo a question despite already knowing, though it sounds to be a statement. Your eyes lift from the floor to meet his, and you nod.
"Keiko." Usually her name on your lips brings you joy, but telling Satoru only makes your heart ache.
"Satoru, please tell me why you're here." You swallow thickly, afraid of the news you're about to be privvy to. He offers little reprieve with his reluctance, and you expect the worse. "You have to come back, to Tokyo."
There's a numbness that begins at your throat, and slowly, like mould spore growing through a piece of fruit, you find yourself rotting before him. You're plagued with dread as you picture your daughter, only two years of age, opened up to a world you wished to shield her from. "Why would I need to do that?" You act as if you're unaware, yet you understand clearly. She's gifted, even if you hadn't wanted to give her this strength.
"She has Cursed Spirit Manipulation." When those words leave his lips, you realise you truly have lost this case. This is it, this is what she will be forced to use. Your jaw tightens as you form a response, though you're unable to begin when Satoru elaborates. "Two weeks ago, a small girl was seen chasing a grade four, and upon capturing it, the curse was ingested."
You frown. "Who reported this?" Satoru hears the panic in your voice, no matter how strong you try to be. Just like when you were teenagers, you feign confidence against him, yet in equal power, Satoru can see right through you.
"A grade three sorcerer working within this district reported it to the higher ups. They've decided her potential is too strong to ignore." You're staring at him wide eyed, and he feels guilt as he watches you grieve this life. Satoru wouldn't tell you how he'd practically pleaded with them to let her be a child before introducing her to the horrors of this world, because he didn't want you to know he'd failed you.
"What if I refuse?" "You know the answer, do I really have to spell it out to you? There is no other choice." His words imbue a hopelessness into you, and you finally give up, walking past him to take a seat on the couch. The cushions sink under you, and your hands rest upon each leg. There's one question you have left.
"Does he know?" Monotone, dead. Your tone sends a chill over Satoru's spine; he's never seen you so genuinely defeated. Even when he'd found out about your pregnancy, you held yourself together better than this. But even with all of Satoru's experience, his strength, he still couldn't empathise with that of parenthood. Megumi was the closest thing he had to that, though he understands that the relationship the pair share is nothing close to the love you would have for your own blood.
"You left with no word as to where you'd gone. If I told him it was to have his child, what would he have done?" There's some bitterness to his words, and you cringe. "Didn't he question the fact there's a child with his technique?"
Satoru moves from one foot to the other, crossing his arms as he watches your meek state. You're slouched and sweating, and your eyes haven't lifted from the same patch of carpet for the past two minutes. Though with his quietness, your gaze lifts, stopping at his lips.
"He doesn't know."
You nod once, taking your teeth between your lips. This is worse than being lectured, you think, enduring the judgement of a person you value highly, feeling their revulsion of a decision you made long ago. "Don't you think he had a right to know before all of this?" You stay silent, your arms closing in closer to your body as if to hug yourself. "It's only right he hears it from you, before this goes any further."
Only, you still haven't made that call, and told him the truth. You watch your daughter walk toward the school, her hand in yours, while Suguru is none the wiser. It's a secret you knew would be revealed within the next few hours, unrevealed as long as you'd been able.
Shoko's leaving the lab when you enter the halls. You don't notice her at first, instead preoccupied by the small girl beside you, though when your eyes lift from the little fingers wrapped around yours, you stop dead in your tracks.
Not many things shock Shoko. She likes to think she's seen all, and likely knows most of what goes on even if only surface level, but when she sees you in Jujutsu High with a child clutching at your hand, she comes to a standstill, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.
Keiko takes a few steps, her little feet tapping on the hard floors, though soon notices her mother's halted action. "Mama, come on."
Shoko's brow raises, a sharp gasp on her lips as she pieces things together. The child looks to be around two, and not long before that you'd left - this must've been the result of that pregnancy test you'd requested long ago. And as she stares at her a little longer, taking in at the warm toned brown eyes, she realises why you'd left. This child had to be Suguru's, her features were far too akin to his to be coincidental.
She says your name, though it sounds foreign to her now. She wonders when the last time she'd called out to you was, and when you peer anxiously to her expression, she realises how you've matured, mellowed almost. There's a protectiveness she can sense, you're definitely more closed off, but that's understandable considering the fact you've been gone and likely without much social contact.
"Hi." Part of you had hoped for a better reunion, but with how things went it was only understandable that Shoko wouldn't be running to hug you anytime soon. "You’re a mother, huh?" There's little goosebumps over your skin as you swallow, nodding slowly. Of course, she'd remember your offish self asking her for tests, and she'd be able to piece things together. "What's her name?"
You knew Shoko wouldn't bring harm to you both, and if she's worked out your daughter's father, she wouldn't press you on it. "It's Keiko." You look down to your daughter, who's holding your hand a little tighter in the presence of a stranger. Funny, growing up you'd thought these people would be your children's family, yet here your baby is, backing up at the sight of a woman she'd never met.
"Keiko," Shoko crouches to her eye level. "That's a beautiful name." Shoko offers her a smile, and Keiko's hand loosens up a little, though it's still clammy on your palm. "Thanks." It's spoken quietly, and the 'th' sounds more like an 'f', but it's coherent enough.
"What are you both doing here?" Shoko's looking back to you now, standing up to meet your level once again. Mouth opening, your free hand comes to your arm to fiddle with your jacket. "The higher-ups found out about her technique." "Manipulation?" You pause. So, she's figured it out. "Yeah. They want him to show her the way, I guess." "But he doesn't know." "No, he doesn't." You offer her a half smile in hopes she would forgive you. "I was kind of hoping he'd find out before i got here, but he hasn't."
Shoko wants to tell you it's your job to tell him and that you need to face your fears, but she keeps her mouth closed in order to save your feelings. Instead, she nods quietly, arms crossed. When the air is too stale to bare any longer, you breathe it in, deciding to take you leave before you would combust on the spot. "I've got to find Yaga, we have a meeting." Your words are rushed and you almost stumble as you walk past her.
"Who was that?" Keiko questions in her own muddled words, and you force a happy expression when meeting her gaze. "Mama's old friend, from school."
Suguru sits back in the beat up couch, bitter instant coffee still swirling as he places it on the low table. The staffroom has definitely seen better days, he was sure this furniture would've been used back when he'd attended Jujutsu High, with stains and scratches over old wood, rings from mugs of coffee much like his own. Budget cuts had meant money was syphoned into other things, much less into staff.
"A meeting, with Yaga?" He repeats Satoru's words carefully, brow creased. He watches as the brown liquid begins to settle, a few bubbles at the surface meeting in the middle. "Yeah, something about a new student." The explanation makes much less sense to Suguru, because this year he's supposed to be taking on more missions, and offering a supporting role rather than holding his own classes. "And why would that concern me?" His voice is tired, he's tired. The school is working them all into an early grave, he thinks. What was supposed to be more of a career break had somehow turned into more work than he's ever had, and he realises the only way out of this is to leave Jujutsu society for good - much like you did.
Suguru can't deny he feels responsible for your sudden leaving. As if a phone call would've fixed anything between you after he'd not only slept with you, but left you to fend for yourself afterward too. He thinks about you a lot, much to his own distaste. It's his fault you're not here, after all.
"You'll be teaching them part time." Suguru outwardly sighs, a hand flying up to massage his temples. "Of course." It was drenched in acidity, and Satoru shifts. He's still standing, muscles tense as he watches his friend stress himself further. It's been a difficult few years, and he is sure Suguru is at the end of his tether. Satoru worries that your return might just be the thing that breaks him entirely.
"What do you know, Satoru?" When he zones back into the room, glancing away from the disgustingly beige walls to peer into his friend's brown eyes, he realises he'd worn his concerns too evidently. "Not much," He lies, something he's found himself doing consistently as of recent. "She's young, though. A child." He tries to soften the blow by letting on that piece of information now, because he knows Suguru will be disgusted to find out they're having him begin training with a child who cannot yet read, let alone understand what a curse is.
"How young?" Suguru's intuition tells him that something is awry here, but he can't place his finger on what exactly it is. Satoru is definitely withholding something important, and he understands that he's not going to find out what until he's in Yaga's office. "Fine, don't tell me."
With a sigh, he pushes himself up from the couch, all the while Satoru is stood in silence, that pitying look he hates being bestowed unto him. The coffee on the table is going cold, not that Suguru has much of a stomach for it anyway.
a/n: soooo yes, reader ran from her problems (sorrrry) but it looks like suguru is about to find out everything...
tags - @animeisforkings @emikisses @boredwithwrath @karazorel7 @tomiokasecretlover @mrsoharaa @magey0412 @thisbicc @aemiliabruno @zeunys @sukunaspillow @caixgee @ssetsuka @pinkpunkdynamite @harlamarie @chilicopsticks @khoochie @hojoslutoru @karazorel @idkuluka @itztamar @magey0412 @strflp @kaeyakaikai
it's been decades since you've last seen dazai; your lover & your maker. now that you're finally happy, he's haunting you again with a thousand buried memories.
overall contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, exes to lover, gothic romance, blood drinking, vampire!reader, vampire!dazai, smut, cheating reader, complicated relationships, blood, gore, jealousy, manipulation, religious symbolism, betrayal, reunions, references to forced prostitution, dubcon/noncon
please heed the warnings for additional ones this chapter. chapter word count: 7.2k
PART VII ♰ MASTERLIST
By anyone’s standards, the night was young. A cool autumn evening had come in, the brisk breeze of winter just around the corner, biting at your exposed skin. The bells hadn’t yet chimed midnight, but the sun had set hours ago, leaving a gap in the evening, when the respectable citizens could return home and the salacious ones could terrorize the streets without reproach.
It was near dusk, but that meant your day was only just beginning. Your work resumed once the dark curtain of night fell over the town, shrouding everyone in tangible secrecy.
Your newest patron was a curly-haired bookkeeper, a crisp man with even sharper green eyes, lips puckered between distaste and seduction. He hardly seemed the type to linger in the wrong side of the city after hours, but you knew his delicate appearance was merely a ruse — a way to repent for his sins and keep them between him and God.
It was apparent, perhaps to you and you alone, that this was far from the first time he’d paid for a woman. His gaze grew hungrier with each passing second, as your fingertips danced along his skin. You scratched gently at his arm, with nails that were cut short and dirtied; pure evidence of your less than fortunate situation, a life so different than his own.
As they all did, he ignored signs that pointed towards your unclean soul. He spared one final glance towards the cathedral in the distance, then smiled at you lewdly.
“Your father puts a high price on your head,” he said, guiding you closer to his side until you were wrapped up in him, giving you the allure of comfort when you knew it was power he sought. “I hope you’re worth it.”
Your ran your thumb along the lines of his palm. The tendons flexed as his breath hitched.
Even though you were nothing but a poor girl from the village, you knew that you still had a certain something to you — something that drove every man around to his knees. It never failed you, and now that it was the means of your livelihood, it couldn’t.
“Is it not better to brave the emptiness of another lonely evening with companionship?” you whispered, words tinted with beautiful melancholy.
His features pinched, mouth gaping, too slow to understand your meaning. To which you refrained from sighing, forcing an even tighter smile as you bat your eyelashes.
“I’ll be worth it.”
You had grown to hate nighttime, dark with its illustrious glow of stars. It held a promise of unknowable saltiness rubbed into wounds, an unwanted ache between your thighs that never seemed to ease.
Beauty did not come without pain, and the impossible splendor of the darkened heavens was no exception — you knew that more than anyone. You thought it every night as you slunk through the shadows like you belonged there, with nothing but the endless universe to swallow up your misery.
Sunlight would never compare to the otherworldliness of the moonbeams. But the mornings, with yellow and orange hues splashing against your face, bathing you in opalescent colors, set you free.
“Remind me your name,” the green-eyed man said, slurring the final two words into one syllable, a testament to his sobriety. “I can’t believe it slipped my mind.”
If you told him, by the end of the evening, he’d forget it anyway. It was better that way, better for it to be a fleeting thought, than for your name to be imprinted on his soul, a dirtied and scornful word, sullied by your actions and desperation.
“Ah,” you pulled him out the door, to the alley, just around the corner from the bustling pub. It was loud, and empty enough outside that no one would take notice to either of you. Neither would they care. “You can call me whatever you want, sir.”
He smiled, but it was oily and sharp, causing you to nearly recoil with disgust. This was far from the first time you’d done this, but it never got easier, never made you feel less ashamed. Each touch still felt like an awful burn, crisping your skin until it was darkened with ash. Every kiss was a thousand knives ripping you apart, blood freely flowing down your neck until you’d run dry, as empty as your soul had become.
“Aren’t you a sweet one?” he said, sparing no time before he had you up against the wall, his palms digging into the bones of your hip. “I can see why you’re so popular around here.”
You swallowed, but plastered your seduction on thick, trying to emit something pleasurable when he swirled his thumb over your breast. It would be one of those times, it seemed, that they were less than gentle with you.
“The payment usually comes first.” You hated the way your voice cracked on the final word. “How can I trust that you’ll fulfill your end of the bargain otherwise?”
He glowered, retreating from abusing a wound into you neck, his lips already flushed with desire. To your relief, though, he pulled the cloth-wrapped coins from his pocket, and threw them on the ground. The money landed in a thick puddle of mud with a disgusting plop, the silver and bronze jingling against one another.
“There. You can dig it out of the mud yourself, whore.”
You didn’t have time to react before your skirt was hiked up to your thighs in a few quick movements, the remainder of the ruffles ripped apart. The sharp sound of linen tearing echoed in the alley. Your pastel blue evening wear now nothing more than cheap cloth.
He was more than eager as he dipped his dark lips back to your neck, running his tongue along the vein like a starved man. Hot hands launched up along your sides, possessive, before pulling at the tight lacing of your corset.
“Wait,” you said, your nails digging into his shoulders. It was hard not to cough up pain from his rough touches. “Don’t you want to go inside? I have a place where no one can hear us.”
The cruel man smiled, tucking your hair away from your face, his touch almost gentle, as if he could come to care for you, in another life. A glimmer of metal on his finger shone in the moonlight, sharp gold, like a curse. Reminding you of the thing he didn’t care to cherish, the one you’d lost, when your father had sold you to the first man that took interest.
“Doesn’t matter. I like to be watched.”
That was that.
He turned you around roughly, so your cheeks were pressed into brick, scuffing your skin with tiny little pinpricks. Though you’d hardly had enough time to become aroused, his hardness pressed against the small of your back, wasting no time before he sunk into you.
It hurt — more than you’d expected it to, with how many times you’d been abused and used in such a way. But you didn’t cry, escaping into your mind instead, trying to tell yourself that you’d get out someday, even if it was a simple fantasy to comfort you in your most vulnerable moments.
“Fuck,” the man groaned into your ear, his movements speeding up as he forced you impossibly closer into the wall. “You feel so good. Didn’t expect you to have such a tight cunt after being used by half the men in town.”
You didn’t say anything, only letting out a few audible sounds of pleasure to appease him. Not that it mattered anyway. You knew he didn’t want you to talk, he just wanted to stick his dick in someone other than his wife, who probably knew all about his infidelity, and couldn’t do a damn thing to stop him.
Finally, he came, spilling into you, despite your requests for him not to, and slumped against your back, breathing heavily. You’d gotten nowhere close to reaching an orgasm, but he didn’t care, even as he caressed your hair softly, pressed kisses into the space between your neck and jaw.
“You’re such a good whore. Pretty. Shame I can’t keep you all to myself.” His voice was low, raspy, tinged with ownership as much as it was disgust.
You prayed to a god that didn’t care, and smiled coolly over your shoulder. “You could always be a repeat customer. We can pretend, can’t we?”
He smiled, softened only from his orgasm, and laughed at that. You were grateful that your comment landed—some would have slapped you roughly for the sarcasm in your tone. “I’ll consider it.”
“I wouldn’t mind. You’re certainly not the worst I’ve ever had.”
A flicker of something appeared in his irises, but you were, for once, unsure if it was humor or uncertainty. “But not the best?”
You steeled yourself, remained impassive, and shrugged, trying to play along. It was hard, more than it wasn’t, to gauge what it was these clients really wanted. Each time, you’d thought you’d had them figured out. Many were shallow creatures with desires that didn’t extend far past their loneliness and need for a quick release.
Some, with their deep-rooted disturbances and truly unspeakable desires, were near impossible to read.
This man, it seemed, was one of latter.
“Is that the case?” His face contorted with anger, and he pushed you hard against the wall, his fingers curling back under your skirt. “Fucking bitch. That wasn’t good enough for you? We can go again. I’ll make it better.”
Your eyes grew wide, and you shoved at his wrist, trying to get his thick fingers out from between your legs as tears welled up in your eyes. “No. No, I was just kidding, you were good, it was good,” you smiled, but it wasn’t enough, wasn't real enough, and he doubled his efforts.
“Don’t lie,” he spat, stroking himself until he was hard again, the disgusting, flushed organ pulsating in his hand. “I hate liars.”
You took a steadying breath, your thoughts flying through your mind too rapidly to be condensed into words. Panic took hold, but your strength waned, his body too strong and too large to push away. “We had an agreement,” you said, sounding anything but confident in your words. “Your time is over. It’ll cost extra.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” His face was dangerously close, and he wedged a knee between your legs to keep them apart. It hurt everywhere he touched, like his hands were made of liquid fire. “You think your father would believe you against me? He can’t keep a goddamn penny to his name so he passes you around, his pretty little whore.” The man laughed, so dark and careless. Just moments ago, he’d been smiling at you like you were a friend, and all it took was the wrong tone of voice, the wrong sort of joke for him to turn on you like an animal.
Sudden clarity passed over you as the ocean between your ears died down, giving way to the calmest of waters, smooth as glass, a resolution coming to mind. You fumbled under your bodice, for something wedged up between the tightest of laces, the failsafe, for the times that the situation got so fatally out of hand.
“You’re the smartest investment he’s ever—”
His words cut off, garbled, as he choked on the blood that started to seep from his throat. A beautiful river of scarlet poured from his neck, coloring the surrounding skin a muted pink.
For a moment, the scene passed as if you were reading it from a novel; present, but removed, a third person in the story.
You watched him slump forward, grab at his neck with terrified, wide eyes. Blood spewed through the cracks between his fingertips. The color drained from his face, dulling him to a corpse, the dark venom of his eyes becoming nothing more than a muddied brown. There was so much in his expression, and then there was nothing.
He fell to his knees, then clumsily onto his face, the last breath of oxygen escaping him.
In an instant, you were on him, barely registering the bloodied knife in your hand, as you brought it down over and over, sinking it into his back and pulling it out again. A crunch — the sound of bones and tendons splitting apart. Then a spray of blood splattered against your cheek, dripping to your jaw in a beautiful smear of maroon.
It would be hard to clean this one up, but you always managed somehow. You’d manage again. Again and again and again.
Once he was dead, so completely dead that you were sure you’d killed him twice, you stood up, breathing heavily. His body already started the process of rot, decaying in a puddle of his own fluids. Blood poured out from him so quickly that you felt it’d only be minutes before there wasn’t an ounce of it left in him.
It was as gruesome as it was liberating. How many times had you brought the knife down into his skin, how many times had you—
“You have a penchant for brutality.”
The voice came from behind you, materializing out of nowhere, a melodic whisper in the night. And though it felt like a song, a tune you could drown yourself in, you whirled around, taking the crimson shrouded blade to the stranger’s throat, eyes hard.
He smiled at the action, lips curling around shiny white teeth. “I would’ve thought cutting open his throat was enough to kill him.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” you said, so quickly that you felt your body was moving on instinct. An obvious lie, but denial was the only way to go, when you’d been caught so red-handed.
Briefly, you were met with terrible darkness, as the stranger, dancing with the blade of your knife, remained invisible in the black night. But the moon moved, clouds parting for its splendor, and the beams illuminated the icy stranger like the star of an eternal performance.
The once loud shouts of the pub became nothing more than whispers, the frigid air of a near November heating at an unthinkable pace. Around you, the world seemed to change in an instant, with the vastness of a man that seemed too beautiful to be human.
He cocked his head, smiled at you, and though it was surely mocking, the twist of humor in his eyes only made him that much more lovely. The allure of him transcended this realm, handed down from something otherworldly, something that you had never believed in until now. There was an indescribable distance in his eyes, so raw with wisdom, but exceedingly charming, and one glimpse had leveled you to the stupidest of women.
“No?” The stranger laughed, his melodic voice clearing you of your senselessness, reminding you of the less than ideal situation. “Because it looks like you killed someone in cold blood.”
Your lips parted, then you swallowed, knuckles paling around the hilt of the knife. It was difficult to look him in the eyes, and you dropped your gaze to his perfectly rounded lips, before letting them fall to the sharp lines of his jaw.
“Don’t look so scared. I hardly care about him.”
“He had it coming.” Your voice was unmistakably shaky, nervous. Even if you couldn’t identify the true root of your anxieties.
The handsome, transcendental stranger grinned easily, unfazed by the position he’d found himself in. As if death mattered naught to him — and why should it? It was something that touched you all, there was no escaping it. If you were to run your blade across his throat, what would be the harm? It would’ve happened eventually.
“I’m sure he did.” His voice was akin to a lullaby, rivaled even the greatest concertos. Then, he took a step back, away from the blade, running his eyes across you, observing with an inner wit you were certain you didn’t posses. “I’ve seen many in your shoes. I know of the cruelty of man.” He glimpsed past you, cocking his head at the sight of the brutalized body, near unrecognizable. “Yet none have taken such… drastic measures. It seems you are quite the vengeful angel.”
The words triggered the same sort of anger that had gotten your unsatisfactory patron killed, a flare of bubbling red beneath your skin.
You scowled, running your tongue along your teeth. “I’m no angel. Don’t call me that.”
“Ah.” The beautiful devil hummed, acknowledging the result of your rage and the blade dripping with blood. “Right. Well, I’m uncertain how to describe your beauty, if not angelic.”
It was cruel of your body to react with such warmth, a present trickling of heat over your cheeks, down your neck. Rarely, did the words of men affect you. They shouldn’t now. “I’ve heard that plenty of times in this line of work. While poetic, your words are unimpressive.”
“I doubt the rest of them have seen this side of you, and seen the beauty in you still.” He took a step towards you, then thought better of it, and paused his movements. “Or, do you often let people watch you sink a knife into your generous clients? Perhaps this is a custom I’m not familiar with around here.”
You weren’t sure how to read his dry tone, and you let your hand, still shaky with the blade, fall at your side. “It is a custom that comes to pass when one is desperate and out of options. Do not call such a thing beautiful.”
He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Silence fell between you, and though it was only for a moment, it unsettled you, thinking of all the ways this could end. You didn’t have it in you to kill someone else, another man, not without reason. You’d never enjoyed it, never liked the way the veins split open, the sharp noise of the skin breaking.
There was just no other way.
“How are you planning on cleaning this mess up?”
Your face fell, that once seize of panic grabbing hold once more. A sharp breath left you as you closed in on yourself, feeling so much smaller than you had only minutes before. “I don’t know.” You turned to stare at the body; his eyes were still open wide, staring at you with a kind of fear you didn’t know you were capable of causing. “Are you going to tell anyone?” you whispered.
There were hands on your forearm, and then they were gone, icy cold fingertips spinning a calming circle on your skin. Gently, the stranger eased the blade from your hand, wiping it on his robe, before tossing it in the mud. “Of course not. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Inhaling, you closed your eyes. “You could if you wanted to. You can do anything you want as long as you don’t tell anyone.” That realization alone made you afraid of the power he held over you, the weight of the secret he could pin you down with. “They’ll do much worse to me if they find out.”
“If I was concerned about turning you in, I don’t think I’d be having a conversation with you, now would I?”
“I don’t know. I rarely trust the word of men, even the kindest ones.”
He was silent. There were sounds of a scene that took place behind you — him stepping away, boots crunching in the dirt and mud. Then, the tune of the coins from the pouch, as he dumped them into a clean handkerchief, handing them back to your with a soft caress.
“Well, seeing as I did nothing as you committed a rather violent crime, I’m afraid I’m already complicit. I’d lose nothing by helping you dispose of the body.” He smiled, tilting his head, the brightness of his eyes near an iridescent glow. “I know you may not trust me with words, but my actions might suffice instead.”
Your stroll around the city was brief. Eventually, you found yourself in a pub that had been standing since your ancestors were children. The brick walls were older than even you, cracked and faded. Places like these seemed to be the only ones you found yourself often, as if beckoning you back, knowing the truth of who and what you were.
It was somewhere you could hide in a shaded normalcy; not meant to be seen, but unable to stay away.
This time, though, you had no desire to hide, to slink into the black corners until you faded easily into the shadows. You sought to be a member of them all, assimilating into the spaces that opened up for you, as you settled into the concave embrace of humanity.
The evening didn’t feel so cold and unwelcoming today. Instead, there was warmth, a kind that came with the sting of nostalgia. It was an enveloping embrace, so tight that it hurt, yet filled with steel-coated love.
Shadows cascaded on the far wall, creating dark outlines of the crowd. Each person seemed to move quickly, matching the static energy of the room, never settling, never still. It was just as hazy and cloudy as the outside, the stench of the old city tainted deep into the old walls. There was nowhere to inhale without sharing a breath with another, an intimately close gathering, one that almost reminded you of what it was like to be human.
Until a couple sat next to you, nosey and less than alert, their dark eyes roaming all over you with shameless curiosity.
You could smell their blood within seconds of them falling into the chairs next to you, so overwhelmingly sweet, mixed with the sharpness of of alcohol. The man’s metallic nectar was tinged with a putrid smell, layered from years of copious liquor and tobacco.
His wife’s was not so tainted — but no different than any of the other uninteresting humans that sat around in the room, so concerned with their bodily pleasures that any other sensations were outside of them.
“Hello,” the woman said, tall and thin, with silky black hair that was strung up tight with pearls. A few dark strands fell loose around her cheeks, which were highlighted by red pigment that had smeared from droplets of sweat. Her eyes, deep brown and alluring, were unfocused, pupils large and round.
She stared unabashedly at you, drinking you in, before she broke out into a fit of laughter, seemingly unrelated to her previous polite greeting. A slender hand came to cover her mouth, but you were unsure if it was out of shame for herself or for you.
Your nose wrinkled.
The woman stumbled back into her husband, and they spoke in hushed whispers, a conversation you didn’t care enough to eavesdrop on.
As the couple distracted themselves once again, you fixed your eyes on a man across the room. He wore a stiff military coat, and seemed deeply troubled, with a mind still gruesomely stuck in the field. His smile was awkward, but kind towards anyone who approached him, even while he appeared to be planning an escape out the window.
You considered his sobriety, his alertness, the way he was still nursing the same drink he’d bought when he walked in an hour ago. The uncomfortable little soldier would save you from losing your sense to intoxication, as the blood of anyone else in the room was surely tinged with liquor. But a small part of you craved the drink, longed for the bit of release that abstinence stole from you.
He would be an easy target, a safe target. But there was nothing interesting or irritating about him, save for the thunder of fear he had flooding around in his mind, the dread of returning to war in the upcoming weeks.
“I, um,” the husband of the bumbling woman, shorter, and round, with a thick mustache hiding his upper lip, coughed. Your attention drifted slowly over to him, eyes sliding like those of a snake. “I apologize for my wife. She’s had far too much to drink this evening.”
You met his gaze, but said nothing, leaving him to interpret just how you’d felt about their interruption. There was utter emptiness, perhaps soullessness, in your expression, and you’d thought that had been enough to deter him. But he was determined to remedy his wife’s behavior, and came closer, scooting his chair into the intimate space surrounding you.
“Are you new to town? We haven’t seen you here, and, well...” He clasped and unclasped his hands, unable to meet your eyes.
You remained silent.
He sighed. “Sorry. I don’t mean to prattle, but Cassandra—my wife, that is—is normally the talkative one. Right now, though she’s…” He glanced to the chair beside him, where his wife had sat herself again, slumping forward like she could hardly keep her head up. The man shook his head. “Well, anyway. She’s interested in making your acquaintance. You are quite…” He gesticulated around you like you’d know exactly the word he was searching for, language betraying him.
“Quite what?”
His eyebrows dipped together, before smoothing. There was a pause, like he was considering whether to indulge you with praise or ignore the sentiment completely. “Well, you know, we’ve just never seen you around here before.”
You exhaled, somehow disappointed by the exchange. Everything was still the same, then. For some reason, you’d expected fifty years to have altered the course of the human race, to have remedied the distinctly unlikable nature of the people that hailed from your hometown. How obsessed they’d always been with their appearance, climbing the social ladder by pushing the rest back down to the lowest ring.
“I see,” you nodded, returning your gaze to where the soldier had been. He’d left the bar now, standing outside, smoking a cigarette with shaky hands. Unsurprising and characterless. "I haven’t been home in quite a while, but I’m here now. For how long, I’m not sure. But I know these streets like I paved them myself, despite the changes that have sprung up in recent years. I doubt I’ll need a guide, if that’s what you’re offering.”
The plain stranger eyed you curiously, noting how old you appeared. It was more than obvious that he was unable to believe that so much had changed in the years you’d been away. Then, the skepticism faded, and his bright grin was back, a hand outstretched to greet yours.
“Oh, how wonderful to hear. I’m Gustav, and my wife’s Cassandra, as I mentioned. We’ve been living here for about a year now, bought a shiny new mansion across the river. Feels like we still don’t know the lay of the land, though, if you’re interested in showing us around.” He laughed self-deprecatingly, yet, still held on tightly to his air of superiority over you.
You blinked, staring at his outstretched hand, thick and veiny, with polished, clipped nails. It shook with the years that were gaining on him, while your own was steady, held tightly in your lap.
“I have a hard time believing you came over here out of the goodness of your heart,” you said simply, smiling so widely it almost ached. “You know, I’ve always hated the niceties of the bourgeoisie. I doubt you’ll gain anything by towing me around town.”
Gustav licked his lips and retracted his hand, his eyes hardening slightly. “We only thought you’d like to find a familiar face around the crowds. Didn’t know you were already well-acquainted—”
A snort bubbled out of you, and Gustav stopped, sniffing as you broke off his thoughtless rambling.
“Oh, no need to try and appease me. I knew the minute you two walked over here that your intentions were anything but altruistic. You saw a beautiful stranger, and your wife, who I know to be the gossip of the fucking town, just had to sink her claws in.” You leaned towards him, eyes roaming to the pulsing vein on his neck wildly. “You moved here after you made your fortune as a banker, thought you’d establish yourself as the wealthy newcomers. You’re nearing fifty, but you still eye the prettiest women in the room, stare at all the things you can’t have, while your wife slips into bed with men twenty years younger than her. To get what you can’t give her, of course.” Each of your teeth dripped blood red from your poisonous words. “Am I right about that, Gustav? Or are you really looking for a friend?”
He stared, wide-eyed at you, his short, stubby eyelashes falling over droopy eyes. “I—”
“I’m tiring of the chatter. I’ve found myself in a rather unique position lately. Normally, I enjoy making a game out of this, but all this travel has worn me down, and I’ve no desire to butter you up.” Leaning close, so close you could feel his hot breath on your skin, you ran a sharp nail against his soft jawline, feeling the stubble of his chin, the thick flesh around his neck. “Come with me. Bring your wife with you. Don’t make a sound or I’ll kill you both.”
You’d kill them anyway, but they didn’t need to know that.
Gustav, foolishly obedient, nodded, and followed as you stood from the table. A drastic sound came from the chair as it fell onto the ground, clattering into the floor. No one turned, unbothered by the ruckus, and you went around the back, where the streetlights faded into the woods, the trees welcoming you back to your rightful home.
Cassandra had sobered quickly when Gustav held a hand over her mouth, hushing her profusely when she nearly tripped over a rock. Her dress, a beautiful rose and cream evening gown, had muddied and torn at the bottom, the edges fraying.
“Gus,” she slurred through the cracks of his fingers, clawing at him, her grasp weak from intoxication. The rest of her words came out incomprehensible, but you could sense her fear, the confusion imbedded in every fleeting thought that popped into her mind.
You lured them further into the forest, until the shouts of the city sounded like whispers, drowned out by the creatures roaming beneath the heavy trees, familiar with your kind as they fled into the shadows. It reminded you, briefly, of when you’d had nothing to eat but the blood of rabbits, mice, birds that flew in through your windows and found themselves caught in a spider’s web. How far away that now seemed, how drastically your life had altered with the presence of another vampire.
Gustav tried to form words, but you turned, pressing a finger to his mouth, hushing him without a sound. Then, you smiled calmly, licking your lips, a manic sort of energy blocking off your sensibilities.
Hunger. That was the word, the feeling — you’d known it well, longed to release yourself to more primal inhibitions. It didn’t feel so hard, now, without the guilt clawing at your throat, forcing you back into a box you’d felt so trapped in.
You pinched Gustav’s cheeks, ignoring the sharpness of culpability that scratched at the back of your mind, the past fifty years of progress tumbling down like a house of cards. “Don’t move.”
Before he could finish blinking, you’d yanked Cassandra from his arms, sinking your fangs into her neck. The blood rushed into your mouth, burning delightfully on the way down, so hot and acrid from her drinks. It had been so long, you’d almost forgotten the sensation of alcohol, how it was painful before it was pleasant, leading you astray.
Gustav stayed true to his previous commands, glued to the spot, but his eyes were so wide you were certain they’d bulge out of his skull. There was more than fear spelled out in bold letters on his expression — it was terror, one that came with the end, of knowing that the last breaths of life were coming. You hoped that he cherished it, like you never had.
Cassandra’s body grew cold, and you dropped it, tossing it away like a doll, her skull making a sharp sound against the heavy stump of the trees. Then, you rounded on her husband, near sick with horror, stiff and ugly from morality.
His blood tasted just as stale, but you drained him anyway, lapping at the thick liquid, letting it stick to the skin around his neck. Gustav didn’t move, didn’t grasp at you with the same desperation that Cassandra had, and you felt no sense of satisfaction when he dropped dead to the ground, the alcohol in both their veins already making your thoughts fuzzy around the edges.
You stared at the pair, their eyes glassy and lifeless, mouths parted without sound, and wiped your own scarlet lips, letting the blood stain the sleeve of your dress.
For no reason at all, a laugh bubbled up in you, and you let it ring out through the forest, matching the nightly call of the cicadas and the owls lingering above. You weren’t sure how long it lasted, your fit of, perhaps, insanity, as you stared at the corpses and tears of blood ran from the corners of your eyes. The sweet relief that came from quelling your hunger was paired with the dizzying effects of alcohol, rendering you anything but sensible.
Still, you felt the presence of another, so attuned to that being, the aura of carelessness and authority. You’d known he’d been coming from miles away, yet, you drank, continued to drink even when his dark eyes were watching you, hardly bothering to hide within the shadows.
Your laughter ceased, and the sticky tears lingered on your cheeks, as you turned, slowly, stumbling with every movement. “How’d you know I’d come here?” you said, dipping your head before raising it to meet his gaze.
Dazai smiled, sideways and achingly lovely, every hollow of his cheek, every curve of his lip, made even darker in the moonlight. It seemed to illuminate him and him alone, this world of grotesqueness and haunting starlight and misery made for him.
“Where else would you go?” Dazai said, each syllable a prayer, a lullaby from the grave, hauntingly beautiful. “Where would either of us go but home?”
Your chest heaved, filled with a sick and desperate love, as your body hummed to the same melody of his words. And though you'd wanted to deny it, to rebel against the twining of your heartstrings, you'd known in every fiber of your soul that Dazai would be here too.
PART VIII




