✎insanity·˚ ༘

21 | just a person in many fandoms ˗ˏˋ ´ˎ˗ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

[nana-gumi]

multo g. satoru

pairings: gojo satoru x fem! reader

cw: heavy angst, good ending ig, arranged marriage, breaking up, betrayal, reader is a zenin, emotional trauma, physical abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, depictions of violence, bruising, and physical injuries.

a/n: HI GUYS LET ME JUST LEAVE THIS ONE HERE. my sister borrowed my laptop (i'm praying she doesn't see this tumblr acc ToT) and the gojo fic series drafts was there, that's why i still couldn't finish it. i'ma leave this one shot for now.. HAPPY READING MWEHEHE AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 800 FOLLOWERS OMG ILY'ALL!! maybe part 2 also? idk

you were a zenin, raised to obey, sent to spy on gojo satoru — but somewhere along the way, you made the one mistake your clan never prepared you for: you fell in love. and when he found out your intentions, he didn’t just walk away — he broke, and so did you. years passed. silence stretched. and now, fate ties you together again in an arranged marriage meant to bind broken clans. but how do you stand beside the man you love, knowing he might still hate you for the way you betrayed him?

the dress fits perfectly.

it's heavy with lace and tradition, stitched together by hands that never asked her what she wanted.

outside, the sky is blindingly blue. too bright. too loud. too cheerful for a day like this.

he stands at the altar like he’s waiting for execution. his posture is straight, chin high, eyes empty behind those white lashes. he doesn’t look at her. not once.

she walks toward him slowly, her hands cold despite the heat under the fabric. the veil blurs her vision, but it doesn’t matter. she could walk this path blindfolded. she’s been walking toward this moment ever since she let him go all those years ago.

they exchange vows, hollow words carved into centuries of clan expectations. peace, alliance, legacy — all signed in blood and silence.

he slides the ring on her finger without meeting her gaze. her hands tremble.

she wants to say something. anything. but her lips stay closed. she doesn’t deserve the chance to speak.

“you may now kiss the bride,” someone says.

he leans in and he kissed her like she’s a stranger. like he’s doing a job. like she isn’t the girl he once held in his arms under the stars, whispering promises he swore he’d never break.

her eyes burn, but she doesn’t cry. not here. not now. not when the war is already over and she’s the only casualty left standing.

when the kiss ends, he pulls away like it cost him something. maybe it did.

the crowd claps. the clans nod in approval.

the world keeps turning.

and she stands beside him, the wife of a man who no longer loves her.

you weren’t supposed to be here.

no cursed energy. no technique. no power. just a name — zenin — and the weight it carried like a curse of its own. they didn’t ask if you wanted this. they never ask.

“you’ll watch him." "you’ll report everything,” they said.

you were sixteen, terrified, and smart enough not to ask what they really meant.

the car that dropped you off at jujutsu high didn’t wait. the gates loomed tall, too tall, like they were made to keep people like you out. you stepped in anyway.

you felt like a fraud, walking among sorcerers.

you couldn’t even see curses without a tool in your hand.

but you knew how to lie. how to bow. how to hide.

you were good at being invisible.

until him.

“yo,” a voice — too loud, too bright — cut through the courtyard like sunlight after a storm.

you turned, and there he was. gojo satoru.

snow-white hair that didn’t obey gravity, dark glasses across his eyes, hands in his pockets like he owned the world. and maybe he did. you’d heard the stories. the six eyes. the limitless. the prodigy.

you expected him to be cold. arrogant. untouchable. you weren’t prepared for the grin.

“you new?” he asked, tilting his head.

you nodded. “yeah.”

“cool. i’m satoru. gojo satoru. remember it — what’s your name?”

you gave only your first. no clan, no past. he didn’t question it. just threw an arm around your shoulder like you were old friends.

“c’mon. you look lost. i’ll show you around.”

and just like that, the boy you were supposed to spy on pulled you into his orbit.

you knew better than to get close.

you knew better than to care.

but your heart — stupid, rebellious thing — beat a little faster anyway.

that night, when you wrote your first report to the zenin clan, your hands shook.

you stared at the paper for a long time before hiding it inside the cabinet.

it was just the start.

—

you thought it would be easy to keep your distance.

you thought wrong.

gojo satoru made it impossible.

he found you in the mornings before class. dragged you into his friend group like it was nothing. introduced you to suguru, shoko, and the quiet stillness that lived between their chaos.

“we’re the best there is,” he said, throwing an arm around your shoulders like he always did. “you’re lucky we’re letting you sit with us.” he joked.

you rolled your eyes. “what makes you think i want to?”

“you laughed at my joke earlier. it’s too late. you’re already attached.”

you hadn’t laughed. not really. but he made it hard not to smile.

you started walking beside him more than anyone else. not because you meant to, but because he always found you — after lectures, during training, when the halls were too quiet and your thoughts were too loud.

he always found you.

once, during a sparring exercise, you took a hit you shouldn’t have. your weapon clattered to the floor. the curse lunged for you, and before you could blink, it was gone.

he stood between you and the wreckage, his infinity humming like static.

“you okay?” he asked, still facing forward.

you nodded, but your knees betrayed you. he caught you before you hit the ground.

you were never meant to be on the front lines. born without cursed energy and with a body too fragile for combat, you were trained out of obligation, not talent.

the zenin clan tried to mold you into something useful, but even their harshest instructors couldn’t change what you were—delicate.

during missions, you were always accompanied by a classmate, not for teamwork, but to make sure you made it back alive. and maybe that was what hurt most—you felt like you didn’t belong. not with the strong. not even with the weak. just somewhere in between, constantly trying and always failing.

but then there was gojo satoru.

you didn’t understand him. he mocked the weak. he laughed at failure. he was arrogant, untouchable. and yet, he was kind to you. always. he never once made you feel small—not the way the others did. sometimes, you wondered if it was pity. if he looked at you and saw something pitiful enough to spare. but then he’d sit next to you at lunch. walk beside you on campus. talk to you like you mattered.

and for the first time in your life, you felt like maybe you did.

later that day, you sat beside him under a tree near the old school wall. shoko gave you something bitter for the pain. suguru offered you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

gojo handed you a popsicle. “blue raspberry,” he said. “the best one.”

“i didn’t ask for it,” you murmured.

he shrugged. “you didn’t have to.”

you watched him from the corner of your eye as he leaned back in the grass, eyeglass pushed up so you could see his eyes. too blue. too bright.

“you’ve got good instincts,” he said. “but you hesitate.”

you looked away. “i’m not like you.”

“good. the world doesn’t need more me.”

but maybe it did.

when you reported to the zenin clan that night, your words were short.

you didn’t know how to explain it. how his kindness made the guilt worse.

because you weren’t just watching him anymore.

you were watching yourself fall.

and you didn’t mean for it to happen. but it happened anyway.

it started in the quiet places — rooftops at dusk, abandoned hallways between classes, the way his fingers would graze yours just long enough to make you forget why you were even here.

the reports got shorter. colder.

you stopped describing his power.

you started describing his laugh.

and they noticed.

"don’t forget your purpose," the letter said. "you are not his equal." "you are not his friend." "you are not in love."

but you were.

and gojo satoru was catching on.

—

“you always look like you're hiding something,” he said one night, the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder on the roof above the dorms.

the air smelled like rain. the city below flickered like a dying star.

you didn’t look at him. “maybe i am.”

he leaned closer, voice softer. “you don’t trust me?”

you did. more than anyone. and that terrified you.

“you ever think about running away?” you asked, instead of answering. “just… leaving everything behind.”

he was quiet for a second. then, “every day.”

you turned to him. he was already watching you.

there was something fragile in the air. something breaking.

“what’s stopping you?” you asked.

“you,” he said.

you blinked and as if he realized what he said..

“i mean,” he added quickly, trying to laugh, “you and suguru and shoko. and this dumb school. and nanami's frown. and haibara's smile. and the way you—”

he cut himself off.

“the way i what?” you asked. oblivious.

he swallowed before relaxing his tense body.

“the way you make it all feel like it matters.” he mumbled, voice soft that it almost hurt you.

silence.

he looked like he was going to say something else, but didn’t. instead, he moved — slow, hesitant, like someone unused to asking for what they want.

his hand found yours.

his fingers were warm, careful. you didn’t pull away.

“you scare me,” he said.

you laughed, too soft. “you’re the strongest sorcerer in the world. what could i possibly do to scare you?”

“you make me want things i shouldn’t want.”

you knew he meant it. you knew this was the line — the edge of something you couldn’t come back from.

“me too,” you whispered.

and then he kissed you. just once. soft, trembling, the kind of kiss that tasted like youth and bad decisions.

you kissed him back anyway.

that night, your report was a blank page.

you stared at it for hours.

then burned it.

—

you started to forget what you were.

not completely. never completely. the guilt stayed. it curled beneath your ribs, whispering reminders.

but it got quieter when he was near.

you shared everything now. snacks between missions. rooftops at midnight. secrets. kisses.

you started waking up to the sound of his knocking.

“get up, i brought breakfast,” he’d say, even though it was just vending machine coffee and a half-eaten pastry.

“we’re late,” you’d mumble, and he’d grin like that made him proud.

he was unbearable. smug. loud.

he made you feel safe.

suguru noticed first.

“so… you and satoru?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the wall while you bandaged your arm.

you looked up. “what about us?”

he raised an eyebrow. “i’m not judging. just wondering if you know what you’re getting into.” suguru said, as if he knew you were hiding something.

you did. and that was the problem.

“he’s not what people think he is,” you said quietly.

“i know,” suguru replied. “but you’re not what he thinks you are either, are you?” he said with doubt.

your hands stilled. you didn’t answer.

—

those days passed like dreams. warm and unreal.

shoko fell asleep in the library again. haibara talked too much in the mornings. nanami scowled when satoru put his feet on the table. suguru rolled his eyes at every joke and laughed at them anyway.

you started to believe this could last.

gojo touched you like you were real. like you weren’t the weapon your clan forged from silence. like you weren’t a lie.

when he kissed you, it felt like hope.

when he held your hand, it felt like home.

one night, while the others were gone, he pulled you into his arms and said, “i love you, you know.”

you froze. he waited.

you buried your face in his chest and whispered, “i know.”

because you did.

you just didn’t know how to say i love you too without it tasting like betrayal.

but you loved him. more than you feared the consequences, and in some twisted way, that was worse.

—

you knew something was wrong before anyone said it.

suguru started missing meals. missions. he spoke less, and when he did, it was sharp — tired in a way that didn’t come from the body. his eyes never stopped moving. like he was searching for something none of you could give him.

satoru didn’t notice at first. or maybe he did, but didn’t want to admit it. you watched him try. asking suguru to hang out, dragging him into conversations, making jokes he didn’t laugh at anymore.

it wasn’t working.

then one day, suguru was just… gone.

no explanation. no goodbye. no body.

satoru came back from a mission alone. jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter.

you were the first one to find him.

“don’t,” he said, before you could open your mouth.

you stood there, helpless. he looked up at you — and god, you wished he hadn’t — because those blue eyes were empty. completely, terrifyingly empty.

“he’s not dead,” satoru said.

“then where is he?”

“gone.”

you reached for him, but he stepped back. “don’t.” his voice cracked.

so you didn’t touch him. you didn’t speak. you just stood there, watching the boy you loved unravel.

you wanted to tell him that you were still here. that you weren’t going anywhere. but even that was a lie, wasn’t it?

because the next letter came that night.

a new mission. from the clan.

you are to locate suguru geto. you are to assist him. you are to ensure his survival at any cost. we don’t care how.

and at the bottom, in neat, merciless writing:

if you don’t, we’ll make sure gojo doesn’t survive his grief either.

you couldn’t breathe.

you couldn’t scream.

you couldn’t sleep beside satoru that night without thinking of the knife your clan had placed in your hands.

so you stayed up, watching his chest rise and fall.

he looked peaceful in sleep — younger. like the boy you met on the first day. the one who grinned too wide and called you lucky to know him.

you didn’t kiss him goodbye.

you left before the sun came up.

—

you thought you could keep the truth buried.

that you could pretend it wasn’t tearing you apart. but it wasn’t long before satoru noticed.

the way you flinched when he reached for your hand. the way you stopped laughing at his jokes. the way your eyes darkened behind every smile.

“hey,” he said one night, voice quiet, the kind that always meant he was worried. “what’s wrong?”

you swallowed, heart pounding.

“nothing,” you lied.

he didn’t believe you. never did.

“you’re pulling away,” he said. "is someone hurting you?”

you wanted to scream that it was your clan. that they had you by the throat. that you were trying to save both of them — him and suguru — and losing yourself in the process. but words caught in your throat.

he reached for you again. this time, you didn’t pull away.

“i’m scared,” you whispered.

“of what?”

“losing you. losing myself.”

he pulled you close.

“we’ll find a way,” he said. “together.”

but you weren’t sure if you could believe him anymore.

because every night, you were slipping further away, helping suguru from the shadows, watching the man you loved crumble without knowing it was your hands breaking him.

and every day, satoru’s trust chipped a little more.

and soon, there’d be nothing left to hold onto.

—

he found the letter. the one you thought was hidden forever.

satoru’s eyes burned as he unfolded the cold words from your clan.

you are to assist suguru geto. you are to ensure his survival at any cost.

his gaze locked on you, wild with fury and pain.

“why didn’t you tell me?” his voice cracked, trembling. “why lie to me all this time?”

you opened your mouth to speak.

“i was trying to protect you. please, just listen—” he laughed— sharp and bitter. "satoru—"

"oh my god. you were leaking everything to suguru? is it true?" he asked and the only thing you could do was to look down on the ground as your hand started trembling. "answer me!" he yelled, loud enough to make the walls ring. but no words still came out.

“i was trying to protect you.." you mumbled, or maybe you were telling that to yourself.

he let out a laugh, but there was no joy in it.

it was sharp, hollow, and it cut straight through you.

“protect me?” he repeated, voice rising with disbelief. your lips parted, but no sound came out. “you were betraying the school,” he said, venom lacing each word. “you were betraying me.."

“satoru, please—"

“don’t.” his voice cracked like thunder. “don’t say my name like that. not when it’s coming from your mouth.”

your heart pounded in your ears. then—

his expression shifted. darker. colder.

and in that moment, it felt like the whole world shattered between you.

“was any of it real? were your feelings, your promises —all lies?” he asked, he wanted to know at least that some of it was real. and it was. everything was.

but your silence crushed the space between you.

he stared at you for a long, unbearable moment — eyes that once looked at you like you hung the stars now filled with a storm you couldn’t calm.

his voice came low. final.

“i don’t want to see you again.” your breath caught. “leave jujutsu.” he didn’t shout this time — he didn’t have to. “before i tell everyone you betrayed us.”

your throat burned.

he stepped back like you were something dirty, something unforgivable. eyes like ice as his hands clenched at his sides.

the bracelet — your bracelet — still on his wrist, the one you handmade for him in your second year. he looked at it, slowly, deliberately.

and with a flick of cursed energy, it cracked in two. the threads snapped. beads scattered like broken promises, hitting the floor one by one.

“i just…” he paused — bitter. broken. “i just wished i never met you.”

he turned his back to you, walking away as your vision blurred with unshed tears. your knees gave in before the door even closed behind him, leaving you alone in the ruins of a love you thought was real.

you didn’t chase him. you didn’t explain.

you left jujutsu that day, carrying the weight of his hatred like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

and deep inside, you wondered if maybe he was right.

maybe it had all been a lie.

years have passed.

you’ve grown into someone unrecognizable — a shadow of your former self.

no longer the girl who laughed on rooftops with satoru.

no longer the girl who believed in love.

you left jujutsu behind, but never left the pain.

it followed you like a ghost.

meanwhile, satoru changed, too. the boy who once smiled easily now hides behind sarcasm and walls.

his trust shattered beyond repair.

and yet — fate, or perhaps the merciless clans— have arranged your marriage.

a contract to bind your clans in uneasy peace.

you’re thrown back together after all these years.

but the air between you is thick with resentment, regret, and unspoken words.

he looks at you like you’re a stranger, or worse, an enemy.

you see the loathing in his eyes, but you hide your own pain beneath a mask. neither of you knows how to begin again.

the room was colder than you remembered.

you stood just inside the door, the silence thick and suffocating.

he sat across from you, calm but distant — the same familiar posture, but everything about him was different. hardened.

his blindfold hid the storm behind his eyes.

“you’re late,” he said, voice flat.

you swallowed.

“i had things to settle.”

he didn’t respond. just stared, the weight of years pressing down.

you tried to speak — to explain, to apologize — but the words wouldn’t come.

instead, you studied him.nthe way his jaw clenched. the slight twitch in his fingers. you saw the bitterness there. the cold walls he’d built.

“why did you come back?” he finally asked. “after everything.” you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“because we have no choice.” he nodded, like he already knew.

“i don’t want this,” he said. “this marriage. this arrangement. i don’t want to pretend i ever trusted you.”

you wanted to tell him it was the same for you. that you didn't want the marriage either, or maybe because it's just what he wanted. and that you still felt the ache from the day he walked away.

but the words caught. instead, you just nodded.

“so what now?” he asked.

you looked down, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“i don't know."

and for the first time in years, you both sat in the same room — two broken pieces forced to fit together again.

—

the house felt strange — too quiet, too empty, and yet filled with memories you both tried to forget. living together wasn’t easy.

every room held echoes of the past. every corner reminded you of better days, and bitter ends.

you tried to keep your distance. he kept his guard up, eyes sharp and wary. meals were silent, conversations clipped.

he didn’t ask about your life. you didn’t ask about his.

but sometimes, when the night stretched too long, you caught glimpses. a flicker of something behind his blindfold — pain, regret, maybe even a shadow of the boy you once knew.

and sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, your eyes met. just for a moment. before the walls went back up.

you wondered if you could survive this. living with the man who still loathed you. the man you still love.

but for now, you both kept pretending. because neither of you were ready to face the truth.

—

you found him on the balcony, bathed in the pale glow of the city lights, arms folded over the railing like he’d been standing there for hours.

his blindfold was still on, but you could feel the weight of his stare when you stepped closer.

he didn’t turn. didn’t speak. you stood beside him anyway.

for a long while, neither of you said a thing. the silence was louder than any argument you’d ever had.

“i’m sorry,” you said quietly. not rehearsed. not dramatic. it was a sudden urge to tell him that, so you continued. “i’m sorry for everything. for lying. for hiding things. for not telling you when i should’ve.”

he didn’t move. he didn’t even flinch.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” you whispered. “i never stopped—”

“stop,” he cut in sharply. his voice was ice. “i don't want to hear it."

you froze, throat tight. he finally turned toward you.

“i can’t tell what’s real when it comes to you anymore,” he said. “maybe you loved me. maybe you didn’t. i don’t know. and that kills me.” his jaw clenched. “you kept secrets that destroyed everything we had. how am i supposed to look at you and not see all of that?”

you looked down at your hands, shaking slightly.

“i didn’t know how to fix it.”

“you can’t fix it,” he said. “you made a choice. and so did i.”

you nodded. once. not because you accepted it — but because you knew. he couldn’t forgive you. not now. maybe not ever.

so you turned and left him there, alone with the city lights and the silence,

while your apology sank into the night like a stone in deep water.

—

the days bled together. he avoided you without ever really avoiding you.

you were two strangers in a shared house — moving past each other like ghosts.

sometimes you’d catch the scent of his cologne in the hallway and it would paralyze you.

shoko noticed first. she invited herself over one evening, arms crossed, lips tight, eyes sharp as ever.

“you two look miserable,” she said. no sugarcoating. just brutal honesty.

“it’s fine,” satoru muttered, not looking up from his tea.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your throat felt thick again.

“if this is how you’re going to live,” shoko said quietly, “you’ll end up destroying each other all over again.”

the silence after she was gone felt different.

that night, you sat across from him at the dinner table, barely touching your food.

—

he came home late. blood on his uniform. his blindfold missing — eyes dim, not glowing like they used to.

“satoru?” you stood from the couch, instinctive worry lacing your voice. he didn’t answer.

he walked past you, like you weren’t even there. but you saw the way his hands trembled.

“you’re hurt,” you said softly, stepping closer. “let me help—”

“don’t—” he said, pulling away from you and you froze. “don’t act like you care.” he turned then, eyes sharp, like broken glass.

his face twisted — exhaustion, grief, rage.

“you don’t get to act like that,” he said, stepping toward you. “not after everything you did.”

“i never wanted to—”

“you think any of this matters now?” he snapped. his voice rising. shaking.

“i hate this marriage. i fucking hate this house. i hate waking up every day knowing you’re here.” you flinched. it was as if his voice alone had wounded you. and he kept going.

“i hate looking at you and remembering how fucking stupid i was to believe any of it was real.”

you couldn’t breathe. he was shaking, fists clenched at his sides. and for once, he wasn’t trying to hold back.

“i should’ve never let you back into my life. i should’ve never loved you.”

those last words— they were the final crack in something you didn’t know was still standing.

you didn’t scream. you didn’t cry. you just looked at him, eyes hollow. something in you quietly snapped.

“i'm sorry..” you said, not even looking at him because of shame.

and that's it. just a simple sorry, and he didn’t expect it.

you turned around and walked away. and it was that silence that haunted him the most.

—

you didn’t cry after that night. not when he said he hated you. there were no tears left to shed.

not when he told you he regretted ever loving you. you just… left the room.

you didn’t rest. instead, you went to the one place you never wanted to return to.

the zenin estate.

you stood before them with a calm voice and a broken heart, asking for only one thing: a divorce.

they scoffed. laughed. like your pain was amusing.

but they didn’t say yes. instead, they gave you a challenge.

“you have to earn it. beat the cursed spirit in the basement.”

they told you it was a grade 3. maybe stronger.

you had no cursed energy. it had been 10 years since you fought curses, and you didn't know if you still could.

but you still said yes.

because if it would make satoru free— if it would make him stop looking at you like you ruined his life,

you’d fight it. you’d let it kill you, if that’s what it took.

the first few days were hell.

you came back home every night limping, blood soaking through your sleeves. your hands trembled just trying to unlock the door.

satoru never noticed — he was never there.

you’d hear the door open some nights. footsteps in the hall. the fridge closing. then silence. he never even checked the bedroom.

and still, you kept going. day after day. cut after cut. bruise after bruise. weeks passed, and one day, finally— you killed it.

you collapsed beside its twitching body, chest heaving.

but then — like some twisted video game — another one appeared. a grade 2 rose from its remains.

you didn’t scream. you just smiled, bitter and tired.

“heh, knew it,” you whispered before blacking out.

—

you woke up in your old room, limbs aching like they’d been torn apart.

maki was there, sitting at your bedside, arms crossed, jaw tight with worry.

“auntie,” she said quietly. “what the hell are you doing here?”

you blinked slowly. “training.” you shrugged as you sit up from the bed.

“training?” she echoed, disbelieving.

“you were beat to a pulp in the basement. i had to drag you up myself. does gojo-sensei even know you’re doing this?”

“yeah,” you whispered.

she narrowed her eyes. “why here? why not ask him to train you?”

“he’s busy.” your voice cracked. “don’t worry about me, maki.” she frowned, but didn’t push.

“i came to grab a few things. they didn’t even let me in. you sure you’re okay?” you nodded.

and after she left, you laid there for hours — body aching, soul aching worse.

but the next morning, you went back. because there was still the grade 2. maybe more. and if pain was the price of setting him free, you’d keep paying it. even if it killed you.

—

days passed again. then weeks.

your body was failing. you barely ate. barely slept. your muscles trembled just walking down the hall.

and one morning — after a brutal fight the night before — your body gave out. you didn’t make it to your bed. you passed out curled on the couch, sun bleeding through the curtains, casting gold over your bruised skin.

that was when he came home. he stepped into the living room quietly, looking for something — maybe a mission scroll, maybe a file.

he froze when he saw you. asleep. curled in on yourself like something small and breakable while the sunlight pooled around you.

he stared at you for a moment, and when he realized he was, he scoffed under his breath. “must be nice,” he muttered. “sleeping all day."

he didn’t know. he didn’t see the blood seeping from under your sleeve. he didn’t notice the healing welts down your back. he didn’t hear your shallow, pained breathing.

he doesn’t need to know.

—

maki hadn’t meant to return.

she just… couldn’t shake the feeling. something wasn’t right. you were hiding something, and it didn’t sit right with her so she went back to the zenin estate.

and what she found there… froze her in place.

you were stumbling out of the basement, limbs trembling, dried blood staining your clothes.

your eyes were unfocused, lips cracked. you looked like a walking corpse.

“auntie—?!” you didn’t even hear her. you collapsed forward, knees buckling.

maki caught you before your head hit the stone floor.

“shit—ijichi!” she barked into her phone, struggling to keep your body steady. “i need help. now.”

within the hour, you were back at the gojo estate.

shoko arrived immediately. her eyes hardened the second she saw you laid out on the couch, barely breathing.

maki paced behind her, arms crossed tight, panic masked behind frustration.

“i don’t know,” she muttered when shoko asked. “she said she was training. but why there? in the basement? in our old home? that's where they literally tortured us.” shoko didn’t respond right away.

her hands hovered over your ribs. she had to be careful. you had no cursed energy to stabilize you, and that made everything ten times harder for shoko.

“as far as i know,” maki continued, “she’s been there for over a month.”

shoko exhaled slowly, disbelief creasing her features.

“she’s human. how the hell did she survive that long?” maki didn’t answer. her chest ached.

you were the reason she ever left the zenin clan. you were the one who whispered late at night that there was a world beyond this, that people at jujutsu high would treat her like a person. you were the one who gave her the courage to fight back.

you gave her freedom. and now you were lying here, broken and battered, as if you'd never had a choice in your own. she bit her lip.

“i’m telling sensei.” but before she could move— your hand, heavy and shaking, reached out and grabbed her wrist.

strong. too strong, for someone so wounded.

“don’t…” you rasped, voice thick with pain. your eyes were barely open, but tears had begun slipping from the corners.

“(name)?” shoko crouched closer, voice gentle. “does everything hurt? tell me where—”

“don’t tell him…” your voice cracked.

“please…” then your grip loosened. your hand fell back against the sheets, and your eyes fluttered shut once again.

shoko’s brows furrowed while maki stood frozen, throat tight with something she didn’t want to name.

“…why not?” maki whispered. but you didn’t answer.

and deep down, you didn’t want him to know. because you were scared. scared of what he’d say. of what he’d do. what if it rejoiced him? what if it relieved him — knowing you wanted a divorce too?

you knew what you had with him had been broken for a long time now. you knew he didn’t love you anymore. but if he found out… and he was relieved… it would destroy you.

that’s why you were doing this quietly. because if he saw—if he really saw—how much you still loved him, how far you were willing to break yourself just to set him free… you were terrified he might hate you even more for it.

—

the house was quiet when he returned. it had been quiet for weeks. months, even.

he didn’t think much of it anymore. didn’t expect greetings or warm dinners or questions like how was your mission, satoru? — because that version of you didn’t exist anymore. not since everything between you shattered.

he exhaled long through his nose as he dropped his blindfold on the counter, rubbing the bridge of his nose. he was tired. his hands ached. his cursed energy buzzed too loud in his ears.

he made his way to the bedroom. and there you were. sleeping. again.

your back was facing him, shoulders drawn tight, legs curled in. you looked small. fragile. like a single breath might unravel you.

he clicked his tongue.

“of course,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his snow-white hair. “must be nice to sleep all day.”

he approached without thinking. quiet steps. muscle memory. his hand reached out — he wasn’t even sure why — and settled gently on your shoulder.

but the second his palm touched you, something in him froze. the way your body tensed. the way your skin felt… hot and strained. he pulled his hand back like he’d been burned.

“sorry…” you stirred, voice hoarse and quiet.

you turned your face further into the pillow, already slipping back into unconsciousness. satoru narrowed his eyes. something was wrong.

he leaned over you, squinting in the soft light — and that’s when he saw it. the bruise. dark and ugly, blooming across your jaw like rot.

his breath caught in his throat.

without thinking, his hands moved carefully. he turned you slowly, peeling your shoulder toward him. your body twitched in protest. a small sound slipped from your lips — pained. like breathing hurt.

his fingers lifted the edge of your shirt. what he found underneath made his chest tighten.

bruises. purple, black, angry. scattered across your sides. your ribs. your back. your skin was mottled with pain.

he pulled the blanket further down — and stopped breathing altogether.

you looked destroyed.

and the worst part was — you didn’t even stir. you were too far gone to feel his touch.

satoru stood there, unmoving. the room suddenly felt too quiet. too still. like it was holding its breath with him.

his mind screamed with a thousand questions.

what happened to you? who did this? why didn’t you say anything?

and the ugliest thought of all:

why didn’t i notice?

his throat tightened, guilt crawling up like a noose. he took a slow step back. his fingers twitched. his cursed energy coiled under his skin like fire, begging for something — someone — to destroy.

“just what the hell are you doing…?” he whispered, almost to himself, like the words alone could ground him.

he looked down at you — broken, bruised, and still reaching for him in your dreams.

and for the first time in months, satoru didn’t feel angry. he felt scared.

—

gojo was on the verge of exploding.

his footsteps echoed hard across the jujutsu high grounds, cursed energy simmering beneath his skin like a storm about to rupture. someone knew something. shoko, the higher-ups—hell, anyone. and he was going to find out.

he’d barely stepped past the school gates when a voice stopped him cold.

“gojo-sensei.” he turned, caught off guard. he hadn't noticed her there. maki stood at the entrance, arms crossed, posture rigid, face unreadable — but her eyes betrayed her.

there was something raw there. something trembling under the surface.

“what’s wrong?” gojo asked, instinctively guarded.

maki hesitated, then stepped forward. “i need to tell you something.”

gojo didn’t expect that. not from her. not like this.

“she’s been going back to the zenin estate,” maki said quietly. “she’s been training. every day. for weeks.”

gojo’s brows furrowed. “training?” he echoed. “why the hell would she—”

“i don’t know,” maki cut in. “she wouldn’t tell me the reason. she just said not to tell you. but i couldn’t keep it anymore.” gojo stared at her, stunned.

and maki took this a chance to continue as her voice softened — not with pity, but with pain.

“she’s the parent who stepped up for me. when no one else did. when my own family threw me away.” she swallowed. “we’re the same. no cursed energy. no future. at least, that’s what they made us believe. but she… she was the reason i even dared to dream beyond that.”

she looked down, fists tightening.

“i don’t want her to suffer anymore. not like this.” gojo stayed silent. his hands trembled in anger.

maki looked up again, gaze steady.

“she’s the reason i’m here, sensei. she’s the reason i ever believed this place could be something better.” her voice dropped, almost a whisper. “and when i came to jujutsu high, the first person she told me to look for was you.”

that did it. his heart cracked open.

“whatever is happening to her.." maki said. “please.. help her.”

—

the house was quieter than usual. like even the air had learned to tread carefully between the ghosts of words left unspoken.

you stirred after nearly two days of unconsciousness, body aching, but somehow lighter. shoko's treatment had soothed the worst of it, but not the root. the soreness was bone-deep, and the emotional bruises—those stayed longer.

you found yourself in the kitchen, trembling hands stirring a spoon in a mug of hot tea, the steam fogging up your vision. maybe it was the tea. or maybe it was the way everything hurt just a little less today. like your body finally realized it didn’t want to give up.

then—

“maki told me.” his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

your hand froze mid-stir. the spoon clinked against porcelain once, twice, then fell still. he didn't even show hesitation and said it right away.

“she told you what?” you asked, not turning around.

“you’ve been going back to the zenin estate.” his voice wasn’t angry. not quite. not yet. “what are you training for?”

you turned slowly and sat down, grasping the mug like it was the only solid thing keeping you tethered to the moment.

“nothing,” you said. “i just want to be strong.” but that was a lie, and you both knew it.

“you’re lying.”

you let out a breath, long and tired, massaging your temples like the pressure there might stop the world from spinning.

“why do you care?” you said softly. the words held no venom—only sorrow. “i’m doing this for you.”

there it was. the confession.

your voice wavered, but you kept going. “just do your thing, and this will be over soon.”

“why are you like this?” he asked, frustration bleeding into his voice. you looked up at him now, something in your eyes breaking open.

“like what, satoru? isn’t this what you wanted?” your voice cracked. “i’m doing you a favor already.”

his lips parted to speak, but no words came. the silence stretched before he found them.

“by what? by letting yourself get beat up?” your fingers tightened around your mug.

“it doesn’t matter,” you whispered. “it will end soon.” you didn't want to say it, but you had to.

“what will end soon?”

you looked up, and that was the first time he saw the tears.

“this marriage, satoru.”

suddenly, the world stopped moving.

“what?..” he breathed. you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“i had to,” you said. “i don’t have a choice, do i?”

his voice was quieter now. more strained.

“you could just file for divorce. why would you let them go this far?”

you shook your head, gaze falling to the tea you no longer wanted.

“i just hoped it was that easy.” your voice was thick with tears. “just do me a favor…” you whispered, “please, don’t show up. not until i figure everything out.”

he stayed true to your words. he didn’t show up. at least, not to you.

but he was there. always. slipping through shadows you no longer had the strength to notice. he watched every time you limped out of the zenin estate, drenched in sweat and pain, bones barely holding you up.

he watched and he waited. and it was eating him alive.

he told himself he was doing what you asked—giving you space. giving you time. but every time he saw another bruise on your face, another limp in your step, another piece of you stripped away—he realized this wasn’t space.

it was cowardice.

so one night, he snapped.

in a flash of cursed light and boiling fury, he cornered one of your clan members—young, trembling, nothing but a messenger boy for the elders.

satoru’s hand wrapped around the kid’s throat before he even realized he’d been moved.

“what is she doing there?”

the boy’s eyes widened in terror. “w-what—”

“what is she doing there?” satoru repeated, voice so cold it froze the air. “in the basement. why is she coming back bloody every night?”

the boy shook in his grasp. “i-it’s not my fault! it was a challenge from the clan head!”

satoru’s eyes sharpened. “what challenge?”

“you— you didn’t know?” the boy stammered, blinking in disbelief. “but… she told us you did—she said you wanted this!” his blood turned to ice.

“what challenge,” satoru said again, each word slower, heavier, more dangerous than the last.

the boy whimpered under the weight of his cursed energy, knees buckling.

“i-it’s— they said if she could beat the curse in the basement… with only a cursed tool— they’d let her file for divorce. she begged for it. said she wanted to free you!” the words struck him like a curse of their own.

“what?"

“she doesn’t have cursed energy… that’s why they’re doing it. they know she can’t win. they know it’ll kill her. they’re never going to give her that divorce. curse will continue to come at her.”

satoru’s hand slowly dropped from the boy’s throat. he couldn’t breathe.

you were doing this… for him?

fighting curses with no cursed energy. with a body already half-ruined. enduring the cruelty of the clan that despised you. dragging yourself down into that basement night after night just to give him a way out?

and you never told him. never once begged him to understand.

because in your mind, this was how you showed you loved him. by letting him go.

gojo satoru didn’t say another word and vanished.

—

the room was quiet when he came in.

you were sleeping again, just like all the other nights—collapsed from exhaustion, curled in on yourself like sleep was something that had to be earned.

satoru stood at the doorway, staring.

the guilt was unbearable now. it sat in his chest like a curse, hollowing him out from the inside.

he moved forward slowly, until his shadow reached across your bed.

your body tensed instantly. eyes flying open. breath catching. instinct bracing you for pain.

and somehow, just the sight of him made the storm inside you quiet.

your breathing slowed. your hands stopped trembling. it was as if everything in you finally understood.

you were safe now. safe, because even after everything—he still comes home.

but it was a fragile kind of comfort. because deep down, you knew—

it was only a matter of time before it ended. and maybe that was the saddest part of all. he was still coming home, but not for long.

“oh… it’s just you…” you mumbled, voice raspy, dragging yourself upright despite the ache. and when you finally managed to sit up, your eyes met his, confused, tired—

“what are you doing h—” but the words never came.

because the look on his face stopped you cold. and because he was already there, wrapping his arms around you like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. pulling you against his chest like it was the only thing that could steady him.

“fuck…” he breathed, broken, and your heart dropped.

“satoru?” you asked, weak and confused, barely able to hold your head up.

and then— you felt it.

warm and wet on your shoulder. his tears.

you moved instinctively, reaching up to his chest, but your limbs felt was too numb. you couldn’t fight the hold he had on you. not that you wanted to.

“please,” he whispered, voice trembling. “please, stop this.”

your eyes widened. something sharp twisted behind your ribs.

“what are you talking about?” you asked, but your lips were already quivering—

your voice barely holding together, your breath catching because you already knew the answer before your mind could bear to hear it.

“i’m sorry,” he choked out, voice breaking. “i’m sorry for treating you that way. i was angry… i thought you chose to betray me. but i didn’t stop to think—I didn’t really see you. you were only doing what they told you to, weren’t you? you… you just wanted suguru back too, didn’t you?"

his words trembled under the weight of regret, heavy with the kind of sorrow that came far too late.

and there, your heart cracked clean down the middle.

tears welled up and spilled before you could stop them, soaking into his shirt as you nodded quickly, a soft, broken hum escaping your lips.

your voice came out a whisper, raw and broken. “i'm sorry.. i didn’t want to help them. but i was weak, satoru. and they used me against you. i was scared. i didn’t know what else to do.” your fingers fisted in his shirt, small and desperate. “i’m sorry… i know it’s too late now, but i really did love—”

he pulled back just enough to hold your face in his hands. his thumbs brushed at your tears, but they kept coming quietly.

“i know,” he breathed, voice barely holding together. “i know, honey.”

his hands trembled as they cradled your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn't stop coming—yours and his. and for the first time in years, there was no anger in his eyes. just grief. just guilt. just the overwhelming ache of knowing he’d almost lost you completely without ever hearing the truth.

“i’m sorry for pushing you away. i thought… i thought if i let myself love again, it would break me. that i’d lose everything. again. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i just didn’t know how else to protect myself.”

you let out a trembling sigh, the kind that comes from something long buried rising to the surface.

“i know the kind of man you are, satoru,” you whispered. “and that’s why i love you.”

he stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

and then, finally—

“i love you too,” he whispered. “so much that it hurts.”

you laughed through your tears—a small, breathless sound. cracked and beautiful.

“do you forgive me now?” you asked, leaning into his touch.

his hand ghosted over your cheek like you were something sacred.

“you did nothing wrong,” he murmured. “there’s nothing to forgive.”

he pressed a kiss to your forehead. it lingered—like a promise. like a beginning.

“let’s fix everything tomorrow,” he said quietly, gently lowering you back to the mattress. “but for now… let’s rest.”

you nodded, body giving in, sinking into him like you had nowhere else left to go.

and for the first time in weeks—

you both slept. not as strangers, not as ghosts of what you once were, but as two broken hearts still brave enough to try again.

[digitalro]

hospital room

part 1 | part 2

the jjk men have another girl taking up the visitor spot when they’re admitted to the hospital.

incl: gojo, geto, sukuna, nanami, toji

angst, established relationship, modern au. (taglist closed but you can follow first #)

❀ ━━━━━━━━━ ❀ ━━━━━━━━ ❀

[gloomwitchwrites]

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Eight

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, pregnancy discussion, suggestive themes, brief angst

Word Count: 3.3k

The advisor and family planner sit down for a discussion about your future in the safe zone. You and Ghost hit a roadblock.

Chapter Seven // Chapter Nine

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“Thank you for joining us today.”

Not like I had a choice.

Rays of afternoon sunlight shine through the slots in the open blinds, casting everything in a golden glow. The two individuals sitting across from you smile warmly, not a hint of deception in their gazes. Charles, your transitional advisor, cleans the lenses of his glasses, holding them up for inspection. Beside him is Joann, your family planner, wearing tan slacks and a blue long-sleeved turtleneck. She’s pencil thin—dainty, silver hair combed smooth.

“Glad to be out of the apartment,” you reply, returning the smile.

It’s no lie. A week since you’ve had your meeting with Commander Graves, and you spent it all locked away in your little apartment. Lieutenant Riley brought food, filling the fridge and cupboards, but you refused to speak with him whenever he attempted to make conversation. Thankfully, he never pushed, not until this morning. Ghost insisted, continuously knocking on your bedroom door until you finally yanked it open in irritation.

Joann’s smile widens. “Charles tells me the two of you discussed stationing you at the archive.”

“We did,” you confirm.

“How lovely,” she sighs. “They’ve been understaffed for ages.” She glances at Charles. “The library certainly needs it.” Charles returns his glasses to his face, inclining his head at Joann’s statement but not verbally agreeing.

She tucks her hair behind her ear. “As you know, I’m one of the family planners here.”

“Commander Graves mentioned someone might want to talk to me,” you reply slowly, already wanting to flee.

The conversation with Charles just before this was polite and straightforward. He read over Graves’ notes, asked some follow up questions pertaining to the work you did before the world collapsed and what you did after. He agreed that working in the archive and library was a perfect fit. Simple. Easy. No strings.

“Oh, I’m sure he did,” continues Joann, that smile softening in understanding. “Now I’m not at all sure what he told you, but knowing him, I doubt he provided any assurances.”

Hardly.

You shrug, feigning indifference. “Commander Graves didn’t exactly make for pleasant conversation.”

Charles chuckles and then quickly clears his throat, covering his laugh.

Joann shakes her head. “I can imagine. While I don’t know what he said to you, I don’t want to alarm you or cause you any distress. There is nothing to worry about. It’s simply standard procedure. Everyone who meets the requirements for repopulation must talk with a family planner.”

“Everyone?” you ask with a hint of doubt.

“Everyone,” she says. “Personally, I think it’s easier to start this whole process when you first meet with your transitional advisor. Better than bringing you back multiple times for meetings. Wouldn’t you agree?”

You only give a half-hearted smile.

Joann opens the folder in front of her. “According to your medical results during intake, you’re surprisingly healthy.” She glances up. “Given the fact that you were on the other side of the wall for so long.”

“I take it most people are in worse shape?”

She sighs and clicks her pen. “Some are like you, but most aren’t.” Joann makes a note on the paper. “But with what I can see here, I see no barriers in you starting a family. If that’s something you want to do.”

You haven’t forgotten what Graves said to you—how blunt he was about your fertility, “Commander Graves said that repopulation is one of the pillars of the mandate.”

“It is.”

“Then it’s not optional.”

“Family looks different for everyone,” replies Joann, flipping a page over in the folder. “I’m here to help you figure out what that looks like for you.”

“And what if I don’t want a family?”

That easy smile fades. Her lips become pinched, eyes narrowing slightly as she stares. Charles coughs again, dispelling the tension.

Joann taps the stack of papers in her lap. “I have some informational packets for you. A few things for you to look over. It covers all the different options. The benefits of starting a family. Larger families receive better, roomier housing. That I can tell you is not based on income.”

“Money doesn’t exist here,” interjects Charles. “Not in the traditional sense.”

It’s all an exchange. Allowances. You still don’t entirely understand it.

“Yes, well,” sighs Joann. “At the moment, I would discourage you from engaging in any sexual activity at this time. At least the type that might result in potential conception.” This time she laughs, and it nearly borders on hysterical.

Charles’ round cheeks go bright pink.

“Is—is there no birth control?” you ask, suddenly fearful.

You hoped that they would at least have something. If not, you’d have to reach into your knowledge of mixing different plants to stave off pregnancy.

“Oh, there is,” affirms Joann. “But since you’re new and under probation, it’s not something you currently have access to.”

You nearly scoff. “I’m also not interacting with anyone.”

They have you isolated and in military housing. How would that even happen?

Joann blinks, clearly surprised. “Lieutenant Riley?”

Does she—do they—

Oh. Oh, shit.

You nearly choke. “What—what about Lieutenant Riley?”

“He escorted you here.”

“And?” you prompt, not understanding what she’s insinuating.

That time at the military base comes rushing back, submerging you in memory. As if he’s in the room with you, his scent invades, twisting around you until your heart thuds with anticipation.

She shrugs, her smile soft. “I can see the appeal. Broody. Mysterious.”

“Tall,” adds Charles. “Muscular.”

Joann nods with appreciation. “He also claimed you at processing. And you spend a great deal of time alone with him. One can only assume—”

“There’s nothing happening between us,” you snap, shutting the idea down immediately.

This is ground you will not tread. You and Lieutenant Riley have had your moments, but he is not an option. No one is an option. You plan on going home—of leaving this place and returning to what you know.

Joann and Charles exchange a look. With a slow sweep of her arm, Joann tries to aim for calmness. “I understand that this is a delicate conversation. I have no wish to alarm you. I only want to gauge your interest.”

“I have no interest.”

“In giving birth?”

“In any of it.”

Her expression remains passive, as if your refusal doesn’t fluster. “There are lots of options.

“What if I like women?” you ask.

“That’s not an issue,” answers Joann. “There are plenty of children you can foster or adopt. We can also discuss the possibility of insemination. IVF isn’t possible since some of that knowledge was destroyed. But you and your partner can select a sperm donor together and we’ll…”

“Turkey baster their sperm into me?” you deadpan.

Charles face goes bright red. He coughs—chokes. “Excuse me,” he mumbles, pounding on his chest. Joann places a hand on his shoulder as he grabs a tissue.

“And what if I don’t want to marry at all? Or date?”

“As I said, family looks different for everyone. We can work around your needs.”

This conversation is a circle. Joann has a fucking explanation for everything. Even insisting that you don’t want a partner—that you aren’t interested in any of it—and yet there is a solution given instead of respecting your wishes. Joann might be pleasant in her demeanor, but the messaging is fucking clear.

You lick your lips, agitation buzzing in the tips of your fingers. “Is this something we can discuss at a later time? It’s…a lot. To take in.”

Joann’s features soften into maternal worry. “Of course. This is just a preliminary meeting. I’m here to introduce myself. To meet you. Provide any reading materials to help you understand all your options.” She closes the folder in front of her and sets it aside. “The main responsibility of every citizen is to help fulfill the pillars of the mandate.”

Pillars. Testaments. Sanctions. Laws. They can call it whatever they like but it’s all the same. A trap. A cage. The informational pamphlet that Commander Graves gave you about the mandate and the “pillars” is still on the coffee table. Untouched. Likely with a thin layer of dust over the top. You couldn’t bring yourself to open it at all this week.

A question forms out of resentment. “Even you?”

Joann doesn’t faulter. “Even me. Even Charles. Even Lieutenant Riley. Even Commander Graves. They all must contribute.”

“But they’re military,” you argue. “They have different duties.”

Joann inclines her head. “They have military duties. We do not. But they also have to fulfill their duties as civilians of the world. When the mandate become law during the Peace Accords, it dictated this. Everyone follows them. Including those that oversee the well-being and functionality of each safe zone. Even those elected to office. Even those at the very top. They all contribute.”

Belief and truth are fickle when the narrative is controlled. You don’t entirely believe the words leaving Joann’s mouth. Does everyone contribute? Probably. At least, in some capacity. But certainly not to the extent that she perpetuates. People at the top like to hold on to power. They like to control the means of production, of ordering others around. They might follow what the pillars state, but only to the extent that it benefits them. Humans are only human after all.

Yet this is also information you’ve been seeking, a window into this new world, but also whether or not you’ll have full autonomy of yourself. It appears that you will not. They aren’t going to force you. No one will drag you from your apartment, tie you up, and hand you over for someone to breed. But they are expecting you to reproduce. They are expecting which means they will push just as Commander Graves said they would.

How much control will you really have? And what will become of you when they finally tire of your reluctance.

“The apartment is lonely,” you muse.

“The probationary period always is,” agrees Joann.

You give her a cordial smile “The reading material will be nice.”

She beams. “That’s good to hear. After the probationary period is up, and you move to civilian housing, we can speak on this further.”

You hold that smile, hating every second. “No reason to rush into things.”

“I agree. Making big discissions like this requires a lot of thought and certainty.” Joann stands and holds out a folder to you. “But that’s why I’m here.”

“Not going to scream at me?”

“No.”

“Tell me to leave?”

“No,” you repeat, staring out your apartment window. Below, a military Jeep rumbles by. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

Ghost lingers near the kitchen, a stoic entity cloaked in shadow. You sit on the worn sofa, your legs tucked under you, arms resting on the back as you watch two soldiers on the street below playfully push at one another.

A floorboard creaks as Ghost steps toward you. “What did they talk about?” he asks, tone neutral.

You snort as a third soldier runs up and dunks on them, the trio tumbling into a heap on the pavement. “You don’t know?”

“It’s different for everyone,” he replies.

Interesting. Maybe Lieutenant Riley has had similar conversations before. Joann did mention that even he had to contribute to the pillars, and that includes repopulation.

You sigh heavily, not wanting to say it out loud but knowing that you can say something to Ghost. “They want me to have a baby.” You glance over your shoulder and find Ghost next to the coffee table, staring so intensely at you it sends a shiver of anxiety up your spine.

“What?” you prompt, suddenly nervous.

Why the fuck is he looking at you like that?

His question comes out a growl. “Did they assign someone to you?”

Your voice cracks—goes high. “They can assign someone?”

Lightening quick, Ghost snatches up the folders. He opens the first one, flipping through the pages erratically, dropping it onto the table and moving to the next. Like the first, he tears through it, the middle of his brow a deep v. That folder lands on the coffee table, the contents spreading everywhere.

“Who did they assign to you?”

His voice is still a growl. Still…territorial.

“No one?”

He steps toward you. “You don’t know?”

You swing your arm wide. “They didn’t say!” you exclaim. “It was just an introduction. No one said outright that they assigned someone to me. She only handed me that.” You gesture toward the folders and their scattered contents.

Ghost’s shoulders heave, clear agitation in the way he carries himself. “The family planner didn’t say anything else?”

You roll your eyes. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” he snarls.

“You know what,” you mutter. “Now that you mention it.” Turning away from the window, you give Lieutenant Riley your full attention. “She specifically said I shouldn’t engage in any…activity.”

Ghost’s gaze narrows. “What sort of activity?”

You shrug. Give a little wave of your hand. “You know.”

“I don’t.”

Shit.

You inhale deeply. “She told me not to have sex. To not do anything that might result in a potential conception. And then she very directly mentioned you.”

Lieutenant Riley’s shoulders soften. That irritation melts away, a sultry swagger entering his body. “Did she?” he purrs.

“Absolutely not,” you say, holding up a hand in a “stop” gesture.

Ghost takes a step forward. Another. “She only said the kind that could result in,” his gaze scans your body slowly, “conception.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmur as your clit pulses with need.

It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair how your body reacts to him. It’s only loneliness. Isolation. You’re craving human companionship. That’s all.

Ghost comes to a stop in front of you. Bending forward, he places one hand on the sofa beside your arm, balancing himself as he traps you against the couch.

“Like what?” he croons.

“I can tell you to leave,” you reply.

“Thought you didn’t want to be alone, love?”

“I don’t,” you snap. Lieutenant Riley leans in further like he’s going to kiss you through the balaclava. “But I don’t want…that.” You wave your hand in front of his face to ward him off. “So, if you could control yourself, Lieutenant. That would be great.”

He pushes off from the sofa. “You want to sit in silence?”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, glancing away. “No,” you admit. “I—I have questions.”

Ghost nods, easing himself down on the sofa beside you. “And you want answers.”

“Is that okay?” you ask.

Lieutenant Riley settles, resting his head on the back of the sofa. He turns his head toward you, eyelids soft. “What will you give me in return?”

You scoff. “This again? I can’t believe you. I thought we were past this.”

He shrugs, nonchalant. “Information is valuable.”

You run your tongue over your teeth. It’s not like you exactly hate this back-and-forth. “Fine,” you lament. “What do you want?”

“What are you willing to give?”

“A slap in the face,” you retort, regretting playing into this.

Lieutenant Riley chuckles. “Think that might do the opposite of what you’re expecting it will.”

“You know what,” you blurt, shifting onto your knees. “Fuck it. Fine.”

Ghost cocks his head in curiosity as you lean forward, pushing up from where you’ve been seated. Maybe he expects you to walk away, to storm off into the bedroom, and slam the door. It’s what you’ve done all week.

But that curiosity morphs into surprise when you drop into his lap, straddling him.

“You want me?” you breathe, fisting the top of his balaclava. You give it a yank. “You can have me.”

Grasping the side of Lieutenant Riley’s neck, you dive in. There is no hesitation from him. He accepts you, hungrily, hips grinding upward into you, pressing his erection against your sex. The bulge in his pants bumps against your clit through the fabric, eliciting a little gasp from you. That pulsing heat from earlier intensifies—becomes scorching.

Ghost is the only one you can release all this pent-up energy on. He eagerly takes it all, even the anger, even your fists and teeth and claws. It’s cathartic. Freeing. And while you’ve hated what has happened to you, and what he’s done to put you into this situation, Ghost has never judged you for any of it.

Not once.

Fingers moving upward, they thread through the wisps of hair at the base of Ghost’s skull. You cling on, seeking more—wanting to consume more. Lieutenant Riley’s hands stroke up and down your thighs, sliding back to squeeze your ass.

It’s like before, that morning on the military base. The connection is a sizzling pan full of oil that’s close to smoking. Ghost groans against your lips, his arms encircling, drawing you close to him. You surrender, seeking that bit of comfort, rocking your hips with the intent of grinding down on that growing hardness.

Ghost pulls back suddenly, grasping the front of your throat when you try to continue kissing him.

“You said you can’t fuck.”

“I—I don’t want to.”

His thumb presses against your pulse point. “You nearly did. Once.”

No. No. You’ve fucked up. Again, you’ve fucked up.

“I want out of your lap,” you whisper.

“Thought you had questions?”

“I do.”

Ghost’s gaze drops to your lips, admiring the puffy swell. “How about I have a taste between your thighs.”

“Lieutenant,” you gasp as his lips brush against your cheekbone.

“And in between licks, I’ll answer your questions.”

“Let me go,” you say, still sounding breathy.

Ghost tuts. “Pity. I’d really enjoy a taste.”

Your fingers drop away from his neck, moving toward the front of his black fatigues. “Why were you so upset when you asked me if they had assigned someone to me?”

The subject change is abrupt but on purpose. You need to reevaluate. To shift your focus away from the throbbing need between your thighs.

“I was offended they didn’t make me an offer.”

“You—” you stammer, blinking rapidly. “So, I really am just an object to you? A thing to possess?”

Ghost shakes his head. “No.”

With a growl, you shove at him, slamming your fists into his chest. Ghost holds tight, allowing you no space. “You’re staying right here.”

“Bastard,” you sneer. You go for a slap this time but without the space to bring your hand back, it’s a feeble attempt. “Let me go.”

“If I touched you between your legs, what would I find?”

“A desert,” you retort, wiggling in his lap with the hope his grip might slip.

“Doubt that,” croons Ghost.

“You’re fucking infuriating.”

Lieutenant Riley places a ghost of a kiss against your cheek before retreating. “You want me. Don’t deny it.”

You stare him down, pushing all your sorrow and venom into your voice. “I won’t deny that I’m lonely,” you admit, because it’s true. Solitude clings to you. “And you’re…someone.”

Someone. A person. Meaningless.

That sultry intensity in Lieutenant Riley’s gaze vanishes. Like a tap turned off, it’s an instant shift. In its place is an unreadable neutrality that paralyzes you. All this time, you’ve wanted your words to cut—to draw blood.

He lifts you off his lap and dumps you onto the sofa without ceremony.

“Lieutenant,” you breathe, pushing up onto your hands and knees. Ghost is already walking away, heading for the door. At his rank, he does not stir. “Ghost,” you try, and he freezes.

The balaclava dangles from his fist. “I’m no longer in the mood.”

You flinch as the door slams shut.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @xllizs @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie @tiredmetalenthusiast @sporadicpizzainternet @tessakate @mistresssolana

[icarusdescending7]

Aquamarine - Chapter 6

Ao3 | First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Your fiancé died seven years ago, and you joined the military in his wake to fill the void his death put on you. Now, you work with the 141 for an assignment, hunting associates of their enemies.

Their Lieutenant, however, given you an uneasy feeling. You have a vague sense of familiarity with him, but from where?

-☆-☆-☆-☆-☆-☆-

You woke up on the couch of the common room, blanket draped across your body as a cold, half-drunk cup of tea sat next to you. You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know it was late before you did. You looked at the clock, and saw the time, 8:30am, and sighed. It was way past when you normally woke up but thankfully it was your day off. No worries about getting scolded by Price.

You sat up with a groan, stretching your arms high above your head and sighing. You willed a glance around the room, but were quickly stopped by a crick in your neck sending stabbing pains through your back. You rubbed at your neck, continuing to look around. Your eyes landed on the door right as Soap walked in, two cups in hand.

“Morning,” He smiled, holding up a cup, “Got ye a coffee. Dinnae know how you like it so I left it black.” He said as he handed you the cup, taking a seat beside you on the armchair.

You sipped at the coffee, having to take a second to wince at the bitter taste. “Black is fine. Just bitter. Thanks.” You took another sip, “When did I pass out? I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

“Eh, about four, I’d say. You crashed when we decided to sit down to talk instead of at the counters.” He shrugged, taking a sip of his own drink. “Oh, but you did fall asleep on Ghosts shoulder. You might’ve thought he was a statue with how stiff he got.” He snickered.

“Huh.” You mumbled, recalling the nights memories. You and Ghost were having a nice conversation, swapping war stories and funny moments while Johnny occasionally butted in to correct a detail Ghost missed. But there was one thing you remembered more clearly than others. You told him a story about your life before the military, about a bad day you and your then boyfriend were having, nothing going right and ending with a failed bottle of wine making the two of you sick.

He became serious about everything, never saying more than a few words until he bored you to sleep. “Yeah. I bet so. Did you two make it back to your rooms okay, then?” You asked, clearing your throat.

“Yeah. We talked for a while after you fell asleep, only left after you toppled onto the couch.” He said, recalling everything that happened after that. “Ghost left in seconds after that, I was the one to throw that blanket over you.”

“Thanks.” You mumbled, looking away in thought.

~~

You found the next few days awkward. Ghost, ever true to his name now, made it a point to keep out of your way. When he was working with you, he would either do all of the work or none of it, never actually doing anything to help you or refusing to let you help. Sometimes he outright refused to show up.

Eventually, you got sick of it, if his treatment of you and his sudden change in behavior. You decided it was time to ask him why he was avoiding you now, more so than he ever had before. You managed to hunt him down, finding him in his office, an effective cornering tactic.

“Ghost, I need to talk to you,” You said sternly, “Now.”

He looked up from his computer screen, his eyes hard as he regarded you. “About what, Sergeant?” He asked, his voice was low, almost annoyed, and his shoulders were squared with tension.

You paused, eyes widening but not backing down. “I want to know why you’re avoiding me.” you huffed, crossing your arms, “Ever since we hung out a few nights ago, you’ve been acting weird. Like…” You floundered for words, “…Like you’re afraid of interacting with me or something. As if I’m a problem?” You looked at him as you finished, meeting his eyes before looking away, not quite brave enough to hold it.

He stared at you for a long time, making you shift from foot to foot nervously. Finally, he spoke. “Why would I be avoiding you?” He asked, “I think I interact with you plenty, do I not? I’m your Lieutenant, not your friend.”

His answer made you work your jaw. It was such an asshole answer, and he seemed to know it from the way he leaned forward on his desk. “Oh.” You said, your tone beginning to match his. “So, let me get this straight. You can be friends— mates, with Soap. But you can’t be buddies with me?” You asked, “What’s the fucking difference?”

He stayed quiet, mulling over her answer, his eyes narrowing and opening as he considered how to respond to that, if at all. “The difference,” He said slowly, “Is that our friendship is more than that. We’re… forged in blood and shared experience.” His head tilted.

What an insufferable answer. “Trauma. That is called a trauma bond, Ghost. I’m not dumb, I’m aware that you two have been through a lot of shit together.” You reworded his answer, “But with that logic, that our ranks separate us, you and Soap can’t be friend either.”

He closed his eyes and let out a low sigh. “Back off, sergeant. You’re on thin ice.” He warned, fists clenching against the table.

“Why? I thought we could be friends!” You shouted, “Yeah! I think you’re a bit fucking creepy, a bit of a freak, but shit… Ghost!” You sighed, looking at him with a look of frustration. “I though we could be friend—”

“Fine! It was a mistake on my end, Sergeant.” He said louder than you, hitting his open palm against the table. “I was being friendly with you because you look like someone I knew. Someone so far in my past I may as well not know them anymore! I was comfortable with them!” He took a deep breath. “But you’re not them. I realize that now.” He sighed, shoulders sagging as if a massive weight were removed from them.

He stayed silent for a moment, his jaw working as he thought. He shook his head. “No fucking wonder you’re single. That fiancé you mentioned, I’ll make a good bet that he’s not actually dead, just avoiding having to live with you. Do you ever stop to think? That maybe he realized he made a mistake? Wanting to marry you?” He said lowly, bitterness seeping into every venomous word, using your experiences against you. “You’re—” He growled, about to insult you more but bit his tongue. Instead, he sat up straight and pointed to the door. “Get out. You’re Price’s problem now.” He dismissed, already turning his attention away from you.

~~

Your room was dark as you sat on your bed, staring off into space.

His words didn’t just sting. They had teeth. it was only to fear of yours, comma that your Simon loved you in his death. But you could never give yourself a reason why he would do that. Your Simon, was a good, loving man… He did everything in his power to show that he loved you.

Right?

You sighed as you turned on your bedside lamp, standing to go to your closet and dig out a bottle or whatever alcohol you had left. However, you paused as you came to your dresser. The box of shattered glass and one small glass figurine and stood there.

That figurine wasn’t always there, was it?

It seemed familiar. It looked custom, a woman in a dress, dancing with a soldier. But you couldn’t place where you’d seen it before.

“Strange.” you muttered before moving towards your closet, finishing your mission to get a drink. Or several.

[oaksgrove]

Omg wait while reading your passenger princess blurbs, Kyle always opening the door for you no matter what reminded me of that one old tiktok trend where the guy would do some CRAZY shit like backflip over the car hood to make sure he opened the door for the girl.

So random lmao but I hope your day/night is going well!!!

-Cherry 🍒

Open Door Policy

Pairing: Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Synopsis: Three years into marriage, Kyle Garrick is still treating you like royalty—especially when it comes to the sacred ritual of opening your car door. What started as a sweet early-dating habit has now evolved into full-blown, stuntman-level theatrics. On your anniversary, Kyle goes above and beyond (literally) to prove that chivalry is alive, well, and occasionally includes parkour.

Warnings: Pure fluff, married couple antics, dramatic husband behavior, brief language, excessive charm, one (1) backflip

Word Count: 732

Kyle Garrick had many talents—excellent marksmanship, lightning reflexes, a charming smile that could disarm international criminals—but his greatest talent, according to you, was his ability to be absolutely extra when it came to being your husband.

Especially when it came to car doors.

And it had started out so innocently.

At the beginning of your relationship, Kyle made a point of always opening the car door for you. A sweet gesture. Classic. Endearing. You thought it would fade after a few months, like most early dating rituals do, especially after long missions and exhausting days.

It didn’t.

Instead, it evolved.

Now, three years into marriage and on the morning of your anniversary, you were brushing your hair in the mirror when you heard the familiar hum of your car engine starting in the driveway.

He was out there. Prepping the car. Probably fluffing the passenger seat like it was a five-star hotel pillow.

You threw on your shoes and stepped outside, the breeze catching your dress just slightly. The early evening was warm, with a soft breeze and golden light spilling over the houses of your sleepy street.

Kyle was leaning against the car, arms folded, looking like a damn Calvin Klein ad with the sleeves of his navy button-up rolled up to his elbows and his sunglasses pushed up into his curls. You swear the man knew how to pose.

“You’re such a poser,” you called playfully, walking down the steps.

“Posing for you, babe,” he fired back with a grin that should be illegal. “You look unreal, by the way.”

You smiled, cheeks warming. “So where are you taking me?”

“Surprise,” he said smoothly. “But I made reservations. I even shaved.”

You blinked. “You hate shaving.”

“Yeah, but I love you.”

Goddamn it, Kyle.

As you reached the car, you smiled and reached for the handle—

And made the mistake.

Because the second your fingertips grazed the handle, there was a dramatic “OI—!” from the other side of the car.

And then—God help you—the man vaulted over the hood.

A blur of black pants and navy shirt, Kyle did an unnecessarily clean backflip over the car, landing on your side like some kind of action movie stuntman. His boots hit the pavement with a clean thud, arms out like he’d just stuck a gymnastics dismount.

You stared at him, frozen mid-reach. “What the hell, Kyle?”

He grinned, proud. “You almost touched the door.”

“I can open a car door.”

“I open your doors.”

“You jumped over the car hood!”

“Parkour,” he said smugly.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“I lost my mind the day I saw you in that bookstore, remember?” he said, stepping closer. “And then I found it again when you said yes to marrying me.”

You groaned, but he was already bowing—bowing!—and opening the door with a dramatic flourish.

“Your chariot awaits, madam.”

You sighed and got in, adjusting your dress and sliding into the passenger seat.

Kyle leaned in, carefully fixing the hem of your dress so it didn’t get caught, gently fastening your seatbelt, and then pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Best girl in the world,” he murmured.

The drive was smooth and sweet. Kyle had created an anniversary playlist (with both your favorites and a few hilarious deep cuts), and he kept sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“You’re staring,” you said, smirking at him.

“I paid for that view,” he replied, keeping his hand on your thigh, thumb rubbing gentle circles into your skin.

You arrived at a little hidden gem of a restaurant outside of town—cozy lights, tucked into a quiet grove, romantic without being pretentious. You loved it immediately.

As he parked, Kyle sprinted out of the car like he was on a mission. By the time you reached for the handle, the door swung open.

He stood there, panting slightly, and bowed again.

“Ma’am,” he said seriously.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me.”

You stepped out, letting him twirl you before tucking your hand into the crook of his arm.

“I do, you idiot,” you whispered. “Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary,” he whispered back, leaning down to kiss you. “Now come on—let’s go celebrate the fact that I get to annoy you for the rest of our lives.”

And when you laughed, he beamed, knowing he’d open every door for you until the end of time.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[loveyislost]

work wife: part three

summary: you aren't theirs anymore tags: established relationship (not anymore bitch), angst, borderline cheating, actual cheating, divorce, breakups, manipulation, gaslighting, suggestive in sukunas, deadbeat toji, 18+ minors and ageless blogs do not interact, not proofread incl: gojo, geto, nanami, toji, shiu, higuruma, sukuna, choso, ino taglist: open

part one, part two, part three,

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation a/n: hi everyone! this is where you can find the masterlist

chapter 1: a not so good day

chapter 2: unwanted encounters

chapter 3: family reunion?

chapter 4: revelations

chapter 5: confrontations

chapter 6: old tension

chapter 7: confusing actions

chapter 8: pieces of the past

chapter 9: nothing between us...?

chapter 10: fading smiles

chapter 11: what a merry christmas

chapter 12: a mother's gamble

chapter 13: stuck in the middle

chapter 14: awkward….

chapter 15: F.Y.G.F

chapter 16: cracks in the glass

chapter 17: enemies

chapter 18:

y/n style inspo, y/n apartment inspo , new apartment inspo

gojo penthouse inspo

spotify playlist!!!

christmas drabble

taglist status: closed

series status: ongoing

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 joemama-2 — do not copy, translate, repost or modify my works on any platform.

[starwovenkiss]

Sleep Tight, Soldier

The 5 times you and Kyle accidentally fall asleep next to one another + the 1 time it’s on purpose.

content: female reader, explicit smut (18+ MDNI), slowburn romance, childhood friends to lovers, dual pov, fluff, angst, grief of a loved one,light depictions of PTSD/trauma, emotional vulnerability

word count: 15.2k

a/n: this started as a drabble that quickly spiraled out of control. i don’t know what else to say other than if you read this whole thing, ily ♡

also for anyone doing the math: technically, kyle is canonically 24 in MWII (per Activision) and somehow also 34 (per the game). i’ve decided to split the difference and go with his wiki birthday: 1993. trying to make the canon timeline work gave me a literal migraine and age is just a number. i love him either way.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ♡ ─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ───

October 11, 1999 - 01:36 A.M.

Kyle looks up from his football just in time to spot two wide, curious eyes peeking over his backyard fence.

The sun beams down on his back, and he’s still getting used to the fact that he can go outside to practice football whenever he pleases. It was so different from the gray skies that seemed to permanently haunt London in the springtime, so when he looked up at the clouds to examine if the sky could really be that blue, he wasn’t expecting to see a girl with messy hair and a bright smile staring straight at him.

He had known that there was a girl his age who lived next door, had caught small glimpses of you while you went on walks with your parents, but had never had the chance to speak to you until now.

“‘Lo,” he mumbles. He hears his father in his head, guiding him to speak louder and stand up straight so he tries to follow the direction. Tries to appear older than he is at six years old.

“Hello!” You giggle, and suddenly, he sees the rest of you, sitting on the edge of the nearly five-foot fence separating the two backyards. He briefly wonders how you managed to get all the way up there, and if American kids had some sort of superpower climbing skill that British kids just aren’t aware of. Before he can test this theory on his own climbing skills, you’ve already done a crawl-shimmy-jump down the fence and landed with a flair that only a six-year-old could when jumping into a pile of dirt.

He takes the time to examine his new neighbor with the flushed skin and polka dot dress and scraped knees (’no doubt from climbing other kid’s fences,’ he thinks). You’re the picture of Americana, down to the melting red, white, and blue Bomb Pop you carry in one hand and a Barbie in the other. Kyle does notice, a little bitterly, that you are a few inches taller than him.

“What’s your name?” you ask, a toothy smile on display, and Kyle begins to shuffle his feet when he sees your bright grin up close. He fights the urge to turn away, feeling a similar way to when he looks at the sun for too long.

“Kyle. What’s yours?”

You tell him your name, and Kyle smiles. It fits, all sunshine and bubbly, the way you seem to be. Kyle’s about to ask if you want to play when you pause from eating your popsicle to stick a hand on your hip like you’re sizing him up — and Kyle has no idea what you’re looking for.

“You talk weird,” That’s …. not what Kyle was expecting, and is a little ironic. Yes, he does have an accent, but you do whistle while you speak on account of your two missing front teeth.

“No, I don’t,” he argues back.

“Yes, you do,” you determine with that huge smile, seemingly unaware that your insistence is causing his brow to furrow and his fists to clench.

“I do not!” he huffs. He almost stomps his foot, but quickly remembers that he is supposed to be acting more …. grown up in this situation.

You shrug and turn around, taking this as a cue to examine his backyard. You carelessly toss your Barbie next to the side of the fence you landed on, taking in the green grass and tall pine trees that surround the yard.

As you continue to skip around the perimeter of the yard, Kyle takes the time to examine you. He’s never seen someone his age be so sure of themselves, so certain of how everything should be in the world.

“Do you play soccer?” you ask, and it takes Kyle a beat to register what you’re saying, so lost in his thoughts.

“Soccer?” he questions and you point to the ball at his feet like he might be a little stupid.

“You mean, football?” he clarifies, and you laugh, running over to hand him your sticky, melting popsicle.

“See, you do talk weird!” you grin and move to kick the ball from his feet.

Kyle hesitates, heading to the trash to toss the mess you gave him. He shakes his head as he goes. He talks like Mum and Dad, and they don’t sound weird to him. So why would he?

To his amazement, when he turns around, you’re carelessly kicking his football around, chasing after the ball, and sometimes pausing to cartwheel in between as if you’ve forgotten what you’re doing. He’s never seen anyone play so…. wildly.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching as you skip after the ball.

“Playing soccer!” you smile, and Kyle fights the urge to shake his head again.

“That’s not how you play soccer! You clearly don’t even know what you’re doing,” he says like he’s some expert, so confused by the way you’re running that he doesn’t even notice that he calls it the American name.

“That’s not true. I play on a team with my friends and I was voted best player.” For the first time since meeting you, you don’t have a smile on your face. Your brow furrows and you look at him disappointed. Kyle doesn’t really believe the best player story, but he can sense that he’s on the verge of hurting your feelings so he changes the subject.

“What if we play something else?” he suggests. That seems to appease you and you brighten again, back to the smiley joy he didn’t realize he was already used to.

“Sure! I have my favorite Barbie doll with me, but I don’t know where I put it!” Your brow furrows again as you turn wildly to find where you tossed your Barbie.

It’s at that moment when Kyle steps back to give you some space, he hears a crack that sounds suspiciously like a Mattel doll being fractured in two. Kyle freezes, hoping that if he doesn’t move any further, you won’t notice the fractured Barbie underneath his right cleat.

You turn to him with a glare in your eye.

‘Oh no,’ Kyle thinks to himself.

♡ ♡ ♡

When you open your eyes, Kyle’s nose is about two inches away from yours, and his chest rises and falls slowly and steadily. You cross your eyes to count 35 freckles scattered across his cheeks and chin. Most annoyingly, he is currently cuddled up with your teddy bear that you insisted on bringing to this sleepover.

After a very dramatic Barbie funeral, you reluctantly accepted that Kyle wouldn’t be going back to London (it took stealing your brother’s encyclopedia and two very long conversations with your Mom to understand that you can’t just deport a six-year-old for Barbie homicide - no matter how justified it feels.) So you’ve decided to try and befriend him, mostly because your mother says you have to.

It hasn’t been going well.

Kyle warmed up to you quicker than anyone expected, and somewhere between April and October, the polite British boy you first met was replaced by a full-blown menace.

Every time you try to play house in the backyard, he chases you with frogs. You give him daisy-chain flower crowns; he shoves mud pies into your hands. You want to pick sunflowers, and he’s more interested in running wild with your older brothers and playing “football” as he calls it.

As far as you can tell, Kyle has little to no interest in being your friend, and frankly, you’d be okay if he stayed on his side of the backyard forever.

Which leads you to this predicament.

You two, at another kid’s sleepover, are stuck sharing a sleeping bag, and he is hogging both the blankets.

When one of the other kids forgot their sleeping bag, everyone figured that since you and Kyle were being raised like siblings at this point (and fought like it too), there was really no issue with you two sharing.

You actually had fun for most of the night, painting ghosts and smiley faces on your pumpkin, sneaking extra candy, and laughing with the other kids — until one jumped out from around the corner and tossed a rubber spider on you.

The weirdest part of all is how Kyle had been acting. You had expected him to laugh along with the others when you screamed at the spider, but he pushed the kids aside, mumbling “It’s really not that funny.” before pulling you with him.

After that, he was weirdly nice the rest of the night — he even snuck you the last sugar cookie, even though it was his and you’d already had one.

Despite his kindness earlier, Kyle doesn’t really understand the concept of sharing— at least, not when it comes to sleeping bags — and you watch irritably as he gets more and more comfortable under the blankets as the room gets chillier.

You tug, and he tugs back. And you’re seconds away from losing your mind before he begins to blink, slowly coming to.

“What are you doing?” Kyle asks, rubbing his eyes blearily, and for a moment, you see Kyle as his real age. You know he tries to act older and more mature, a product of his father's upbringing and all, but it’s rare to see him so childish unless he’s tormenting you. You secretly wish he would act more like a kid, even if it means it’s at your expense.

“You kept stealing the blankets,” Both of you aren’t whispering, not really understanding how to be quiet, but you do see another kid turn over and quickly put a hand over Kyle’s mouth.

Kyle looks at you bewildered, and you fight the urge to laugh. When the other kid finally settles, you remove your hand as both of you break out into silent giggles.

He seems to finally notice that he has taken over the entire sleeping bag, and shuffles to give you some more blanket space. His skin burns slightly red as he wordlessly hands you your teddy as well.

”I’m sorry,” You’re not entirely sure what he’s apologizing for, since they’re just blankets and you’re almost 90% sure you probably kicked him in your sleep, but it seems important to Kyle, so you decide to hand him back your teddy bear.

He smiles as he gets comfortable, and soon, his breathing evens out next to you, falling back into those slow and steady rises, and you let yourself relax too.

It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to Kyle for a night, either.

So, you simply pat his shoulder and turn to the other side.

Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind Kyle sticking around for a while.

♡ ♡ ♡

July 28, 2005 - 11:42 P.M.

“Kyle.”

That can’t be right. Kyle’s solving an equation he can’t quite remember the formula for. That’s not what confuses him, though. It’s you, sitting next to him like you belong there. He doesn’t understand why since you have language arts when he’s in maths, but there you are, staring at him urgently. He wants to respond and ask why you’re here, but instead, he focuses back on the algebra problem in front of him.

“Kyle!” Your whisper comes across more urgently and he whips his head to you, trying to figure out what it is that you could possibly want. You sound annoyed, which is common in conversations with him, but there’s something more. He feels a slight breeze and wonders why you’re leaning towards him before a blunt punch in the arm jerks him awake.

“Ow,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his arm, already sure there’s a bruise here.

“You sleep like the dead,” you respond matter-of-factly, upside down over his head as he wakes up. Kyle knuckles his eyes slightly, trying to adjust to his surroundings, quickly realizing that he’s not actually in his year six maths class, but still at the summer camp your parents shipped you both to every year since you were seven.

“_____,” he hisses, sitting up to look around him. “You’re not even meant to be in here.”

The rest of his cabin mates seem to be asleep, unaware of the girl standing at the edge of his bed in a strictly boys-only cabin, and for a moment he worries that his counselor will walk in and catch you two.

He stands up, ready to walk you out the door until he really looks at you.

Your eyes are glassy, tears streaking your cheeks in the moonlight, and Kyle forgets about getting caught. You’re crying, and that makes his stomach twist worse than any trouble could. He knows that camp had been rough for you this year — your braces are just the latest thing. Every week, Cassidy Shelton finds something new to pick apart.

“What’s wrong?” He asks.

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“I’d never laugh at you.”

“Even when I fell down during the pep rally?” You raise a brow at him, and even though he tries to stop it, he does snicker at the memory. You laugh quietly as well, before rubbing at your cheeks to wipe your tears away, and Kyle’s heart sinks even further.

“C’mon, let’s go for a walk,” He suggests, already grabbing his jacket. He notices you’re holding his blanket, and grabs it to tug you slightly towards him.

“We can’t leave. That’s against the rules,” You hiss, eyes wide with terror. He holds back a laugh, knowing that the two of you are already pushing it with the amount of noise you’re making and someone is bound to wake up soon for a midnight pee or something. Only you would break into a boy’s cabin, breaking the biggest rule of all, but be terrified by a midnight walk.

“No worse than you sneaking into the boys' cabin, is it?” He shrugs, already headed to the door. If it wasn’t for the midnight quiet, he would’ve missed the barely audible whisper of ‘I just wanted to talk to you.’

The darkness in front of you seems to stretch for miles only illuminated by the tiny sliver of the moon above. The earth is slightly damp beneath your feet as you follow Kyle further through the campsite.

You don’t know where Kyle’s taking you, but you trust him — just like you trusted him enough to climb through the window of Cabin B in the first place.

He’s been a constant in your life for the past six years, and you’re unsure where the shift from childhood neighbors turned into tween best friends. You’ve never had to wonder where you stood with Kyle — he just showed up.

Lately, you’ve needed that loyalty more than you’d like to admit.

Cassidy’s been relentless all summer, never far away with a comment or a look. She made fun of your swimsuit during pool day, made a joke about your retainer when the boys were around, and “accidentally” left you out of the cabin photo.

But today, she made sure to taunt you in front of the entire cabin, everyone crowded in the bathroom to get ready for bed.

“The braces help, seriously” she says, brushing out her hair in long, perfect strokes. “At least now you have a feature people will notice before your nose.”

You tense, trying to rush through brushing your teeth so you can crawl into your bunk where she can’t bother you.

“I mean,” she sighs wistfully, like she’s offering life-changing advice. You know better, know that what comes next is nothing but the punchline to one of her cruel jokes. “You’re just so lucky you’re funny. Some guys like that more than looks.”

A few girls snickered, and that had been the final straw. You felt the need for comfort, missing home more than usual and your feet found there way to Kyle like they always did.

There’s a slight breeze that tickles the ends of your hair, and the crickets slowly fade into a melody in the background as you realize that Kyle is leading you toward the lake. You cross your arms at the chill in the air, and Kyle turns to frown down at you. He’s gotten so tall since the beginning of the summer, and you know deep down that he’s happy he no longer has to look up at you anymore.

He stops in front of you, shaking you out of your thoughts as you almost run into him. He sets his blanket down next to the canoe racks, and you smile. The first summer you spent here, you and Kyle had accidentally capsized a canoe after arguing over the correct way to steer. The next day, the counselors made you both sit out, and you spent the whole hour just talking. It’s become one of your favorite spots to hang out at between activities since.

He sits down and looks up at you, eyes searching yours. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, already feeling kinda childish and guilty that you had dragged Kyle out of bed to comfort you. He has always seemed so mature, and even now, you feel unsophisticated as you clumsily move to sit down next to him. Where you had been teased and picked on this summer, Kyle seemed to blossom over the past few weeks, breaking records for the fastest time in rock climbing and always being first to be picked in dodgeball.

Everyone wanted to talk to him, and no one seemed to understand why he was always so content to just hang out with you.

Kyle’s silent, and you wish for a second that you could know what’s going on inside his head. You turn to look at him but find that he’s already staring at you, and you both quickly look away.

”Look, you can see Orion tonight.” You look over at him and follow where’s he pointing to the brightest constellation in the sky. He lies down on his back, and you follow his lead, both of you gazing up toward the night sky. “And there’s Andromeda.”

You try to look up to where he’s pointing, but can’t make out the shape. Your hand brushes his as you point upward.

”Where?” you ask, and he grabs your hand, tracing the outline of the shape in the stars. You pause, taking in the fact that you’ve never seen so many at once, before quickly realizing that Kyle is still holding your outstretched hand, and both of your faces burn as he quickly drops it.

”How do you know all this?” Kyle shrugs the best he can while still lying down to your question.

”We learned about it in science class a few months ago, and I thought it was interesting. I read some books from the library, too. They all have these crazy stories behind them. Like Andromeda. She was like…brave or something. And Orion’s a hunter.”

Kyle begins to get excited as he starts to ramble, and you smile. Not only is he great at sports, but he’s also one of the smartest people in your grade, and loves to show off whenever he can.

”That’s Ursa Major, and there’s Ursa Minor. They’re both the bears. And that one’s…. well, I forgot the name, but it’s the prettiest one. And it’s always right there. Like you.” Kyle stops talking so fast it knocks the breath out of you. Your head spins.

You’re not sure what you expected him to say, another fact, maybe a joke, but definitely not that.

You feel Kyle squirm next to you, clearly mortified, and you’re certain that if you turned to him, his face would be flushed from the heat of his unexpected confession - if you could even call it that.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him trying very hard to keep his gaze fixed on the stars, like maybe if he doesn’t look at you, the words won’t count.

And somehow, that makes you smile.

You’ve never even thought of Kyle that way— sticking to daydreaming about boyband members and teen actors, so you don’t know why your pulse keeps stuttering at his revelation. It’s Kyle, and you know the girls in your grade are already starting to become interested in him, have already started whispering about who he might ask to the seventh-grade dance next year and how they hope it’s them.

You wonder how Cassidy would react if Kyle accidentally compared her to the prettiest constellation in the galaxy.

”You shouldn’t let what they say get to you,” he whispers, and you find that he’s looking at you this time.

”Who?”

”Cassidy and them. I don’t know why you care what they think. You’re way cooler than them.” He stares at you intently, and now it’s you who has to look away, who focuses intently on the constellations above instead of the boy next to you.

”Thanks, Kyle,” you sigh, moving to get more comfortable. All of a sudden, you feel exhausted—the day finally catching up to you. Kyle grabs his jacket, draping it over you.

“You’re way cooler than them too,” you mumble, and from the corner of your eye, you see Kyle smile.

The rippling of the water and the cricket sounds slowly lure the both of you to sleep until the next morning when your counselors find you hidden after spending the past hour freaking out over two missing campers.

You both get dish duty for a week. But at least you’re together.

♡ ♡ ♡

April 7, 2010 - 12:57 A.M.

Kyle feels like his black bow tie is choking him, and for what feels like the thousandth time that night, he tugs at the collar of his tux. He’s not sure if it’s the collar that’s making it hard to breathe, or if it’s just you.

Sweat beads lightly on his forehead as he forces another bright smile under the camera flashes.

”One more! Do not make that face, Kyle! It’s only one more picture. I just can’t believe how big the both of you have gotten,” his mother coos, sentences trailing over one another in her excitement. You’re applying a fresh coat of lip gloss as your mum fixes your gown, and Kyle can’t stop looking.

It’s the night of your senior prom, and Kyle originally had no plans on going. But after your date stood you up, he grabbed the black suit from the back of his closet to accompany you on the night you had been looking forward to for the past year.

And Kyle had always known you were beautiful.

He just didn’t know it could make his chest ache the way it does now.

Up until now, Kyle thought he’d seen you in every outfit imaginable. But the blush pink gown wraps around you like a whisper, like you might break if the wrong hands touch you. His throat dries as your glossy lips catch the light as you press them together to smooth everything out. You seem to glow, an outright supernova that somehow made its way to Earth, a divine cosmic intervention that Kyle could only count himself as lucky to experience.

He knows he’s being dramatic, but when you look over at him, eyes bright and smile wide, he feels like he could write a sonnet about you just like he learned in English.

He makes himself keep his eyes on yours, even as the slit of your gown sways closer with every step. He thinks the lights are making him delirious because he swears you float to him in a cloud of tulle and shimmer.

”Okay, one more, and that will be the last one, Beth,” your mother chides, guiding you to stand next to Kyle. He looks down at you, at how you now barely reach his chin, even in your strappy high heels.

”How much do you want to bet this isn’t the last one?” You mutter under a beaming white smile, and for a second, Kyle sees the same six-year-old who once crawled over his backyard fence.

He shakes his head, pulling you closer to him. It takes everything in him not to breathe you in and hold you tighter.

Kyle hasn’t left your side all night.

Which is normal for Kyle. You two won “Class Inseparables” for a reason, but what isn’t normal is just how clingy he’s being.

Kyle had spent the year making it extremely clear that he didn’t want to go to prom, and while he didn’t outright say it, you know that with the recent death of his father, he’d much rather stay at home and do…… whatever it is that Kyle wants to do.

You had struggled to be there, as he shut you out more and more while dealing with his grief. You blamed yourself for not knowing the right things to say, what to do, and most of all, feeling like nothing you did was ever enough to show him he wasn’t alone. It was just something he had to work through on his own, and you made sure to always be a shoulder for him when he called.

So when your mother found out that your date canceled on you last minute, she spoke to Kyle’s mother, and the both of them decided that it would be good for the two of you to go together — one last adolescent celebration before you two fully entered adulthood.

And although you hate to admit it, they were both right. You couldn’t have imagined spending the night any other way, dragging Kyle through all the cliches of photobooth pictures and slowly dancing to pop songs. His laugh infectious as he clumsily dips you to the floor, almost dropping you in the process.

So when the two of you made it to an afterparty, you were surprised to not see him next to you as you exited the living room barefoot to the backyard deck. Already buzzed on a few drinks, your head pounds to the bass of the song blaring and you welcome the muffled quiet you get as you shut the door behind you, heading to the railing to look up to the sky.

Only a few moments later, you hear the sliding glass door open, and without looking, you know Kyle has found his way back to you.

“I can’t believe this is it,” you whisper, eagerly welcoming the bottle of water Kyle slides your way. He takes a sip from his own, and as you dazedly watch him swallow, you notice that he ditched his bow tie somewhere between the limo and the shot of Smirnoff you took with your friends. The first few buttons of his dress shirt are unbuttoned, and he looks more relaxed than you’ve seen him in a long time.

“What’s it?” He questions, and you smile at his accent creeping through. In addition to class inseparables, Kyle also won the senior superlative for best accent (a category you’re almost certain they created just for him), and to this day, you don’t know how he maintained it despite living in America for most of his life. A part of you thinks it’s due to the yearly trips to England he takes with his family, and another part thinks that it’s just the way it’s meant to be because he wouldn’t be Kyle without it.

“I mean, we’re done. No more high school,” you sigh wistfully. The big decision of ‘what’s next’ seems to loom over everyone’s head as graduation creeps even closer. You had already committed to a college for the fall, but Kyle had kept unusually silent about his decision on what to do next. You tried not to pry, knowing that he was already dealing with more grief than anyone your age ever should, but it worried you that he didn’t have a plan, and a tiny voice in the back of your head won’t stop whispering he’s keeping something from you.

“I thought you, more than anyone, would be glad to be done,” he laughs, taking another sip of his water.

You suppose that’s true, school had never really been your favorite. But the thought of leaving Kyle to go out of state? You’re not sure how to feel about it. He’s always been a fence away, and your hands begin to twitch as you’re suddenly overcome with a weird urge to hold his hand.

You don’t know what to call your feelings for Kyle. If anyone ever insinuates that there could be anything more between you two, you almost immediately deny it. Tell everyone and anyone who can hear that “he’s just a friend, more like one of my brothers than anything else,” but late at night, in the wee hours when you feel the darkness can hide any thought you’re too scared to say aloud, you entertain the idea of ‘what if?’

You had tried - once in ninth grade because everyone said that’s what two people with “chemistry” like yours were supposed to do, but Kyle had too much of a crush on an upperclassman girl to focus on you properly and you had always felt like your “dates” felt too much like hanging out as friends to ever take it seriously.

But now at the cusp of adulthood, you’re beginning to see Kyle as something more, and it terrifies you slightly.

“Of course, I’m happy to be done. But I don’t know what I’m going to do without you next year,” you admit, softly, the truth coming out before you can bottle it back down. “I mean, you’re my best friend, Ky. Promise you’ll come visit me next year?”

Kyle doesn’t look at you, letting out a heavy sigh.

”Of course, I’ll visit. It’s just-” He stops himself, running a heavy hand through his hair, and looking up towards the sky. Your heart begins to beat faster, trying to anticipate what he’s not saying, and for once, you wished Kyle spoke as carelessly as you did instead of watching every word to make sure he never said the wrong thing.

“What is it, Kyle?”

He takes another drink of water, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt before turning to you with his full attention, staring you deep into your eyes.

”I’m moving back to London at the end of the summer. I’m going to enlist in the military.”

You recoil at that bombshell. You know you shouldn’t be that surprised; Kyle’s dad was in the military himself, and with everything that’s happened, it makes sense that he’d want to follow in his footsteps.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You hate how selfish you sound, knowing that it’s not about you, and the edges of the room start to blur as you try to catch your breath.

”It was just never the right time, and I couldn’t figure out how. Plus, you were so stressed about college applications that I didn’t want to add that on to everything else you were dealing with.”

You try to see how that logic would make sense to him, but as the timeline catches up to you, you start to realize that you have a little over 100 days until Kyle is almost 4,500 miles away from you.

Your heart begins to beat even faster.

You want to be happy for him — proud, even. Because of course, Kyle would do something so brave and selfless. But your stomach churns as you think about everything he’s still carrying and whether running towards something like this will really let him outrun his grief.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” You murmur, eyes burning as you slide down the railing to sit on the deck.

”Don’t do that, love. You’re going to get your pretty dress all dirty.” You fight the urge to roll your eyes because only Kyle could be focused on the state of your appearance while you’re on the verge of falling apart. “C’mon, let's go inside.”

He leads you through the crowded living room, ignoring the whistles and cheers as he takes you down the hall to find an unoccupied spare bedroom.

As soon as the lock clicks, you lay face down on a scratchy pillow, a violent sob racking your body.

You feel the bed dip as Kyle sits beside you, gently stroking your back until your tears quiet. You wonder if he thinks you’re being melodramatic about this situation, if his leaving is as big a deal to him as it is to you. You count down every moment you two have spent together, and wonder if he’s done the same since he’s decided to enlist, if he’ll cling on to the same memories that you will a year from now.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper. You don’t want to say it, not wanting to ruin this momentous decision with your own emotions, but you feel him slipping away, and selfishly, you want to hold on as tight as you can without letting go.

“I know this can’t be easy for you either… but I just — God, I don’t know how I’m going to do this without you,” you sniffle slightly.

”I’m going to miss you more, darling,” he whispers back, moving to lay beside you. He cuddles up behind you, holding you tightly, and the comfort of having him near you is enough to calm you down. You lay in silence for a few moments, letting the sounds of the party outside drown out every fear you’re not ready to name.

“Y’know, when we were six, I wanted you to move back to London,” you laugh, and he snorts too.

”Did you? Why was that?” his embrace softens, and you begin to feel quite tired as the heat from his body envelopes you.

”You broke my Barbie and made fun of my ‘football’ skills,” he laughs at the exaggerated posh accent you put on before you continue- ”As far as I was concerned, you were enemy number one.”

“How lucky am I,” he drags, sarcastically. “that I changed your mind to keep me here.”

“I think I’m the lucky one,” you murmur, your voice small now. “Because now I don’t want you to go.”

He stiffens slightly before relaxing into you more.

And just like that on a borrowed bed in your formal wear, you reckon with the fact that this is the last night of your childhood.

You grab Kyle’s hand and drift off to sleep.

♡ ♡ ♡

November 28, 2014 - 3:19 A.M.

Kyle hasn’t seen you in two years, and yet here you are, sitting in front of him in the tiniest black dress he’s ever seen in his entire life.

Both of you are crammed into a booth in a dark, sticky club, and he tells himself it’s the bass of whatever EDM track is rattling the walls that’s making his head spin — not the way your chest presses together when you lean over to grab your drink.

He takes another sip of his own. You’re spending the summer interning at a finance firm in London, and Kyle secretly hopes they’ll offer you a job after graduation — just so you’ll have a reason to stay. Which is how you found yourself out with him and his friends to celebrate their first deployment going so successfully.

They’d started the night at a proper pub; pints, darts, and all — much to your confusion when you showed up like you were headed to a rooftop in Miami.

“What are you wearing?” He asks, eyes scanning over the smokey makeup and sky-high heels that stood outside of the door of his flat. “You do realize we’re going to a pub, yeah? Why the dress?”

“You said we were going to a bar.” You push him to the side since clearly he wasn’t going to move to let you in, and toss the oversized leather jacket you were wearing onto his couch without a second glance. “This is what you wear to bars.”

Kyle’s almost positive he didn’t say that, any American slang, wiped from his vocabulary since moving back to the U.K., and despite growing up together, he still isn’t sure how the two of you manage to miscommunicate.

You turned to him then, lips already pouted, eyes bright with mischief as you looked him up and down.

“What, you don’t like it?”

The problem is Kyle likes what you’re wearing a little too much which is how he found himself in a basement club in central London. You had gotten along well enough with a few friends he made while away, gleefully sharing embarrassing stories with his new military friends (“Kyle, mate, why didn’t you tell us you used to do ballet?” “Piss off, I was like seven.”). So, when you light up at the suggestion of going dancing, staring at him pleading when his friend, Elliott, mentions a club nearby, he grabs his jacket instead of heading home like he wanted, where he’s found himself spending way too much money on drinks and watching how your skin seems to glow under the flickering strobe lights.

You giggle at something Elliott whispers, no doubt a joke at Kyle’s expense, with the way you flash him a wicked grin afterward, and Kyle’s jaw clenches. He takes another sip of his drink as you lick a drop from your lips.

Kyle knows that he needs to stop watching. That soon you’re going to catch on that he’s looking at you in a not-so-friendly way.

But whatever it is, he can’t stop watching the way you move. Can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to pull that dress up around your hips and slide his hands over the skin he’s been dying to touch since you walked through the door.

He tells himself to stop looking and keep his thoughts chaste as you unintentionally pout your lips as you look at him to see why he’s so quiet.

But, fuck, he can’t stop the way he feels.

Like a live wire pulled too tight, every look tossed his way hitting him in his chest. In his gut. Lower.

You were always beautiful, but this — this is different.

Grown. Self-possessed.

Devastating.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, both men watching as your hips slightly sway as you try to find your balance.

“Jesus, mate. You never said you had a girl like that waiting on you.” Kyle watches Elliott for a moment too long. Watches the way he’s already looking at you like a challenge that he could win you over. He’s seen that same look in almost every guy at this club when they look at you tonight, and his fists clench.

“She’s not my girl. We’re just friends.” A sour taste forms in his mouth as if he’s swallowed something acidic, and he watches Elliott light up at the info.

“Really? Is she seeing anyone? Or keen to be?” Kyle almost chokes at the waggle of Elliott’s brow at the last part. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling this way, you’ve both dated other people before so this is nothing new, but the thought of you going home with anyone other than him makes his chest hurt.

“Dunno. You’d have to ask her.” Kyle shrugs, but it comes out too sharp, too fast. He swallows hard. It’s not a joke to him anymore. He takes a proper look, assessing the man sitting in front of him. It would never work between you and Elliott, would it? He’s military, too determined, too focused — too much like Kyle. And if you were going to be with somebody — why couldn’t it be Kyle?

“Gonna check on her, yeah?” he murmurs, rising before he thinks better of it. The rest of the drink burns on the way down, but it barely registers. Not over the heat crawling up his spine.

Admittedly, you got a little lost on the way to the bathroom, the three drinks catching up to you all at once. The club pulses and spins around you, lights strobing as the bass vibrates within your bones.

What was supposed to be a quick trip becomes a full lap of the dance floor, and you’re flushed and slightly dizzy when you walk up to the bar to order another Sex on the Beach. You’re halfway leaning over the counter to pass your card when someone drops theirs ahead of you.

The scent hits you before anything else: sharp, clean, with that rich warmth you’d know anywhere. Tom Ford. Kyle’s favorite.

You go still. Heart thudding.

You don’t turn around to look at him yet, suddenly, feeling too warm, too aware of the way your dress clings to your skin, the way your breath stutters in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just Kyle.

But it’s not the same Kyle, is it?

The one standing at the bar is taller now, sharper around the edges, all quiet confidence and serious demeanor. His gaze tracks you like he’s hunting, like he’s already read your next move and is deciding what to do with it.

And then there’s his body.

He’s broader now, chest and shoulders stretching the sleeves of his shirt, arms thick with the kind of strength that isn’t just there for decoration, but for utility and purpose.

Sun-kissed skin, dark mustache, and a lean athletic figure that has enough stamina to go for hours, whether that’s on the battlefield or —.

But the thing you find yourself staring at the most are his hands. What were once smooth are adorned with callouses, each one holding a war story that he’s yet to share. Like they’ve seen battle and want to learn softness now. Like they could leave bruises shaped like constellations on your hips if you asked nicely.

You take a large gulp of your drink like it might drown the thoughts clawing their way through your head. The alcohol burns, but it’s not nearly enough to dull the way your body thrums when Kyle gets even closer.

You turn around, and there he is — smiling dangerously like he’s hyper-aware of what path your thoughts have taken. His voice is a whisper in your ear, low enough to curl straight down your spine.

“Thought you were looking for the bathroom?” he murmurs, and you hate that your first instinct is to lean in like two opposite ends of a magnet.

“Got a little lost,” you say, breathier than you mean to, and take the straw into your mouth again slowly this time, just to see if his eyes drop to your lips again.

They do.

“What are you drinking?” he asks, and you push your cup toward him without thinking.

“Try it,” you say, soft. “It’s all juice and sugar. You probably won’t like it.”

You expect him to grab the cup and tip far from his mouth like he always used to when you were kids, but instead, his fingers skim your jaw, and he catches a drop from the corner of your mouth. You freeze.

Then he brings it to his lips.

“It’s sweet,” he says, slow and deliberate, still watching your mouth. “I like it.”

Your heart punches against your ribs, wild and frantic, and you barely stop yourself from chasing the taste on his lips. You fumble your drink with a clatter, cheeks hot as if you could be any less smooth.

He grins, cocky and all too pleased with himself, and slides in closer, setting the cup aside like nothing else matters.

The scent of him hits you — cologne and sweat and something deeper — and suddenly it’s like your entire body is one raw nerve. Your thoughts scatter. Your pulse stutters. You want to touch him. You want to climb into his lap. You want him to grab you by the hips and ruin every thread of self-control you’ve ever had.

He’s your best friend.

Somehow, you don’t care.

You try to collect yourself. Breathe in. Out. Focus on your heartbeat. On anything other than the way your skin is still buzzing from where he’s touched you.

But when you glance up, Kyle’s already looking at you half-lidded, pupils blown so wide that you almost have to squint to make out the thin ring of gold surrounding them.

You don’t even realize you’re moving closer to him until your hand brushes his, chest mere inches as you drink in Kyle in front of you. He takes your hand, fingers tracing the inside of your wrist. Your pulse skips a beat.

His doesn’t.

He opens his mouth, whether to speak or kiss you, you’ll never know as two of his friends come barreling in, ripping him away with slurred words and half-assed apologies.

“Oi, Kyle, some tosser thinks I’m flirting with his bird. Tell him he’s having a laugh, yeah?”

And just like that, the moment shatters. The lights, the music, the crowd pressing in — it all rushes back at once.

You even register the annoyed looks from people trying to squeeze past the two of you.

How long had the two of you been standing there?

“Can’t leave you guys alone for two seconds,” He mutters, catching his breath. His hand lingers on your wrist as mouths ‘be right back.’

You reach for your drink, spinning the liquid as if it’ll hypnotize you to keep your thoughts from spinning too.

“He’s pretty good, right?” Elliot slides in next to you, watching Kyle make his way through the crowd. “He was always the most level-headed in basic training. He probably broke up more fights than he was in them.”

You smile at that — of course, Kyle would gain the reputation of being the strategist, the fixer, always thinking things through.

“—- told him in training to go after what he wants, but it seems like he still hasn’t listened,”

You tune back in at the end of his sentence, narrowing your eyes at Elliott.

“I’m sorry?”

Elliott just grins.“Lemme buy you a drink, yeah?”

You should say yes- he’s cute, really fucking cute, and obviously interested by the way he’s been flirting with you all night.

But as you shift you weight from one foot to another, deliberating, your gaze slides to the other side of the club where Kyle is already watching.

You swear his jaw clenches when Elliott moves in closer to you.

“Oh,” Elliott laughs, catching the look. “You’re both a little fucked then.”

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head, something almost kind about his expression. “Better that I’m not the one to tell you, right? But -“

He stops himself like he shouldn’t be saying something before shrugging his shoulders and tossing back the rest of his drink.

“Plenty of the lads at basic had birds back home. None of them ever talked about their girls the way Kyle talked about you.”

Your stomach twists at Elliott’s words, but you’re not sure if it’s from the implication or the confirmation. You’ve known Kyle was acting different tonight — the stares, the softness, the tension that always seemed just shy of crossing a line. You want to ask what Kyle said, how he said it, when he said it, take every sentence and dissect it syllable by syllable. But you don’t get the chance.

Because Kyle is back.

And he looks… different. Not just under the strobe lights, not just with his shirt rumpled and curls damp at the nape of his neck. He looks like someone who has made a decision.

His eyes skim over Elliott, land on you, and stay there.

You barely register Elliott muttering something about giving you two a moment before disappearing into the crowd. Kyle doesn’t say anything — not at first. He just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every feature on your face like this is the last time he’ll see them.

“What did he say to you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you open your mouth, you might admit that you’re shaking. That something about this — him, you, tonight — has shifted past the point of pretending. You don’t know how to flirt with Kyle because it never felt like you had to. But right now, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, you want to be brave. You want to try.

So you just say, “You already know.”

Kyle blinks. His jaw twitches. Then he grabs your hand.

He pulls you into the crowd, the bass drowning out every thought except the feel of his fingers tangled in yours, the way his body moves ahead of you like he’s cutting a path through the world just to get you somewhere quieter, darker, closer.

Your skin sparks under his touch. Your blood hums with electricity.

And you don’t even realize you’ve stopped moving until you’re suddenly chest to chest, breath to breath, the rest of the world nothing more than sound and color. Hidden in some back hallway away from any interruptions or prying eyes. He stares down at you like you’re something divine. Like if he blinks, you’ll disappear.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he says like it’s a confession pulled from his ribs.

His palm slides against your lower back, anchoring you to him as if any distance will push you away. You smile, ready to make a joke, to tease him, to play into this push-and-pull you’ve somehow found yourself in.

But the look on his face punches the air out of your lungs.

Any ounce of self-control has fled from his body, replaced by a primal desire that seems to bleed from him. His hand trails up your spine, every hair on your body standing on end as you come to the complete and utter realization:

Kyle is going to kiss me.

And before you can even process what that means for your friendship, his mouth is on yours.

Suddenly you can’t think, all thoughts flooding straight from your brain as they’re replaced by one single, repetitive thought: ‘Holy shit, Kyle is a really good kisser.’

His hands find your waist, then your hips, then your ass, like he doesn’t know where to hold you because he wants to touch you everywhere. His tongue sweeps inside your mouth, tasting like gum and pints of lager, and a hint of the cigarette he bummed earlier, and that combo would be so disgusting on anyone else, but of course, it works for him, and you hear yourself gasping into him.

Your fingers fist into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and he groans deep and low like the sound is being pulled straight out of his chest.

“Fuck,” he mutters, lips moving against yours. “Why do you taste so fucking good?”

He kisses you like he’s trying to ruin you for anyone else, and you think it’s working. You will never be able to kiss anyone again without thinking about the way Kyle took you apart, thread by thread, with just his mouth. You pull him in closer, feeling slightly depraved and insane. You want to crawl into his skin, get under him, inside him, anywhere where he can hold on to you like this forever.

You shift, and your thighs brush against him, forcing you to feel him — thick and hard through his jeans and pressing right against your hip. You moan before you can stop yourself, and he grips you even tighter, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re driving me insane, sweetheart,” he rasps in your ear, dragging his mouth down your jaw. You drag his face back to yours, and he kisses you again —deeper, messier, needier— but it’s still not enough. You want more, need more, need to know what it feels like for him to be inside you, fingers buried in his hair as you fall apart for him over and over again.

But for now, you just let him devour you. Kissing you with a promise of what’s to come, like he’s starved and you’re the first taste he’s allowed himself in years.

You break away first, barely breathing hard as you take in Kyle’s swollen lips and chest heaving as if he just ran across the country.

His hand is still gripping your waist like he’ll fall if he lets go, and he rests his forehead against yours. For a second, you think he might kiss you again until he exhales hard, coming to terms with the situation that just happened.

”Fuck, we — we weren’t supposed to do that, sweetheart.”

His voice is wrecked like he’s ashamed of how badly he wanted it. Of how badly he still wants it.

You don’t move. Your fingers are still twisted in his shirt, and your neck still tingles from where he dragged his lips across it. You finally open your eyes to look at him.

And when your eyes meet his, he looks absolutely ruined.

“Stop looking at me like that, love.” His hand twitches like he might pull away, but he doesn’t. Just takes a deep inhale. “We’re friends, right?”

The words don’t match the way he’s staring at you, with lips parted, pupils blown, and you still feel the weight of him fully pressed up against you. And whatever line you two were pretending existed has already shattered.

So, you look up at him, bold and tipsy, and braver than you have any right to be, and whisper in his ear: “I don’t want to be just your friend tonight, Kyle.”

Something settles in between you two, the words impossible to take back, so Kyle just gives a deep nod before calling a cab.

You slide into the cab first, and Kyle follows, close enough that your legs touch, close enough for him to smell the sweet sting of your perfume and whatever’s left of the drink on your lips.

The door shuts, and for the first time all night, it’s too quiet — he hears his heartbeat in his ears, and his nerves continue to dial themselves higher and higher.

You shift, and his gaze drops down to where your dress rides a little higher from the movement. He can’t help himself, his hand settles heavy over your knee, thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles on your bare skin. It feels delicate, pretty, soft and he wonders if you’d feel that way all over.

Your skin warms instantly, and he can feel the heat coming off you in waves. You glance up at him, eyes silently begging for him to move again, for him to kiss and touch and worship you like he craves.

And God does he want to.

Kyle leans in closer, mouth brushing just behind your ear, making sure to keep his voice low enough that only you can hear,

“If we weren’t in a fucking cab right now…”

You still.

“My hand wouldn’t just be on your thigh.” He makes sure to draw a deliberate line up the inside of your leg, stopping just short of where your dress ends, hiding where he wants to see you the most. “It’d be under that fucking dress, halfway to making you come again.”

Your breath hitches. The driver coughs once, and Kyle forces himself back,hand still on your leg, grip just tight enough to remind you that he’s still here, just as wanting as you.

You don’t say a word for the rest of the ride.

Neither does he.

The car slows to a stop, and before Kyle can stop himself, he tosses a large tip to the driver before taking your hand like a man possessed and dragging you into his flat.

The second the door clicks shut, Kyle’s mouth is back on yours.

He barely registers kicking the door shut before he’s got you pinned to it, hands firmly gripping your waist to anchor himself to this moment. He wants to take his time, to memorize how you feel under his hands, how you sound when he kisses your neck, commit this to memory in case he never gets the chance to again, but desperation takes over, and all he can think about is how badly he wants more. How badly he wants you.

Your purse hits the floor, but he doesn’t really care. You let out another gasp into him, and he’s never been angrier at himself. For pretending, for years, that this was inevitable.

He drags his teeth against your bottom lip, wanting nothing more than to suck and bite until it’s flushed red.

Instead, his hands move free of his control, down your thighs, under your dress, until he’s rubbing the front of the thong you have on, and he moans slightly into your mouth.

You’ve completely ruined yourself, underwear drenched, and your hips jerk as he presses a light circle to your covered clit.

He smiles, using his other hand to pin you to the door, and he feels you shaking like you might detonate against him as he continues to draw light circles around your covered heat.

“Kyle,” you whine, and it feels like a livewire has been cut deep inside him as he moves your panties to the side, and slides two fingers inside of you.

And all he can think to say is, “Fucking finally.”

God, you’re tight, warm, and just fucking perfect. Your hips jerk against where his hand is moving, like you’ve been shocked and he feels his breath stutter against the high-pitched moans you make, raw and startled like you didn’t know you could want him this much.

Kyle presses his forehead against yours, cursing when you gasp at the curl of his fingers. And he feels the confession bubbling up, tries to push it back down where it’s supposed to remain hidden and locked away, but you sound so sweet when you whine his name that he just starts … rambling.

“I’ve thought about this,” he rasps, voice wrecked and low. “I tried not to, sweetheart, I really did, but you were always there in my mind at night. What you’d sound like, what you’d look like coming undone, what you’d feel like when you finally let me touch you.”

Surprisingly, you don’t jerk away from his confession, call him a creep, or tell him that he’s supposed to be just a friend. Instead, you clench tightly around his fingers, moaning a little bit louder throughout his admission, and adoration begins to fill your eyes.

It only takes a few more pumps of his fingers, before you fall apart, and Kyle holds you through it, hand steady, mouth skimming your jaw as he tries to brand the shape of your body to his memory.

You’re still trembling in his arms when he pulls back, and he watches you blink, dazed and flushed and impossibly beautiful. He’s never been so hard before, and you reach for his belt, his body slumping forward as you brush a delicate hand across the rough outline of his cock.

He wants you so badly it hurts. But it can’t be like this. Not the first time.

“Baby,” he rasps and you whine at that, grasping the print of him a little harder and he grabs your hand to still you.

“I want you so badly right now.” He cups your face, brushes against your cheek, and whispers against your lips, “But our first time will not be against a bloody door.”

He pulls you in again, lips pressing as he drags his tongue against your mouth, hands drifting down to take a firm grip of your ass.

And just like that it shifts.

Kyle picks you up like it’s nothing, and cradles you close, as he carries you through his flat to his bedroom like you weigh nothing at all. Lays you down so softly like you’re made of glass.

And then you kiss again, softer, slower, as if he’s truly taking his time to learn who you are. He reaches down, pulling your dress off of you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

He looks as if he’s seen a divine being, wanting nothing more than to lay you down at the altar and worship you until you bless him.

So, he does.

He takes his time, kissing down your chest, your ribs, your hips, like he’s tracing down a map to something sacred. He removes the last barrier you have, the last of your clothes, and you open your legs for him. His eyes darken, the edges lazy with want, and he sucks a deep, bruising kiss at the apex of your thigh.

And then his mouth is on you. If you could even describe something as monumental as simple as that. As if you could describe the starburst that floods your vision with such a crass term as “eating pussy.”

Kyle lays everything out with the broad strokes he licks into you, groaning as if he can’t imagine anywhere else as perfect as in between your thighs.

You cry out, one hand flying to the wall, the other buried in his hair, as he traces soft circles into you.

You hear yourself call out his name, all your senses locked into the way he smiles against you. ”Been dreaming about the way you’d say my name.”

He sucks at you like he wants your legs to shake, like he won’t be satisfied until you come completely and utterly undone for him.

So when you come for the second time, it’s no surprise that it’s with a broken cry that leaves him shuddering.

You think he might stop there. Takes the time to let you recover as he strips himself. But he’s above you again, and you take the time to run your hands across broad shoulders that lead down to a tapered waist adorned with a perfect set of abs.

He hangs hot and heavy between your legs, and you sigh as he takes you in for another kiss, briefly tasting yourself on him before he pulls back,

“Is this still okay?” He whispers, eyes looking for any doubt.

You nod. “More than”

And he sinks into you with a groan that’s been clawed from his chest.

His pace is unhurried and measured, forehead against yours as you clench around him when he presses a kiss against your forehead. His pace falters before picking back up as he mutters “fuck, love, you feel like heaven.”

You lock your ankles around his waist as he laces your fingers together. His mouth catches yours mid-moan and refuses to let go. You wish it felt wrong like this is a dark and dirty secret that will never be touched, but as you come for the third time, you know that you’ll never be able to live peacefully knowing what it looks like to have Kyle fall apart above you, mouth on your neck as his whole body trembles into yours.

He slowly pulls out of you, lying next to you before pulling you close to his chest, and pressing a familiar kiss to the top of your head.

You’ve never felt so serene, so calm, so at ease, and you want to say something to break the moment. To bring you both back down to the level you normally operate at, with friendly jokes and ribbing and teasing.

Deep down, you feel that coil snap, that something’s changed between the two of you. You wonder if he feels that too, but when you look at him, the only thing you see is the same devotion he had a few moments earlier.

So you shove all your thoughts away and close your eyes

You wake up missing the familiar weight of Kyle next to you. The bed is cold, the sheets pulled into a precise military fold, and the only sign he was ever there is the dent in the pillow next to you.

You grab something discarded from the pile of clothes on the floor, Kyle’s shirt, and tug it on before padding out barefoot to the kitchen.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice still scratchy with sleep.

He startles just slightly at the sound of your voice and straightens before turning around.

There’s a small smile on his face, but it doesn’t quite meet and doesn’t feel as genuine as it should be.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, standing on the other side of the island. He nudges your cup towards you, tea prepared the way you’ve always preferred and you hold the burning cup in your hands, lines forming between your brows.

“I’m fine. How do you feel?” you ask, guarded.

Kyle looks exhausted, not the face of someone satisfied after a night of good sex, and you start to second-guess yourself. You’ve seen Kyle with ex-girlfriends, and he’s the picture of romance - flowers, kisses, constantly holding hands and all over them.

For a moment last night, you thought you saw that Kyle when he was with you, but you don’t recognize the man in front of you- guarded, drawn back.

Off-kilter, you take a sip of the tea you’ve been holding, dropping the mug when it burns your tongue. The clatter echoes through the quiet flat, and you immediately bend down to grab the mug, muttering apologies as you check for chips in the ceramics. ”Shit — sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“It’s fine,” Kyle says quickly, already kneeling to help. His hand grazes yours, and you both freeze.

You look at him, and his eyes stay firmly trained on the mug. The silence stretches across the apartment until becomes unbearable.

“I just — I wasn’t expecting you to be gone,” you say, voice childishly quiet. “When I woke up.”

Kyle runs a hand through his hair, already mussed from sleep, and still refuses to look at you. ”Didn’t want to wake you.” He sounds just as young as you just did, and your heart does an unusual pitter-patter.

“That’s it?” you ask. “After everything?”

His face falls, and the expression tells you everything you need to know. He’s already halfway gone, leaving you again like he did when you were both 17.

You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know.

“Do you regret,” you pause, struggling to get the words out. “what we did last night?

Kyle’s head whips to you, eyes panicked. “No,” he says. “It was… Fuck, it was—” He swallows hard like something is lodged in his throat. “This just isn’t something I can do right now.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

His eyes meet yours like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time all morning. “I leave in six weeks.”

“And?”

“And I’ve watched what happens when people try to wait,” he says. “What it does to them. I’ve seen it ruin people and wreck lives. And I care too much about you to let that happen to us. To you.”

Us.

Your chest caves a little at that.

“So you thought it’d be better to fuck me first?” You laugh sardonically. The words come out sharper than intended, and you see the hit land.

Kyle flinches. “That’s not — don’t make it like that. It wasn’t like that.”

You hug yourself, pressing your lips together to hide the wobble in your voice. “Then what was it?”

He doesn’t say anything, sits across from you in silence, and you understand. That knowing the truth would hurt too much. That Kyle is still trying to protect you from all the things that could hurt you in this world.

Only this time it’s from himself.

You nod once, jaw tight. “Got it.”

You turn to leave, and this time, he doesn’t stop you.

♡ ♡ ♡

December 24, 2022 - 10:24 P.M.

Kyle listens to the fire crackle, as cousins, aunts, and uncles trickle into his grandfather’s house. The first Christmas he’s spent with his family in years is a big one, and he briefly wonders how they’re all going to cram into the tiny sitting area.

He pulls the tartan blanket over his cousin sleeping next to him before moving to sit next to his mother. In 29 years, he’s never seen his mother look so tired, so weathered, so worried. He knows that it’s because of him, that it must be impossible to sleep at night, knowing that there’s no guarantee that your son will return to you safely. The chime of laughter coming from the kitchen brings him down from where he feels he’s floating a million miles away. He takes his mother’s hand and runs his thumb gently across her knuckles, grounding himself there.

”How are you doing, mum?” he asks, softly, and she turns to him with bright eyes. Kyle’s mind wanders to what if his dad were still here. Would he still have joined the military? Entered the SAS? Met the 141? Maybe he would have ended up here anyway. But the look on his mother’s face says otherwise.

”I’m just so happy to see you here, Kyle.” Her eyes water up, and Kyle knows instantly what’s not being said. He tries not to think about that day too much, the bullets ricocheting off the helicopter, as the only thing keeping him alive is a fraying rope. It’s become a bit of a legend amongst new recruits.

“Can you believe the sergeant fell out of a helicopter and survived? I heard he took out 5 men while dangling from a rope. No, it was six.”

A ringing starts to fill his ears, and he focuses back in on his mom who’s looking at him with concern again.

”I’m happy to be here, Mum.” He mumbles, and suddenly, he feels exhausted. Being tired isn’t a new feeling - he hasn’t had a real night's sleep since before he joined the military, but this exhaustion feels deeper, like it’s carved into his bones. He’s so used to waking up at six a.m. and running 5 km that the stillness of a peaceful night is almost foreign to him.

“He would’ve been proud of you, y’know?” Kyle jerks up at that, turning to his mom. She doesn’t often talk about his father, doing the small things to keep the memory alive on his birthday and the anniversary of his death, but the pain always seemed too much to bear. “He would always say when you were younger, ‘My boy, he’s going to accomplish great things.’ He just would’ve been so proud.” Her voice wobbles a little before she catches herself.

”I know, Mum,” and the funny thing is he believes that. He knows that he’s accomplished everything his father had dreamt for him, grown into the man his father started molding the second he was born. Yet he still feels like something’s missing.

Kyle hears the door open, and close, wondering who the late addition could be. At this point, every family member has arrived.

“Darling, you mustn’t be upset, but she has no family out here. We’ve had her over every year since she’s moved,” His mother rushes out, worry quickly replacing the melancholy that lined her voice.

Before he can even process what that means, who he could possibly be upset about seeing, he hears a voice he hasn’t heard in over 8 years—

Yours.

A part of you thinks it’s weird that you spend every Christmas with Kyle’s family despite not speaking to him for 8 years.

Your job had brought you to London a few years back, and you were more than happy to spend the day eating Chinese takeout and rewatching old Christmas movies. But your mother found out and gave a call to Kyle’s mother and well, “Family doesn’t let family spend the holidays alone, do they?”

Which is how you find yourself at their Christmas Eve dinner every year.

Kyle never shows up, always on duty or leave, but you find yourself holding your breath every year hoping he’ll walk in.

And you’re disappointed every single time.

You shouldn’t be, you don’t even want to be and you don’t know why you anticipate him being there as if he wasn’t the one who said you two were better off as friends and then slowly stopped responding to your texts and calls.

Your friends all tell you that you’re better off, that Kyle fucked up and doesn’t know what he’s missing. And you try and pretend that you don’t look for him in every guy you see, looking for brown eyes and a protective heart in every Bumble date and one-night stand you meet.

So when Kyle turns around, your breath hitches, shallow and fast, like your body’s bracing for impact.

You thought of this moment for years, the moment where you can yell at him, scream and curse, and cry for breaking your heart. Inflict a fraction of the pain he caused you back onto him, make him feel all the nights that you spent crying, mourning the loss of your best friend.

But what stops you in your tracks is how absolutely exhausted Kyle looks.

He’s still Kyle, but his whiskey-colored eyes are rimmed with dark circles and wrinkle a little more when he smiles. His beard has grown a little more, a rarity for Kyle who has liked to be as clean-shaven as possible since the moment he started growing facial hair.

You had heard about the accident, how he barely survived — and his mom had begged you to give him a call. But every time you reached for the phone, something stopped you.

What do you say to someone when there’s so much that’s been left unsaid?

The door creaks shut behind you, breaking the awkward showdown you’ve found yourself in.

“Darling!” His mother is the first to react, walking over to where you awkwardly hesitate in the door, one step away from bolting. She brings you into a warm embrace, running a comforting hand through your hair.

”I’m so happy you could make it. He won’t say it, but I know he misses you. Still puts up the ornaments you two made in primary school,” she whispers in your ear. Your eyes catch Kyle’s across the at this, and you press your lips together in a firm line. You don’t want to be bitter but if he really did miss you as much as she said, why is he still there — still putting distance between the two of you?

She lets go of you, helping you out of your winter coat, and then a few of Kyle’s younger cousins are dragging you to the kitchen, wanting to gossip about all the things you normally do when you come over, and you forget that once again, Kyle is watching you walk away.

And despite his presence being so loud in the middle of this party, you’re able to continue like you normally do. You laugh and eat roast and mince pies, and even participate in Secret Santa, where you receive an absolutely horrid sweater that will never see the light of day. And it all feels so normal that your heart swells, that if you keep your focus on certain parts of the room, it’s like Kyle isn’t even there.

But whenever your eyes meet, Kyle goes completely still — like something has knocked the breath out of him. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just stares like he’s seeing a ghost he thought would never come back to haunt him.

Your stomach churns — it was a bad idea to stay. You should’ve feigned an illness as soon as you saw him there because unhealed wounds are starting to bleed the longer his wide-eyed gaze follows you around the room.

So, you begin to pack up. Walking around from family member to family member to say goodbye, accepting all the kisses on the cheeks and leftovers to eat for the next few days. It’s not until you’re standing by the coat rack to put your jacket on that you shiver from the feeling of a large figure behind you, your body remembering him before your brain can catch up. He’s silent on his feet in a way that can only come from years of military training. He had never been so quiet before.

“Are you leaving already?” he rasps, and your knees almost buckle from hearing his voice for the first time. Your stomach flips like it’s trying to turn yourself inside out.

“Yeah, I need to start driving back now before it gets too late,” you whisper, not wanting to speak too loud as if he’s an apparition that’ll disappear with any quick movements.

“What’s this about you driving home,” Kyle’s mother interrupts, eyes narrowed. You didn’t even realize that she was standing there, but from her crossed arms, you knew that you fucked up.

“It’s only a short drive, Ms. Garrick. Swear, I’ll be home in twenty minutes,” you promise, hoping she won’t beg you to spend the night. Tonight had already been heavy. You spare a glance at Kyle, but his gaze is solely focused on his mom, listening intently to what she’s going to say next.

“But it’s already so late. Why don’t you just spend the night here? You can stay with Kyle, it’ll be just like when you two were kids again,” she beams, and you don’t have the heart to say no.

“Mum,” Kyle protests, already beginning to form an argument but his mother silences him with a wave.

“Really, Kyle? You’re going to make her drive home alone in the dark. I would’ve thought I raised you better than that. Besides it’s just one night,” she dismisses the two of you with such finality you have no choice but to follow Kyle upstairs as he shows you which room he’s staying in.

“I can sleep on the floor- or the couch, give you some space,” and for a moment, you’re tempted to take him up on his offer. But the way he’s slumped, you knew it would be awful to subject him to subpar sleep because of an 8-year grudge.

“It’s fine, Kyle. I’m the one intruding. You take the bed,” you say, and are already grabbing your pillow to head to the door to go back to the couch.

For a moment, it’s just you and Kyle and the ghosts of a hundred sleepovers past — whispered secrets under shared blankets, the safety of knowing he’d always be there

But now there’s an invisible line between you, drawn sharp and painful, and neither of you know how to cross it.

Kyle shifts closer, hesitant, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

You pause in the doorway, pillow clutched awkwardly to your chest. Kyle shifts on his feet, the floorboards creaking beneath him.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low and rough from exhaustion. And suddenly it’s just the two of you, standing in a too-small room with eight years of distance stretching between you.

“Why don’t we just share? My mum would kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the couch.”

“Okay,” you whisper, following Kyle back to the bed, shakily pulling the covers back one by one if anything to delay sleeping next to him again.

He follows your lead, slowly crawling under the bed, back towards where you’d be sleeping. You sigh softly, before following suit, back facing his.

You don’t know how you’re going to sleep tonight, feeling overwhelmed by every shift and movement Kyle makes, the heat of his body next to yours, the careful distance he keeps between the two of you to make sure you don’t touch.

You wait, counting as the seconds turn to minutes in your head. Waiting for him to say something, anything to acknowledge that he has his back turned to what was once the closest person in his life.

It’s all too much, and your throat begins to burn. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself not to cry.

Then you feel it.

The lightest brush of Kyle’s fingers against your hand, hesitant and trembling, as if asking for permission.

You freeze.

He doesn’t grab, doesn’t force. He just …. waits. His pinky hooked barely against yours, a question hanging between you.

For a second, you want to pull away. You should pull away. But you don’t.

Instead, you shift your hand just a little, letting your pinky catch his.

You wait, wondering if his graze was accidental or if he’s going to acknowledge where you two are linked. You feel your stomach twist, and you watch the trees gently sway under the moonlight. You try to calm yourself down and inhale as quietly as possible before exhaling when you just barely hear it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you get hit with a familiar feeling. Of you two sharing a bed before and him whispering those same words.

You feel as if you should turn, and face him to see what he says next, but you are still frozen, petrified that any moment, you’ll wake up to find you’re still in your apartment and Kyle is still a million miles away from you.

“I don’t know why I didn’t call you or talk to you. I - I was 21, and you were the most important person in my life. I, I just couldn’t lose you.” his voice cracks at the end, and he sounds absolutely wrecked at the idea.

“And then I did.” he continues “It was stupid, but I didn’t know how to be your friend after knowing what it’s like to kiss you, to hold you, to be with you. And it fucking killed me, it - it haunted me. And every day we didn’t talk, I didn’t know how to reach out to you. And then you were gone completely.”

You’ve gone completely still. Of all the things, you expected him to say, you didn’t think that would be it.

“Please, just say something, love. Anything.” he pleads, and releases a bone-rattling sigh.

“Kyle,” and you hear your voice tremble. “I was in love with you. And you- you left me.”

As soon as you say the word love, you hear Kyle shift over, and turn to face you, and you know you should follow suit. Turn to face him and brace this reconciliation, but the thought of dealing with his rejection again keeps you in place.

He shifts, moving to grab your hand but pausing. The burning pressure behind your eyes is throbbing, and you have no doubt that you’re fully crying at this point. You feel Kyle’s stare at your back, and you crawl into yourself more, leaving only your hand outstretched for him to still anchor onto.

"That day," Kyle starts, voice cracking a little, "the one where I fell out of the helicopter..." He swallows hard. "The first thing I thought of was you.”

You suck in a shaky breath, clutching the blanket tighter.

"I thought about—" His voice catches. He scrubs a hand over his face like he's trying to pull the words out by force. "I thought about how if this was it, if I was gonna die, you'd think... you'd think I didn’t love you.”

You’re certain that the entire house could hear the sob you let out at that. Without even realizing it, you’ve turned over to him, and Kyle looks just as devastated as you do.

Kyle’s eyes are red-rimmed, his mouth pressed tight like he’s holding back everything at once. He starts to reach for you, then pulls back, and fists the sheets instead.

"I wanted to call you," he says hoarsely. "A thousand times. I just—" He laughs once, brokenly. "I didn’t know how to fix it. I didn’t know what to say to make it better."

You stare at him, blinking hard, heart hammering against your ribs.

"I just..." His voice goes nearly silent. "I missed you so much, love."

He lets the silence stretch between you. A lifetime of things unsaid crowding the room.

"I'm sorry," he says again, almost inaudible. "For all of it."

You don’t say anything, close your eyes for just a moment to process what was just said to you. Kyle continues to breathe shakily, closing his eyes as well.

He’s thrown out his lifeline, laid every card on the table, and you feel your heart break — for all the words unsaid, for all the time missed.

You tentatively grab his hand, intertwining your fingers together fully.

Kyle chokes on a sob, shifting closer so your foreheads touch, closing his eyes to breathe you in, holding tight to the fact that you’re just there, close and in his arms once again.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, and you two stay like that, fingers intertwined as you fall asleep.

♡ ♡ ♡

October 12, 2024 -  1:28 A.M.

Kyle mentally runs through the wedding planner’s checklist to make sure he doesn’t do something stupid, like tripping on an untied shoelace and face-planting down the aisle.

He glances down at the daisy chain wrapped around his wrist, something you had woven for him the day before, tucking it into his palm with a kiss to the cheek before vanishing behind closed doors until today.

It took time to get here. To rebuild the foundation, and Kyle wishes he could say it was easy. That things simply slid back into the place the way they used to when you were kids.

He took the time to learn you again, the woman you’d become in those eight years, no longer just the girl who climbed over his fence or the teenager who spun with him under disco lights.

And the more he found, the more he fell.

Nobody was surprised when you finally announced that the two of you were dating. Both your mums claimed they knew all along. Kyle suspects they did.

Then the violins start.

Everyone stands.

And Kyle has to remind himself how to breathe.

Your silhouette appears at the end of the aisle, and his heart pulls so tight it aches. You glow, so soft and radiant in white, and walking arm in arm with your father. And suddenly he’s seven years old again, dressed in his favorite Easter outfit, as a circle of stuffed animals bear witness to your first “wedding.”

The memory clings to him now, tugging at his ribs like a second heartbeat.

You catch his eye, and he smiles widely.

You smile back even brighter.

You take your time crossing the aisle, careful with every step, the train of your dress sweeping heavy behind you.

After Christmas Eve, everything shifted. Kyle called every day, texted when he could, and reached out in whatever way to let you know he was thinking of you. And you, despite everything, met him there, refusing to run and instead letting him show up.

After what feels like an hour, you finally make it to the front of the alter, your father kissing your cheek before handing you off and you step in front of Kyle.

“Hi,” he whispers. His cheeks flush pink, and suddenly you see the six-year-old boy you met all those years ago, with red skin and scraped knees, and honeycomb-colored eyes that you secretly hope your kids get.

“Hi,” you whisper back, sounding so giddy to your own ears. If anyone were to look at you, you’re sure you're glowing with love as you look at the man who is about to be yours forever.

You hate to admit it, but the ceremony blurs by you until it’s time for your vows, and Kyle is shakily unfolding a piece of paper.

“The day we met, I remember I was so amazed that I could be in a place so bright compared to rainy London.” The audience laughs lightly at that, as the rain drums steadily against the chapel roof above, like London itself is blessing your vow.

“And then you came along, somehow making everything brighter. I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment everything changed.

You’ve been in my life so long, I don’t remember a version of myself without you in it. You’ve seen me through every season —every good bit, every broken bit — and you never stopped showing up. So today, I’m promising to do the same. To show up. To love you properly.

You’ve always been my home. And I’m so bloody lucky I get to spend the rest of my life coming back to you.”

You can’t hide your tears if you try, and you hope that the officiant finally says you can kiss the bride by the time you lunge toward Kyle and pull him towards you. Luckily, Kyle is just as eager and he kisses you like he’s waited half his life for this moment, the audience laughing as Kyle flips off Johnny’s suggestive coughing.

The hotel is quiet, the kind of quiet that only comes after hours of laughter and champagne and dancing until your feet ache. You’re still in your dress, the zipper half-undone, your lipstick mostly gone, when Kyle carries you through the doorway of your honeymoon suite.

It’s calm, the way you know he is, arms around your waist, forehead pressed to yours, fists balling the fabric of your dress like he can’t bear to let go. Like he might go another decade without you again.

He sets you down gently on the bed, and for a long moment, neither of you moves. You stare at one another, drinking each other in. You know every line of his face, could sketch a portrait blindfolded and backwards, but tonight he looks new. Lit from within.

In love.

“Come here,” you whisper, voice breathless with happiness, and Kyle follows the sound like a prayer. His lip finds yours, and he kisses you slow, deep, and steady. Taking his time to permanently cement this moment.

He unzips your dress like he’s unwrapping something sacred, fingertips dragging over your skin like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. You tug at his shirt with clumsy hands, and he chuckles in disbelief into your mouth, letting you pull it over his head.

“What?” You ask, smiling a little breathlessly at him, and he runs his thumb across your cheek.

“I just can’t believe it’s you,” he says, awe in his eyes and in his voice. He presses a kiss to your collarbone, moving down to your shoulder, your ribs.

You don’t have a clever reply. All you can do is kiss him, slow and deep, like saying me too without words. Your hands cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the slight curve of his smile, and you think about how you’ll always get to kiss him like this.

When he finally moves between your legs, it’s patient, worshipful. His hands fit perfectly against your hips, like he was made to hold them, and you wrap your legs around him instinctively, already breathless from the weight of him against you.

“Sill okay?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Always,” you whisper back, and he slides into you with a groan so soft and reverent it nearly breaks your heart.

“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth, pulling you in for a deep kiss.

There’s no rush, no teasing, just him rocking into you slow and sweet. His hands lace yours again like he did all those years ago, and he kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t put into words. Like saying I love you isn’t enough so he has to show it with his body.

You cry a little when you come. It’s embarrassing and messy and overwhelming and Kyle just holds you tighter, kisses your cheeks, tells you how good you’re doing, how beautiful you are. He follows soon after, soft curses pressed to your throat, hips stuttering as he falls apart with you.

You stay like that for a long time, just holding one another. Breathing each other in.

“I love you,” you whisper, tracing a light thumb over his cheek as he smiles at you.

“Forever and always,” he whispers back and kisses the inside of your wrist.

You smile against him as sleep pulls you both under.

Like gravity.

Like home.

[zenmiren]

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who pretended to listen when the higher-ups mentioned a political marriage between his clan and yours. he honestly expected that they wouldn't marry him off. he thought,'most likely a distant cousin will be chosen', but not him.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, whose world came crashing down when the higher-ups chose him to be married off. no.. he already had a woman he was interested in.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who forced a smile on the day of your wedding, sure, he didn't want to marry you, but he was taught manners, and he would treat you with the bare minimum at the least, and in his eyes, because he didn't love you, he was allowed to be unfaithful.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who lied straight through his teeth when he spoke his vows.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who always slept with his back faced towards you, you had occasionally tried to shuffle closer towards him, but he always ignored your advances

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who often lied about his whereabouts. you text him late at night, "when are you coming home?", he leaves you on seen.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who after ignoring your texts, places his phone back down to crawl back into the arms of his beloved, inhaling the scent of her french perfume.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, whose coat had a sweet note, buried deep into the pocket. "come see me soon, i miss you, toru xoxo". the note was sealed with an obnoxious bright pink lipstick mark. you had found it when you were doing laundry.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who listened to you quietly sob every night, thinking that he couldn't hear you and that he was asleep.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who, after a full year of marriage with you, started to make no effort in hiding his affair, he knew you knew.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who ditched you on your first year anniversary because his beloved was ill. he had his priorities straight.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who had the gall to start bringing her home. your shared home.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who doesn't bat an eye when you walk out of the house, all dressed up. he didn't even notice, too focused on giving all his attention to his beloved in the spare bedroom.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who had found out that his beloved had simply just been using him for the things he could provide.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who noticed the smell of men's cologne on you when you returned home.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who after a week of boredom, heartbreak, and your absence every night, finally decides to follow you to the bar you always go to.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who finds you with another man, he didn't know what came upon him but he was jealous.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who continued to spy on you, just so he could get evidence and present it to you, just so he could confront you.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who collects all his photos of you and your new man and dumps it in front of you when your eating breakfast

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who, after a heated argument with you, received a slap to the face before you grabbed your phone and wallet and walked out of the home.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who now knows what it feels like to be the unloved spouse. you both couldn't divorce each other because the higher-ups would most likely throw tantrums, so he had to suck it up and watch as you found happiness in someone that wasn't him.

arranged husband! satoru gojo, who realised he had no one to blame but himself. he didn't love you, but he thrived off the love that you gave him, and now that it was gone, the reality slapped him in the face.

this is kinda cheeks but whatevs

also i wrote this like freaking 1 week ago but i forgot about it cus i was cramming algebra 💔💔

[alygator77]

.ೃ࿐ motherhood and matrimony - mlist 𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ summary. satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.

ꨄ︎status. ongoing

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, smut, fluff, some angst, reader is single mom who recently broke off her engagement, satoru being a cute step dad, naoya is your crappy ex, triggers of prior domestic abuse (physical intimidation, emotional manipulation, from naoya)

ꨄ︎ words: currently 139k

ꨄ︎ a/n. hello ya'll, my name is aly and if you read my fic thank you so much from the bottom of my heart! this story really hit the ground running, originally it was a request from a lovely anon ♡ and apparently i cannot write short fics for the life of me because it turned into something big lol, halp.. i'm unsure how many chapters it will have because i am just seeing where the inspiration takes me :') i will update tags/warnings as the story progresses. thanks for reading <3 (also this will have a happy ending)

ꨄ︎ taglist: open (ao3)

ꨄ series tags #mhm #motherhood and matrimony

♬︎ playlist

ꨄ︎ chapters

ch 1 // circumstances and commitments

ch 2 // under the spotlight

ch 3 // fractured realities

ch 4 // shadows of doubt

ch 5 // a leap of faith

ch 6 // drenched in truth

ch 7 // the road ahead

ch 8 // inhale, exhale

ch 9 // blood and betrayal

ch 10 // ruin and reverence

ch 11 // pending..

ch 12 // pending..

ch 13 // pending..

ꨄ︎ extra chapters

autumn special // harvesting happiness (read after ch 6)

christmas special // wrapped in love (read after ch 7)

ceo! satoru headcannons (can read at any time)

[hy0rii-deactivated20250521]

never yours

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x Reader Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/No Comfort Word Count: 2,328

being first never meant being loved

You, Ryomen Sukuna’s first wife, were strolling through the estate's gardens late at night. During the moonlit walk, you noticed your husband and Lady Mirai sitting on a bench chatting, laughing, and sharing soft kisses, an affection you had never received. Never will.

Sukuna’s gaze on her is soft and affectionate. So tender, it makes him appear humane. That woman had made your ruthless monster of a husband into a lover. 

Your footsteps falter as the scene before you becomes too much to bear. The cool night air feels like ice against your skin, but it’s not the chill that makes your heart ache. It’s the unbearable sight of him, the man you once thought you understood, now offering tenderness to another.

You almost don’t recognize him. The monster you married, the one who had only ever been cruel, cold, and calculating, now sits beside this woman as if he’s been made human by her touch. His hand caresses her cheek, his gaze so tender and full of adoration, making your breath catch in your throat.  

That was never for you.

You gave him everything, sacrificing pieces of yourself in ways no one could understand. You loved him fiercely, despite everything. You tried to be the one who could pierce through the darkness within him, but now it’s clear. Lady Mirai has done what you never could. She has made him vulnerable in ways you were never allowed. 

Were you ever enough?

Your feet carry you away from them, from the bench where they sit, entwined in a world you are no longer a part of. 

As you quietly distance yourself, your departure from Sukuna’s side doesn’t go unnoticed. His attention is suddenly taken away from the blissful moment, his crimson gaze swiftly following the shift of your form. He observes your receding silhouette in the distance, his eyebrows furrowing in a subtle expression of contemplation. He knows you too well; he feels your sadness, jealousy, despair. But the sight of you escaping only intensifies his confusion, igniting a flicker of regret deep within him. 

Your steps are soft, silent, barely a whisper against the cold stone path. The hem of your robe trails behind you like a shadow, dragging the weight of everything you can’t say. Everything you can’t feel without breaking. You move like a ghost through the estate grounds, unseen, unheard, as though your presence no longer matters. 

The night presses close around you. You take a deep breath, slow, but it does nothing to ease the crushing weight in your chest. You want to run. To disappear into the trees, shadows, or anything that offers peace. But you can’t. You’re bound. Bound by name, by duty, by the vow you made long ago to a man who never once looked at you the way he looked at her. You’re his first wife, his first, yet all that means now is obligation—a title with no affection. But there’s no room for weakness. No space for tears. You were never allowed that luxury.

When you finally reach your chambers, you pause at the door. For a moment, you simply stand there, staring at the shoji, your throat tight, eyes burning. Your room is no longer a sanctuary, but a cage dressed in silk and silence. 

You slip inside. And close the door behind you. Not with a slam. But with a quiet acceptance of someone who knows that escape is not an option. 

As you always had, you rose with the dawn, no trace of last night’s quiet heartbreak upon your face. The pain, the loneliness, all tucked neatly beneath the folds of silk draped over your body, and the practiced grace of your movements. 

You moved through the halls with silent dignity, issuing instructions for the day, checking on the kitchens, reviewing supply lists, and ensuring the servants had everything they needed. The household thrived under your care, as it always had and always will. 

The maids bowed to you with small, warm smiles, eyes lighting up when you addressed them by name, because you always remembered them. You asked after their families, noticed when someone looked tired, and ensured they ate before their duties resumed. You were never cruel. Never distant. You made this cold, fear-laced estate feel warm, for everyone but yourself. 

Even Uraume, ever devoted to Sukuna and suspicious of new presences, offered you a respectful nod as you passed. You had earned their regard not through force but with quiet resilience, unshaken grace, and tireless work. No one could deny the truth: the estate was yours before she arrived. You had been the spine that held it upright. 

Sukuna had witnessed your unwavering resilience long before. He observed how you moved effortlessly through the estate, taking care of everything, and the way the staff responded to you. It was as if you carried the very heart of the estate within your every action.

He watched from the shadows, following you like a ghost. He absorbed each step, each gentle gesture, and every word you spoke. He saw your connection with the people in the estate, something he had never truly understood. 

As you moved through your day, the contrast between his ruthless presence and your benevolent nature deepened in his mind. Something he has taken for granted. 

You paused by the engawa, gazing out at the garden. The same garden where, not long ago, you had watched your husband give his heart to someone else. You inhaled slowly, the scent of fresh blossoms rising in the breeze. You would continue your duties, smile, and lead, be the lady of the estate. Because that is who you are. 

Even if no one sees the cracks beneath your smile, even if he never does, you would endure because that’s all you’ve ever been allowed to do.

You found the gardener tending the flowerbeds, carefully pruning the blossoms you had once ordered planted, those pale petals he favored. Flowers that never held any warmth to you, only meaning to him.

You approached calmly, and they looked up at once, bowing their heads in greeting. You greeted them with a polite smile and offered them an apology before instructing them to uproot the blooms. 

You no longer walked these grounds as a woman seeking to earn favor. You were done with that kind of hope and shaping your days around the shifting whims of a man who had already given his heart elsewhere. 

One by one, their stalks were uprooted, delicate, hollow things. You watched them cast aside in piles, petal by petal, wilting under the afternoon sun. You had spent so long tending to things that were never truly yours. So long offering pieces of yourself to a man who never once offered his in return. 

You walked to the garden's edge where the earth lay bare, untouched, waiting. And there, with care, you began to mark the places where roses would bloom, your roses, not chosen to please, not offered in exchange for love—red, deep, throned things.

Sukuna watched from a distance, his gaze sharp as he witnessed the gardeners swiftly follow your instructions. The sight of the uprooted blooms, their fragile stems now discarded, echoed in his mind like a silent admonishment. But it was your next movement that truly caught his attention. You marked the ground carefully with purpose and determination, indicating where new growth should take root. 

His jaw clenched. Your actions spoke volumes. No longer would you tend to flowers only to have them cast aside. No longer would you offer your heart in vain.

Dinner was served in silence, the dining hall echoing only with the quiet clink of porcelain and the muted steps of the servants. The dining room is bathed in soft light from paper lanterns, its U-shaped arrangement on tatami mats exuding a quiet elegance. At one end, Sukuna reclined in his chair like a king on his throne, with an unreadable expression resting behind those crimson eyes. Beside him, Lady Mirai, ever gentle, with a softness in her voice that didn’t quite reach her smile.

You sat at the opposite end, regal in posture, your hands resting lightly on your lap. The distance between you wasn’t just physical. It stretched deeper, a quiet chasm filled with all the words Sukuna never said, all the touches he never offered, and all the love he never gave.

But tonight was different.

For the first time, the food laid before you was not tailored to his palate. It was yours. Dishes you’d grown up with, spices that reminded you of war, afternoons in the gardens long gone, of a life before this one. There was no subtlety in it. It wasn't a rebellion, but a declaration: you were done living in his shadow.

Sukuna straightened in his seat, the lazy air about him retreating like a tide. His gaze settled on you, hard, then thoughtful. He watched how you lifted your chopsticks and savored each bit of the food you had chosen. For the first time, he looked at you not as a fixture of his household, not as the dutiful first wife who moved through his halls like a silent moon, but as a woman.

Not clinging. Not waiting. Simply being. 

The veil, one that had perhaps always been there, woven from years of distance and indifference, lifted ever so slightly. He saw, in that instant, what he had overlooked: the quiet strength, the fire you had that he was blind to. And gods, it was beautiful. 

For a moment, he felt a pang of guilt. A flicker of something akin to regret for all the years he had taken you for granted, for all the times he had never truly seen you before. 

Sukuna’s gaze had not moved, still fixed, still studying, as though seeing you for the first time, and beside him, Lady Mirai felt it. She felt the change. She had grown accustomed to being the center of his attention, to the gentle curve of his lips when she laughed, to the weight of his gaze, which now lingered elsewhere. On you. Her smile remained steady, but a subtle sharpness emerged, masked by sweetness.

She leaned ever so slightly into Sukuna’s presence, reclaiming the space his attention had wandered from, asserting herself wordlessly. Her hands moved in a small gesture, directing a servant, adjusting a setting, as if testing the fit of authority. There was an unspoken declaration in her movements, in the poised elegance of her touch upon the domain that had always been yours. 

She wanted control. Not just him. But of everything. The title, the influence, and the unspoken power that came with being the one at the helm of the estate. 

His gaze flickered with a hint of agitation as Lady Mirai leaned closer to him, her subtle movements attempting to reclaim what was never hers to begin with. Sukuna, however, did not respond to her gestures, and his attention was still predominantly fixed on you.

Her attempts were met with his steely silence, her efforts to assert herself, to claim control over the domain that belonged to you, going unnoticed by him. The tension between you grew, your quiet defiance and her desperate maneuvering creating an atmosphere of unease within the dining hall. 

You did not need to assert yourself with petty displays. You didn’t need to touch what was already yours to prove it belonged to you. The aid still moved in rhythm with your routines. The meal served, the schedule maintained, the very breath of the household, it moved because you moved it. Lady Mirai might have his attention, hand, and affection. But she did not have the house. 

Days turned like pages in a book Sukuna no longer felt in control of. The estate continued as it always had, quiet, ordered, thriving beneath your hand. But something had shifted. Not in you, he had shifted. Sukuna, once unmoved by routine, now found himself watching. Observing. Remembering.

Each morning, he noticed the grace in your silence. The calm steadiness of your presence as you walked through the estate with purpose, your robes trailing behind you like a queen unbothered by the chaos beneath her. You spoke only when needed, issued commands without theatrics, yet everything fell into place around you. The staff obeyed not out of fear or duty to Sukuna, but out of respect for you.

He watched you in court, during appearances where you both were expected to sit side by side, husband and wife in title only. You spoke when spoken to, soft but distant. There was no warmth in your tone, no familiar flicker in your eyes. You addressed him as if he were a stranger, a necessary fixture, nothing more. 

And that coldness, that distance struck harder than any blade. Sukuna found himself wanting what he had never cared to earn. He remembered how you glanced his way once, silent, hopeful, patient. You stood beside him for years, never asking for affection, only recognition. And he had given you nothing. When he reached for you with his gaze, you did not reach back. You stood alone, unshaken, and he was the one left grasping at shadows. 

One night, the moon hung low and full, casting its pale light over the gardens like a watchful eye. The estate was quiet, hushed under the weight of slumber, but you moved through the stillness like a whisper. Cloaked in silk and shadow, you walked the paths you had claimed as your own, where no one else dared tread without permission.

Your roses had begun to bloom in full. Velvet-soft, stained in crimson. So alive, so utterly yours.

The garden that once took your haven away had become your sanctuary, the only place untouched by his choices, by her presence. Here, you were not the wife he ignored. Not the woman she tried to replace. Here, you were just you—rooted, alive, and blooming.  

THE END.

author's note: this is my first post on tumblr, so if you’ve read this far, thank you. i’d truly appreciate any constructive criticism, feedback, or thoughts on how i can improve going forward.

[yenayaps]

Not Just Anybody | baby daddy!sukuna x f!reader

summary: on the rare occasion that sukuna takes his nephew out to the park, he notices another kid with blush pink hair— a baby to be exact. he tries not to stare too much, but it’s hard not to, it’s a rare hair color. it’s not until the baby’s mother takes her out of the swing set and back into her stroller when he realizes why you ghosted him almost 2 years ago.

genre/warnings: hidden child trope, ex-fwb to co-parents to lovers, angst (toxic relationships, fighting), fluff, smut, mood board

notes: im very excited to announce this upcoming one-shot as a part of @indiewritesxoxo friday night flicks event! the release date is still tba and im limiting the tag list to 50, but i’ll definitely be giving updates throughout the writing process ❤️

taglist is now closed

part one

part two

part three

part four

part five

part six deep dives 1-6

part seven

All rights reserved © 2025 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

[ventismacchiato]

COMMUNITY NOTES INTERN

levi ackerman x gender neutral reader

modern universe, college students. everyone aged up levi runs the community notes on twitter, which erwin is in charge of for some reason. erwin new twitter ceo everyone! fast paced and cracky in honor of aot anniversary! also isayama said levi would get nervous/stuttery around the person he likes so i tried to emulate that a bit

[joonchwita]

AT THE BROKEN PLACES | MASTERLIST ━━ JUNG HOSEOK

summary: three years after a nasty breakup with your boyfriend, he unexpectedly comes crashing back into your life in hopes of winning you and the children he abandoned back

pairing: ex-boyfriend/baby daddy!hoseok x fem reader

genre: exes to ?, angst, fluff

taglist: CLOSED

i. hoseok's twins ii. it all comes out iii. the truth will set you free iv. in the wrong v. hydrangeas intermission. the fall vi. vii viii. ix. x.

[stxrvel]

i can fix them (no really, i can't) (m.list)

summary. the holy grail of the seven men who ruled the country's entertainment used to be your friends at school. now, ten years later and between successes and failures, what reason would they have to want to come back into your life?

pairing. eventually ot7 x f!reader.

content. cursing words, angst, suffering, slow burn, eventual-really eventual fluff, mature themes such as drugs and violence. every chapter will have their own warnings at the very top.

a/n. this is the first bts related fic i've ever posted and i hope for the best!! ofc this is inspired by i can fix him by taylor swift in case you were wondering. and this story wasn't really planned (no news for me), but it's all i've been thinking and writing about all this week, so i decided to post it! the chapters list will be posted as soon as i can! love you all and thank u for the support!

bts masterlist

chapter list.

i. absence

ii. coincidence!

iii. injustice

iv. intrusive

v. remorse

vi. disclosure

vii. coming soon...

updates will be weekly or biweekly, depending on the progress of each chapter.

[kthologue]

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look. 

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that… a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering. Curiosity. Science.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue. 

You knew it was time. Ten years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young. And hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?” 

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring DJ and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just… optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just… considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes—determined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldn’t let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked… beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing the edge of your coat. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines. 

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel… bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did… maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says—far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too—I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins. 

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him—when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be… you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead—realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a “you really fumbled the bag” look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is… just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just... tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment—God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him—this man, this brilliant, ridiculous, loyal boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

[mononijikayu]

only fools fall for you (only fools) — fushiguro toji.

Toji let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. "You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see the way you choose this life over them? Over me?" "I’m doing this for them too, you bastard." you snapped, gripping the phone so tightly your fingers ached. "So they have something to hold onto. So they never have to struggle the way we did." "Bullshit." The word hit like a slap. “What do you mean by that?” "You’re doing this for you. Just like I do it for me." His voice wasn’t angry anymore. If anything, that made it worse. He just sounded tired.

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, nsfw, r-18, explicit smut, sexual intercourse, making out, kissing, rough sex, p-i-v sex, creampie, angst, romance, teasing, hurt/comfort, pet names (babe, etc....), age gap (reader is early 40s, toji mid 50s), marriage, long-term relationship, infidelity/cheating, toxic relationship, illness, drama, slice of life, married life, emotional repression, family life, children, distress, regret, longing, profanity, acting, actors, depictions of sexual acts, depiction of naked bodies, depiction of emotional repression, mention of sexual innuendo, depiction of illness, mention of sexual intercourse, mention of secrets, mention of toxic relationship, mention of illness, actor! toji, actor! nanami, actor! reader;

WORD COUNT: 16k words

NOTE: i realized that the more i expounded on this universe, the more there i had to alter things because if i dont they might become plot holes. i edited the ages here. toji's reader is much younger than he is. though its certain to say there was a power imbalance, even if they dated when she was like 19 to 20. all the more to say there's nothing to root for in this relationship.

they were together in the beginning of reader's career and now that she's much older too. she's maybe gojo's age. nanami's reader is in the same age ranger as toji and nanami. the kids though are around the same ages. though tsumiki is at least six years younger than keiko and kenshin is a year or two older than tsumiki. anyway, i love you all!!! enjoy the series~

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

the good life ― masterlist.

TODAY WAS EIGHTEEN YEARS OF MARRIAGE FOR THE TWO OF YOU. If you were being honest, you never thought you both would ever get here. Not because you didn’t love him. If anything, loving Toji was the one thing that had always come easy. It was just as easy as breathing, just as grievous as your eyes starting into the light of the blistering sun.

There was a lot that came together with such a marriage between people like you. It was everything that you didn’t think was hard before all the deliverance of parenthood. Everything you weren’t used to. Everything that just made it a little harder to leave. Everything that made it a little harder to stare at your husband in the eye. 

There was too much that could have gone on in those eighteen years. You could barely count it. You could barely recall it. It would not be enough to sit there and talk about it either. But that was just how it was. There will always be distance, sacrifices, and to make it even worse, that putrid stubborn pride that ran deep in both of you.

You were both actors, constantly chasing roles, dreams, and paychecks, all while being parents to your young children, Tsumiki and Megumi, who, more often than not, lived with nannies more than they lived with you or Toji, regrettably.

Yet you both tried to be there, as much as you could. There should, unfortunately, be great emphasis on trying, for you were only good at trying but not succeeding. There could only be so much you could do so well before you end up admitting defeat.

Everything was hectic. Chaotic. The kind of life people envied from the outside but had no idea was slowly eroding you from the inside. One year, it was you flying across the world for a project, kissing their sleepy faces goodbye while Toji stayed home. 

The next, it was him, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead as he whispered, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Except it was never before you knew it.

It was long nights filled with blurry video calls, your kids’ faces pixelated as they recounted their days with excitement you struggled to keep up with. It was birthdays missed, watching Tsumiki blow out candles through a screen, clapping and smiling as if you didn’t feel like the worst mother alive. It was Megumi getting hurt at school, calling Toji first—not you.

There was a bitter realization that, at some point, you had fallen from first place in your children’s list of people to run to. And each time there was an incident like that, there were whispered arguments over the phone when the time difference meant you were half-asleep, his voice tight with frustration. You couldn't help it. You were a mother, who couldn’t be there. You were a bad mother, that’s what you think. Because you didn’t know how to help them.

“You said you’d be back last week.”

"Yeah, well, the shoot got extended. What do you want me to do, walk out?"

Your voice came out sharper than you intended, frustration laced in every syllable. You were exhausted, standing in the dim glow of your hotel room, the weight of the day pressing against your shoulders. 

The clock on your phone read 2:37 AM at the time. Back home, it was the middle of the afternoon. You were sure that Megumi’s soccer practice was probably ending, and Tsumiki was likely doing her homework at the dining table.

And your husband Toji, well he was at home. Or maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was at the gym, or out drinking, or somewhere else entirely. The fact that you didn’t know only made your irritation flare hotter than ever before. 

"For once in your goddamn life, just—just be here."

There was a beat of silence. Static crackled softly between you. Then, your husband Toji exhaled, rather long and slow, the way he always did when he was trying not to lose his temper. The way he had always been told at therapy.

"And what, you think I don’t want to be?" His voice was quieter now, but sharp, a blade dulled only at the edges. "You think I don’t want to be with them? With you?"

You scoffed, rubbing your temple. "If you wanted to be here, you would be."

"That’s rich, coming from you."

Your breath caught. Because he was right. He was always right about this. You left just as much as he did. You buried yourself in work, in scripts, in characters that weren’t you because it was easier than admitting that being at home, being a wife, being a mother….it was sometimes harder than anything a director could throw your way.

Toji let out a bitter laugh, low and humorless. "You think I don’t see it? You think I don’t see the way you choose this life over them? Over me?"

"I’m doing this for them too, you bastard." you snapped, gripping the phone so tightly your fingers ached. "So they have something to hold onto. So they never have to struggle the way we did."

"Bullshit."

The word hit like a slap. “What do you mean by that?”

"You’re doing this for you. Just like I do it for me." His voice wasn’t angry anymore. If anything, that made it worse. He just sounded tired.

And maybe that was the worst part of it all is that he knew you too well. That no matter how much you tried to justify it, no matter how many times you told yourself you were building a better future for your family, Toji saw right through it. He saw you. Just as much as you saw through him.

"You’re the one who told me we’d figure it out," he said after a long silence. "That we’d make it work. So tell me, sweetheart—when does that part start?"

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

Toji had always hated fighting over the phone, always saying it was pointless when you couldn’t look each other in the eye. But that didn’t stop you. Not when resentment had been festering for years, not when every conversation started feeling like a negotiation instead of a moment to miss each other.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

It was never just him. It was never just you. It was the both of you, forever chasing something outside of each other, stretching ourselves too thin and expecting love to hold it all together. And yet, even when the walls closed in, even when the bitterness threatened to tip the scale, you both stayed. Even if staying only meant trying over and over again. Even when it was already beyond repair.

You couldn’t help yourself. You just couldn’t.

Because how could you be, without him?

There were times when you wished one of you had been strong enough to walk away. It would have been easier, wouldn’t it? To throw in the towel, sign the papers, make a clean break instead of dragging each other through years of exhaustion and unspoken wounds. It would have been merciful. 

But mercy had never been your strong suit. Neither had Fushiguro Toji’s. Instead, you stayed in this cycle of breaking and mending, pushing and pulling, making love and making war, until you couldn’t tell the difference between them anymore.

"Have you ever thought about leaving?"

You had asked him once, during one of those rare nights when you both found yourselves in the same bed, staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping. There were no cameras, no scripts, no rehearsed lines around you, nothing that could stop the truth from coming out of your lips.

It was just the two of you, tangled in silence, caught between the weight of everything you had built and everything you had broken. Toji didn’t answer right away. He just exhaled, long and heavy, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Yeah." The honesty of it stung, but not as much as his next words. “Multiple times.”

“Well, that’s the most honest you’ve been with me.”

“At least not while I’m drunk.” He says almost too quickly after you. Silence dwells for a moment after his breath. "But then I remember I don’t know what the fuck I’d do without you, babe. I really don’t."

You turned your head, searching for something in his profile. There was that familiar furrow in his strong brow, the line of his jaw, the way his fingers drummed a slow, absentminded rhythm against his well toned stomach.

"That’s not…….you know what I mean, Toji." 

He snorted, dry and humorless. "Never said it was.”

“But…..do you love me?”

“What sort of question is that?” He snickers back at you. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Those three words have become a taboo between the two of you. Only fools said those sorts of things to each other. It was too sacred, too honest, too passionate, too loving, too good. These were things you and Toji have long stopped being. 

A beat passed. A breath. And then, before you could stop yourself, before you could think about the consequences of asking, the words slipped out. "Not even when Tsumiki isn’t yours?"

This time, Toji didn’t hesitate at all with his response. He let out a sharp, cynical laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. You could see the way his muscle tenses each time the talk is brought up between the two of you—even in childish fights. You wanted to see each other hurt. You wanted to see each other burn.

And yet, this moment was real. It was tender. You meant it this time, to ask him about this. Not out of malice, not to exploit him where it hurts. Instead, you meant it with all your heart. You were finally being genuine.

"I cheated on you, and that’s the result." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. 

No excuses, no justifications. The truth, laid out in the open between you. The one neither of you ever talked about, the one you had swallowed down for years, pretending it didn’t fester beneath the surface. He turned his head then, finally looking at you, dark eyes unreadable in the dim light of your bedroom.

"But that’s the past." His voice was quieter now, but firmer, like it was something he had told himself over and over again. Like it was something he needed to believe.

“Yes.” You whispered to him in reply, just as quietly. “It is.”

"She’s my daughter." His fingers clenched slightly against the sheets before he forced them to relax. "Not anyone else’s. Just mine.”

You swallowed. Because you knew Toji meant it. He had never treated Tsumiki any differently, never once let her believe she was anything other than his. He had tucked her into bed, taught her how to ride a bike, held her when she cried over scraped knees and schoolyard heartbreaks. 

And yet, you had wondered—selfishly, cruelly—if he had ever resented her.

 If he had ever looked at her and seen the biggest mistake of his life.

"Do you ever think about it?" you whispered, because you needed to know.

Toji exhaled sharply through his nose. "Every fucking day."

The admission settled between you like a bruise, dark and aching. “....I see.”

"But not the way you think." His hand found yours then, fingers slipping between yours, rough and warm, calloused from years of fights and work and holding on too tightly.

“What do you mean by that?”

"I don’t think about the way she got here." He squeezed your hand once. "I just think about what my life would look like if she wasn’t in it."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "And?"

Toji’s lips twitched, something softer flickering across his expression before it faded just as quickly. "And it’d be a hell of a lot worse."

You turned your head back to the ceiling, blinking against the tightness in your throat. "Yeah."

And just like that, the past. All the ugly, unspoken, unforgivable past seemed to settle back into silence. Where it always had been. Where it always would be. But he had reached for your hand, fingers tangling with yours, holding tight. And you had let him. 

Maybe that was all you had left now. It was not truthful love, not at all. It was not as bright. It was not that burning thing it had once been, but something else. Yet maybe that was for the best. You would not have lasted this long without it.

You were content with this, your little something. Something quieter. Something heavier. Something built from shared history, shared destruction, and the fear of a world where the other no longer existed in it. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t right. But it was yours. And for eighteen years, it had been enough.

You swirl the wine in your glass, watching how the deep red clings to the sides. It reminds you of the past, of nights spent drowning in resentment, of fights that left unseen wounds, of years where you weren’t sure whether you hated him or hated yourself more.

You glance at Toji. He looks the same as he always does. Still rough around the edges, too handsome for his own good, wearing that perpetual smirk like life has never been cruel to him. But you know better. You see the things no one else does. The guilt that still lingers on both your hearts, the weight of  endless mistakes that can’t ever be undone.

"I cheated on you, and that’s the result."

The words still echo in your head, not painful anymore. It was just a memory now, faded at the edges. Because you had made your mistakes, too. You had your own sins to answer for. But unlike him, you don’t feel guilty. At least, not anymore. Mrs. Kento freed you. As much as you had freed yourself. 

Maybe you should. Maybe you would have some shame. Maybe, in another life, you would have. But in this one, in this marriage that has been more war than love, you learned long ago that guilt was a luxury. It was for people who wanted to atone, people who wished things had gone differently.

You have no regrets now.

But Toji did. He always would.

You had forgiven him, after all.

Yet he knows you’ll never forget.

You see it now, in the way he glances at you between sips of his drink, like he’s waiting for something. Punishment? Forgiveness? You’re not sure. Maybe he’s not, either. But it’s too late to give one on your part. You were too exhausted with that game. And you were a fool. The best thing a woman like you could be. Well, at least that’s what you think.

"What?" you ask, tilting your head.

He exhales through his nose, a soft huff of laughter. "Nothing."

But it’s not nothing. You know him too well for that. "You look like you got something to say."

"I don’t."

"Liar."

He smirks at that, shaking his head. For a moment, the weight between you lifts, the bitterness dulling into something more tolerable. "Eighteen years, huh?" he says, leaning back in his chair. "Didn’t think we’d make it this far."

"Neither did I." You take a sip of your wine, letting it settle on your tongue before swallowing. "Yet here we are."

"Here we are." He clinks his glass against yours. "Still standing."

You arch a brow. "Barely."

He grins. "Still counts."

You shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. Because maybe Toji was right. Maybe it did count.Maybe, despite all the years of hurt and betrayal and anger, despite everything you lost along the way, you both still tried. And maybe, just maybe — that was enough.

You kissed him, pouring all your pent-up emotions into it with that drunken spirit. Your lips moved against his with a desperate urgency, as if you were trying to make up for all the years you'd wasted apart. Toji’s hands were everywhere, roaming your body with a possessive hunger. He gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him as he deepened the kiss. 

You gasped for breath, consumed by him, by the feel of his lips, his hands, his body pressed against yours. In that moment, nothing else mattered. The past, the future, the world outside —  it all faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in each other's arms.

Toji's massive hands gripped your hips painfully, his fingers digging into your flesh as he yanked you against him. His kiss was brutal, punishing, as if he were trying to devour you whole. They always were.

You gasped, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs. Toji's tongue invaded your mouth, dominating, claiming, leaving no room for protest. His hands roamed your body possessively, squeezing and groping as if he owned every inch of you.

"We belong to each other, don’t we?" He growled against your lips, his voice laced with a toxic mix of bitterness and affection and desire."You've always been mine, and I'm never letting you go again."

Toji ripped your shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. He tore at your bra, freeing your breasts, and palmed them roughly. His touch was painful, bordering on cruel, but your body betrayed you, nipples hardening under his calloused hands.

Toji's mouth descended on your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he marked you. He sucked hard, intent on leaving a bruise, a visible claim of ownership. His hands slid down your body, popping the button on your skirt and yanking down the zipper. 

Toji hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging both your skirt and underwear down in one brutal motion. He spun you around, bending you over the nearest surface, not caring what it was.

Toji kicked your legs apart, his hand coming down hard on your bare ass. The sharp sting made you cry out, but he ignored it, his fingers digging into your hips as he positioned himself behind you.

"Toji….please." you gasped, your voice a mix of pain and plea. 

But your husband wasn't listening. He was lost in his own twisted desire, driven by all these years that had come about this marriage. He was always like this when it comes to that.

You don’t blame him. You both were the worst people you knew. And he was desperate most of the time to pretend that the innocence of your love before this was still there.   

He drowned in you as he let his hips snapped forward, his cock plunging into you with a force that stole your breath. He set a punishing pace, each thrust designed to hurt, to claim, to dominate. Toji's hand came down on your ass again, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room. Tears streamed down your face, a mix of pain and unwanted pleasure coursing through your veins.

"You're mine, babe." Toji growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Say it. Say you're mine." His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back as he continued his brutal assault.

"I'm yours, I’m yours….." you whispered, your voice breaking. 

It was the only thing you could say, the only thing that would stop the pain. Toji's grip on your hair tightened, his hips slamming into you with renewed vigor. You mewled as he dug deeper with each and every move.

"Louder, babe." he demanded, his voice a snarl. "I want the whole fucking world to hear you."

You took a shuddering breath, forcing the words out. "I'm yours, Toji. I'm yours!"

The admission seemed to snap something inside him. Toji's movements became erratic, his thrusts losing their rhythm as he chased his release. He came with a roar, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled you with his seed.

But even as he emptied himself into you,  Fushiguro Toji didn't stop. He continued to thrust, his movements slower now but no less intense, as if he were trying to brand you with his touch, to imprint himself onto your very soul.

"Never forget it." Toji groaned brutishly, his breath hot against your ear. "You belong to me. Only me….I belong to you the same way. You know that, don’t you? You always have. You always will. This was just a reminder." 

His words sent a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and something darker, something you refused to acknowledge. Toji's hand slid around your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck possessively.

"I'll never let you go." Toji whispered, his voice a sinister promise. "I'll kill anyone who tries to take you away from me."

“Toji, fuck fuck…huh…ah—”

“You could fuck whoever you want, babe.” He says, choking in his pleasure. “But, fuck—only I have you. Only I do. You know that.”

“I….you’re—too good! Toji, deeper! Fuckkkkkk…….”

His grip tightened slightly, just enough to make you gasp for air. You could feel your husband's other hand snaked around your bruising hip, his long  fingers finding your clit and rubbing in rough, demanding circles.

"Come for me." he commanded, his voice low and dangerous."Come on my cock like the good little slut you are." His words, his touch, the lack of oxygen. It all combined to push you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing as pleasure mixed with pain. Fushiguro Toji's fingers dug into your throat, his touch bordering on violent as he rode out your climax. He thrust into you erratically, brutishly, barbarically, feeling his own release building again.

"Fuck, yes, yes…..fucking fuckkkkkkk….." he growled, his hips slamming into yours with a bruising force. "Take it all. Baby, fuck, you feel so good. Take it. Every last drop."

Toji's body tensed, his cock pulsing inside you as he came a second time. He collapsed on top of you, sweat blending as his weight crushed you into the surface beneath you. You gasped for air, your lungs burning horribly, your body aching. Toji's hand slid from your throat, his fingers trailing down your chest possessively.

"Mine, mine…." he murmured, his voice slurred with satisfaction. "You're all mine."

Toji stayed buried inside you, his softening cock a constant reminder of what had just happened. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so that you were spooned against his chest.  His strong weary wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against him.

You lay there, stunned and shaken, your mind reeling from the intensity of the encounter. Toji's breath was hot against your neck, his heartbeat steady and strong in your ear. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, his lips surprisingly gentle.

Toji chuckled, the sound low and mocking. "Happy anniversary, my dear wife.” he said, his fingers trailing down your arm in a parody of affection. "Another year of blissful married life."

You snorted, rolling your eyes. "Blissful? Is that what you call it? Or what the trends call it?" you retorted, poking him in the chest. "I seem to remember spending half the year sleeping on the couch."

Toji caught your hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness. "Ah, but think of all the fun we had when I finally dragged you back to bed, babe." he smirked. "You know you can't resist me for long."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Arrogant bastard." 

You mutter those words and yet there was no heat behind the words. This was a dance you both knew well, a twisted game of push and pull that defined your marriage. You had been through this too many times before. 

Toji's grin widened, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, I'm not just a bastard, I'm your bastard, aren’t I?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And you love me for it."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Or maybe you just love the way I fuck you when you're being a brat."

You gasped, your cheeks flushing at his crude words.But before you could retort, Fushiguro Toji's mouth was on yours, kissing you deeply, possessively. He bit your lip, hard enough to sting, before pulling back.

"Now, how about we celebrate our anniversary properly?" he suggested, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass. "I'll even let you top this time, if you're feeling generous."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at your lips. "In your dreams, Fushiguro Toji." you said, pushing him away playfully. "I'm not that easy."

Toji laughed, the sound rich and warm. Your husband grabbed you around the waist, pulling you back against his chest. You started to laugh with him, shaking your head. You were sure that it was the mix of the wine, the pleasure and the ambiance that had put you into such a good mood. 

"Oh, you're easy, babe." he teased, nipping at your neck. "You're just playing hard to get."

You giggled, squirming in his arms. "Prove it to me. Right now." you challenged, your eyes sparkling with mirth. 

Toji groaned, his hands roaming your body. "Fine, I'll prove it. But first, I need more wine." 

You slyly smiled. “That’s more like it. Go on and get it.”

He released you, heading towards the kitchen. "Red or white?" he called over his shoulder. "And don't you dare say 'surprise me', or I'll choose the cheapest bottle we have."

You laughed, settling back onto the couch. "Red." you shouted back. "And make it a good one, or I'll make you sleep on the couch tonight."

“So demanding you are.”

“Hm, that’s what you still need to learn after eighteen years.”

“We’ve been together longer than that.”

You laughed. “That’s why we’re fools, aren’t we?”

“Hm.” He mumbles as he leans in, kissing you as he holds the wine in his hands. “True enough.”

YOU AND TOJI TAKE LONGER BREAKS NOW. And that was perhaps for the best now that the kids are getting older. You’ve decided this a long time ago, but it was only now that it was a reality. With Toji and you being under your own management, there was more ability to say no to projects more often. 

Now that you and Toji are finally able to be a little less busy, you find yourselves grasping at the time that once slipped so easily through your fingers. It’s a strange thing, this newfound stillness. 

After years of living out of suitcases, jumping from set to set, and calling home through glitchy video calls, the quiet should be a relief. But in truth, it’s unsettling. Because now, without the distraction of work, you’re forced to face the spaces you left behind.

You try as much as you can. You really put everything in trying and succeeding to spend more time with your kids, to be present in ways you couldn’t be before. But parenting, when you’ve spent so long being absent, is a careful balance of patience and guilt. 

You’re stepping into lives that have learned how to function without you, and no matter how much they love you, no matter how many dinners you cook or movie nights you organize, there’s no undoing the years of distance.

Seventeen year old Fushiguro Tsumiki is about to take her entrance exams for college, a milestone that you can hardly believe is already here. You remember the day she first came into your life, all wide eyes and soft smiles, and now she’s filling out applications, weighing her options, making plans for a future that doesn’t depend on you or Toji.

Tsumiki sat at the kitchen table, hunched over her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she typed out her application essay. The soft glow of the screen illuminated her face, highlighting the furrow in her brow, the quiet determination in her eyes.

Toji leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with an unreadable expression. You could tell he wanted to say something but wasn’t sure how to say it without making it sound like an argument.

"Are you sure about this school?" he finally asked, his voice casual, though you knew better. "Could be a bit too far from us, don’t you think?"

Tsumiki barely spared him a glance, too focused on the words forming on her screen. "Yeah, I’m going to be fine at this school, dad."

There was a slight exasperation in her tone, but it wasn’t angry. Instead, it was that was her tender firmness, like she had already decided, like this was something she had put real thought into. At times, you like to think she got that from Toji.

"It’s got the best program for what I want to do."

Toji scratched his jaw, pretending like he didn’t already know the answer to the question he was about to ask. "And what’s that again?"

Tsumiki rolled her eyes, a soft huff escaping her lips as she finally looked up at him. "I’ve told you a hundred times, dad."

Toji shrugged, pushing off the counter. "Yeah, well, tell me again."

You expected her to be annoyed, to say something sharp about how he never listened, about how he always asked the same things but never really heard her. But instead, she sighed and sat back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

"It’s got the best program for child psychology, Kyoto University." she said, her voice softer now. "It’s one of the top schools for it. The research they do there, the opportunities… it’s what I need if I want to do this seriously."

“Okay, I see.”

She paused, studying her father, then added. "And it’s not like I’m moving across the world. It’s a few hours away."

Fushiguro Toji took a moment and exhaled slowly, leaning against the chair across from her, running a hand down his face. He nodded, though he didn’t say anything right away. It wasn’t about the school. Not really.

It was about her—about how she was growing up, about how she wasn’t a little girl anymore. About how, one day soon, she would leave, and there wouldn’t be application essays sprawled across the kitchen table or late-night snacks stolen from the fridge when she thought no one was looking.

And maybe Fushiguro Tsumiki understood that.

Because instead of snapping at him for forgetting, for questioning her choices, she met him where he was, speaking to him with patience and grace. As if she could see past his words, straight into the unspoken fear buried beneath them. Because at the end of the day, her dad was just concerned for her and wanted her around.

As if she knew he wasn’t really asking about the school.

He was asking if she was really ready to go.

And she was, she was a grown young woman ready to go.

You just sat there, listening to them, watching the way Toji asked questions he already knew the answers to, the way Tsumiki answered with more patience than he probably deserved. It was such a small thing, a simple conversation between a father and his daughter, but it lodged itself deep in your chest, heavy with a kind of warmth you hadn’t felt in years.

For all your shortcomings, for all the missed birthdays, the forgotten recitals, the times you had been nothing more than voices through a speaker or fleeting figures in the doorway—Tsumiki still let you in.

She still sat at this table with you. She still spoke to you both with openness, as if she had never once resented the distance, as if she had never longed for different parents, ones who had always been there. She could have turned away. She could have built walls so high neither of you could have reached her.

But instead, she waited to open that letter in front of you. Instead, she still explained her dreams, still let you be part of them, even after all the years you had spent missing pieces of her life. And that was what broke you the most.

Not the guilt, not the regret—but the grace.

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, gripping the edge of your seat as if grounding yourself would somehow make this moment last longer. It wasn’t often that the past allowed itself to be forgiven, and yet, here was Tsumiki, still offering it to you freely, without expectation, without resentment.

Toji exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, the weight of it all pressing down on him in real time. "Well, guess that means I better start looking at housing prices out there."

Tsumiki blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. "Dad—"

"What?" he shot back, crossing his arms. "You think I’m gonna let you live in some shitty dorm with mold in the walls? Not a chance."

"Dorms aren’t that bad—"

"Have you seen those places? I’d rather pay for you to live somewhere that won’t give you some disease." Toji says to her, shaking his head. “What daughter of mine will live in some shithole? Your mother and I make more than enough to get you some good apartment, you know that.”

You shook your head, pressing your lips together to hide the smile threatening to form. "Toji, let her breathe. She hasn’t even left yet, and you’re already planning to follow her."

He scoffed. "Damn right I am. What kind of dad would I be if I didn’t at least check out the area? Make sure she’s not living next to some creep?"

Tsumiki groaned, dropping her face into her hands, but you caught the small smile tugging at her lips before she did. "Oh my god, you two are impossible."

"You love us, admit it, sweetie." Toji said easily, smirking.

And she didn’t argue. She just shook her head, laughing softly, before turning her attention back to her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard once more with the eager zealousness she had always had.

You sat back, watching them bicker, watching the way the warmth filled the space between you all, and something inside you settled. Because after everything, after the misgivings, the years spent apart, the quiet fractures that once seemed irreparable. 

She was still here. She still let you be her parents And maybe you hadn’t always been good at it. Maybe you had spent too many years failing, too many years missing the moments that mattered. But somehow, she still lets you try.

Then there’s your son Megumi. Your youngest, but never really your baby. He has always been too sharp, too self-sufficient, always moving through life like he already knows how it ends. And you didn’t know how you could have been a better mother than he already was to himself.

Fushiguro Megumi never hated acting. That much you knew. If anything, he was good at it. He was just that talent that comes once in a lifetime. He was so good, in fact, that it was almost frustrating. 

Some people spent their whole lives fighting for a place in the industry, scraping for every opportunity, but for Megumi, it came easy. Natural. Directors liked him, critics praised him, and his face had become familiar in the industry, even if he never really tried to be.

But you saw it. In the way his shoulders tensed at red carpet events, the way his polite smiles never quite reached his eyes. In the way he flipped through scripts like they were another chore on his to-do list rather than a dream waiting to be realized.

"There’s too much damn dialogue in this thing." he muttered one night, stretching across the couch, script in one hand, a book in the other. “I’m not like Yuuji who can do this all the time!”

You looked up from your own book, raising a brow. "Too much dialogue? That’s the whole point, Megumi. It’s called acting."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, flipping a page lazily before tossing the script onto the coffee table with a sigh. "It’s just… too much talking. Too much over-explaining. Sometimes a look is enough, you know? A pause. A beat. You don’t need a five-minute monologue about life and its fleeting purpose to get that across."

You smirked. "Try telling that to the writers."

"Believe me, I have." he deadpanned, tilting his head toward you. "They don’t listen."

You hummed, watching him. The way his fingers skimmed the worn spine of his book, the way he traced over the inked words as if they carried more weight than any script ever could.

"Why don’t you quit, then?" you asked after a beat, catching him off guard. “I’m sure whatever you do, me and your dad will support you.”

Megumi blinked at you, his lips parting slightly before pressing into something unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might actually consider it, might admit something he hadn’t before. But instead, his mouth curled into a small, knowing smirk.

"I don’t hate it," he said simply, shrugging as he leaned back against the couch.

"No?" you challenged, tilting your head.

"No." He looked down at his book, flipping a page with deliberate ease. "I just like something else more."

You nodded, letting his words settle between you. "Literature?" you guessed.

He exhaled, glancing at you briefly before returning to his book. "Stories."

Something about the way he said it, quiet but certain, stuck with you. You and Toji had spent your whole lives chasing the next big role, the next big paycheck, the next big thing. You had built your careers on the idea that passion and success were the same, that you could never have one without the other. 

But Megumi, he just knew exactly where his love lay. And more importantly, he wasn’t afraid to say it. You watched him for a while, the way his gaze lingered on the words before him, how relaxed he looked in that moment, lost in a world of his own choosing.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt something settle inside you. Maybe he wouldn’t chase the same dreams you did. Maybe he wouldn’t take every job, every opportunity, every chance to stay relevant in an industry that never let anyone rest. 

"We should have dinner together, shouldn’t we?" you said, glancing between Megumi and Toji, who were both still lounging in the living room. "It’s been a while since we actually sat down as a family, and I don’t mean takeout at the kitchen counter."

Toji stretched, cracking his neck as he glanced over at you. "Yeah, that’s a good idea. We can go somewhere nice. Anywhere you guys want."

Megumi just grunted in response, still nose-deep in his book, which you took as his usual version of agreement. “I guess.”

But then Tsumiki, who had been sitting at the dining table with her laptop open, perked up slightly. "Can Kenshin come?"

You paused, your brows furrowing. "Nanami Kenshin?"

She nodded, twirling her pen between her fingers. "Yeah. He’s been kind of… going through it."

You exchanged a glance with Toji before settling your gaze back on her. "What’s wrong?"

Tsumiki sighed, closing her laptop and leaning forward on her elbows. "You know about his dad, right? The cheating rumors?"

You exhaled sharply, feeling the air punctured from your lungs. "Yeah. It’s been everywhere."

Nanami Kento’s scandal had taken over the news cycle for weeks. The once-stoic, well-respected actor had been photographed leaving a hotel with someone who was not his wife, and from there, the speculation spiraled. 

Every single day, there were headlines, opinion pieces, talk shows dissecting his every move, paparazzi following not just him, but his family. Kenshin, being his only son, was getting dragged into it whether he wanted to or not.

In some ways, you were lucky that you never got caught. But it was just that he was good at hiding his tracks more when you both worked together. And you worked together more than twice in two years.

Yet it had to end, once you gave birth to Tsumiki. And then when you were pregnant with Megumi. It wasn’t fair to your children. It never was and it never will. That’s why you broke it off. 

"He’s not handling it well." Tsumiki admitted, biting the inside of her cheek. "You know how private he is. And now he can’t even go outside without a camera in his face. He barely eats, barely sleeps. He’s just… stressed, and I figured maybe having dinner with us would help."

You sighed, rubbing your temple. You’d known Kenshin since he was a kid—he and Tsumiki had been close for years, practically growing up together. He had always been serious, quiet like his father, preferring to stay out of the limelight even though his last name made that impossible.

"Of course he can come." you said finally, softening. "We’ll make sure he eats something."

Tsumiki smiled, relieved, as she reached for her phone.

Toji, who had been silent this whole time, finally huffed. "Tch. If that dumbass father of his had half a brain, he’d have kept his shit together."

You shot him a look. "Not the time, Toji."

He grumbled under his breath but didn’t argue. You watched as Tsumiki typed out a message to Kenshin, and something in your chest ached. Because for all the ways you had failed as parents over the years, Tsumiki had grown into someone who noticed when others were hurting.

And that had to mean something.

As you looked at your husband, he knew.

This was a hurt your daughter should never know.

IT WAS EERIE THAT EVERYTHING WAS THIS PEACEFUL. After being in the limelight for so long, you were just used to being surrounded by many people. People who were watching you eat, have a glass of wine, and have a conversation. Tonight was a whole other thing.

The restaurant was quiet, a dimly lit private dining space meant to shield its patrons from the outside world. It was the kind of place you and Toji had grown accustomed to over the years, where deals were made, secrets were kept, and appearances were carefully crafted under the warm glow of candlelight.

But as you slid into your seat across from Nanami Kenshin, no amount of careful curation could settle the knot in your stomach. You had spent your whole life perfecting the art of deception. On screen, in interviews, even at home. You could lie with your face, with your voice, with the ease of someone who had done it for far too long.

But now, as you watched Kenshin unfold his napkin with quiet precision, his brows drawn together in that familiar, contemplative way, you felt something unravel inside you. Because he looked just like his father. Too much just like him.

It had been easier when they were children, when Kenshin and Tsumiki were nothing more than two kids bonding over burnt pastries and mismatched spices in their middle school culinary club. Back then, your fears had been different and rather miniscule, smaller than dust. 

You had only worried about whether Tsumiki would get along with the other students, or whether she would find a friend in the reserved, sharp-eyed boy who always seemed to prefer the background. Back then, Tsumiki didn’t look like Kento.

But as the years passed, something shifted. It was in the little things at first. It was the way her patience stretched longer, the way her silences began carrying weight, the way she observed before speaking, before acting.

Then it was in the eyes. His caramel eyes. And now, sitting across from Kenshin, you felt it again. That gnawing weight in your chest. You couldn’t help but feel your lips dry up. You immediately lift your wine glass up to your lips and drank swiftly.

"You okay?" Toji’s voice was low, his hand settling against your thigh under the table, a gentle squeeze meant to keep you tethered.

You forced a nod, fingers curling around the stem of your wine glass, though the drink did nothing to soothe you. Because it wasn’t about regret. It had never been about regret. You had made your choices long ago, and you had lived with them.

But guilt? Well, the guilt here was different. And it was something you promised you would never feel again. But you couldn’t help it. Not in front of him. You owe it to him to feel a little bit guilty, even if it was all years ago. You were complicit. You were just as guilty.

You continued to let your eyes linger. You could see it. Your own guilt. Guilt was staring at the dark circles under Kenshin’s eyes, at the way he barely touched his menu, exhaustion weighing him down in ways that had nothing to do with the long day he must have had.

Guilt was watching him flinch slightly when Toji made an offhand remark about the press. Guilt was knowing that he didn’t deserve any of this. Guilt was making him stay here with the woman that his father slept with.

And yet, he bore the brunt of it all—the whispers, the cameras, the endless speculation. The price of being born into a home that no longer felt like one. The home you helped ruin. And he would never even know.

Tsumiki was the one to break the silence.

"You should eat, Kenshin." Her voice was soft but firm, the kind of tone she only ever used when she was worried.

Kenshin barely looked up from the menu, his fingers resting against the edges of the pages, but he hadn’t turned them once. "I’m not really that hungry."

You watched as Tsumiki frowned, her brows knitting together in quiet concern.

"You still need to eat, you idiot." she pressed, nudging his foot under the table. "I didn’t invite you just so you could sit here and mope, you know."

Kenshin exhaled sharply through his nose, something close to amusement flickering across his face, but it was faint. He closed the menu and leaned back against his chair, tilting his head slightly in her direction. "You invited me?"

"Of course I did." she said easily, like it wasn’t even a question. “Didn’t you answer me on the phone earlier? At least act interested! My parents are paying!”

Kenshin didn’t respond right away. He stared at her for a long moment, eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place—hesitation, gratitude, maybe even exhaustion. And then, slowly, he picked up the menu again, actually looking at it this time.

"Fine. But you’re ordering for me."

Tsumiki smiled, triumphant. "Obviously."

Toji, who had been silent this whole time, huffed a small chuckle before glancing at you. "They remind you of anyone?"

You knew what he was implying. You and him, all those years ago. It was before the fights, before the resentment, before the weight of your mistakes began pressing into every crack of your marriage. But you couldn’t even force a smile. Not with Kenshin sitting there, unknowingly reminding you of everything you had spent years trying to forget.

"So, Kenshin–senpai." Megumi spoke up, finally tearing himself away from his book. He turned to Kenshin, arching a brow. "How’s your mom doing?"

The question was casual enough, but you stiffened, your fingers tightening around your wine glass. Kenshin sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "She’s… dealing with it. I don’t know. It’s been rough." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "She’s handling it better than I am, though."

You swallowed. Because how could he not be struggling? How could he not be going through it? His whole life had been dragged into the spotlight, his father’s name turned into nothing more than a headline, a scandal, a spectacle.

“Your sister must be just as distraught too.” Tsumiki murmured under her breath, looking with empathy at her best friend. “I hope she’s alright.”

“She’s in Kyoto right now, that’s where she’s prepping for her licensing exams.” Kenshin sighed. “Honestly, I know it’s best for her. But I worry about her. I know that she gets really bad when she’s upset.”

You forced yourself to speak, voice even. "If she ever needs anything, let her know she can call me. I’m sure we can do something for your sister too.”

Kenshin nodded, but his gaze remained unreadable. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Fushiguro. I appreciate it. Really.”

Toji watched you closely, his fingers tapping against his glass, but he said nothing. And as the conversation moved forward, shifting into lighter topics. Now onto university plans, upcoming projects, the best dish on the menu. In that time, you forced yourself to push the guilt down.

Because Kenshin still didn’t know.

And you told yourself that was all that mattered.

That was for his own good.

At least that's what you believed.

TOJI THINKS HE SHOULD WIN AN AWARD FOR HIS ACTING LATELY. Of course, he wasn’t talking about his jobs. He’s not filmed anything in the past year and a half. But there was something else that could give him some sort of award winning accolade. And it’s because Fushiguro Toji had been hiding something for a little while now.

Lymphoma.

It was strange, how the word hadn’t shaken him the way it probably should have. The doctor had said it gently, cautiously, like he was waiting for the weight of it to sink in. But Toji had simply sat there, one leg bouncing impatiently, as if he were waiting for something more pressing to be said.

"It’s treatable." the doctor had assured him, voice steady, professional. "But we need to start soon."

And maybe that was why it hadn’t rattled him. Maybe it was the way the doctor had framed it. It was like a problem with a solution, a challenge to be dealt with rather than a death sentence. Or maybe it was because Fushiguro Toji had lived his whole life expecting something to take him out eventually. But not today. Not yet.

"You have any questions?" the doctor had asked.

Toji had thought about it, had considered asking what the worst-case scenario looked like, and had considered asking how much time he had if treatment didn’t work. But in the end, all he had done was shake his head and stand up.

"Alright. I’ll be in touch."

And that was that.

So far, no one has noticed.

Which was a good thing.

He didn’t want anyone to be concerned.

Not his wife, who had enough to think about. It was a lot of balancing work, their marriage, their kids, all while carrying the kind of history that still bled into their present. If you knew, you would surely drop everything. You’d hover him like he was a pitiful creature. She’d watch him like he was a ticking bomb, and Toji didn’t have it in him to be the reason for that kind of worry.

Not Tsumiki, who had spent her whole damn life caring for people, who had already learned to read between the lines too well. If she knew, she’d put herself on hold. Toji had spent too many years trying to teach her not to do that, to live for herself, to stop putting the world on her shoulders.

And definitely not Megumi. Not his quiet, unreadable, sharp-eyed kid who already carried more weight than he should, who had learned too young what disappointment felt like, what distance felt like, what it meant to survive rather than simply live.

No. If Megumi knew, he’d take it on himself, the same way he always did.  And Toji couldn’t let that happen, not when his kids are doing something for themselves for once. Not when they were at the prime of their lives.

So, he hid it. 

Not when the fatigue settled in his bones, making every movement feel like dragging himself through sand.

Not when the weight slipped from him, slow but steady, his clothes fitting just a little looser, his rings spinning just a little too easily on his fingers.

Not even when the pain dug into his chest late at night, deep and relentless, the kind that kept him awake even on the nights when he was too exhausted to keep his eyes open.

Because what good would telling them do?

What good would putting that burden on them accomplish?

So, he forced himself to keep up. Forced himself to eat, even when the nausea made it difficult. Forced himself to be present, even when his body begged him to rest. Forced himself to be himself at least until he couldn’t anymore. And for now, at least, he was doing a damn good job of it.

But the thing about hiding something this big was that Toji had to be careful. It wasn’t enough to just act normal. He had to be convincing. Like he usually was. He had to keep up routines, make sure there were no suspicious gaps in his behavior.

He couldn’t afford to look tired, couldn’t hesitate when lifting the groceries or shut his eyes too long when rubbing at the ache in his chest. So far, he’d managed. Tsumiki and Megumi hadn’t noticed a thing. And you—his wife—hadn’t either. Or at least, if you had, you hadn’t said anything.

But Toji knew it was only a matter of time. Because the thing about secrets was that they always crept up, slipping through the cracks when you least expected them to. And for all his effort, for all the control he tried to maintain over his body, his body had a way of betraying him.

The first real crack came on a random Tuesday.

He had just stepped out of the shower when you entered the bedroom, flipping through something on your phone, mumbling about dinner plans. His towel hung around his shoulders, water still dripping from his hair, steam clinging to his skin.

You hadn’t been paying much attention at first, distracted, focused on something else entirely. And then you froze. Your husband Toji didn’t understand why at first—then he followed your gaze.

To his ribs.To the way his skin clung too closely to his bones, to the ghastly and rather sharp hollows that hadn’t been there before, to the proof of what he had been keeping from you all this time.

He saw the way your lips parted, how something flickered in your eyes. It was that realization he knew he never wanted to see in your face in any life time. You purse your lips into a line and then a little later, let it slip open.

"Toji." You said his name like a question. Like you were trying to confirm something you already knew.

He exhaled, reaching for his shirt, acting like it was nothing. "Yeah?"

"Have you… been eating?"

A scoff. A forced chuckle. "What kind of question is that? I eat everything that you give me, babe. I’m fine."

"You’ve lost weight."

"I’m busy with the entertainment company. And I produce too, you know. Maybe it’s that. Don't worry too much." He pulled the shirt over his head, voice easy, practiced. "It’s not like I have a home-cooked meal waiting for me every day."

You didn’t respond right away. And that was worse. Because Fushiguro Toji knew you. Knew how your mind worked, how you saw through bullshit faster than anyone else. You did not believe him one second.

You stepped closer, fingertips ghosting over his ribs through the fabric, and he had to fight the urge to step back. Your eyes were sharp, scanning him, searching for something. "You’ve been tired too, aren’t you? That’s why we took a break, didn’t we?"

"I’m getting older, too. Don’t forget that side effect."

"And you’ve been—"

"Drop it." His voice came out rougher than he meant it to. “Babe, seriously. I’m fine. Look…I’m sorry.”

Your lips pressed together, and for a split second, Toji thought he saw something flicker there. Hurt. He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before dragging a hand down his face. He forced his voice softer. 

"I’m serious about it. I’m fine. Just been working too much."

A long pause.

Then you nodded.

He saw your eyes.

But your eyes told him you weren’t convinced. And Toji didn’t like that look.  Because it meant you were starting to notice. And if you noticed, it was only a matter of time before the kids did too.

So, he needed to do better. He needed to get it together. He needed to be more careful. Needed to keep it hidden just a little longer. This was his problem. He had to solve it his way. Because he wasn’t ready for you or the kids to know. Not yet.

A LOT HAS HAPPENED OVER THE PAST FEW MONTHS. It was a few months later when Fushiguro Tsumiki got accepted into Kyoto University. And everything about it has been a splendid triumph for the Fushiguro family for quite a while. Most especially from you and Toji.

The house had been buzzing with excitement, with you crying happy tears while Megumi offered his usual quiet but sincere congratulations. Even Toji, who had never been the most expressive, had pulled her into a side hug, murmuring a gruff “Knew you’d get in.”

And now, here you were—moving her into her dorm.

Toji had insisted on helping, despite you knowing that he got tired more easily these days. He played it off well, cracking jokes about how dorm mattresses were probably just wooden planks covered in fabric and how campus food was going to be the worst thing she’d ever eat. 

But you saw it very clearly. You were watching your husband all through the steps with eyes like a hawk. You could see the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot, the way he rolled his shoulders like he was working through some ache he wasn’t talking about.

But you said nothing. Not yet.

You didn’t want to push him.

You didn’t want to make him upset.

Not today of all days, when he’s happy.

The drive there had been mostly filled with Tsumiki’s excited chatter. She kept talking about how she had already connected with her dorm mate online, how she planned to join a few clubs, how she wanted to explore the city more now that she’d be living in it.

By the time you reached the dorm, the sun was high, and the campus buzzed with students moving in, parents saying tearful goodbyes. Toji carried most of her heavier boxes despite your protests, only shooting you a look when you tried to take one from him.

Inside her dorm, it felt real. She was really going to be here. She was really moving on to this next part of her life. She’s no longer a little girl. She’s a growing young woman and there was nothing you could do to stop it. 

All the sudden you felt choked up. “I’m going to get us some beverages.”

Your husband nods at you, watching you leave the room with your forlorn look. He knew you were overwhelmed. He sighed. He moved towards the edge of the room. After setting down the last box, Toji stretched, exhaling deeply. Then he glanced around the small space, nodding as if approving it. 

“Not bad. Still think you could’ve picked something closer, though.”

Tsumiki turned from where she was unpacking her books, rolling her eyes. “Dad, it’s not even that far. It’s just Kyoto. The Shinkansen can take me home in a couple of hours.”

"Far enough." He folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the wall. "Before, if you needed anything, we were just down the hall. Now, what? Gotta call ahead and book an appointment just to see you?"

Tsumiki sighed, but there was a fondness in her expression. “You know it’s not like that.”

Toji shrugged, looking around the room before settling his gaze back on her. "You're growing up too fast. Soon, you won’t need me or your mom anymore."

Tsumiki’s hands stilled as she placed a book on her desk. Then she turned fully, brows furrowing. “That’s not true.”

"Isn’t it?" Toji smirked, but there was something else underneath it. Something unreadable. "What do you need me for anymore, huh? I don’t gotta drive you anywhere, don’t gotta pick you up from school, don’t gotta make sure your dumbass classmates aren’t getting too close to you—"

“Dad—”

"What? You think I don’t know you’re too nice to tell some loser to back off? Don’t make me show up on campus, ‘miki."

Tsumiki groaned, shoving him lightly, and Toji let himself stumble back a little, laughing. “Dad, you’re being silly again.”

Then, after a moment, his expression softened, and his voice dropped just a bit. "You’ll still be my little girl, though?"

Tsumiki tilted her head, smiling. “Yes.”

Toji let out a breath, then grinned. "Good. ‘Cause I wasn’t gonna accept any other answer."

And for a moment, it was just the two of them. They were still father and daughter, standing in the middle of a dorm that felt too empty, too new. Tsumiki looked at him like she had always looked at him. There was warmth, with trust, with the kind of affection that Toji never thought he deserved.

And for just a second, he forgot about everything else. The fatigue. The pain. The weight of a secret that felt heavier than any of the boxes he had carried up those stairs. Because right now, his little girl was starting the next chapter of her life. And he would do whatever it took to be there for as long as he could.

As the afternoon light filtered through the dorm window, Fushiguro Toji sat on the edge of Tsumiki’s bed, watching her arrange the last of her things. For a moment, he just observed. He couldn’t help but take in how grown she looked, how far she had come. 

It was strange how time worked. One day, she was just a kid clinging to his arm, asking him to carry her on his shoulders. Now, she was standing on her own, stepping into a new life, one he wouldn’t be a daily part of anymore. His chest ached, but he ignored it.

Instead, he leaned back on his hands, voice light when he spoke. “So. What do you think of your mom?”

Tsumiki blinked, caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

Toji shrugged. “Just wondering.”

She stared at him for a moment, then sighed, turning back to her desk, fidgeting with the edge of a notebook. “I love her.” she said, voice softer. “Of course, I do. She’s my mom.”

Toji hummed. “But?”

Tsumiki hesitated. Then, finally, she admitted. “I feel like there’s always been some kind of distance between us.”

Toji watched as she ran a hand over the cover of a textbook, not meeting his gaze. “I know she loves me a lot, I do. She’s taken care of me, she’s been there—but it’s just… it’s not the same as with you.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Oh?”

Tsumiki turned to him, looking guilty, as if saying it out loud made her feel like a bad daughter. “I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just—” She sighed. “With you, it’s easy. It always has been. I don’t have to think about what to say, or wonder if I’m bothering you. I just… talk. And you listen. And you tease me.” A small smile tugged at her lips. “It’s just different with Mom. It always has been. And I think she knows it too.”

Toji exhaled through his nose, tilting his head. “And Megumi?”

Tsumiki let out a small chuckle. “They have an easier relationship. They understand each other better.” She shrugged. “Maybe because he’s more like her. Or maybe it’s because he’s actually hers.”

Toji frowned at that. “You really don’t think that, do you?”

“Dad, it’s just….” She looked crestfallen, but she smiled. “It’s just complicated.”

"Tsumiki." His voice was firm, but not harsh. She looked at him, and he reached out, tapping her forehead lightly with his fingers. “You’re her daughter. That’s all that matters.”

She gave a small nod but didn’t say anything.

For a while, silence stretched between them.

Toji could remember how he was with his mother too.

Blood or not, Tsumiki was more like him than he could bear.

Then, Toji smirked, leaning back again. “So? What are you gonna do about it?”

Tsumiki frowned. “What do you mean?”

"You want things to be different with her? Then go to her. Talk to her. You’re a big girl now, right? Not scared of your own mom, are ya?"

Tsumiki huffed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

Toji chuckled, then shook his head, his voice turning a little more serious. “Look, your mom—she’s not always the best at showing things. But she does care. She’s still….dealing with a lot. But she cares. Probably more than she knows how to say. So, if you feel a distance, don’t just sit with it. Close it.”

Tsumiki bit her lip, thinking. Then, after a moment, she nodded. “Yeah… Yeah, okay.”

Toji grinned. “Good. Now, are you gonna make me sit here all day, or are you gonna feed your old man before he drives back home?”

Tsumiki laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

"Damn right I am."

And as they headed out for a meal together, Fushiguro Toji hoped—really hoped—that she would take his advice. Because no matter how messy this family was, no matter how much distance had crept in over the years, he knew one thing for sure.

You loved Tsumiki.

And she deserved to know it.

And he doesn’t want you to be alone.

YOU DIDN’T REALIZE HOW MUCH YOUR DAUGHTER ACTUALLY OWNED UNTIL NOW. The afternoon sun painted the dorm room in soft gold, dust particles catching the light as they floated lazily through the air.

The room smelled faintly of cardboard and new beginnings, the scent of fresh linens and wood polish mixing with the comfortable warmth of Tsumiki’s presence.

You and your husband Toji had been helping her unpack for the past hour, moving in a steady rhythm. You watched him carrying the heavier boxes to a storage room while you focused on putting her things away neatly. 

Tsumiki worked between the both of you, arranging her books, tucking away clothes, occasionally stopping to pull out something sentimental. It was her favorite childhood trinkets, an old photograph, a gift from Megumi she hadn’t had the heart to leave behind.

For the most part, the move-in had been filled with light chatter, your husband Toji’s occasional grumbling about “kids these days” and the ridiculous amount of stuff she had brought. You could only laugh and shake your heat at his little banters.  

But then, as you folded the last of her sweaters, Tsumiki spoke. "Mom?"

You paused, fingers brushing over the soft fabric before looking at her. "Yeah?"

She hesitated, her hands fidgeting with the hem of a well-worn t-shirt. Something flickered across her face. It was something unsure, something fragile. “I….”

You smiled softly at her. “Darling, you can tell me anything. What’s on your mind?”

"I wanted to say something to you." She exhaled slowly. "And I don’t—I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, but I think I need to say it."

Beside you, Toji stilled, his gaze shifting from the shelf he was setting up to the both of you. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t intervene. Just let her speak. He turns his back, focusing deeply on the cleaning he was doing.

"I love you." Tsumiki’s voice was soft, but steady. "I love you so much. But I—sometimes, I feel like we don’t really know each other. Not in the way I know Dad. Or even in the way Megumi knows you."

Your chest tightened. “‘miki….”

"And I know you love me, too." She rushed to add. "I do. But there’s always been this… this distance. And I guess I just… I just wish I knew why."

The silence that followed was thick. Toji was watching you now, his expression unreadable, but you could feel the weight of his presence. He wasn’t going to step in. This was between you and Tsumiki. You exhaled, pressing your hands together before finally meeting her gaze.

"Tsumiki, none of that is your fault."

Her brows pulled together slightly, the smallest hint of hurt flashing in her eyes. "Then whose is it?"

You swallowed hard, feeling the words press against the back of your throat like something heavy, something unbearable. "Mine, darling." you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "All of it."

Tsumiki’s lips parted, but no words came out. You glanced at Toji, at the way he watched you—calm, waiting. He knew this conversation had been long overdue. You both talked about how it would work one day. But even now you felt unprepared and scared. Perhaps more than you thought you would ever be.

"I was scared." The confession fell from your lips before you could stop it. "From the very beginning, I was so scared of failing you. Of not being the mother you deserved. I thought that if I didn’t do everything perfectly, I would hurt you. So I tried to be everything all at once. A mother, an actress, a wife. But somewhere along the way, I started thinking that as long as I was there, as long as I provided for you, that was enough. And it wasn’t."

Tsumiki’s fingers curled around the hem of her shirt, gripping it tightly. “Mom….”

You reached for her hand, squeezing it gently. “I was at fault. My suffering doesn’t mean I should have done wrong by you. I should have done better.”

“You did your best, mom.” Tsumiki softly shakes her head. “I love you. Thank you for letting me in, even if it’s just a little bit.”

"I love you more than anything in this world, Tsumiki." Your voice wavered, but you held her gaze. "More than I’ve ever been able to show you. And I am so, so sorry if I ever made you feel like that love was anything less than unconditional."

She sucked in a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. “Thank you, mom. For everything.”

You shake  your head. "You shouldn't be thanked for taking accountability. I need to do better by  you. I never wanted you to feel like you had to reach for me, sweetheart. You’ve always had me from now on, okay?”

For a long moment, she didn’t move. And then, without hesitation, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around you, pressing her face into your shoulder. It was like when she was a kid again, when she was coming to your bed when she was afraid of thunderstorms. You let her warmth engulf you whole. 

"I love you, mom." she whispered, voice muffled against your sweater.

Your arms tightened around her, pressing a firm kiss to her temple. "I love you too, baby."

Toji, still standing in the corner, let out a slow breath. You caught the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips before he turned away, busying himself with something on her desk, as if to give you both the space you needed.

And as you held your daughter in that small dorm room, feeling her warmth, her presence, you realized something. It was something you had been too scared to admit before. You had spent years afraid of being a mother the wrong way. But Tsumiki had never once doubted that you were her mother. And for the first time, that fear finally loosened its grip.

Toji had been watching the moment unfold quietly, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed. His usual smirk had softened into something more content, something more at peace.

"‘Bout time,” he murmured, shaking his head with a chuckle as he turned to grab one of the last unopened boxes. “Should’ve had this conversation years ago, huh?”

You shot him a look, wiping at the damp corner of your eye. “Shut up, Toji.”

Tsumiki giggled, the tension between you both easing into something warmer. She pulled away just enough to look at you, a lingering smile on her lips. “Thanks, mom.”

Toji scoffed but grinned as he ruffled Tsumiki’s hair. “Alright, enough sappy shit. Do you need us to put anything else together before we head out?”

Tsumiki rolled her eyes but smiled. “No, dad. Don’t worry about that. You did so much for me already. I think I got it from here.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh, stretching his arms. “Good. I was starting to think I’d be here all damn day.”

But then, something shifted. Fushiguro Toji swayed slightly where he stood, a slow blink overtaking his features. His hand shot out to the desk all of the sudden, gripping it like he needed to ground himself. 

"Toji?" You straightened immediately, the warmth from before evaporating into worry.

Tsumiki stepped closer, brows furrowing. “Dad?”

Toji tried to shake it off, forcing out a chuckle. “I—”

And then, before he could finish, his knees buckled. It happened too fast. Like a sudden blow of the wind, you watched as your husband went down, his large frame crumpling to the floor before you or Tsumiki could catch him. His head barely missed the corner of the desk as he slumped over, unconscious.

"Dad!" Tsumiki’s voice cracked, panic laced in her tone as she dropped down beside him.

Your own breath hitched, heart lurching to your throat as you knelt beside him, hands pressing against his face, his chest. "Toji—Toji, wake up!"

He didn’t. His breathing was shallow. Too shallow. The world felt like it had tilted, like the air in the room had been sucked out completely. Your hands shook as you patted his face, voice trembling. You could feel the tears pricking your eyes. 

“Toji, open your eyes. Please.”

Tsumiki’s hands were gripping his arm, her eyes wide and glassy. “Mom, what—what’s happening? Is he okay?”

"C–call… call the ambulance now, ‘Miki! Go!”

Your frantic voice came out sharper than you intended, edged with panic you couldn’t suppress. Tsumiki jumped but nodded quickly, her fingers fumbling to unlock her phone. Her breath was shaky as she pressed the emergency number, bringing the phone to her ear with trembling hands.

You turned your attention back to your husband Toji, hands pressing against his face, his chest, anywhere you could reach. His skin was clammy, damp with sweat, but he was still warm. That was good, right? That had to be good. It can only be good. Warm flesh means there’s life.

"Toji, wake up! You gotta wake up." Your voice wavered, but you didn’t stop, didn’t let yourself break.

His eyelids twitched, the barest movement, but he didn’t fully stir. His lips parted, a low, incoherent mumble slipping out. At first, you couldn’t make it out. It was just a string of fragmented words, barely above a whisper.

"Tsumiki?" Your stomach twisted. His voice was slurred, disoriented, almost childlike in the way it fumbled over the syllables. “....’miki….”

"I….I’m here, dad. Don’t worry." Tsumiki choked out, clutching his hand even as she kept the phone to her ear. "Just hang on, okay? The ambulance is coming."

But he didn’t respond. His strong brow furrowed, another murmured whisper tumbling from his lips. You leaned in closer, your pulse pounding so hard you thought your ribs might crack under the pressure of it all.

"—don’t...go yet— ‘m not—"

Your breath caught. His fingers twitched weakly against yours. "Toji?"

Still, he wouldn’t fully wake. His words became softer, less tangible, slipping through your grasp like sand. It wasn’t like him. Toji Fushiguro had always been loud, solid, and unwavering. Even in your worst fights, even in the coldest moments of your marriage, he had always been there.

But right now—right now, he was slipping. 

"Mom—" Tsumiki’s voice broke, and you turned to see her eyes shining with tears, her grip on her phone tight.

"They’re on their way, mom." she said, her voice trembling. "But they—they said it could take a few minutes."

A few minutes.

That was too long.

"Come on, baby, stay with me, please." you whispered, brushing his damp hair back, your voice barely above a plea. “Stay awake.”

His lips parted again, another breathy mumble escaping. This time, it was almost too soft for you to hear. But you knew you heard it. And your heart clenched so hard it physically hurt about how it made you feel.

"‘M sorry…"

You swallowed thickly, fingers tightening against his. "You don’t—You don’t get to say that, Toji. Not now."

But he didn’t respond.

And for the first time in years, the weight of unspoken words that came and went. All the years of love, of resentment, of mistakes and trying and failing and trying again seemed to settle so heavily in your chest, you felt like you might break under it.

You just needed him to hold on.

Just for a few more minutes.

You just needed a few more minutes.

All the sudden, you found yourself praying.

That was all you could do now, truly.

YOU’VE ALWAYS HATED HOSPITALS. They were so devoid of everything that makes life what it is. And you hated it. It’s why you always bring the doctor to you rather than going yourself.

You were too afraid, so disgusted by it. Disturbed by the essence of it being so terribly empty. But right now, you really had no choice. This was the only place you could bring Toji to safety.

The hospital was cold. Too cold. Even though the air-conditioning wasn’t particularly strong, the sterile white walls and the harsh fluorescent lighting made everything feel distant. Clinical. Like this was happening to someone else, in some other reality, and not you.

"Fushiguro Toji?" a doctor finally approached, her face too neutral, too practiced. "Are you his family?"

"Yes, I’m his wife." you answered immediately, your voice coming out steadier than you felt. Tsumiki nodded beside you, her hand still gripping yours tightly. “This is our daughter.”

The doctor sighed, glancing down at the clipboard in her hands. "We managed to stabilize him, but… there’s something we need to discuss."

You hated that pause. Hated the way doctors always did this. Even when you were doing things like this at work in all those massive sets and their dramatic music. Everything was about framing bad news like it needed cushioning, as if it would hurt less if they eased you into it. And to know that it's happening to you in real life, it made you feel so ill.

"What is it?" you asked, throat dry.

"Mr. Fushiguro’s condition is… progressing faster than we initially anticipated." she said carefully. "The lymphoma has advanced significantly, and—"

The rest of her words blurred as she continued to speak right in front of you. The state of shock perhaps will never go away. Everything felt like it was wrong, like it was eager to crash down on you a thousand times. Your breath caught in your throat. Tsumiki stiffened beside you, her fingers digging into your arm.

"What do you mean?" you finally managed, voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor sighed. "I mean that his body isn’t responding to treatment the way we had hoped. The disease is advancing aggressively, and at this stage…" She hesitated, choosing her words. "We need to have a serious discussion about long-term care options."

"Long-term care?" Tsumiki’s voice cracked. "You mean—like, hospice?"

The doctor didn’t answer right away, but her silence was an answer in itself. Tsumiki let out a shaky breath, her other hand covering her mouth as she turned away, shoulders trembling.

You felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you. Like you were standing in the middle of a collapsing building, bricks of reality crumbling all around you. And you hated it. You hated it more than anything. You didn't want this. Never in a lifetime did you want this.

"No, no." you said, shaking your head, as if denial could make this go away. "No, that—there has to be something else. There has to be more treatment, right?"

The doctor gave you a look. It was not unkind, but firm. It had to be, when she has to tell you something as heavy as this. This was her job. Perhaps that's why you weren't screaming in her face. She didn't deserve it. She was just doing what she could. They all were.

"We will do everything we can to make him comfortable."

Comfortable.

The word felt like a death sentence.

You think you were feeling sick.

"How long?" you forced yourself to ask, because if you didn’t, the question would eat you alive.

Another hesitation. "If the progression continues at this rate… months. Maybe less."

A sharp, strangled sound escaped from your daughter Tsumiki. You turned just in time to see her back hitting the wall as she slid down, arms wrapping around herself. She looked miserable, near to tears as she tried to process it all.

You wanted to move, to hold her, to tell her something that would make this better but there was nothing. Because nothing was going to make this better. You were just as much as devastated as your own daughter.

"There has to be something else." The words spilled out of you before you could stop them, sharp and desperate.

The doctor hesitated, her expression unreadable but not unkind. “We understand this is difficult, but—”

"No." You shook your head, taking a step forward as if that would somehow make a difference. "You’re talking like this is already over, doctor. But you know it’s not. There has to be something—anything. More treatment, another hospital, a specialist. We are willing to do everything. My husband can’t….He can’t…."

"Mom….." Tsumiki’s voice was small, raw, but you couldn’t stop now.

"He’s strong. People know that." you insisted, clinging to that fact because Toji had survived everything. He was stubborn, unrelenting. He wasn’t the kind of man who just gave up. "There has to be more options."

The doctor let out a slow breath, her hands tightening around the clipboard. “Mr. Fushiguro has already undergone chemotherapy, months ago. But the cancer is aggressive. We can discuss alternative treatments, Mrs. Fushiguro. However, given the stage of progression, I want to be honest with you—none of them come without risks.”

"I don’t care about the risks. If there’s something, anything, we’ll do it."

Tsumiki reached for your arm, her grip shaky. "Mom… what if—what if dad doesn’t want more treatment?"

Your stomach twisted, the words hitting deeper than they should have. Because it was possible, wasn’t it? Fushiguro Toji had made his peace with this. That he had chosen not to fight this battle any longer. Not because he didn’t care, but because he had already been fighting it alone for longer than you even knew.

You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of losing him or the thought that he had been expecting to leave. “I’m not letting him die on me. On us. Not yet. This is not....We have to try.”

The doctor studied you carefully before speaking again. “We can explore clinical trials. There are experimental treatments available. There are ones that have worked for some patients with similar diagnoses. I can help you attain some access. But it’s important to understand that there are no guarantees.”

"I don't need a guarantee. I just need a chance." You whispered to her. "I just need some chances for my husband's life."

She gave a small nod. “Then we’ll go over the options with him. He should be the one to decide how he wants to proceed.”

You sniffed. “That would be fine. Please make the arrangements as soon as necessary. I want my husband to come home safe and sound.”

"Would you like to see him?" the doctor asked softly. “I think he’s conscious enough to receive visitors.”

Your throat tightened.

Yes.

Of course.

But at the same time… you weren’t ready. You weren’t ready for what came next. And for the first time in a long time, you had no idea what the hell you were supposed to do. How are you going to do all of this?

The walls felt like they were closing in. Even as the doctor stood there, waiting for your response, the air around you felt suffocating. Everything about it just felt thick with the weight of something irreversible. Something that was never going to change.

"Would you like to see him?"

The words barely registered.

How could they ever do so?

Toji was here. He was still breathing. Still alive. But now, you were being told that it wouldn’t be for much longer. Months. Maybe less. A life measured in maybes. Your body felt heavy, the kind of weight that came from grief that hadn't even settled in yet, but you knew it was there, waiting, coiling itself in your ribs like a sickness.

Tsumiki made a sound. It was a sharp, choked sob before she clamped a hand over her mouth, as if she could swallow it down. But she couldn't. You both couldn't. "Mom…" she whispered, her voice breaking apart.

And suddenly, you were moving towards your little girl, your hands reaching for her, pulling her into your arms before she crumbled completely. She didn't resist. She just collapsed against you, shaking so hard it hurt to feel.

"He can't….He can’t just go, mom." she gasped against your shoulder, her fingers digging into your back. "He can't just leave. Not yet."

You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I know, baby. I know."

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. You should have known something was wrong. You should have seen it, should have paid closer attention instead of getting caught up in the relief of finally having more time together. 

You had spent so long chasing each other through the chaos of your lives, waiting for a moment to just be and now that moment had arrived, only for it to be stolen before it even truly began. After all you had been through, suffering through and this is the reward of that steadfast spirit?

"He knew."

The thought was sudden. Sharp. You pulled away just enough to look at Tsumiki’s face, her red-rimmed eyes full of the same realization. She looked ever so devastated as her eyes narrowed towards the room door.

"He knew about it and we didn’t, mom." she repeated, her voice steadier this time. "He’s known for a while, hasn’t he?"

And just like that, everything clicked into place. The fatigue that lingered in his eyes even on the good days. The way he had been more present, more patient, more aware of the moments he had with you and the kids. The way he had laughed a little softer, held on a little longer.

He had been preparing for this.

And he hadn’t said a damn thing.

He didn’t feel like doing that at all.

You felt a flash of something—anger, maybe. But it was weak, lost under the sheer force of heartbreak. "I need to see him." Your voice barely sounded like your own, but it was firm. "Now."

Tsumiki nodded, wiping at her face, trying to collect herself even as the tears kept coming. The doctor said something, something about leading the way, about making sure you had time with him but you barely heard it. You didn’t care.

Because all you could think about was how the man you had spent eighteen years fighting for, fighting with, had been fighting this alone. And you weren’t sure whether you could forgive him for that. But you knew, without a doubt, that you weren’t going to let him do it alone anymore.

The moment you stepped into the room, Fushiguro Toji looked up. His face was pale, his skin pulled taut with exhaustion, but his lips curled into something wry, something casual. It was like he wasn’t hooked up to an IV, like he wasn’t the one lying in a hospital bed with death looming over him.

"Well, shit. I must really look bad if you’re already crying."

That was it. That was all it took for something inside you to snap. "Don’t you dare." Your voice trembled, but it was loud, sharp. "Don’t you fucking dare sit there and joke about this!"

Toji blinked, taken aback for the first time. "Hey—"

"No! No ‘hey’!" The dam had broken, and you couldn’t stop it now. "You knew! You knew for how long, Toji? How long have you been keeping this from me? From us?"

His lips parted, but no excuse came. No reassurance.

"You—" you let out a shaky breath, your body trembling. "You let me believe everything was finally okay. As much as there's so much wrong we can't avoid, hat we were finally settled down. You let us believe that we had time…..that we finally had time to just be and now you're telling me you're dying? That we only have months?"

Tsumiki stood beside you, her hands clasped in front of her, lips pressed together like she was forcing herself to stay strong. "Mom, please…." she tried, but you were past the point of stopping.

"How could you do this to us? I haven’t even told Megumi and I just…." The words cracked as they left your mouth. "How could you do this to me? What do I do, Toji?"

Toji sighed, running a hand down his face. "I didn’t want this."

"You didn’t want this?" A bitter laugh bubbled up from your throat. "Like I did? Like Tsumiki did? Like Megumi did? Like we wouldn’t have wanted to be there for you?"

His fingers curled into the hospital blanket. “I’m sorry….”

"You should’ve told me, you idiot." you whispered, voice raw, broken. “You could have died for good. And I wouldn’t have known. And I just….”

"And then what?" His voice was quiet, careful.

"And then we would’ve fought for you."

Toji’s eyes flickered, something almost imperceptible passing through them before he looked away. That was when the tears truly came. You shook your head, wiping furiously at your face, but it didn’t stop the ache in your chest, the way your whole body felt like it was collapsing under the weight of grief that hadn’t even fully arrived yet.

"You were going to let me find out like this? How could you?”

Toji exhaled, a long, slow breath. "I just… I didn’t want this to be what our life became. I didn’t want to see you look at me like you’re looking at me now."

You let out a sharp breath, stepping forward, reaching for his hand despite everything. His fingers twitched under yours, hesitant, but he didn’t pull away. He didn't want to. Not when you were this upset.

"And what about me, Toji?" you whispered. "What about how I was supposed to look at you when you were gone?"

Silence.

For the first time in years, he had nothing to say.

And that was what scared you the most.

Your grip on his hand tightened, desperate and unrelenting.

"You're not leaving me." The words came out ragged, almost broken, but they were firm. A demand, not a plea. "You're not leaving us."

Toji said nothing.

His silence only made the panic rise in your chest, your breath hitching as fresh tears slipped down your face. "We'll find something else. Another way. There has to be something."

Still, he stayed quiet, his jaw clenched, his blue-green gaze flickering with something unreadable. "Toji." Your voice cracked. "Say something."

He exhaled, slow and measured, before giving a small nod. Not a word. Not a promise. Just a nod. It wasn't enough. But it was all you had. And that was when you finally broke ever so harshly, like a wave crashing against a cliff. 

The sob tore through you as you collapsed into his arms, gripping onto him like you could hold him here, like if you just held tight enough, time would stop. His arms wrapped around you, slow at first, then firm. Strong. Steady.

He could see Tsumiki trying to hold it together just behind you from the peripheral of his eye, his heart breaking even more at the sight. He hated seeing her so upset. It was harder when it came to the kids. That's why knew he wasn't prepared to see his son's reaction.

"You're not leaving me, goddamn it." you whispered again, your voice muffled against his hospital gown. "I won't let you."

His chest rose and fell beneath you, and you felt it when he pressed his lips to the top of your head, warm and lingering. "I know."

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

But right now, you need to believe it.

epilogue

Fushiguro Tsumiki had never been one to hesitate when it came to family. So when her father Fushiguro Toji started looking smaller in his hospital bed, nothing like the strong, energetic man he used to be, when the weight he had always carried with ease now dragged his shoulders down, when the exhaustion in his face became permanent.

She knew she had to do something.

She had to save her dad.

She wasn't ready to let him go just yet.

She still needed him.

"I want to donate blood to my dad." The words were firm when she said them to the nurse, standing at the reception desk with unwavering resolve.

The nurse blinked at her, startled. "Oh—well, that’s very kind of you, but we’d have to check if you’re a match first."

"I am, I know I am." Tsumiki answered quickly. "I’m AB negative, just like my dad."

The nurse nodded but still reached for a form. "That’s good to hear, but we’ll need to confirm your blood type. It won’t take long, just a quick sample, okay?"

Tsumiki nodded, rolling up her sleeve without hesitation. “Alright. Go drain me.”

Fushiguro Tsumiki hated needles. She always had. She still remembered being a kid, clutching Toji’s hand as the doctor readied the syringe for her booster shots, his deep chuckle rumbling beside her. 

“C’mon, ‘Miki, don’t tell me you’re scared of a tiny–ass needle.”

She had been. But she wasn’t scared now. She can't afford to be that right now. She had to be strong. She can't be weak. Not when Fushiguro Toji looked weaker every day, when his skin lost its color, when his voice, her father’s voice wasn’t as strong as it used to be.

And she hated it.

She needed his strength back.

She needed him back.

So she sat there in the hospital chair, rolling up her sleeve without hesitation, ignoring the way her pulse quickened as the nurse tied a band around her arm. "Just a little pinch, alright?" the nurse said with a small smile.

Tsumiki nodded and looked away. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” She smiled at you. “Thank you for doing this for your dad. You’re such a sweet young lady.”

“I’ll do anything for my dad.” Tsumiki smiled at her. 

The nurse smiles wider. “I know you would.”

The sting barely registered.

This was for Toji.

This was nothing.

She flexed her fingers as the vial filled with dark crimson, her lifeblood. His lifeblood. The moment it was over, she pressed a cotton swab against the small puncture, thanked the nurse, and stepped out into the hallway.

And then she waited. The minutes ticked by slowly, her knee bouncing with impatience. It would be fine. It had to be fine. She was AB negative, just like him. Just like her dad. The shuffle of footsteps pulled her out of her thoughts.

Tsumiki looked up just as the nurse approached, holding a clipboard to her chest, her expression unreadable. For some reason, the sight of it made something heavy settle in Tsumiki’s gut. And she didn’t like that feeling.

"Miss Fushiguro?"

"Yeah?"

The nurse hesitated for a beat before glancing at the file again. "I just wanted to clarify something—you said you had type AB negative blood, correct?"

"Yeah." Tsumiki frowned. "I mean, I always thought I did. My dad is AB negative, so I should be, too, right?"

The nurse pursed her lips. "Well… your results just came back, and you’re actually O positive."

Tsumiki blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

"That… that can’t be right."

O positive? That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

"I’m sorry, dear, but the results are accurate." The nurse’s voice was gentle. "You’re an O positive blood. Which means you’re not a match for your father’s blood type."

The world tilted beneath her feet. "No, no." she said quietly to herself. "No, there’s….there’s been a mistake. My dad is AB negative. He has to be my dad."

The words died in her throat. Because suddenly, memories started surfacing. Her father’s teasing voice: "You’re still my little girl, yeah?" 

The way her mother had hesitated that night when she poured her heart out. The way Nanami Kenshin had always looked at her with something unreadable in his bright eyes. The blood drained from her face.

"I… I need to go."

She turned on her heel before the nurse could say anything else.

Because suddenly, her father’s illness wasn’t the only thing breaking her heart.

And she hated how this was the beginning of the never ending break.