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(I) The Widow & The Lawyer (KENTO NANAMI X READER X HIROMI HIGURUMA)

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Pairing: Nanami Kento × Reader × Higuruma Hiromi (Modern AU) Synopsis: “Justice for the dead. Truth for the living.” You thought the marriage was just convenience. But Nanami died right when it was about to become real. Now— his body is missing, his assets are contested, his friends suddenly look suspicious. And the only person willing to believe something is wrong… is a lawyer you’re not sure you can trust. Higuruma. Content Warnings: Death of Nanami, grief and mourning, possible murder, missing body, legal investigation, betrayal, manipulation, morally grey choices, strong language, slow-burn forbidden romance (lawyer/client), emotional tension. Future chapters may contain mature (18+) themes.

Malaysia & the Missed Call | One Step Behind | Empty Seats | Convenient Truths | Not Gone Enough | Future Chapters Awaiting Verdict...

I. Malaysia & the Missed Call

You’re sprawled across the cream linen sectional sofa in your high-rise condo in Minato, legs dangling over the armrest, phone balanced on your stomach. The city glitters thirty floors below like spilled diamonds; the rain has just stopped, leaving the glass streaked and reflective. It’s 11:17 p.m., and the only light in the room comes from the muted glow of your screen and the faint blue pulse of Kento’s name on the caller ID.

His voice fills the space the second you answer— low, measured, the same voice that can shut down a boardroom without raising a decibel.

“Malaysia will be quieter,” he says, almost like he’s convincing himself. You hear the soft creak of a chair as he leans back. “No more 4 a.m. emails from Tokyo. No more weekends spent modeling distressed portfolios instead of… actual living.”

You let out a small laugh, rolling onto your side so your silk robe slips off one shoulder.

“You’re really doing it. Walking away from the firm you built.”

“I co-founded it. There’s a difference.” A pause. “I’m tired of turning other people’s funerals into spreadsheets.”

“You’ve been saying that for years. What changed?”

Another small pause. You picture him loosening his tie with one hand, the way he always did when the workday officially ended—even if it was only in his head.

“…You,” he answers simply. “You’re what changed.”

Your breath catches for half a second. You cover it with a soft laugh.

“Smooth, Kento. Very smooth.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” You lean your head back against the cushion. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

You trace the edge of your phone case with a manicured nail—fresh gel, deep burgundy, shot for a brand campaign yesterday.

“And what about me? You’re just going to disappear to some beach town and leave your influencer wife to fend for herself?”

Another beat of silence.

When he speaks again his tone has dropped, quieter, more deliberate.

“You know I always want you to come with me. I want us together whenever… possible.”

Your breath hitches. You cover it with a teasing scoff.

“Bold of you to assume I’d trade sponsored posts and runway fittings for coconut trees and no cell service.”

“I’m not assuming anything.” His voice is calm, but there’s an undercurrent now—something raw that he rarely lets slip. “I’m asking.”

A quiet exhale reaches the phone.

“Are you still at the Osaka place?” you ask.

“For tonight,” he says. “Meeting ran late. The resthouse is closer than a hotel.”

You smile faintly.

“You say that like I didn’t spend three hours picking that place out.”

“You did,” he says, and you can hear the ghost of amusement in his voice. “Which is why I’m staying there.”

Four years ago you were both twenty-five, sitting knee-to-knee on rickety stools at that narrow izakaya somewhere in the country. You’d just landed your first big agency contract and he’d just closed the seed round that turned his and his partner’s distressed-asset boutique into something people actually feared on the stock market pages.

You were tipsy on plum wine, complaining about another ghosted date.

“We’re getting old,” you’d groaned, flicking a peanut shell at him. “Still single because I’m too busy posing and you’re too busy buying broken companies for pennies. Maybe we should just get married. Convenience package. You get arm candy who can actually read a balance sheet, I get a rich husband who doesn’t ghost after one dinner.”

You’d waited for the deadpan stare. The dry "That would be logistically inefficient" or one of his signature one-liners that always landed like a quiet slap.

Instead he’d looked straight at you—really looked—and the corner of his mouth lifted.

Not a smirk.

A small, unguarded smile that made your own teasing grin freeze mid-air.

Your pulse had stuttered.

You’d stared back, suddenly aware of how close your knees were touching under the table.

He hadn’t said anything. Just paid the tab, walked you to the cab stand, told you to text when you were home safe.

But the joke didn’t disappear.

Nanami had simply watched you over the rim of his glass that night, eyes thoughtful in that quiet, calculating way of his. He hadn’t laughed it off.

Weeks later, when you’d completely forgotten the conversation, he showed up at your apartment after work and placed a small velvet box on the kitchen counter like it was just another item on his to-do list.

“No grand speech,” he’d said calmly. “You suggested it.”

Inside was a ring.

The joke stayed after that. It grew roots. Late-night strategy sessions turned into shared takeout. Shared takeout turned into shared mornings. A year after that night, the paperwork happened over coffee at your kitchen island—two signatures, a ring already on your finger, and the quiet understanding that Nanami had taken your “joke” far more seriously than you ever expected.

At the time, it was easy to go along with it. You were the one who suggested it, after all, and Nanami wasn’t hard to be with.

What you didn’t know then was that it would become the most dangerous thing either of you had ever done.

“Flight lands at eight fifteen,” he says now, pulling you back. “Haneda, Terminal 2. You still picking me up?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You sit up slowly. “I’ll even bring the overpriced latte you pretend not to like.”

A faint huff—his laugh.

“I’ll hold you to it.”

You hear him inhale on the other end of the line. Slow. Measured.

“You okay?” you ask.

“Just tired.”

“Sleep, Kento. You sound like you’ve been staring at the ceiling for hours.”

“I have.”

Then, softer. “I meant it. About Malaysia. About you.”

Your chest aches in a way that’s new and terrifying.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” you say lightly. “Face to face. No cryptic long-distance proposals.”

“Deal.”

You hesitate for a few seconds, wanting to say something—something that suddenly feels too big to say over a phone line.

You don’t.

The call ends.

The apartment feels suddenly too big.

Your phone buzzes once against the sofa cushion.

A new email notification slides across the screen.

Flight Confirmation — Tokyo (HND) → Kuala Lumpur (KUL)

You frown slightly and tap it open.

Two names appear.

Passenger 1: Nanami, Kento Passenger 2: (Yn)

Departure: next Friday.

A slow smile pulls at your mouth.

“Sneaky,” you murmur to the empty apartment.

You lock your phone and toss it onto the table.

You’ll pretend to be surprised when he brings it up.

Morning comes cruel and ordinary.

You wake at 6:45 to soft sunlight slicing through the blackout curtains you forgot to close all the way. No text from him. Unusual—he always sends a boarding confirmation, even if it’s just a single emoji.

You shower, slip into something effortless but camera-ready (old habits), grab your keys.

Still nothing.

8:30.

You’re already at Haneda, leaning against a pillar near arrivals with iced coffee sweating in your hand. You scan every face that pours through the gate.

No familiar silhouette in the charcoal overcoat.

No blond head bent over a phone, already typing an apology for the delay.

9:15.

You call.

It rings.

No answer.

You hang up, stare at the screen for a moment, then type quickly.

Did your flight get delayed?

No reply.

9:40.

You call again.

Still ringing.

Your fingers move before you can stop them.

Okay, this isn’t funny. If you’re stuck in a meeting or something just say so.

The message delivers instantly.

No response.

10:05.

You call again, pacing now, iced coffee forgotten on the ledge beside you.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

“Kento,” you mutter under your breath, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. “If this is some weird attempt at suspense, I swear—”

The line keeps ringing.

You pull the phone away and fire off another text.

Stop ignoring me. Did you even get on the plane?

The message sends.

Read receipt never appears.

Something cold coils low in your stomach.

Because every call connects instantly—clear signal, full rings.

And suddenly you realize you’re not hearing the weak, broken static of a phone lost in a dead zone.

It’s a normal ring. Like he’s somewhere quiet.

Something cold coils low in your stomach.

By 3:47 p.m., you’re back home, barefoot on cold marble, laptop open on the kitchen island.

You pick up your phone, thumb hovering over the screen. Another text, just in case.

Darling, I’m back home. I’m annoyed, but I’ll let you explain when you arrive.

You tap send. Nothing happens. The little 'sending' icon spins, then disappears. You try again. Still nothing.

Confused, you check your signal—full bars. Everything else works. The texts you sent that morning went through fine. Why won’t this one send?

Your chest tightens. A low, gnawing panic settles in.

Then your phone buzzes with a news alert.

Luxury Resthouse Fire in Osaka Hills Leaves One Dead

Your thumb trembles as you open the article.

Photos load slowly: scorched hillside, skeletal beams against gray sky, emergency tape flapping in the wind.

Fourth paragraph:

The victim has been identified as Kento Nanami, 29, co-founder and managing partner of JJK Assets, who was reportedly staying at the property during a brief business trip.

Your breath stops.

You know that place.

You picked it.

The article continues.

Authorities say the first emergency call was logged at 8:33 a.m. The structure had largely collapsed by the time firefighters arrived.

Your mind scrambles to catch up.

His flight was scheduled for 7:00 a.m.

You called him at 9:15.

Then 9:40.

Then 10:05.

Every time, his phone rang.

Clear. Normal. Alive.

A dead man’s phone shouldn’t still be ringing.

Your heart is hammering now, loud enough to drown out the city hum.

You look at the clock on the wall behind you.

It’s now been seven hours since his plane was supposed to land.

The news says your husband is dead.

But something about it doesn’t make sense.

Because every time you called him this morning—

his phone kept ringing.

And despite everything that the news is telling you, your husband is still nowhere to be found.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

New story! I was supposed to write another series about Gojo but decided I should write this one first, lol. And you know what happened? My story drafts got deleted so I have to freestyle this now 😭

Craving more? Check my 🌸Masterlist🌸

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[indiewritesxoxo]

BABY DADDY DRAMA!

instead of getting the girl, gojo just got her pregnant! how's he supposed to win you over when you only seem to see him as the baby daddy?

synopsis: when the frat president becomes the father of your daughter, the last thing you expected were his brothers to start bidding to be the step dad! can he prove that he's serious about starting a life together for the three of you - or will someone swoop in to steal both his girls?

pairing: frat!gojo x milf!reader x frat!geto (also starring frat!sukuna)

content: mdni!! fluff, angst, and smut, college au, unrealistic frat depictions, parties, drinking, accidental pregnancy, raising a baby, they all want to be the daddy, condoms breaking, one night stands and messy hookups, piv sex, pulling out, lots of pining, gojo being lovesick and stupid, denying feelings, jealousy, multiple povs, more tags will be found in individual chapters

based on this drabble

art cr: @zeilorene0 on x div cr: @/tsumiinum

chapter index

manchild ꕤ sugar talking ꕤ go go juice

taste ꕤ juno ꕤ don't smile

read your mind ꕤ already over ꕤ nonsense

COMMENT TO BE TAGGED!

series | latest oneshots | patreon

a/n: do i have like twenty other series to finish? yes. can i stop myself from starting new ones? no. apologies in advance :3 you guys just get what i have fun writing

[indiewritesxoxo]

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

he loves you through wormholes and back!

synopsis: it was just supposed to be a routine mission. but when things start to go wrong and time starts slipping through his fingers, gojo realizes a little too late he might lose you too.

pairing: astronaut!gojo x f!reader x teacher!choso

wc: 14.8k

content: mdni. HEAVY ANGST. smut. character death. inspired by interstellar, time dilation, sad ending, hurt no comfort, unprotected piv sex, teasing, kissing, gojo is so incredibly in love and obsessed with reader, accidental pregnancy, twins, pining, yearning, complicated emotions, misunderstandings, choso is also a lovesick puppy dog, video messages, gojo cries and throws up, moving on, absolutely sadness and despair

art is by @to00fu !! div by @tsumiinum !! this was an incredible commission to write for @dayanim <333

“You’re literally the prettiest girl on the planet.” 

You giggled, your mouth curving up into a painfully cute smile as his palms spread your soft thighs further apart. Perfect face tilting to the side as you arched an eyebrow, “Just this planet?” 

“All of them,” he easily chuckled, pressing a peck to the inside of your exposed thigh, admiring the expanse of your bare skin, completely naked in his sheets. Sprawled out like his favorite feast, waiting for him to devour. 

If he could, he’d swallow you whole and take you with him to space. 

Pack you up and bring you with him. 

But unfortunately, NASA probably wouldn’t approve of him stowing you away on his final official mission before he moved to a different position. 

“I don’t want you to go,” you pouted at him, running your fingers through your hair as he returned to dotting more kisses up to your hips, down to just below your belly button, trying to memorize the way your skin felt on his lips. 

“I know,” he sighed, struggling to justify why he was going to you when he could hardly convince himself these days. “It’s just six months.” 

A routine mission. 

It was far from his first. He knew how it would play out. Shoko and Suguru would join him on the crew, so at least the time wouldn’t totally drag by. He hadn’t planned to join, but with what they promised to pay for it, it was sorta hard to refuse. Especially when he was still saving for a wedding and a house down payment. 

Still, considering the fact that he’d only just gotten back from one less than a year ago, he knew that it wasn’t just him it was hard on. 

“It feels like forever,” you complained, a crease between your brow as your hand shifted to cup his cheek, lift his face up to look at you. The cool band of your engagement ring resting on his skin reminding him of the promise he made to you when he popped the question. That he’d give up exploring the reset of the universe if you’d be his wife. “I’m so tired of missing you.” 

“Baby,” he frowned, heart slamming into his rib cage at the disappointment he detected in the lines of your face. 

He didn’t want to do this to you. Didn’t want to be the guy that wasn’t there for you. 

But this was all just temporary. Soon he’d have secured a future where you could both permanently settle in a beautiful little house with a big yard for mini-yous and mini-hims to run and play. 

Climbing back on top of you properly as you huffed at him, caging you in underneath his muscled arms, not stopping until your bodies were connected, skin-on-skin, his forehead resting on yours as your eyes met his. 

“Don’t baby me,” you defensively murmured. 

“But you’re my baby,” he pouted back at you. Your body shivered a little, thighs pressing together before he used his knee to nudge them further apart. “And you’re gonna be my wife when I get back.” 

He liked the ring of it. 

His wife.

All his. 

He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time. 

Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness. 

You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself. 

“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud. 

“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it. 

“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed. 

Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed. 

The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it. 

Soon, you’d have the best. 

“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both. 

“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed. 

“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes. 

You wanted to believe him. 

“Uh-huh,” you exhaled. 

He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you. 

His home. 

Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.

“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you. 

“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.

“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.

“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours. 

There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.

But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up. 

And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press. 

Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.

Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it. 

Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes. 

He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too. 

You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum. 

He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body. 

Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay. 

“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone. 

Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body. 

But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck. 

He didn’t want to let go. 

And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts. 

They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot. 

He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position. 

But he’d get to stay with you. 

Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment. 

“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in. 

“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.

Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.” 

That was just who you were. 

What you’d do. 

You gave him what he wanted. 

Even when you didn’t like what he asked for. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.” 

“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him. 

But you giggled, and that was good enough.

“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested. 

“We already-” 

“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?” 

“I just want you.” 

Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.  

He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.

Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them. 

Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become. 

Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible. 

They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.

It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on. 

All just a galaxy away. 

It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe. 

Risky, sure, but it’d been done before. 

And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem. 

The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet. 

Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter. 

No, a more pressing issue had presented itself. 

A distress signal was being sent up. 

Someone was below – and begging to be rescued. 

“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it. 

“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen. 

“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.

Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time. 

“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”

“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far. 

Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months. 

“Yeah, that’s why they’re sending a distress signal,” Suguru sarcastically grimaced. 

“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded. 

“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”

Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.

It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.

And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.

There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.

“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it. 

He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.

Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.

“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.” 

“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.” 

Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave. 

There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth. 

“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing. 

He told himself it was the right thing to do. 

That it was what you would expect from him. 

He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages. 

You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera. 

But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up. 

“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it. 

He wanted to touch the screen. 

Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong. 

“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it. 

And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and- 

Holy shit. 

“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.” 

A baby. 

He was going to be a father.

His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.

Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments. 

“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie. 

No. You surely didn’t mean…? 

“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?” 

It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space. 

Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it. 

You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks. 

“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.” 

Never. 

He’d fucking be there. 

“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.” 

He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he? 

Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four. 

“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.” 

He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera. 

“I’ll come back for you.” 

Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.

But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?

In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.

“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze. 

Found his mouth opening, about to say no.

Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel. 

But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way? 

Would he be able to look his children in the eyes? 

He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.” 

Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it. 

He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship. 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

“You should move on.”

It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.

You couldn’t let go of him.

Six months turned into six years without Satoru.

The one thing you were terrified of had come true.

You lost him.

Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him. 

Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks? 

You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you. 

It’s always someone else. 

Until it’s not. 

Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come. 

“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-” 

“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket. 

You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father. 

Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug. 

Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead. 

When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.  

Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood. 

Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere. 

She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru. 

But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt. 

“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry. 

“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys. 

She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh. 

You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it. 

If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes. 

You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about. 

Apollo and Artemis. 

After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery. 

To be fair, you had done it in his place. 

Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went. 

The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call. 

And then nothing. 

NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious. 

Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing. 

Somewhere you’d never be able to reach. 

You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them. 

Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint. 

You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.

At least the ocean was on Earth. 

It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand. 

But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too. 

You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk. 

Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed. 

And Satoru had missed all of it. 

Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one. 

And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway. 

Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.  

There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it. 

Him. 

But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids. 

The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it. 

You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class. 

Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings. 

Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had. 

You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it. 

“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.   

“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake. 

His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go. 

“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.

“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing. 

“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over. 

You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them. 

“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”

You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.

“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.

Your chest hurt.

Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.

“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.” 

“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him. 

“Oh, um-” 

“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.” 

People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”

“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”

“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence. 

Satoru would know what to do.

But he wasn’t here.

And all the decisions were yours to make.

Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.

Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.

“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.

“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair. 

You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field. 

Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home. 

Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play. 

He didn’t.

To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either. 

Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.

You told yourself that you were being an active parent. 

Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards. 

Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work. 

And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.

He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing. 

The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute. 

Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy? 

Smile back when they spoke to you? 

Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. 

You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them. 

But eventually, the school year wrapped up. 

You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that. 

Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it. 

A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids. 

Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out. “Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing. 

“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her. 

“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose. 

They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too. 

“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting. 

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you. 

It was nice of him. 

This was nice, actually. 

A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans. 

But it wasn’t terrible. 

You loved your children. Loved being their mom. 

Maybe you could learn to love your life too. 

You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang. 

“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair. 

“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.” 

You didn’t want to consider if you would. 

“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded. 

You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to. 

All you really wanted was for them to be happy. 

“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him. 

Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.

His eyes were dark. 

Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them. 

But they were deep. Warm. 

“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.” 

“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too. 

He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”

“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously. 

“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?” 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

Their mission was fucked. 

Suguru was dead. 

Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call. 

Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder. 

Now they had neither. 

The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process. 

Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too. 

Like his best friend wasn’t gone. 

He’d never get him back. 

No one would. 

Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home? 

He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.

God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl. 

The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it. 

Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut. 

But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now. 

He wished you were here. 

Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him. 

That his best friend was somewhere better. 

Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him. 

Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life. 

Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he? 

He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-

The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief. 

Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest. 

Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.   

Loading messages from the past eleven years. 

No. No no no no no.

It was wrong.

It had to be fucking wrong. 

The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-

Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back. 

He did. He would. 

The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone. 

Begging him to not make you. 

Gojo froze. 

Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message. 

Part of him wanted to hit stop. 

Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it. 

But his fingers weren’t fast enough. 

And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying. 

Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying. 

The twins. His twins. 

Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this. 

Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera. 

He was. 

Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another. 

His children were growing up without him. 

From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids. 

In what? Fifty minutes? 

Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back. 

They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him. 

Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them. 

And you, god, his pretty, perfect you. 

Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead. 

Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening. 

You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked. 

His girls a wormhole away. 

Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you. 

But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.

What if it was too late? 

What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth? 

The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met. 

Would you stop missing him too? 

He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background. 

You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home. 

Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you. 

Gojo felt like a stranger. 

Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his. 

“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.” 

“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off. 

Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours? 

He didn’t actually want an answer. 

But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway. 

You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up. 

It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt. 

An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed. 

A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately. 

Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.

Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do. 

Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade. 

But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-

He puked. 

Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.

An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade. 

Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame. 

“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait. 

But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it. 

His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was. 

And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back. 

A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier. 

His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.  

“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.” 

He was terrified to know how long.

“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.” 

He wanted to see him. See both of them. 

Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now. 

“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.” 

His chest hurt. 

Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. 

The mission should’ve been routine. Simple. 

Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony. 

“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.” 

The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver. 

“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.” 

If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was. 

Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him. 

“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”

Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever. 

“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?” 

Everything hurt.

His body, his heart, his soul. 

Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family. 

The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated. 

“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins. 

You hadn’t even confirmed-

“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.

The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.

Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style. 

No. You couldn’t-

“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.” 

What a load of fucking shit.

The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it. 

“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”

Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.

“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.” 

Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed. 

Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden. 

“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?” 

He could never hate you.

Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.

He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night. 

Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.

“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”

No no no. 

He could still make it. 

Couldn’t he? 

If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole? 

Hadn’t he lost enough? 

Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand. 

You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-

A wedding dress. 

“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight. 

The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer. 

You looked like an angel.

And Gojo sorta wished he was dead. 

Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage. 

And then a noise in the background startled you. 

The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out. 

Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.” 

Another man was calling you baby. 

Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open. 

“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.” 

“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly. 

“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.” 

You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it. 

And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.” 

It could be.

It would be. 

Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time. 

That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time. 

Behind you, there was a knock on the door. 

“Can I come in now?” 

No. 

This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” you quietly answered. 

Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.

But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead. 

“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.” 

The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared. 

“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down. 

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.” 

Gojo wanted to strangle him. 

Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son. 

Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be. 

“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him. 

Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes. 

See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him. 

Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t. 

You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru. 

Not that you could even see him. 

You thought you were talking to a ghost. 

That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads. 

“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.” 

No. Please no. 

He was.

“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.” 

The screen went dark. 

His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve. 

He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened. 

Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received. 

A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago. 

You weren’t married yet. 

Maybe there was time.

And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back. 

He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in. 

“What the hell-” 

Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now. 

“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.” 

That wasn’t a fucking option. 

They had to make it.

But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right. 

And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch. 

He was barely showering. 

Barely eating. 

Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures. 

They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad. 

Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time. 

Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever. 

He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed. 

Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them. 

By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family. 

This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean. 

Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.

Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home. 

“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research. 

“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-” 

“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled. 

It couldn’t end like this. 

He’d be too late if he stayed.

“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack. 

“Shoko, they don’t-” 

“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.” 

“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion. 

“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.

He didn’t have the seconds to debate it. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship. 

“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.” 

“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander. 

Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to. 

And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from. 

He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator. 

Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home. 

Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.

He should make it.

Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers. 

If only he could send out a fucking transmission. 

He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out. 

Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.

But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too. 

When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected. 

He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his. 

Some part of him felt like it was all light years away. 

Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?

Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day? 

Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.

But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole. 

Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls. 

Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar. 

He could do this. 

Failing wasn’t an option.

Not after everything that had brought him here. 

“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here. 

But he hoped you could feel him. 

That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet. 

The landing fucking sucked. 

Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you. 

It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing. 

“Are you okay? What the fuck is-” 

Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief. 

“Uh, could you give me a ride?” 

Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder. 

“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you. 

“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over. 

Gojo still had your number memorized. 

Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him. 

No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either. 

But they did. 

“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick. 

“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.” 

“Satoru?” 

“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.” 

Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit. 

He was finished. 

Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins. 

Would you be happy to see him? 

Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him? 

He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel. 

Was he too early? 

Too late? 

Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it. 

He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there. 

Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it. 

And there it was. 

Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him. 

He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it. 

His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had. 

The one he hadn’t been there to give you. 

You couldn’t be- 

Someone tapped on his back. 

He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.

“Dad?” 

It wasn’t you. 

Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he? 

“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-” 

“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-” 

“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.” 

Every word was a fresh punch to the gut. 

A great grandfather. 

He never even got to be a father. 

Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids. 

“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.  

“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?” 

Four months had been forty years. 

Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done. 

A fool masquerading as a man. 

Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears. Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all. 

He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again. 

Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection. 

His children wouldn’t need him. 

For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave. 

“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.” 

God, he felt like he was going to die right now. 

Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed. 

“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-” 

It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time. 

“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.

Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.” 

He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions. 

Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there. 

He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo. 

Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach. 

“You’re-” 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully. 

“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”

“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.” 

And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.

Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life. 

“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand. 

“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now. 

“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.

Because right now, he was filled with hate.

Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.

He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe. 

Mostly though, he hated himself.

“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”

Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.

Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.

“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.” 

She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.

To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet. 

Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.

Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person. 

Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.

And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed. 

He would never get to know. 

His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it. 

His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back. 

A loving fiancé and father. 

Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day. 

You spent your life missing and mourning him.

He supposed it was just his turn. 

a/n: reblogs + comments are always appreciated :3

[imraespace]

good gracious are the zuko fans in heat every scroll is smut im scared LMAOO

[kaiinyourarea]

(V) The Widow & The Lawyer (KENTO NANAMI X READER X HIROMI HIGURUMA)

Pairing: Nanami Kento × Reader × Higuruma Hiromi (Modern AU) Synopsis: “Justice for the dead. Truth for the living.” You thought the marriage was just convenience. But Nanami died right when it was about to become real. Now— his body is missing, his assets are contested, his friends suddenly look suspicious. And the only person willing to believe something is wrong… is a lawyer you’re not sure you can trust. Higuruma. Content Warnings: Death of Nanami, grief and mourning, possible murder, missing body, legal investigation, betrayal, manipulation, morally grey choices, strong language, slow-burn forbidden romance (lawyer/client), emotional tension. Future chapters may contain mature (18+) themes.

Malaysia & the Missed Call | One Step Behind | Empty Seats | Convenient Truths | Not Gone Enough | Future Chapters Awaiting Verdict...

V. Not Gone Enough

The interview room is small and direct. Just a metal table, four chairs, and a recorder blinking red in the center. The faint smell of burnt coffee and disinfectant clings to everything.

Higuruma sits beside you, calm and composed, one leg crossed over the other. His presence is the only thing keeping the room from swallowing you whole.

The detective across the table —mid-50s, graying hair, tired but sharp eyes — opens a thin folder. His voice is polite but firm, the standard professional tone police use when they’re no longer treating you as a grieving widow.

“Mrs. Nanami, thank you for coming in. You are currently being questioned as a person of interest in the death of your husband, Kento Nanami. This is not an arrest. We are conducting a voluntary interview to clarify several inconsistencies that have emerged.”

Your stomach drops.

“A person of interest?” Your voice cracks. “Why? I already gave my full statement days ago. I’ve been the one calling you, asking you to investigate because the timeline doesn’t make sense. Why am I suddenly the one being looked at?”

The detective doesn’t flinch.

“Precisely because you kept insisting we look closer, Mrs. Nanami. Repeated calls. Repeated requests to reopen lines of inquiry. When a spouse pushes this hard and this early, protocol requires us to examine every angle... including the spouse.”

He slides a few printed statements across the table.

“Several of Mr. Nanami’s business partners were interviewed as part of the expanded inquiry. One of them recalled overhearing a conversation at Mr. Nanami’s birthday dinner last year. The partner described the exchange as candid. You referred to the marriage as a ‘convenience arrangement’ and joked about securing a ‘rich husband.’”

Your blood runs cold. That dinner. The private room. Mei Mei’s teasing laugh. Turns out, you hadn’t been careful enough.

“Another partner reported being in the office building a week before the incident,” the detective continues. “He heard raised voices coming from Mr. Nanami’s office. Loud enough that it sounded like objects were being thrown. The argument appeared heated. He could not make out the exact words, but the tone suggested serious conflict between you and your husband.”

The room tilts—but not from surprise, not entirely. Because you remember it. Not the way he’s describing it, not exactly, but the sharp edge in your voice, the way something did hit the desk harder than it should have, the silence that followed after—thick, unresolved. Your fingers curl slightly against your lap as the memory settles in, warped now by the way it’s being told back to you.

There’s a version of that afternoon you could explain—clean, harmless, easy to defend. But sitting here, hearing it laid out like this, even you can hear how it sounds. And for a split second, you don’t know which version of it they’d believe—or worse, which version of it is easier to believe.

Could you really have killed your husband?

The detective leans forward slightly.

“Combined with your repeated insistence that the death was not accidental, these statements have led us to treat you as a person of interest. Do you have any comment on these accounts?”

Your hands are shaking under the table. You glance at Higuruma. He gives the tiniest nod — you don’t have to answer everything.

“I… I was worried,” you manage, voice thin. “The fire happened so early but his phone was still ringing when I called later that morning. That doesn’t make sense. I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I was trying to get you to look.”

The detective writes something down.

“We are looking, Mrs. Nanami. That’s why you’re here.”

He asks a few more questions — where you were the night of the fire, when you last spoke to Kento, whether there had been any financial disagreements, whether the marriage had been strained recently. Each question feels like a small cut.

You answer as best you can, but your mind is spinning.

These are the same partners who have been texting you nonstop, demanding an urgent meeting about Kento’s shares. The same ones rushing to redistribute everything before the body is even cold.

And now their statements are pointing straight at you.

When the detective finally closes the folder and says you’re free to go for now — “Please remain available and do not leave the Tokyo area without notifying us” — you feel like you’ve been hollowed out.

Higuruma doesn’t speak until you’re both back in his car, the engine running quietly in the station parking lot.

You stare at your hands.

“They really think I could have done it… because of some overheard conversation and one argument?”

Higuruma exhales slowly, fingers tapping once against the steering wheel.

“They don’t have enough to charge you. Not yet. But they now have statements that paint a picture of a fake marriage and recent conflict. That’s enough to keep you as a person of interest while they dig deeper.”

You swallow hard.

“What happens next? Could I actually… end up in court?”

He glances at you, expression calm but serious.

“Possible, but not immediate. Right now they’re building a narrative. If they find more — financial motive, inconsistencies in your timeline, or evidence that the fire wasn’t accidental — they could move toward formal charges. But Japanese procedure is cautious with circumstantial cases. They need more than hearsay and one loud argument.”

A beat passes. The engine idles softly between you.

Then, quieter, more deliberate, “That said… if there’s anything you haven’t told me—anything that could look worse when someone else says it first—you need to tell me now.”

Your chest tightens.

'Isn't this how lawyers make sure you're telling the truth? He's asking if I did anything close to being a suspect.'

He doesn’t look accusatory. If anything, he looks steady. Grounded.

“I’m not asking because I’ve decided anything,” he adds, voice even. “I’m asking because once this moves forward, I can only protect what I know.”

Relief and something sharper twist together in your chest, but you don’t answer right away.

Higuruma is still watching you — quiet, steady, those tired but sharp eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to peel back every layer to see if you’re telling the full truth. The realization hits you then, cold and sudden...

You haven’t even stopped to question whether you can actually trust him.

Mei Mei said he hates the corporate dark side. She said he shows up when something smells wrong. But that’s all you have — her word and a dry sense of humor in a parking garage. You’ve put your blind faith into this man you barely know, handing him your suspicions, your marriage, your entire crumbling life like it’s nothing.

What if you’re wrong?

What if you’re just desperately grabbing onto the first person who didn’t immediately dismiss you?

You end up just nodding.

He pauses, then adds quietly, “The fact that the same partners who are rushing you for meetings are the ones giving these statements… that’s worth looking into. It suggests coordination.”

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes burning.

“I can’t believe this is happening.”

Higuruma starts the car, his voice low and steady.

“Believe it. And from now on, you don’t speak to anyone — police, partners, friends — without me present. Not a single word.”

The engine hums as he pulls out of the lot.

The drive back to Tokyo is a blur of headlights and silence. Higuruma doesn’t ask questions. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift like he’s giving you space to fall apart if you need to.

You don’t.

You stare out the window and let the memory pull you under instead.

A little more than two years ago, the night of your second anniversary.

After the kiss—hot, desperate, nothing like the careful corner-of-the-mouth version from the car—you’d straddled him in that terrace chair, silk dress riding up your thighs, hands fisted in his shirt like you could hold the moment still. Kento had gone still beneath you, breath catching, eyes dark in the city glow.

For one heartbeat, you thought he was going to speak — something real, something that would shatter the careful, convenient story you’d both been clinging to.

You couldn’t let him.

Because what if he didn’t want this?

The thought comes fast, sharp, unwelcome—but it doesn’t leave.

What if this—this heat, this closeness, the way he hasn’t pushed you away—is just him being kind? Indulging you. Letting you have this moment because you asked for it, because you’re sick, because it’s easier than refusing?

Your grip tightens in his shirt.

What if he opens his mouth and reminds you what this is?

Convenient. Temporary. A contract dressed up as something softer.

What if he says it doesn’t mean anything?

Your chest tightens at the thought, something fragile inside you pulling taut like it might snap if he puts it into words. Because right now—right now it does mean something. You can feel it, bright and overwhelming and terrifying in equal measure, blooming in places you’ve been carefully ignoring for months.

And you’ve let yourself lean into it. You’ve let yourself want. You’ve let yourself believe, even just for a second, that maybe he feels it too.

You can’t risk hearing that he doesn’t.

Not now.

Not when you’re already this far in.

You pulled back just enough to rest your forehead against his, voice barely a whisper, trembling against his lips.

“Let me have this night, Kento… Just this once.”

The words came out half plea, half shield.

Then you kissed him again — harder, deeper, like you could drown the truth before it could surface. Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging lightly, while your hips shifted against him, slow and deliberate, testing.

Kento’s hands tightened on your waist, a low sound escaping his throat — something between restraint and surrender. His usual composure cracked just enough for you to feel the heat rolling off him in waves.

He kissed you back, but not with the same frantic urgency—slower, steadier, like he was choosing each movement instead of losing himself in it. To you, It confirms what’s been clawing at the back of your mind.

This isn’t the same for him.

But it doesn’t sting the way it should because he hasn’t said it.

And as long as he doesn’t say it, you don’t have to hear it.

His mouth moved against yours with agonizing patience — slow, thorough, like he was learning every curve of your lips, every small gasp you tried to swallow. One hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine through the thin silk, while the other stayed firm on your hip, guiding but never forcing.

When you finally broke the kiss to breathe, your foreheads still touching, the air between you felt charged, thick with everything neither of you wanted to name.

"Can we talk--"

You whispered against his mouth, voice shaky, “Don’t think. Don’t talk. Just… touch me.”

Kento’s breath hitched though he looked troubled, as if he wanted to pause but wanting to indulge you won over. His thumb brushed your lower lip, slow and reverent, like he was giving himself permission. Then he stood, lifting you with him as if you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, arms around his neck. He carried you inside, lips never fully leaving yours — soft, open-mouthed kisses that grew deeper with every step.

In the bedroom, he laid you down on the sheets with a gentleness that made your chest ache, the kind you’d felt a hundred times before but never stopped to name. The city lights slipped through the curtains, catching in the loose strands of his blonde hair—no longer neat, no longer composed, pulled out of place by your hands—and for a second, you saw him differently. Not the steady constant you leaned on without thinking, not the convenient husband you could keep at arm’s length, but something warmer, closer—something you hadn’t let yourself look at too long.

His shoulders shifted above you, broad enough to block the light, unfair in a way that made your throat tighten, and it hit you all at once, sharp and quiet: maybe none of this had ever been simple. Maybe you just chose not to see it that way.

His hands explored you like he was afraid you might disappear — slow, deliberate strokes along your sides, tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips. He pushed the silk dress higher, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your thighs, pausing every time you shivered or gasped, like he was cataloging every reaction.

You reached for him, tugging at his shirt buttons with trembling fingers, desperate to feel more of him. When you finally got it open, your palms slid over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath warm skin. He was solid, steady — everything you’d told yourself this marriage wasn’t supposed to be.

“Kento…” you breathed, voice cracking with denial and want all at once.

"I'm going to continue," he answered. 

He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to your collarbone, then lower, lips brushing the swell of your breast through the fabric. His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers tracing lightly over your underwear, teasing the growing heat there. You arched into his touch, a soft whimper escaping you. He paused, eyes lifting to meet yours — dark, intense, full of questions he wasn’t asking.

You shook your head, pulling him closer.

“Don’t stop. Please.”

He didn’t.

His fingers pushed the fabric aside, exploring you with careful, patient strokes — learning what made your breath hitch, what made your hips jerk against his hand. Every touch felt like a question and an answer at the same time. When he finally slid a finger inside you, slow and deep, you gasped his name like a prayer.

He watched your face the entire time, eyes never leaving yours, like he was memorizing the way you fell apart under his hands.

When you finally tugged him down for another kiss, it was messy, desperate, tongues sliding together as you rocked against his fingers. The tension between you crackled — years of careful distance collapsing into heat and static and unspoken longing.

You whispered against his lips again, voice breaking, “Just tonight… Let it be real. Just for tonight.”

Kento didn’t answer with words.

He answered with his body — slow, deep, reverent — like he was trying to tell you everything he couldn’t say out loud. And for those few stolen hours, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself pretend the convenience had finally become something more.

The memory fades, leaving an ache in your chest that has nothing to do with the police station.

You’re back in the car, staring at the blurred lights of Tokyo, Higuruma silent beside you.

Your phone is heavy in your lap.

You don’t check it.

You just close your eyes and whisper the same words under your breath, like a prayer you’re too scared to believe anymore.

“Let me have this night, Kento… Just this once.”

But the night is already gone.

And so is he.

Or so they want you to believe.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

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[kaiinyourarea]

Your Endeavor’s Wife Fights Back fic is so good I keep go rereading it

Thank you so much! It was a random idea I got when I kept on seeing Todoroki family edits on Tiktok😭 They all deserve better.

I'm so glad you ike it!

[kaiinyourarea]

(IV) The Widow & The Lawyer (KENTO NANAMI X READER X HIROMI HIGURUMA)

Pairing: Nanami Kento × Reader × Higuruma Hiromi (Modern AU) Synopsis: “Justice for the dead. Truth for the living.” You thought the marriage was just convenience. But Nanami died right when it was about to become real. Now— his body is missing, his assets are contested, his friends suddenly look suspicious. And the only person willing to believe something is wrong… is a lawyer you’re not sure you can trust. Higuruma. Content Warnings: Death of Nanami, grief and mourning, possible murder, missing body, legal investigation, betrayal, manipulation, morally grey choices, strong language, slow-burn forbidden romance (lawyer/client), emotional tension. Future chapters may contain mature (18+) themes.

Malaysia & the Missed Call | One Step Behind | Empty Seats | Convenient Truths | Not Gone Enough |Future Chapters Awaiting Verdict...

IV. Convenient Truths

You hit 'publish' on the pre-filmed brand deal at 9:47 a.m.

The upload bar creeps across the screen, then disappears with that familiar, quiet chime. The video is flawless: golden-hour light spilling across your skin, your laugh timed to land exactly where it feels effortless, the product cradled in your palm like it was always meant to be there. Comments will start trickling in soon—praise, thirst, the occasional veiled hate. Brands will be satisfied. Your manager will exhale. Everything will look like it’s still moving forward.

You’re so glad you have drafts to post because just the thought of trying to look happy in front of a camera right now makes you feel sick to the bone.

Work doesn’t pause for confused, grieving widows.

The word sinks into your ribs like a cold key turning in a lock you didn’t know was there. You stare at the closed laptop lid for a long second, then close your eyes. The apartment is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums and makes every small sound—your own breathing, the faint hum of the refrigerator—feel unnaturally loud.

_____

A little more than 2 years ago, back when the marriage was still new enough to feel like something you could accidentally break if you held it wrong, Kento started driving you to your shoots. It wasn’t even a discussion. It just… happened.

At first you convinced yourself it was coincidence—his meeting nearby, your call time aligned, convenience folding neatly the way your lives had always seemed to do. But then he was there again the next week. And the week after that. Same time. Same calm knock on your door. Same low, steady “Ready?” that never carried any expectation of refusal.

Now you’re in the passenger seat of his car, scrolling absently through your phone while the city glides past in slow, orderly lines outside the tinted windows. The heater breathes warm against your knees. His hands rest on the wheel with that effortless precision he brings to everything—steady, unhurried, like the road itself is just another spreadsheet he’s already mastered.

“Call time?” he asks, eyes never leaving the road.

“Ten,” you reply, voice softer than you mean it to be. “Fitting first, then makeup. Then I sit around looking expensive until someone decides I’m worth the lens.”

A faint huff escapes him—not quite a laugh, but close enough that the corner of your mouth twitches in response. The light turns red. The car slows smoothly, no jolt, no wasted motion. You shift in your seat, adjusting your bag on your lap, and that’s when you notice the small paper bag sitting neatly in the cupholder between you.

You blink.

“…Is that for me?”

“Protein bar. And coffee,” he says simply, voice calm as if he’s stating the weather. You stare at it a second longer than necessary before reaching over. The paper is still warm against your palm, the faint scent of fresh brew curling up when you open it.

“You hate these,” you say, narrowing your eyes at his profile.

“They’re for you.”

He remembers that you prefer these so you can avoid looking ‘bloated’ for the cameras.

“You said they taste like compressed regret.”

“They do,” he agrees without hesitation, the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth betraying that he remembers the exact conversation.

You let out a quiet laugh despite yourself, peeling the wrapper open slowly. It’s such a small thing. A protein bar. Coffee.

It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

Because he didn’t do this before. Back when you two were just friends, you met when schedules allowed. Ate when hunger finally overpowered work schedules. Talked when it was convenient. You annoyed him with your chaos and he tolerated it with that quiet, unflappable patience. That was enough.

Now he knows your call times. Adjusts the air conditioning without asking because he noticed you shiver once three weeks ago. Slows down near speed bumps even when your hands are empty, like he’s protecting something fragile you haven’t admitted to carrying. 

You take a bite, chewing slowly as you steal a glance at him from the corner of your eye. His jaw is set in that familiar line— focused, calm, utterly himself.

Something soft and unfamiliar blooms low in your chest.

This is new.

The set is already alive when you arrive—assistants darting in quick, practiced orbits, racks of clothes rolling past like silent traffic, someone shouting about lighting angles from across the room. Your manager spots you immediately and waves you over, relief flashing across her face like she’d been holding her breath.

“There you are. We’ve got a slight delay.”

You pause mid-step. “How slight?”

“An hour,” she says, already glancing at her tablet. “Lighting setup got pushed back.”

An hour.

You glance over your shoulder instinctively.

Kento is already checking his watch.

Not impatient. Not annoyed. Just… aware. Of time. Of the dozen other things he could be doing instead, maybe? Something in your chest tightens—guilt or the sudden awareness that his entire morning has bent around yours.

“We can wait,” you say quickly, turning back before the feeling can settle.

Your manager hesitates. “You sure? We can call you when we’re ready—”

“There’s a branch office nearby,” Kento cuts in smoothly, voice low and even. “I can work from there for an hour.”

Your manager brightens immediately. “That works perfectly. We’ll text you.”

And just like that, it’s decided.

You don’t realize what you’ve agreed to until you’re back in the car, the set shrinking in the rearview mirror as Kento pulls out onto the road again.

You’re not going to work.

You’re going to his.

You’ve been there before and met his co-workers. Technically. Events. Dinners. His birthday. Rooms where people smiled and shook your hand and treated you like something polished and intentional—like a guest they were expecting.

But this is different.

This is a workday.

This is where he actually exists.

The building is exactly what you expected—clean lines, glass walls, quiet in a way that feels expensive. The kind of place where voices don’t echo because no one raises them high enough to need to.

You follow half a step behind him without meaning to. It just… happens.

The moment the elevator doors open, you feel it.

Conversations pause for half a second. Eyes flick toward you, then toward him, then back again. You recognize that look—you’ve lived in it for years.

Recognition. Curiosity. Speculation.

You’re suddenly hyper-aware of your movements because Kento has been doing his part so easily—showing up as your husband without missing a beat. You, on the other hand, have just been… you. Familiar. Casual. The same way you’ve always been with him.

But then it hits you—you’re not just around cameras or strangers today. You’re about to be around his people. His world. And you know how quickly things like this get picked apart. You’ve seen how rumors start, how people read into distance, tone, the smallest gaps. If you keep acting like this, like just a friend, people might start to notice. And that’s not something you can afford. Not when you’re supposed to be his wife.

Your fingers tighten slightly around your bag strap.

“Nanami-san,” someone greets from a nearby desk.

Kento nods once. “Good morning.”

Then, without hesitation, without even glancing at you for confirmation—

“My wife's with me today”

The word lands clean like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your spine straightens before you can stop it. You smile—polite, practiced—but something steadier settles underneath. Something that feels dangerously close to pride.

You follow through. Again. And again. Same introductions. Same polite nods. Same flicker of recognition when it clicks.

Not a guest. Not a client. Not something to speculate about later.

His wife.

And you make sure it reads that way.

By the time you step into his office, your shoulders feel tighter than you remember—like you’ve been holding a posture that isn’t quite yours, but you refused to let slip.

The door closes behind you with a soft click. Silence settles, thick and expensive.

You exhale slowly.

“Do you always do that?” you ask, setting your bag down on the edge of the couch.

He loosens his cuff slightly, rolling the sleeve once. “Do what?”

“That,” you gesture vaguely toward the door. “The… announcements.”

“I’m stating a fact.”

“It sounds like a press release.”

A pause.

“I can stop.”

The answer is immediate. Neutral. Like it doesn’t matter either way.

Something twists uncomfortably in your chest.

“No,” you say quickly—too quickly. “It’s fine.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary, then nods once.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing toward the couch. “I’ll finish a few things.”

You nod, lowering yourself onto the leather. Of course. This is his space. You’re just… here.

You unlock your phone. Scroll aimlessly. Lock it again.

Your reflection stares back at you from the dark screen—composed, familiar, someone who knows exactly how to exist in front of people.

You know how to do your job. You don’t know how to do this.

You glance at him and he’s already working, focused, efficient, like everything around him has fallen neatly into place—including you.

The thought slips in before you can stop it.

'Did he actually want this?'

You were the one who said it first. As a joke. As convenience. He’s the one who showed up with a ring.

You shift slightly on the couch, the leather creaking under you.

'Is he settling? Am I preventing him from actually finding someone who’s right for him?'

Your chest tightens.

When your phone finally buzzes, the relief is immediate. You stand a little too quickly. “They’re ready.”

He closes his laptop just as smoothly. “I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

The ride back is quieter. Not uncomfortable—just… full. You can feel it sitting between you, that unspoken thing that keeps growing every time he shows up, every time he says I want to, every time he chooses you without making it a question.

There are already people outside when he pulls up—staff, assistants, a few familiar faces. And, of course, people who recognize you immediately. Then him. Then both of you together.

You reach for the door handle, then pause. You can’t just leave like that. Not here. Not with people watching. Not when they already know.

You turn back to him, forcing something light into your voice.

“My manager can pick me up later instead if you’re busy, darling.”

The word feels strange in your mouth. Worn-in, but not quite yours.

He exhales softly—not annoyed. Something quieter than that.

“Alright.”

But you don’t move. You’re still sitting there, fingers fidgeting against your bag, suddenly aware of everything—of him, of the space between you, of how easy it used to be to lean into him without thinking. Back when this was just friendship. Back when you didn’t have to think about what things meant. Now you do.

“Kiss me?” you say, half joking, half dying inside.

You lean in slightly, lips puckered in an exaggerated, playful way—something you can laugh off if it goes wrong. He does lean in, but only to press something light to your forehead, exactly where you expected.

You’re already smiling, already pulling back—when his hand comes up, steady against your face, stopping you. Then he kisses the corner of your mouth. Soft. Brief. Deliberate. Not an accident.

When he pulls away, you’re still staring at him, a second behind everything that just happened. A breath leaves you—half a laugh, half something else entirely. You don't know why but your chest feels too light, too full all at once.

“I’ll pick me up later,” you say, a little too brightly.

“What?”

“What?” you echo, blinking, completely lost on your own sentence.

He smiles then—really smiles—and there’s something quietly amused in it, like he knows exactly what he just did to you. “I’ll pick you up after work,” he says, slower this time. “Take care. Do well.”

The words settle somewhere deep, steadying something you didn’t even realize was shaking. You nod quickly and step out of the car before you can think about it too much.

The noise of the set rushes in immediately—voices, footsteps, someone calling your name—but you only make it a few steps before glancing back. He’s still there. Watching. Waiting just long enough to make sure you get inside. You lift your hand in a small wave. He nods once, then pulls away.

You stand there a second longer than necessary, heart beating just a little too fast. It’s ridiculous. You’ve done this a hundred times—held hands for cameras, leaned into strangers, smiled like things meant more than they did.

And this...this almost-kiss—

You press your lips together, shaking your head lightly as you walk inside.

“Get it together,” you mutter under your breath.

But for the rest of the day, every time someone adjusts your hair or tilts your chin toward the light, you keep thinking about it. The exact place his lips landed, and how careful he was. Like it meant something. You just don’t know what yet.

_____

The wind cuts sharper than it should when you step out of the car, tugging at the hem of Kento’s overcoat like it’s trying to pull you back inside. Marunouchi looms around you—glass towers, muted sky, everything too clean for how messy your head feels. You glance at Mei Mei, still lounging in the driver’s seat, phone lighting up her face.

“I thought you were going to hook me up with a lawyer?” you say, voice thinner than you want.

She doesn’t look up right away.

“Isn’t that why I told you to drive here?”

“So?” You gesture toward the building. “Let’s go.”

Now she lowers her phone, expression unreadable.

“You go. I can’t be seen walking into a law office. Work.”

You stare.

“You’re kidding.”

She shrugs.

“You’ll live. Besides, you said Nanami’s partners are already circling you, right?”

Your jaw tightens. The 2:17 a.m. messages earlier flash in your mind—polite, corporate, predatory.

“Okay. Then how do I even find this lawyer?”

Mei Mei leans over and cups your face, turning your head like you’re a doll. “Right there, babe.”

Third floor. Frosted glass. Higuruma Law Office.

You blink. “Come with me—”

“I already said why I can't.” She lets go, adjusting her sunglasses. “He doesn’t take clients often. But when something smells off, he pays attention.”

“I don’t even know what’s off yet.”

“Then go find out.” A small tilt of her head, calculating. “If you want the truth, don’t hire someone who protects corporations. Hire someone who hates them.”

You exhale. “Am I supposed to say you sent me?”

“No.” Her voice drops, serious now. “Don’t mention me at all.”

You glance up at the third floor again. Gray sky staring back.

“And he’s in Tokyo?”

“For now,” she says, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “Convenient, isn’t it?”

_____

"Is this still for convenience?" you ask yourself.

On the second year of your marriage—

It starts small.

You’re half-awake, tangled in sheets, lazily scrolling through your phone while the morning light bleeds through the blinds. Notifications blur together—comments, tags, reposts—until something makes your thumb stop.

His name.

Not in your messages. On your feed.

You blink, scroll back up, refresh like it might disappear.

It doesn’t.

Kento.

You tap.

A photo fills your screen—clean, minimal, unmistakably his. Taken from inside an office. Floor-to-ceiling glass. And outside was your face.

Massive. Lit against Tokyo’s skyline. Your newest billboard, the one you barely had time to process before moving on to the next shoot.

No filters. No hashtags. No branding.

Just a caption.

“Saw this on my way to work. Beautiful.”

That’s it.

Your chest tightens in a way you don’t understand, like something is pressing inward and pulling apart at the same time. Because Kento doesn’t post. Not casually. Not ever. You’ve joked about it—called him invisible, a man who exists only in meetings and spreadsheets.

And yet—

this.

You stare longer than you should. At your own face. At the framing. At the thought that he stood there for a second before deciding to share it.

That he chose to.

Your phone buzzes. It was your manager who probably saw you being tagged on his post while managing your account.

girl your husband???

You lock the screen.

Also, today's your anniversary. You think that deserves a celebration.

In your mind, you’ve already come so far for two people who only got married for the sake of convenience. However, the sparks that other people gush about are still nonexistent. At least, in the glimmer of your orbs.

By the time he picks you up that evening, you’re already dressed—red silk, the one that makes you feel like you’re in control even when you’re not. You slide into the passenger seat, smoothing the fabric over your thighs, ignoring the way your head feels a little too heavy, your skin too warm.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then—“I saw your post,” you say.

A glance from him, brief. “Which one?”

“You only have one.”

A pause. A quiet huff.

“I assumed that would be enough.”

You look out the window, suddenly too aware of everything.

“You don’t usually post.”

“I don’t.”

“So why now?”

The car slows at a red light. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before stilling.

“I saw it,” he says. “It was yours.”

Simple.

Too simple.

You don’t know what to do with that.

The restaurant doesn’t even get the chance to happen. Kento knows you—friend, husband, the man who can read your silent groans and the way your eyes close against traffic—he knows you’re unwell before you even speak. Right now, he's actually in a silent war with himself for fully noticing only once you've arrived.

“We're not going,” he says the moment you step out.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re sick, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“It’s just a fever.”

“That’s not ‘just’ anything.”

You sigh, turning toward the entrance. “We have a reservation.”

“We can cancel.”

“No.” You face him again, brows drawn. “It’s our anniversary, Kento.”

“And you’re unwell.”

“I’ve worked through worse.”

“With me,” he says quietly, “you’re not allowed to do that if I can help it.”

You freeze. “…Allowed?”

“Yes.”

You laugh, sharp. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“You’re being careless.”

“It’s my job.”

“And it’s mine,” he says, steady, “to make sure you don’t have to when you’re with me.”

It lands somewhere deep, somewhere you don’t want to examine.

You scoff and turn away. “I’m going.”

You don’t make it far. His hand slides around your waist, steady, certain, and suddenly the ground is gone—one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Kento—put me down!” you say through gritted teeth.

“No.”

“I can walk.”

“You can. You shouldn’t.”

You kick lightly, half out of principle, half aware of how effortless this is for him.

“You’re embarrassing.”

“You’ll recover.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

And just like that, you’re back in his car.

You’re still sulking when he sets you down in his apartment.

“It was a good reservation,” you mutter, voice tight, jaw stiff, eyes darting toward the window.

“I’m sure it was,” he says, calm, effortless, as if the world could bend around his certainty.

“And now it’s wasted,” you snap, crossing your arms, the silk of your dress brushing your elbows.

“It’s not.” His tone is even, but you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a sign he’s amused at your stubbornness.

You roll your eyes, pressing your lips into a thin line.

“We’re not there.”

“We don’t need to be.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you follow him with your gaze like a hawk, boring holes into the back of his head while he strides across the apartment, flipping switches, opening drawers. Your heels click sharply against the floor, each step a small stomp, a protest disguised as movement. You feel ridiculous—but you’re not letting him win this.

“Go shower and get comfortable,” he says, voice carrying from the kitchen.

Your brows furrow even more. Does that mean all the time you spent looking good earlier would come to waste?

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

You glare at his back, arms still crossed, the tension coiled in your shoulders. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge the scowl, doesn’t even flinch at your petty stomps.

“I’ll cook,” he adds, low and calm, like it’s not a question but a fact you can either accept or keep grumbling about.

You stand there a second longer, chest tight, then sigh and give in.

The water helps. Not enough, but enough. Steam curls around you as you lean against the tile, thoughts slipping loose.

Kento’s always been a great friend. He’s usually quiet and serious but he’s dependable. Kind of like someone who grounds you in your messy world despite him drowning in adult task, too.

As for the marriage, it’s… it stays true to its roots. You’re the pretty, supportive wife who makes sure your husband doesn’t run out of dazzle from time to time and he’s the husband who makes sure you always have someone to come home to, even if the marriage is a sham— which Kento seems to forget at times.

Now it’s starting to become a problem.

You reach for the small bottle you took from his liquor cabinet, take a quick sip, maybe two, just enough to quiet the noise in your head and loosen the stubborn tight coil of irritation curling through your chest.

When you step out, hair damp, towel hanging loose over your shoulders, you expect normal.

Instead, you stop.

The terrace is set. Small round table, plates arranged perfectly, glasses catching the soft glow of the city lights. The doors are cracked just enough to let light, not air, spill in.

You stare, frozen, chest tightening—not from fever, not entirely.

He comes close, warm fingers brushing your forehead, cheeks, eyes scanning you like he’s reading you entirely.

“You’re burning up,” he says, low, measured.

You shrug, stepping closer. “I’m fine.”

It’s probably the alcohol's fault more than the actual fever.

He doesn’t argue. Just walks over, towel in hand, guiding you to the sofa first. Then he stands behind you, hands in your damp hair, drying slowly, carefully, each movement precise, intimate, like it’s second nature. Like this is how he’s always supposed to be with you.

He even reaches for the hair tools you left months ago.

You huff.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“We are,” he says mildly. “Just not far.”

You roll your eyes, standing before he can finish, moving to the table instead. You sit, fork in hand, starting to eat before him—petty, deliberate, a silent rebellion.

He notices. He almost always does. But he says nothing. Just sets the tools aside and sits across from you, calm as ever. The quiet confidence in him is maddening.

And something in you pushes harder.

How much of this is real? How much of this is just him being good at this… at being your husband?

After dinner, he disappears briefly. When he comes back, there are boxes.

“Happy anniversary.”

Flowers. Makeup. Heels.

You stare. “Kento—”

“You’ll need proper shoes,” he says.

“For what?I I have a lot.”

“For where you’re going now that we’re married.” He pauses, letting it hang, just long enough to make your stomach twist. “One from me so you remember you’re not walking alone.”

Your chest tightens. It's becoming more frequent now, huh?

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Why are you like this? This was supposed to be convenient.”

“It is, is it not?” he replies.

You frown.

“Am I not doing well?” he asks, voice serious and probing.

“At what?”

A beat.

“Being yours.”

You scoff, half out of disbelief, half out of denial, because asking would mean hearing an answer you’re not ready for. And honestly? You’re mad—mad that he could make a night feel this special even when the restaurant, the reservation, the plan…

None of it matters to him as much as it mattered to you.

But it does.

So instead—you move.

You grab his collar, tug him forward, push him into the chair. Your heart hammers in your chest as you straddle him (fever be damned), staring down at him, seeing the faint trace of amusement in his eyes, the faint curve of a smile that tells you he’s been expecting this.

And then your lips meet.

Not soft. Not careful. Not polite.

Hot, insistent, desperate in equal parts. Your breath mingles. Your hands grip the lapels of his shirt, as if holding on could somehow anchor the storm of denial and longing inside you.

_____

The memory slips.

Fades.

And when you blink, you’re back in the present—standing in front of a door, your reflection staring back at you, smaller than you remember.

Your hand lifts.

Knocks.

A voice from inside, calm, detached—

“Come in.”

You push the door open.

And freeze.

Because the man behind the desk looks up—

and it’s him.

The parking lot.

The lawyer.

He studies you for half a second, recognition clicking into place just as yours does.

“…You,” you both say at the same time.

A pause.

Then he leans back slightly in his chair, expression settling into something dry, almost amused.

“I was wondering if you’d find the right car this time.”

You blink, heat creeping up your neck despite everything.

“I didn’t— that was—”

“Mm.” He waves it off lightly. “Irrelevant. Sit.”

You hesitate, then step forward anyway, placing the envelope you brought on his desk a little harder than necessary before sitting down.

He glances at it, then at you.

“Hiromi Higuruma, defense attorney. Consultation?” he asks.

You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.

“…Something like that.”

He exhales softly, folding his hands.

“You’ll have to be more specific. I’m a defense attorney. We’ve met. But if you’d like to discuss… general life concerns, I can try.”

There’s something in his tone—dry, almost sarcastic—that makes your jaw tighten.

“My husband died,” you say.

“I’m aware.”

You don't question. You're not exactly unknown with the way your face is hung up on billboards and posters. Even if this lawyer, Higuruma, isn't fond of social media, he's probably seen you on the tv.

“And I don’t think it was an accident.”

That gets his attention.

Slight shift. Subtle. But there.

“Alright,” he says. “Then start from the beginning, Mrs. Nanami.”

You do. Sort of.

Because it comes out wrong. Messy. Tangled. You talk about Kento—his routines, his quiet habits, the way he always read contracts twice even when he’d already memorized them. You talk about the resthouse, the fire, the timeline that keeps looping in your head like a broken reel. The police closing the case so fast. The urn on your shelf that still doesn’t feel real.

At some point you realize you’re circling—repeating yourself, contradicting small details without meaning to, voice cracking when you mention the last call.

He doesn’t interrupt.

Just watches, chin resting lightly on steepled fingers, expression unreadable. When you finally run out of breath, he leans back in his chair.

“…You’re not giving me a case,” he says finally.

You stop.

“What?”

“You’re giving me a man.” His voice is calm, measured. “Your marriage. His habits. His company. Your suspicions. None of which are structured enough to act on.”

Your brows knit. “So what—you’re saying there’s nothing?”

“I’m saying,” he replies evenly, “that you don’t know what you’re asking for yet.”

Frustration spikes hot behind your eyes.

“I thought you’d be good.”

A pause.

His eyes narrow slightly—not angry, just… assessing.

“I try,” he says dryly, “but you have to tell me more than just about your husband, Mrs. Nanami. I need details. His friends. His workmates. What exactly he did at JJK—not the glossy version, the actual mechanics. Who might benefit from his death. What you’re suspecting happened. Not feelings. Facts.”

You stiffen.

Right.

You open your mouth, close it.

“Forget that,” you mutter, looking away. “The point is—something’s wrong. No one else sees it. His friends don’t. The police don’t. But I can’t just sit there and—”

You push the envelope toward him again.

“Everything I have is there.”

He looks at it for a long moment, then opens it, scanning quickly—reports, call logs, screenshots of messages, copies of insurance forms.

“Who do you think is responsible?” he asks without looking up.

You open your mouth—

And your phone rings.

Unknown number.

You frown, answering anyway.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Nanami?”

Your spine straightens.

“Yes.”

“This is the Osaka Metropolitan Police. We need you to come in for further questioning regarding your husband’s death.”

Your grip tightens on the phone.

“I already gave my statement.”

“Yes,” the voice says, measured. “This would be a follow-up interview. There are… new developments.”

Something cold slips down your spine.

“…What kind of developments?”

A pause.

Then—

“At this time, you are being asked to appear as a person of interest.”

The words don’t land immediately. When they do, they hit hard.

“…I’m sorry—what?”

“We’ll explain in person. Can you come in today?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because suddenly the room feels smaller.

Quieter.

Wrong.

You hang up slowly.

Across the desk, he’s watching you now. Fully focused.

“What happened?” he asks.

Your throat feels dry.

“They want me back,” you say. “For questioning.”

A beat.

Then, quieter—

“They think I had something to do with it.”

Silence stretches.

Then he closes the folder with a soft click.

“…Alright,” he says.

Not surprised.

Not doubtful.

Just—

decided.

“Now you have a case.”

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

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LEH MEH SUH DAH LAWYER DIH

[kaiinyourarea]

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[kaiinyourarea]

(I) Rumors in Reverb (Choso Kamo X Reader)

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Pairing: Bassist!Choso Kamo x Popular!Reader (Modern College AU) Synopsis: One cryptic song dedication blows up your campus world—whispers say it’s for you. The dedicator? The "loser" you’ve never noticed… until every crash and glance starts echoing louder than the rumors. Will he ever speak, or just let the reverb fade? Content Warnings: Toxic bandmate dynamics including misogyny and verbal bullying, public humiliation via social media, explicit sexual content (18+, future chapters), revenge plots, power imbalances, intense emotional confrontations, strong language, alcohol use, and morally ambiguous choices. All Characters are legal. First Chord | Backstage Whispers | Offbeat Encounter | Static | Out of Tune | Bass Drop | Harmony or Hazard | Dissonant | False Notes | Distortion | Severed Strings | Final Show (THNK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR SUPPORT)

You wake up to the shrill beep! beep! beep! of your alarm, the kind that pierces through the fog of sleep like a knife. It's one of those mornings where everything feels off, your head throbs faintly from staying up too late the night before, cramming for today's quiz you'd probably ace anyway.

The room is still dim, early light filtering through the curtains of your dorm, casting long shadows across the posters on your wall: a mix of bands or groups you like, motivational quotes, and that one abstract painting you picked up at a flea market because it made you feel alive.

You groan, rolling over to slap the alarm silent, but the damage is done.

You're already running late.

Glancing at the clock, your heart sinks. Class starts in fifteen minutes, and it's the only one on your schedule today. 

"Shit!" you mutter under your breath, throwing off the covers and scrambling to your feet.

No time for a proper outfit, jeans, a simple blouse that hugs your figure just enough to turn heads without trying, and your favorite sneakers. You grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and dash out the door, barely remembering to lock it behind you.

The campus is buzzing as always, a sea of students weaving between buildings under the crisp autumn air. Leaves crunch underfoot, and the distant hum of conversations blends with the occasional laugh or shout. You've always navigated this chaos with ease, your presence drawing eyes even when you're alone.

It's not something you chase; it just happens.

Your 'aura', as Yuki calls it, the way you carry yourself with quiet confidence, shining without needing a spotlight. Popular by default, they say. But today, you're too focused on the ticking seconds to notice the whispers or stares.

You're jogging down the main path, eyes glued to your watch, when it happens. A solid collision, shoulder to shoulder, sends you stumbling back a step. Your bag slips slightly, and irritation flares hot in your chest.

"Watch where you're going!" you snap, not even bothering to look up. The words come out sharper than intended, fueled by the growing ache in your head and the fear of being late.

You don't wait for a response, just readjust, check the time again, ten minutes now, and keep moving. Whoever it was mutters something low, but you're already gone, weaving through the crowd.

By the time you burst into the lecture hall, out of breath and flustered, the room is half-full. Students chatter in clusters, no sign of the professor.

You slide into your usual seat near the back, next to Yuki, who's scrolling through her phone with that easy grin of hers. She's your rock in this sea of superficial friendships, the only one who gets you without the drama.

"Where's the prof?" you ask, dropping your bag with a thud.

Yuki looks up, her eyes sparkling with amusement. 

"Absent. Just got the email. Only class of the day, too. Lucky us, right?"

"Fuck!" 

The word escapes louder than you mean, drawing a few glances. You rub your temples, the headache blooming into something fierce. 

"I rushed out of bed for this? My head hurts like a bitch. I'm going home to rest."

Yuki laughs, that bright, infectious sound that always lightens your mood a fraction. 

"Wait, don't go home yet! Sigh, you probably didn't notice your socials blowing up, too?"

You pause, frowning as you pull out your phone. It's on Do Not Disturb, as always during crunch times. 

"What do you mean? I'm on DND, Yuki. You know the annual ball's coming up and a lot of people are trying to get me to be their partner."

She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. 

"What do you like in a guy?"

You blink, caught off guard. 

"Yuki, it's so early for that. Just… someone cute and talented, I guess. Anyone who can make me breathless. I like a challenge."

Her grin widens. 

"Guess who just got in line for your heart?"

"Who?"

Her grin widened even more, making her look possessed as she wiggled her eyebrows up and down while staring into your soul.

"The 'Choso' guy. The one who's always being pushed around by the losers he calls friends just because they're bandmates? That Choso."

You tilt your head, trying to place the name. 

"So?"

Yuki groans, playfully smacking your arm. 

"You're hopeless. This is why people mistake you as some arrogant bitch. You only focus on your grades—"

"Is that a bad thing? Yuki, why are you telling me this? I'm so sleepy, please."

You know she’s your friend, but right now you can’t focus. Your head is pounding like a drum after being yanked out of sleep way too early this morning, and every word she says feels like it’s bouncing off the walls of your skull. You’re desperate to sink back into the warmth of your blanket, to ignore the world and its demands, but here you are—trapped in a conversation, fighting the stubborn haze of sleep. You blink slowly, trying to form coherent thoughts, but all you want is silence, darkness, and a few more minutes to yourself.

She sighs, but there's no real frustration there. 

"It's been weeks now since the rumor Choso likes you has exploded. Are you deaf or something? How could you, of all people, not know?"

"I'm busy." You shrug, but curiosity flickers. "Where did that rumor come from? They're probably just making fun of him."

"No, there are receipts! During their last gig, he mentioned dedicating the song to someone unattainable, someone who hasn't looked at him no matter how hard he tried."

"So? That could be you—"

"Babe, you know damn well we're neighbors. I always see him," she laughs, shaking her head.

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. 

"Okay? So let him be. My headache's really killing me. I don't want to worry about some trivial thing right now."

Yuki gives you a knowing look but doesn't push. 

"Fine, go rest. But check your socials later. It's wild."

You part ways outside the building, the campus air a bit warmer now as the morning sun climbs higher. Students mill about, some heading to cafes, others to the library. You wave off a couple of acquaintances who try to chat, your mind already on your bed. The walk back to your dorm feels longer than usual, each step amplifying the throb in your skull. Finally, you collapse onto your bed, kicking off your shoes and pulling the covers up.

But sleep doesn't come easy. Yuki's words linger, nagging at the edges of your thoughts.

With a sigh, you grab your phone and turn off DND. Notifications flood in, tags, comments, DMs. Your feed is a mess of schoolmates roasting this Choso guy in comments on your posts, tagging you in stories with screen recordings from what looks like a dimly lit gig. Curiosity wins, so you tap one.

The video starts shaky, the crowd cheering as stage lights flicker over a band setup. Drums thrum in the background, guitars wailing. Then the camera focuses on the lead singer, no, the bassist, you think. He's tall, with dark hair tied back in a messy bun, a few tattoos peeking from under his sleeves.

His voice is low, almost haunting as he speaks into the mic: "I wrote this for a schoolmate I can't have… someone who hasn't looked my way, no matter how hard I've tried."

The crowd erupts, some laughing, others whistling. Comments overlay the screen.

LMAO Choso spilling tea on (Yn)?

Dude's simping hard for the ice queen.

Roast him, he's with those losers Naoya and Toji.

You pause the video, staring at his face. Choso. Maybe you've forgotten the name, but not that face. You've seen him around, quiet, intense eyes that seem to hold secrets, always strumming a guitar in the quad or hanging back at parties.

People call him a loser because of his crew: Naoya, the infamous jerk with an ego bigger than his talent, and Toji, the 'brooding 'idgaf' type who smirks more than he talks. But Choso? He's decent-looking, more than that, actually. Handsome in a rugged way, with sharp features and a presence that draws you in despite the labels.

You've heard the whispers before:

"I'd crack him if he wasn't friends with Naoya. That jerk's so intolerable." 

"It's unfortunate he's one of the losers. He's fine and talented."

It always made you a little sad, because from what little you've observed, Choso seems… normal. Kind, even, in that quiet way.

'He likes me?'

The thought hits you, and you scoff in disbelief, setting the phone down.

'Maybe they're just wrong. He couldn't possibly like me, we haven't even interacted before. Have we?'

You rack your brain, but nothing comes up. Just passing glances, maybe.

The days blur after that, the rumor simmering in the background like static. The annual ball looms closer, posters plastered everywhere: glittering dresses, masks, the promise of a night to remember. And with it comes the onslaught. Guys approach you in the halls, at the cafe, even during study breaks. 

"Hey (Yn), got a partner for the ball yet?" 

"You'd look amazing with me, think about it." 

You smile politely, deflect with "I probably won't go," but it doesn't stop them. It's exhausting, but part of the territory. You've been popular long before any rumor, your shine coming from within, top grades, that effortless charm, the way you light up a room without trying.

One afternoon, you're dreading your shared class with Naoya. It's a large lecture on music theory, ironic given his band's rep. You slip in early, hoping to avoid the crowd, but as class ends, a group of guys corners you near the door. 

"Come on, (Yn), say yes to the ball with me." 

"No, me, I've got tickets to the afterparty."

You laugh lightly, shaking your head. 

"Guys, really, I probably won't go. Thanks, though." 

They linger a bit, but you edge away, heading for the exit. Peace, finally, until a voice cuts through.

"Well, well, look at that. Seems like everyone's suddenly vying for your attention. Not surprising. People do like to latch onto whatever's popular. Guess you have our band to thank for that. Just don't forget, they'll all scatter once the show's over."

You turn, meeting Naoya's smug gaze. He's leaning against a desk, arms crossed, that perpetual sneer on his face. His hair is slicked back, clothes expensive but worn with arrogance. You've never liked him, his misogynistic bullshit grates on you, the way he talks down to everyone like he's king.

Not to be mean, but you knew you've been popular before the rumor. Still, you bite it back. 

"Well, at least I'm getting asked out," you shoot back instead, voice cool.

He chuckles, stepping closer. 

"I told you, anyone's going to approach you just for the hype. Let's see how long that lasts."

Before you can retort, the door swings open. The 'Choso' walks in, looking a bit disheveled, like he rushed here. His eyes flick to you, then away, but Naoya spots him immediately.

"Oh. Speaking of the hype." Naoya pats Choso's shoulder a little forcefully, making him wince slightly. "Congrats. You made this princess the talk of the campus."

Choso's jaw tightens. 

"Stop."

You stand there, heart picking up pace, waiting for him to confirm or deny. Trying not to assume, but curiosity burns. 

"Hi… about the song—"

Choso's breath hitches visibly, his dark eyes widening like he wasn't expecting you to bring it up. For a split second, something vulnerable flashes across his face, hope? Nervousness? But before he can speak, Naoya grabs his arm, yanking him toward the door, bumping into you in the process.

"We're leaving. Rehearsals, remember?" Naoya calls back to you with a mocking grin. "Don't get too curious. You might start believing things that weren't even for you."

On the other side of the door, you hear faint voices fading.

Choso's low "I… would've answered." 

Naoya's sharp "Choso. Shut up."

You're left standing there, dumbfounded, as the hallway empties. Then, Toji appears from around the corner, jogging lightly to catch up with the two. He's built like a wall, scars on his face adding to that intimidating aura, but he's Naoya's cousin, or something like that, from the rumors.

He glances at you, smirks a little… or was that a scoff? Hard to tell with him. Then he's gone, joining the others.

You exhale slowly, shaking your head.

They're weird. Did you just get a taste of why people call them losers?

The whole encounter leaves a strange buzz in your chest, annoyance mixed with intrigue. Choso's face lingers in your mind, that hitch in his breath, the way he looked at you like you were the only one in the room.

The afternoon sun dips lower as you head back to your dorm, the campus alive with pre-ball excitement. Groups huddle planning outfits, laughter ringing out. You spot Yuki waving from a bench, coffee in hand.

"Hey! Survive the hordes?" she teases.

"Barely." You sit, stealing a sip of her drink. "Ran into Naoya and Choso. It was… awkward."

Her eyes light up. "Spill!"

You recount it, detail by detail, the snide comments, the interrupted question, Toji's cryptic smirk. Yuki listens, nodding, her expression shifting from amusement to sympathy.

"Naoya's such an ass. But Choso… girl, he sounds smitten. That breath hitch? Classic."

"Maybe." You lean back, watching leaves swirl in the wind. "But why hang with those guys? Naoya's ego is toxic, and Toji's just… intense."

"Band loyalty, I guess. Their gigs are fire, though. Choso's bass lines? Chef's kiss." She mimics playing an instrument, making you chuckle.

The conversation drifts to lighter things, your confusion's gone, replaced by a quiet energy. You talk about classes, that new cafe off-campus, Yuki's latest crush. Little college moments that ground you amid the chaos. As evening falls, lights flicker on across the quad, students heading to dinners or study sessions.

Back in your room, you finally unwind. Homework done, you scroll socials again, not for rumors, but habit. More tags pop up: edits of Choso's gig clip with your face photoshopped in, memes roasting his "loser" crew. It stings a bit. He's talented, from what you've seen. Pretty decent, actually. Handsome, too, in his own bassist way.

You set the phone aside, staring at the ceiling. In the end, you still have no clue.

Maybe you'll just ignore him and let him tell you himself? He already announced it at the gig, after all… if it was really you, he'd say it for sure, wouldn't he?

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

I've started another series again while I still have ongoing ones, hehe. I don't even know yet how many parts this would have. Follow and interact so next parts come faster?

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I miss writing this so much! I had fun and I appreciate your comments, likes, reblogs, and overall support.

[kaiinyourarea]

A Dance of Fire and Defiance (Katsuki Bakugo X Reader)

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Pairing: Duke!Katsuki Bakugo x Diamond!Reader (Bridgerton-inspired AU, No Quirks, Royalty/Regency Setting) Synopsis: At Aldera’s Masquerade Ball, Lady (Yn), last season’s defiant Diamond, clashes with Duke Katsuki Bakugo of Dynamight in a fiery waltz. Their masked encounter sparks tension, forgotten until a forbidden art soirée at Lord Kirishima’s Red Riot estate. Surrounded by scandalous paintings, a desperate kiss ignites forbidden passion, threatening ruin. Content Warnings: Explicit sexual content, virginity loss, forbidden romance, potential scandal, mature themes, mild language, suggestive art (nude paintings), alcohol mention, societal pressure.

Reblogs, likes, and comments fuel my soul—tell me if you want more of this scandalous AU!

In the opulent halls of the Grand Palace of Aldera, where chandeliers dripped like frozen waterfalls of crystal and the air hummed with the whispers of silk gowns and polished boots, the annual Masquerade Ball unfolded like a living tapestry. It was the pinnacle of the social season, a night where masks concealed identities and fortunes were forged in fleeting dances. The kingdom's elite mingled under the guise of anonymity, their faces hidden behind feathers, jewels, and intricate veneers of gold leaf. For Lady (Yn), the Diamond of the previous season, it was yet another tiresome obligation in a world that prized her beauty like a rare gem but dismissed her spirit as an inconvenient flaw.

(Yn) had earned her title not just for her striking features— eyes that sparkled with an untamed intelligence, hair that cascaded like midnight silk, and a figure that turned heads without effort—but for the enigma she presented. Whispers followed her through every ballroom: the maiden who had rejected suitors with the sharpness of a dueling blade, her tongue laced with wit that bordered on disdain.

"A man-hater," they called her in hushed tones, though she preferred "discerning." Why settle for the simpering lords who saw her as a trophy when she craved something real, something that ignited rather than smothered?

Her parents, the Earl and Countess of Musutafu, despaired of her ever finding a match, but (Yn) reveled in her independence. She spent her days in quiet rebellion: sneaking into the palace libraries to devour forbidden texts on philosophy and art, riding astride through the misty forests surrounding her estate, and confiding in her closest friend, Lady Mina Ashido, about dreams that extended far beyond the confines of marriage. Mina, with her vibrant pink curls and infectious laugh, was the only one who truly understood (Yn)'s aversion to the parade of eligible bachelors.

"They're all bark and no bite," Mina would tease during their afternoon teas, fanning herself dramatically. "But you, my dear, deserve a storm."

Tonight, however, escape was impossible. The masquerade demanded her presence, and so (Yn) donned a mask of shimmering emerald feathers that framed her eyes like a verdant crown, her gown a deep sapphire that hugged her form before flaring into layers of tulle. As she descended the grand staircase, the room seemed to pause, a collective breath held in admiration. But (Yn)'s gaze swept the crowd with practiced indifference, noting the peacocks in their finery, the wallflowers clutching fans like shields.

"Another night of dodging dullards," she muttered to Mina, who giggled beside her in a rosy mask adorned with horns.

Across the ballroom, Duke Katsuki Bakugo of the Duchy of Dynamight brooded like a storm cloud amid the festivities. His parents, the formidable Duke and Duchess Mitsuki and Masaru Bakugo, had dragged him here under duress. Dynamight was a land of volcanic peaks and fierce forges, where explosions of innovation, alchemical fireworks and engineered blasts for mining, defined its prosperity, much like Katsuki's own explosive temperament.

With ash-blond hair that spiked defiantly even under the constraints of formal styling, crimson eyes that burned with unyielding ambition, and a build honed from years of rigorous training in swordplay and strategy, he was a force of nature. Katsuki despised weakness, loathed small talk, and pursued victory in all things with explosive determination. Yet, beneath that brash exterior lay a loyalty fiercer than any flame, a protectiveness that extended to those he deemed worthy — though few ever earned it.

His mornings were spent overseeing Dynamight's forges, barking orders at smiths who quaked under his glare, while afternoons involved sparring sessions that left opponents bruised but respectful. Evenings? Solitary strategy games by the fire, plotting alliances that would secure his duchy's future.

"Find a partner, Katsuki," his mother had snarled earlier that evening, her voice a whipcrack in their lavish carriage as they rattled over the cobblestones from Dynamight's borders. "You're twenty-three, heir to everything we've built, and acting like a damn recluse. Dance with at least three maidens tonight, or so help me, I'll announce your betrothal myself to the first simpering fool who bats her lashes."

His father had nodded solemnly, ever the peacemaker, murmuring, "It's for the duchy, son. Alliances mean stability." Katsuki knew the threat was real—Dynamight's volatile neighbors made such unions a necessity.

Grumbling obscenities under his breath, he had stormed into the ball, his mask a snarling dragon of black obsidian and red enamel, his attire a tailored black coat with crimson accents that screamed power.

"Tch, like I need some weakling hanging off my arm," he growled to himself, clenching his fists.

The orchestra struck up a waltz, and the floor swirled with couples. Katsuki scanned the room, his jaw set in irritation. He wasn't here to court; he was here to endure.

Spotting a cluster of giggling debutantes, he approached the least insufferable-looking one—a petite blonde in a pink mask—but she simpered so excessively, cooing, "Oh, my lord, your mask is so fierce!" that he abandoned the idea mid-stride with a scoff.

"Idiot."

The second, a brunette with a fox mask, prattled on about embroidery until his patience snapped.

"Do you ever shut up?" he snapped, retreating to the shadows before she could gasp in offense.

It was then that his eyes locked onto her—(Yn), though he didn't know her name. She stood apart, her posture regal yet defiant, fending off a persistent lord with a quip that sent him scurrying: "My lord, if flattery were a currency, you'd be bankrupt."

Something in her eyes, visible through the slits of her mask—sharp, unyielding, like polished onyx—stirred a rare curiosity in him. She wasn't simpering; she was challenging the very air around her. Gritting his teeth, Katsuki strode forward, his parents' ultimatum echoing in his mind.

"Dance with me," he demanded more than asked, extending a gloved hand, his voice rough like gravel underfoot.

(Yn) turned, her brows arching behind her mask. Who was this masked stranger with the voice like thunder and an aura that crackled with intensity? His presence was overwhelming, a heat that radiated even through the cool night air. Intrigued despite herself—his directness was a far cry from the flowery flattery she despised—she placed her hand in his.

"As you wish, my lord," she replied coolly, though her pulse quickened at the firmness of his grip. "Though I must warn you, I lead as often as I follow."

Katsuki's eyes narrowed behind his mask, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Try it, and see what happens."

He pulled her into the dance, his movements powerful yet controlled, like a predator toying with prey. (Yn) matched him step for step, her own grace a counterpoint to his intensity. As they spun, she couldn't resist probing.

"You dance like you're conquering the floor. Afraid of losing control?"

"Tch, control's all I have," he retorted, his hand tightening on her waist. "You talk like you've got something to prove. What, scared of a real challenge?"

She laughed lightly, a sound that surprised even her. "Scared? Hardly. I've turned down better offers than a masked brute's waltz."

"Brute? I'll show you brute," he growled, dipping her low enough that her hair brushed the floor, his crimson gaze boring into hers.

The dance ended too soon, the music fading as he released her with a curt nod.

"Not half bad," he grunted, vanishing into the crowd before she could retort. (Yn) touched her hand where his had been, a fleeting warmth lingering.

"Arrogant fool," she whispered, but a smile ghosted her lips.

Easy to forget, she told herself, dismissing the encounter as another fleeting ballroom moment. But as she retired to her chambers that night, the memory of those piercing eyes haunted her dreams, mingling with her daily routines—sketching wildflowers in the garden, debating literature with Mina over scones, and wondering if independence was truly as fulfilling as she claimed.

Days blurred into the rhythm of high society: morning calls where (Yn) endured her mother's lectures on propriety—"(Yn), dear, you must soften that tongue of yours; no man wants a wife who outwits him!"—afternoons sketching in the gardens where wildflowers defied the manicured lawns, evenings of quiet rebellion reading smuggled novels by candlelight.

Whispers of the masquerade lingered, but life marched on—until an invitation arrived, secreted in a bouquet from her eccentric acquaintance, Lord Eijiro Kirishima. Known for his rebellious streak, shark-toothed grin, and "manly" optimism, Kirishima hosted clandestine gatherings for the kingdom's artistic souls, defying the rigid norms of court life. "Come paint the night away, Lady (Yn)!" the note read, signed with his flourish.

The "art-related secret party" was held in a hidden wing of his family's estate in the hills of Red Riot, a labyrinth of candlelit rooms filled with easels, sculptures, and forbidden wines. No masks this time; faces were bare, identities risked for the thrill of creation. (Yn) attended out of curiosity, her man-hater walls cracking just enough to seek camaraderie among like-minded rebels. She wandered the rooms, admiring charcoal sketches of stormy seas and debating symbolism with a group of poets, her laughter rare but genuine.

"This piece captures the chaos of the soul," she said to one artist, gesturing at a swirling abstract. "But where's the resolution?"

Katsuki, meanwhile, had been dispatched by his parents to "check on that idiot Kirishima." The red-haired lord was a childhood friend, his unwavering loyalty a balm to Katsuki's temper. But Kirishima's parents were furious—rumors of the party had leaked, threatening scandal.

"Tell him to shut it down before he drags us all into ruin," Mitsuki had barked over breakfast, slamming her fist on the table.

Katsuki arrived grudgingly, navigating the estate's back entrances with the stealth of a shadow.

"Damn shitty hair, always causing trouble," he muttered, pushing through a door.

In a dimly lit gallery, he bumped into someone—literally. A soft gasp, a stumble, and there she was: (Yn), unmasked, her eyes widening in recognition. Those eyes—onyx fire, the same from the ball. Katsuki's crimson gaze narrowed, a jolt of electricity surging through him.

"You," he growled, the word hanging heavy. "The mouthy one from the masquerade."

"You," she echoed, her voice a whisper of surprise, though laced with amusement. "The brute who thinks dancing is a battlefield. What are you doing here, my lord? Come to conquer the canvases?"

The air crackled between them, unspoken memories of their dance igniting like dry tinder. "None of your business," he snapped, but his eyes lingered on her lips. "You gonna keep staring, or—"

She opened her mouth to retort when shouts erupted from the hall—Kirishima's parents had ambushed the party, their voices booming demands for order: "Eijiro! This folly ends now!"

Panic seized (Yn); scandal would ruin her fragile reputation. Without thinking, she grabbed Katsuki's arm, spotting a door behind him—a private alcove, perhaps.

"In here!" she hissed, shoving him inside and slamming the door shut behind them.

The space was cramped, shelves lined with canvases pressing in, their bodies forced flush against each other in the dim light filtering through cracks.

But as her eyes adjusted, (Yn) realized this wasn't just any room—it was a forbidden gallery, walls adorned with paintings of raw sensuality: nude figures entwined in ecstatic poses, limbs tangled in passion, explicit depictions of lovers in throes that made the air feel thicker. Katsuki's breath hitched, his face flushing beneath his usual scowl—flustered, though he'd die before admitting it.

"What the hell kind of place is this?" he muttered, averting his eyes from a particularly vivid scene of a couple lost in embrace.

(Yn), however, remained composed, her scholarly pursuits having exposed her to such art in hidden tomes.

"Erotic masterpieces," she replied calmly, though her heart raced. "From the old masters of U.A. Valley—studies in human form and desire. You've never seen the like?" She tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eye. "Or perhaps you're too... pure for such things?"

"Tch, pure? Don't flatter yourself," he shot back, but his voice was rougher, his body heat palpable in the confined space.

With those paintings surrounding them, the good-looking stranger's proximity, his sharp jaw, broad shoulders, the scent of smoke and spice, chipped at her composure. Would this be enough to break her walls? She didn't get the chance to think.

The door creaked open suddenly. A servant of Kirishima's peered in, lantern raised. In a flash of desperation, (Yn) surged forward, pressing her lips to Katsuki's in a feigned kiss to hide their faces. He stiffened, then instinctively wrapped an arm around her, deepening it as they stumbled, falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

The servant blinked, muttering, "Young ones these days... always sneaking off for a tryst," before closing the door with a chuckle.

They broke apart, breathing heavy, the kiss lingering like a spark. Katsuki's eyes darkened with something primal.

"What the fuck was that?" he demanded, but his hands didn't release her.

(Yn)'s cheeks burned, but she met his gaze. "Improvisation. Better a rumored kiss than a full scandal."

Outside, footsteps faded; the ambush over. But the tension remained, amplified by the erotic art. Katsuki's pride surged—he was no novice to command, and this woman challenged him like no other. Leaning in, he captured her lips again, this time for real, his kiss demanding, exploratory.

She responded, her hands fisting in his shirt. Clothes became barriers; buttons undone with trembling fingers, fabrics pooling at their feet. Katsuki's prideful moves were bold—he trailed kisses down her neck, his hands cupping her breasts with possessive grip.

"See? I know what I'm doing," he growled, thumb circling a nipple.

(Yn) laughed lightly, humbling him as she guided his hand lower, her touch gentle yet firm.

"Do you? Here, like this—gentler, or you'll scare it away." Her voice was breathy, virgin explorations unfolding in whispers.

He explored her body like uncharted territory, his tongue delving between her thighs with clumsy eagerness that evolved into rhythm, drawing moans.

"Not bad for a brute," she teased, her fingers in his hair.

He rose, positioning himself, pride swelling.

"I'll make you beg," he promised, entering her slowly—painful at first, a shared gasp as barriers broke.

But (Yn) humbled him again, her laugh soft amid the pleasure. "Careful, my lord—don't forget to pull your sword out in time," she said sarcastically, her walls clenching around him as thrusts built from tentative to fervent.

"Shut up," he groaned, but complied, pulling out just as release crashed, spilling on her thigh. They collapsed, sweat-slicked, the forbidden act a scandal waiting to erupt.

The next ball arrived like a thunderclap—the Queen's Grand Soiree, hosted by Queen Inko herself, a benevolent ruler with a keen eye for matches. (Yn) entered late, her gown a defiant crimson that matched the fire in her veins. Whispers followed: the former Diamond, still unmatched.

In the throne room, Queen Inko held court, her eyes alight with mischief. "Duke Bakugo," she announced warmly, "allow me to introduce the Diamond of this season—Lady Ochaco Uraraka, a vision of grace and fortune."

Katsuki stood rigid, his gaze flicking to the bubbly brunette approaching, her cheeks flushing as she curtsied. "Your Grace, it's an honor," Ochaco said sweetly.

But then the doors swung open, and (Yn) glided in. Their eyes met across the room—crimson locking with onyx, a spark reigniting. Katsuki's lips curved into a smirk, his attention drifting entirely from Ochaco, fixed on (Yn) with unmistakable intent. "Your Majesty," he said, voice low and deliberate, "I believe I've already found my dance partner for the evening."

As the room hushed in anticipation, his steps turned toward (Yn), leaving the question hanging: would duty bind him, or had desire already claimed victory?

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Eijiro Version

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[kaiinyourarea]

Because it's Bridgerton season again. I'm so excited to see Benedict's story unfold. For now, here's a Bakugo Katsuki fanfic inspired by Bridgerton.

[kaiinyourarea]

(III) The Widow & The Lawyer (KENTO NANAMI X READER X HIROMI HIGURUMA)

Pairing: Nanami Kento × Reader × Higuruma Hiromi (Modern AU) Synopsis: “Justice for the dead. Truth for the living.” You thought the marriage was just convenience. But Nanami died right when it was about to become real. Now— his body is missing, his assets are contested, his friends suddenly look suspicious. And the only person willing to believe something is wrong… is a lawyer you’re not sure you can trust. Higuruma. Content Warnings: Death of Nanami, grief and mourning, possible murder, missing body, legal investigation, betrayal, manipulation, morally grey choices, strong language, slow-burn forbidden romance (lawyer/client), emotional tension. Future chapters may contain mature (18+) themes.

Malaysia & the Missed Call | One Step Behind | Empty Seats | Convenient Truths | Not Gone Enough | Future Chapters Awaiting Verdict...

III. Empty Seats

Two years ago—your first anniversary still fresh, the marriage only a year old but already settling into something that felt oddly familiar—you were curled on Kento’s couch in sweatpants and one of his oversized button-downs. The sleeves swallowed your hands. The fabric still smelled faintly like his laundry detergent.

Cramps twisted low in your abdomen like barbed wire.

You shifted for the hundredth time, groaning at the ceiling before turning your head toward him.

“I need steak,” you declared weakly. “Medium rare. Or medium. Depends on the cut.” You paused dramatically. “And maybe someone to carry me home after.”

Kento was at the kitchen island, laptop open to yet another due-diligence report, glasses low on his nose. The glow from the screen painted his expression in pale blue.

This had become routine over the past year, you showing up whenever the cameras and networking smiles got too exhausting, collapsing into his quiet apartment like a storm finally reaching land.

At first he used to look surprised.

Now he just… made space.

Your joke hung in the air. For a moment he didn’t react, fingers still on the trackpad. Then they stilled.

He typed something quickly. Scrolled. Read.

Ten seconds later, he closed the laptop with quiet finality.

“Apparently red meat helps with iron loss during menstruation,” he said, voice calm, almost academic, as if presenting evidence in a meeting. “Steak seems appropriate.”

You blinked at him, then laughed despite the ache.

“You googled my period?”

“I researched,” he corrected, already standing and reaching for his coat.

The corner of his mouth twitched—the closest thing Kento Nanami had to teasing.

“There’s a place in Ginza,” he added. “Corner booth. Quiet. You won’t be bothered.”

He paused by the couch, looking down at you with mild consideration.

“…And if necessary,” he said, adjusting his cuff, “I suppose I can carry you.”

The restaurant was dimly lit, wood-paneled, the kind of place where salarymen whispered deals over wagyu and expensive whiskey.

You slid into the curved booth first. Kento followed a moment later, his knee brushing yours under the table—brief, steady. An anchor.

The waitress approached with menus, ponytail bouncing lightly with each step.

She did a double take.

Her eyes widened.

Not at him.

At you.

She took your orders with jittery hands, voice climbing a little higher every time she said “yes, ma’am.” When she returned with water, she set the glasses down carefully… and lingered a second longer than necessary.

You leaned closer to Kento, lowering your voice.

“This looks like a staged photo-op, doesn’t it?”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched—the closest he usually came.

“It would be a very inefficient one.”

“Why?”

“Because I already put a ring on your finger.” His gaze dropped briefly to your left hand, then lifted again, calm and matter-of-fact. “And it isn’t costume jewelry.”

The words landed soft but solid.

You blinked, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it. Heat crept up your neck despite the cramps twisting in your stomach.

Out of the corner of your eye, the waitress was hovering a few tables away, clearly trying—and failing—to look casual. When you glanced over, she lifted her hand in a small, excited wave.

Instinctively, you looked at Kento, wondering if he was the one she’d been staring at. He had that quiet gravity that pulled attention whether he wanted it or not. But when she approached, she stopped at your side of the booth and bowed slightly, cheeks flushed.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” she said quickly. “But… I’m a huge fan. Your brand collaborations always feel so authentic. And your runway walk at Tokyo Fashion Week last month—sorry, I’m rambling.” She held up her phone nervously. “Could I maybe get a photo?”

Despite the dull ache in your abdomen, you softened.

“Of course. What’s your name?”

Before you could move, Kento was already sliding out of the booth. His hand settled briefly under your elbow, steadying you as you stood.

He took the phone from her without ceremony.

Click.

He adjusted the angle slightly.

Click.

Even stepped back half a pace for better lighting.

Aiko beamed when he handed the phone back, bowing again.

“Thank you so much! Both of you. If you ever need anything—extra napkins, recommendations—please call me.”

You were about to thank her when Kento spoke first, tone perfectly polite.

“Actually, my wife would appreciate some ginger tea for the cramps, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The word wife hung in the air like smoke.

Aiko blinked once. Twice.

Her gaze darted to your left hand, then to his. The matching bands caught the pendant lights above the table. Her mouth formed a small 'oh;, which quickly melted into a delighted smile.

“Of course! Right away.”

She practically floated back toward the kitchen.

You slid back into the booth slowly, staring at him.

“You just outed us.”

Kento shrugged, unfolding his napkin with the same calm precision he used for contracts.

“She was going to post the photo anyway,” he said. “Might as well control the narrative.”

It was such a casual decision.

But that single moment—unplanned, unceremonious—cracked your careful secrecy wide open.

Within hours the photo was everywhere: you smiling tiredly in the booth, Kento standing behind you, one hand resting lightly on the back of your seat.

Both rings visible.

Months later, at Kento’s birthday dinner in a private room at a fine-dining place in Roppongi, Mei Mei cornered you over chilled sake while Kento talked shop with his partners across the table.

“You’re married? Since when?” she asked, eyes widening—genuine surprise, which was rare for her.

“Last year.” You shrugged, spearing a piece of fruit and popping it into your mouth. “Remember when I texted asking where you were?”

“I couldn’t answer,” she said, swirling her sake. “Burner phone. Work.” She leaned closer, studying you. “But how did you hide it for so long? I never even clocked you two had chemistry.”

“Separate apartments helped.” You smirked faintly. “And the ‘chemistry’… jury’s still out.”

Her brow lifted.

“I don’t think it exists,” you added lightly. “Yet.”

Mei Mei snorted.

“So you really locked in a sugar daddy, huh?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite suppress the grin. The two of you had joked for years about creative ways to get rich, and some of your online 'jokes' revolved around marrying well in your belief that you should be with someone who matches your ambition and vibe.

“In my defense,” you said, lowering your voice, “the convenience marriage was my joke.”

You gestured vaguely toward the other end of the table.

“He’s the one who showed up with a ring one Tuesday like it was a merger proposal.”

Before Mei Mei could respond, a familiar figure approached.

Kento.

His shoulders visibly relaxed the second he spotted you.

You didn’t even think about it—your chair shifted back and you slipped your arm through his as he reached the table, fingers squeezing his bicep lightly. Solid. Warm. Familiar.

He glanced down at you briefly, calm as always, before settling beside you.

Across the table, Mei Mei’s gaze flicked over the two of you, slow and deliberate, the way she evaluated assets for a living. Something amused curled at the corner of her mouth.

She lifted her glass toward Kento in a silent toast.

He returned it with a small nod.

At the time, you assumed that was simply her way of greeting him.

(Though later, you would realize it was closer to a teasing acknowledgment—Mei Mei recognizing something you hadn’t quite admitted yet.)

“Well,” she said, smirking into her drink.

“Plenty of time to figure it out.”

_____

Plenty of time.

The words echo in your mind now like a cruel joke.

Now all you have is time.

Too much of it.

You’ve spent most of the afternoon staring at the jar sitting on the living-room shelf. Matte black ceramic. Smooth. Unadorned. Almost clinical in its simplicity.

Inside it—

Remains.

The word feels prehistoric in your mouth, like something from a museum exhibit. Like bones unearthed from sediment after centuries of dust and erosion.

Not the man who once stood in your kitchen googling period cramps so he could order ginger tea without making a fuss about it.

Not the man who still folded his suits with meticulous care even on days he came home exhausted.

Not Kento.

Your vision blurs after a while, the edges of the urn softening as if your mind is trying to erase the shape entirely.

Because if you stare long enough, maybe the truth will rearrange itself into something else.

“(Yn)… my condolences.”

The voice pulls you out of the fog.

You turn slowly.

Yu Haibara stands at the doorway of the wake room, shoulders drawn in, his usual sunshine dimmed to something uncertain and flickering. His brows are knitted together like he isn’t quite sure what expression belongs on his face right now.

What words fit a room like this.

His gaze drifts down your face, lingering briefly on the shadows under your eyes. Dark circles that expensive eye creams and PR skincare packages haven’t managed to erase.

You wonder if he notices the faint imprint of the cooling eye mask you wore earlier. The one you peeled off only minutes before guests started arriving.

Your expression probably mirrors his confusion.

He lost a friend.

And you…

You lost—

Your gaze flickers toward the urn again.

A husband, technically. The paperwork still says so.

But the title feels strange now. Borrowed. Like a costume you’re still wearing after the performance has ended.

Instinctively, you glance behind him.

Expecting someone else.

Tall white hair and sunglasses indoors.

A cigarette between careful fingers.

A quiet figure with patient eyes.

But the hallway behind Haibara is empty.

No Satoru.

No Shoko.

No Suguru.

Just him.

“You were so close to Kento,” you say softly, your voice sounding far away even to your own ears. “I’m sure this is… hard for you too.”

Haibara rubs the back of his neck, shifting his weight.

“I—yeah. I mean, of course it is. But it’s nothing compared to what you must be feeling.” His eyes dart briefly to the urn before returning to you. “Have you eaten today? We could grab something—”

“Are the others coming?”

The question leaves your mouth sharper than you intended. You hear it yourself. Haibara hesitates. A small pause that stretches just a little too long.

“They… uh… they thought you might want space.”

Space.

Right.

You had texted them yourself. Told them the wake would be short. Told them about the flight to Malaysia on Friday. Two days from now.

A flight Kento had booked weeks ago, talking about quiet beaches and clear skies like he was already halfway there.

You had promised yourself you’d still go.

Even now.

Even if the idea of sitting on that plane alone feels like someone pressing a blade between your ribs.

You’d take him there.

Scatter what was left of him under the sky he kept talking about.

Even if it destroyed you.

Before Haibara can say anything else, your phone vibrates against the table. The screen lights up.

Shoko.

Your fingers move before your brain can catch up. You answer too quickly, swiping the screen like speed alone might change the voice on the other end.

“Hey.”

Her voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Hey.”

“Are you okay?” she asks. “Gojo’s sending food for the wake. And for the next few days. You should try to eat something.”

Your ears latch onto one word immediately.

Gojo.

The investigator.

“I texted him already,” you say quickly. “Multiple times. Can you tell him to keep digging? Please. This doesn’t feel right.”

Your throat tightens, but you push through it.

“The timeline. The fire spreading that fast. The fact that his phone kept ringing even after the house had already—”

Your voice cracks.

You force the rest out anyway.

“Kento’s death wasn’t that simple.”

There’s a long exhale on the other end.

“We’re looking into it,” Shoko says carefully. “But (Yn), don’t start investigating on your own. Don’t go poking around. Kento wouldn’t want you putting yourself in danger.”

“Danger?”

The word tastes bitter.

You stare at the urn again.

“I’m sitting in a room with his ashes while the internet argues about whether I’m grieving properly for engagement,” you say quietly. “Fans, haters—everyone’s watching. Every comment is another reminder that he’s gone.”

Your fingers tighten around the phone.

“And you’re telling me to sit still?”

“We’re just trying to protect you,” Shoko says. “Besides… you have your own life. Your brand. Your followers. Focus on that for now. Let us handle the rest.”

The words land like a slap wrapped in concern.

Because they knew the marriage started as convenience?

Because they think your grief has a time limit?

Because in their eyes you’re still the outsider who married in—not the friend who grew up beside him?

You swallow.

“Are you coming?” you ask flatly.

A pause.

“…I can’t make it.”

Something inside your chest goes quiet.

“Thanks for calling,” you say. “I’ll be fine.”

You hang up before she can reply.

The silence in the room returns, thicker than before.

Haibara shifts awkwardly beside the doorway.

“Maybe we should get something to eat so we can talk,” he says gently. “Even just—”

“I’m not hungry.”

Your voice is softer now. Empty.

You turn away from him.

“I’d like to be alone.”

He doesn’t argue.

And alone is exactly how you stay.

Until Friday.

The day you’re supposed to board a flight to Malaysia.

A trip Kento planned.

A trip that was meant for the two of you.

Now it’s just you—

and the urn.

You load the suitcase—yours and the small one that still smells faintly of Kento’s cologne—into the backseat of the sleek black SUV he bought you last birthday. The leather still remembers the shape of his hand on the gearshift when he drove you home after late shoots.

The drive to Haneda is numb. Tokyo blurs past in streaks of neon and concrete. You park in short-term, engine idling, hands locked on the wheel.

You close your eyes and breathe.

One.

Two.

Three.

For a moment, you let yourself believe that when you open them, he’ll be there. Sitting in the empty seat beside you like he always does. Calm. Solid. Real. As if the last few days were nothing more than a mistake the universe will quietly correct.

You open your eyes.

The seat beside you is still empty.

No blonde head bent slightly toward the window. No steady voice asking if you’ve eaten yet. No Kento.

Instead, your gaze lands on the photograph propped beside the urn. Not the man.

Just the evidence that he once was.

Inside the frame he’s smiling—the restrained, almost shy smile he always wore when someone pointed a camera at him. Alive in that captured second, but trapped there now.

Blonde hair. Kind eyes. Perfectly still.

A version of Kento that will never move again.

You stare at it until the truth settles, heavy and unbearable in your chest:

A photograph can keep smiling forever.

But it will never smile back.

Your vision blurs. And then the tears start falling. Quiet at first. Then harder, like something inside you has finally given up holding the weight.

Because how are you supposed to go to Malaysia—

to the place he dreamed about, the place he planned—

without the man whose dream you’re about to fulfill

all by yourself?

Instead of warm skin and steady presence, there is only stillness. A photograph that cannot reach across the console to squeeze your thigh the way he used to when traffic dragged.

The tears come hot and sudden.

“You’re so unfair,” you whisper to the empty car. “You were supposed to come home to me. You were supposed to sit here and complain about airport coffee and hold my hand the whole flight. How do I walk through arrivals in Malaysia carrying you in a jar? How do I fulfill your dream when you’re the one who made it real?”

The sobs shake you until your ribs ache.

You don’t board the plane.

Instead—hours later, how many you don’t know—you find yourself in the echoing marble hallway of the Tokyo District Court. Kento’s charcoal overcoat drapes your shoulders, too big, too heavy, but it smells like him: clean cotton, sandalwood, safety. Sunglasses hide your swollen eyes. You wander like a stray cat in the rain—knowing where home is but searching for any dry corner anyway.

Voices spill from a half-open courtroom door. Sharp. Precise. One voice cuts through the rest like a blade—low, controlled, devastating.

“…the prosecution’s timeline collapses under its own inconsistencies. Exhibit C clearly shows the defendant was logged into the company server at the exact moment the alleged transfer occurred—yet the IP trace leads to a VPN endpoint in Singapore. You cannot have it both ways: either the alibi is fabricated, or your digital forensics are incompetent. Which is it?”

You freeze. The judge’s gavel doesn’t fall immediately. Silence stretches, then murmurs.

The door swings wider as someone exits. Through the gap you catch a glimpse of tall, dark disheveled hair, suit rumpled at the cuffs, eyes shadowed but burning with quiet fury. He doesn’t see you as he’s already turning back to gather files, but the way he dismantled the case in under five minutes lingers in the air like smoke.

You don’t know why you’re here instead of thirty thousand feet above the Pacific.

Now you have a missed flight. Kento’s photo waits in the passenger seat.

Much later, you find yourself in the underground parking lot.

You don’t remember leaving the courthouse.

You don’t remember walking down the steps, or pressing the elevator button, or even finding your way to the correct level.

One moment you were sitting in the back of that courtroom, listening to a stranger dismantle a case with surgical precision.

The next—

You’re here.

Cold concrete. Dim fluorescent lights humming overhead. The distant echo of tires rolling somewhere deeper in the structure.

You stop beside your car, your hand moving automatically to the door handle. You pull. It doesn’t budge. Frowning, you tug harder, the metal rattling stubbornly under your grip. Why isn’t it opening? You try again. And again. Your mind feels thick, like cotton stuffed behind your eyes, each thought sluggish and distant. Somewhere in the haze, a single question drifts past, quiet and insistent: Why am I even here?

You were supposed to be on a flight today.

Malaysia.

Kento’s flight.

The one he booked with quiet excitement weeks ago, like he already knew the sky there would be clearer. Instead, you’re standing in a parking garage, wrestling with a car door like a thief who forgot how doors work.

A voice behind you breaks through the fog.

“That would be easier if it were your car.”

You whirl around.

A man stands a few steps away, briefcase in one hand, keys dangling from the other. Tall, rumpled suit, dark hair slightly out of place like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

A lawyer. The one from the courtroom?

Your irritation sparks before your embarrassment can catch up.

“Are lawyers usually this talkative?” you snap.

He walks a little closer, glancing at the car you’ve been yanking.

“Only when someone is trying to break into my vehicle.”

Your brain finally catches up with your body.

You look down.

Then to the side.

Your hand is gripping the passenger-side door of this lawyer's car. For a second you just stare at it, the realization sinking in piece by piece.

Right. Of course.

You’ve spent the past year sliding into passenger seats while Kento drove. Passenger princess, he once called it with the faintest hint of amusement.

You never had to think about which side was yours.

Today, though—

You drove yourself.

The heat creeping up your neck has nothing to do with the cold air in the garage. You step back quickly.

“…Sorry,” you mutter. “I wasn’t thinking.”

He watches you for a moment.

Your oversized coat. The sunglasses despite the underground lighting. The faint redness around your eyes that even good concealer can’t fully hide.

His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to place something. But he doesn’t say anything.

Just nods toward the other car.

“That one yours?”

You follow his gesture and see it immediately—your SUV sitting quietly in the space to the left.

“…Right,” you murmur, stepping away. “Thanks.”

You move quickly to your actual car this time. The door opens easily.

You slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, eager to escape the awkwardness before your brain has time to replay the moment a hundred times.

As you pull out of the parking space, you glance briefly at the side mirror. The lawyer is still standing beside his car.

Not staring exactly.

Just… watching in that absent, thoughtful way people do when they’re trying to remember where they’ve seen someone before.

You look away first.

Then you drive off, unaware that this same man—the one whose path had just crossed yours in a foggy underground lot—would soon make your life either unexpectedly better or uncomfortably more complicated.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

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[kaiinyourarea]

(II) The Widow & The Lawyer (KENTO NANAMI X READER X HIROMI HIGURUMA)

Pairing: Nanami Kento × Reader × Higuruma Hiromi (Modern AU) Synopsis: “Justice for the dead. Truth for the living.” You thought the marriage was just convenience. But Nanami died right when it was about to become real. Now— his body is missing, his assets are contested, his friends suddenly look suspicious. And the only person willing to believe something is wrong… is a lawyer you’re not sure you can trust. Higuruma. Content Warnings: Death of Nanami, grief and mourning, possible murder, missing body, legal investigation, betrayal, manipulation, morally grey choices, strong language, slow-burn forbidden romance (lawyer/client), emotional tension. Future chapters may contain mature (18+) themes.

Malaysia & the Missed Call | One Step Behind | Empty Seats | Convenient Truths | Not Gone Enough | Future Chapters Awaiting Verdict...

II. One Step Behind

The train to Osaka streaks past rice fields and quiet towns you barely register. On any other day, you might’ve pressed your forehead to the glass and watched the countryside blur into soft greens and golds, pointing out the view to Kento like it was something worth slowing down for.

It could’ve been the kind of ride you’d enjoy together—him beside you with a coffee he claims is too bitter, you stealing sips anyway.

Instead, you sit rigid in your seat, staring at the reflection of your own pale face in the window.

Part of you keeps expecting that when the train doors open in Osaka, he’ll be standing on the platform waiting. Hands in his coat pockets. Slightly amused at how worked up you got over nothing.

You don’t remember buying the ticket at the machine, fingers numb on the touchscreen. You don’t remember finding your seat by the window or the way the carriage smelled faintly of bento boxes and recycled air.

The only thing looping in your skull is the phantom sound of a phone ringing—steady, mechanical, endless.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Like if you concentrate hard enough, he’ll pick up, voice low and apologetic: “Sorry, traffic was worse than expected.”

By the time you step onto the platform that night, the sky is ink-black and the air carries the metallic bite of impending rain. Your legs feel borrowed, your body hollowed out—someone reached inside your ribcage and scraped everything vital away, leaving only brittle bone, exposed nerves, and the faint echo of your own heartbeat.

You clutch a small crossbody bag: wallet, IDs, the slim folder containing your marriage certificate (the one you both signed over lattes at the kitchen island, no ceremony, just quiet efficiency).

Nothing else.

No change of clothes. No charger. You didn’t know what to bring for this.

Two uniformed officers wait near the taxi stand, faces polite but professionally blank. They recognize you instantly— your face has been on enough billboards and Instagram grids that anonymity is a luxury you lost years ago.

“Mrs. Nanami?” the older one says, voice gentle but formal.

Your throat closes like a fist.

“Yes.”

They guide you to an unmarked car, then to the local police station—a squat, fluorescent-lit building on the edge of the city. The interview room is small, windowless, walls the pale institutional green that seems designed to absorb emotion. It smells of over-brewed coffee gone bitter, cheap disinfectant, and something faintly scorched, like old wiring. A single metal table is bolted to the floor. Four chairs. One overhead light buzzes faintly, throwing harsh shadows across everyone’s faces.

You sit. Your hands won’t stop trembling, so you press them flat against the cold table to hide it.

The older investigator—gray at the temples, reading glasses perched low—slides a thin folder in front of him but doesn’t open it yet.

“Before we begin, we need to confirm a few details. When was the last time you spoke with your husband?”

“Last night.”

The words scrape out automatically. Your voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from another room.

“Around eleven. On the phone.”

“And he was staying at the resthouse in the hills outside the city?”

“Yes.”

You swallow, it hurts.

“I… I picked that place. He wanted quiet before the flight back. Somewhere off the grid.”

The investigator nods slowly, pen scratching across his notepad.

“Did your husband mention any concerns about the property? Electrical issues, perhaps? Faulty wiring? Heating problems?”

“No.”

Your mind races back to his voice— calm, measured, the faint clink of ice in his glass. Malaysia will be quieter. Nothing about sparks or smoke.

“Nothing like that.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Did he have enemies, Mrs. Nanami?”

The question lands like a stone in still water. You blink.

“Kento works—worked—in distressed assets. He buys failing companies, turns them around or carves them up for parts. Everyone has enemies in that world.” Your voice wavers. “But nothing personal. Nothing violent. He’s… he was careful. Kind, in his way. Keeps to himself. Business is business, but he never made it personal.”

The investigator waits, expression neutral.

You shake your head harder.

“I don’t understand why you’re asking that.”

“We have to ask,” he says simply. Then, softer. “We need to show you something.”

Your stomach plummets.

The younger officer steps out, returns carrying a small plastic evidence container—clear, sealed, clinical. For a heartbeat you don’t comprehend what you’re seeing. Then the lid pops open.

Inside, a clear evidence pouch. A single gold ring. Your ring—the slim band you slipped onto his finger three years ago, no ceremony, just the two of you at the kitchen island. The surface is blackened in streaks, the metal slightly warped and discolored from intense heat—but the faint engraving inside (your initials + his, a private joke) is still legible.

Your lungs seize. Air refuses to move.

“We recovered this during the scene examination,” the older investigator says, tone careful, practiced. “It was used to confirm identity alongside dental records.”

The word 'remains' isn’t spoken, but it hangs in the air anyway.

You stare at the pouch. Your mind refuses to bridge the gap between the cool metal you’ve watched him twist absently while reading contracts—hundreds of times, a small unconscious habit—and this scorched relic.

“This…” Your voice fractures. “What do you mean this is all you could recover?”

Silence.

Your chair scrapes violently against the linoleum as you stand.

“How long did it take the firefighters to get there?” The words come out sharp, rising. “One person. One. How does an entire house burn down and this—this is it?”

“Ma’am—” the younger officer starts.

“You’re telling me he was just… in there?” Your hands shake so badly now the table vibrates under them. “He called me. He was alive. He had a flight in the morning.”

The investigator’s face stays calm, almost pitying.

“When firefighters arrived, the structure had already collapsed. The fire spread extremely fast—wood frame, dry season, isolated location. Intense heat.”

Your vision swims. The ring glints cruelly under the buzzing light.

The folder opens at last. Grainy photos were shown. Captured were charred beams like blackened ribs against the hillside, emergency tape flapping, a single fire truck dwarfed by the ruin.

“No evidence of forced entry,” he continues. “No signs of accelerant beyond what’s consistent with an electrical fault in the old wiring. At this time, the fire appears accidental.”

Accidental.

The word detonates something deep inside you.

“No.” You shake your head, harder. “No. This doesn’t make sense.”

“Mrs. Nanami—”

“I was talking to him.” Your voice cracks—half sob, half fury. “He was planning Malaysia. He asked me to come with him. He wouldn’t just—”

The investigator’s tone softens, but the words stay firm.

“As you stated earlier, your husband did not appear to have personal enemies. Without clear motive or physical evidence of foul play, we have no grounds to pursue a criminal investigation at this stage.”

The room goes deathly still.

Your shoulders sag. The adrenaline drains, leaving you cold and trembling.

“What… what do I do now?”

The officers exchange a brief glance.

“You should contact a funeral director,” the older one says quietly. “Once the medical examiner finalizes the report, the remains can be released to you.”

Remains.

Your gaze drops back to the blackened ring in its sterile pouch. Your husband—methodical, quietly fierce, the man who built a career out of salvaging broken things—is reduced to this.

And in three years of marriage, you realize with a sick lurch that there are parts of his world you never asked about.

_____

Two days crawl by in Osaka—endless forms, more questions you answer on autopilot, waiting for paperwork so you can claim what’s left of him. You barely sleep. The hotel room smells of starch and grief.

Monday morning you finally step out of the station into blinding daylight. The sky is too blue. Osaka traffic roars past like nothing has changed. Someone across the street laughs—bright, careless. Rage flares hot and sudden in your chest because how dare the world keep moving?

You don’t remember calling anyone. But when you reach the sidewalk, a sleek black sedan idles at the curb, windows tinted to opacity. The driver’s door opens.

A tall woman in sharp Louboutins steps out, sunglasses pushed up into her dark hair despite the overcast sky.

Mei Mei.

“God,” she says the second she sees you, voice low and matter-of-fact. “You look like death warmed over.”

You blink slowly.

“Mei?”

Your college friend—the one who accidentally introduced you to Kento years ago at some networking drinks, half-joking that “his brain could probably get me a job someday.” She was right. She’s a high-end corporate fixer now—travels constantly, cleans up messes for people who can afford discretion. Of course news reached her fast.

She gives you a clinical once-over.

Smudged under-eyes, wrinkled clothes from the train, hair you haven’t touched in days.

“You took the train here? Alone?”

“I… think so.”

“Of course you did.” She sighs—soft, almost fond. “Get in. You ghosted everyone—no posts, no stories. I figured you were still here, brain on standby.”

You don’t argue. The car door shuts with a heavy, expensive thud that seals out the noise. The city slides past in muted gray streaks.

Minutes pass in silence.

Finally, “They confirmed it?”

Your fingers tighten around the small evidence envelope in your lap. The warped ring presses against the plastic like a bruise.

“They said accident. Electrical. Maybe.”

Mei hums—neutral, assessing.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not… unconvinced.” Your gaze drops to the envelope. “It was just so fast. I was talking to him the night before. He was fine. Tired, but fine.”

She glances sideways.

“You should hire a lawyer.”

A tired, bitter laugh escapes you.

“For what? Divorce court with a corpse?”

“For everything.” Her voice stays level. “Insurance. The firm’s assets. Probate. JJK’s partnership agreement probably has clauses that trigger on death—buy-sell provisions, share redistribution. People move fast in that world.”

You stare out at the highway.

“I don’t think there’s foul play, Mei. But at the same time…” Your fingers dig into the envelope. “…it was so fast.”

"What do you want to do?"

You shrug and zone out at the question.

"I just want peace and quiet," you reply. As if those are achievable in this state.

She nods once.

“Fair enough. For now.”

The rest of the drive is quiet. By the time Tokyo’s skyline rises—jagged, glittering—the sky has bruised into early evening.

Your condo feels arctic when you step inside. Marble floors echo under your heels like gunshots. Empty. The kitchen island looms—the exact spot where you first read the news alert, where the world tilted.

You drop your bag. Your phone vibrates immediately.

For one stupid heartbeat, hope surges— Kento?

Unknown number.

You open it.

Our condolences regarding Kento’s passing.

Your stomach twists.

Another message:

We believe it would be best to meet as soon as possible to discuss the firm and the matter of his shares.

Your brows knit.

Given the current situation, his passing triggers several contractual obligations.

Then:

There are also outstanding financial matters we will need to settle.

Outstanding?

Kento was obsessive about money—double-checked every line, read footnotes, hated loose ends. He never mentioned debts. Never.

The typing bubble pulses.

As his spouse, you should be aware that his death affects certain financial distributions within the firm.

Your eyes flick to the evidence envelope on the counter. The warped gold ring catches the overhead light, glinting like an accusation.

They’re already circling the corpse for pieces.

You stare at the screen for a long beat.

Then type, fingers steady for the first time in days:

Let me bury him first.

The chat ends.

You stand motionless in the silent apartment, phone still warm in your palm.

Your husband died two days ago. And already, people are reaching for what he left behind.

Somewhere beneath the exhaustion and the grief, something cold and sharp begins to take shape.

Because one thought keeps repeating, louder each time:

Kento never mentioned owing anyone anything.

Not once.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

I miss Kento, guys.

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[kaiinyourarea]

(I) BETWEEN TWO THIEVES (TOJI FUSHIGURO X READER X SUGURU GETO)

Pairing: Toji Zenin × Reader × Suguru Geto (Characters are almost the same age) Synopsis: After a quiet life abroad, (Yn) is dragged back into the shadow of her late family’s empire, only to discover that nothing — not even her arranged marriage to Suguru Geto — is as it seems. As alliances twist, betrayals surface, and enemies lurk in every corner, (Yn) must navigate a world of wealth, power, and danger, all while discovering that trust comes at the highest cost. Enter Toji Zenin: rogue, lost, and terrifyingly capable. The lines between ally and threat blur, and (Yn) finds herself drawn into a forbidden partnership that ignites secrets, chaos, and desires she never expected. With every night spent in shadows and every calculated move in daylight, (Yn) learns that the throne she inherited is more dangerous than she ever imagined — and sometimes, the people she loves most are the ones who could destroy her. Content Warnings: Dark themes, crime, mafia dynamics, manipulation, betrayal, psychological tension, violence, gunplay, life-threatening situations, intense sexual content, implied cheating, steamy scenes, emotional trauma, grief, loss, power struggles, arranged marriage, control dynamics

Part I Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30

I: THE HEIR 

The flight home smelled like recycled air and regret. 

Not the type of regret that stings right away—like spilling coffee on a white shirt or missing a deadline—but the kind that sits heavy in your lungs, waiting to turn into something worse. 

I hadn’t been back in years. Not since I’d stormed out, suitcase half-zipped, promising myself I would never set foot in this country again.

“If you don’t want me, fine. If you only see me as a pawn, fine. Watch me make my own life.” 

And I did. 

I made something small, stubbornly mine. A quiet apartment in a faceless city. A routine that was delicious in its... ordinariness. No advisors breathing down my neck, no family “friends” eyeing me like an investment. Just me, my books, my late-night ramen cups, the occasional shooting range and hobbies I couldn't leave behind when I was restless. 

Until the call came. 

A clipped voice over the phone: “Your father has passed. It’s time you come home.” 

That was it. 

No condolences. No soft landing. Just the weight of inevitability dropped on my chest like a brick. 

So here I was, thirty thousand feet above the life I built for myself, knees pulled up against the seat in first class, staring at the seatbelt buckle like it had answers. My reflection in the window looked ghostly, skin paler than I remembered, eyes darker than they had any right to be. 

I didn't even come home when my mother died first. I didn't know my father would follow sooner.

When we landed, the first thing I noticed was the humidity. Thick, clinging, familiar. Like the country itself was trying to smother me back into place. 

The black cars were waiting, lined up in a row outside arrivals. I half-expected one, maybe two. But five? Tinted windows, engines purring, men in suits already stepping out. My lips parted to protest—overkill—but the words died in my throat. 

Of course it was overkill. 

I wasn’t here as myself. I was here as my father’s daughter. The only heir. The only one left. 

The door to the lead car opened, and that’s when I saw him. 

Suguru Geto. 

Someone I used to pity, thinking he has the same fate as me.

He didn’t look like the nightmare stories whispered about our families growing up. He looked—normal, almost soft. His dark hair was tied neatly, some strands falling out against his forehead. His suit was immaculate but not loud, the kind of tailored perfection that made you notice how he carried himself rather than the fabric. Calm. Collected. Like nothing in the world could ever rattle him. 

His eyes found me immediately. Deep, unreadable, but with a curve at the edges that made it seem like he was smiling even when his mouth wasn’t. 

“(YN),” he said. My name in his voice felt heavier than it should have. “Welcome home.” 

I swallowed hard. Home. Did it even count as home anymore? 

The drive to the estate was silent at first. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, watching the blur of the city melt into countryside. Everything felt too big, too clean, like I had been dropped into someone else’s life. 

Suguru sat beside me, one leg crossed casually over the other, hands folded loosely. He wasn’t fidgeting, wasn’t scrolling through a phone. Just… watching. Patient. 

Finally, I broke. “Do I even get to grieve in peace? Or am I already supposed to start signing papers?” 

A quiet chuckle. His voice was smooth, deliberate. “Straight to the point. You haven’t changed.” 

I turned my head, scowling. “You don’t even know me.” 

He didn’t flinch. If anything, the smile deepened, barely there but undeniable. “I know enough. That you left. That you wanted out. And yet here you are.” 

I hated that he was right. 

The estate was suffocating. 

The walls were taller than I remembered, ivy creeping up their stone faces like veins. Inside, the lights were too bright, every surface gleaming like it was afraid of imperfection. People swarmed—advisors, distant relatives, employees—each one trying to look sympathetic while calculating the weight of the fortune I’d just inherited. 

And there was so much of it. 

It wasn’t just money, not really. It was power. Businesses. Connections. Strings that reached further than I’d ever realized. 

They all bowed slightly when I passed. 

I wanted to scream. 

Suguru stayed close, just a step behind my shoulder. Silent enough not to draw attention, but near enough that when someone’s eyes lingered too long, they flicked to him, then away. 

It should have felt like control. Instead, it felt like safety. 

The funeral blurred. 

Flowers, incense, murmured prayers. My father’s portrait staring down at me, the weight of unspoken words pressing into my chest. I should have hated him for dragging me into this world, for keeping me tied by blood to something I’d never wanted. 

But he was gone, and hating him wouldn’t bring him back. 

I held myself together until the night ended. When the last of the mourners had left and the candles burned low, I slipped onto the balcony for air. 

The city sprawled out below, glittering and merciless. I leaned on the railing, letting the wind whip my hair, eyes stinging. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

I flinched. Suguru leaned casually against the doorway, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something amber. He stepped closer, offering it to me. 

“I don’t drink.” 

“Then hold it.” He pressed it into my hand anyway, his fingers brushing mine just briefly. “Looks less lonely that way.” 

I laughed, bitter. “Lonely’s exactly what it is.” 

“Of course it is.” His voice was steady, almost too calm. “We’re born into families like this, but it doesn’t mean they ever feel like ours.” 

I turned, startled. His eyes were on the horizon, not me. His profile was sharp against the city lights. For the first time all day, someone wasn’t trying to tell me what I should feel. He was just… saying it. 

“You sound like you hate it too.” 

He smiled faintly, lips barely curving. “I do. But hating it doesn’t mean you can escape it.” His gaze shifted to me finally, dark and steady. “You tried, didn’t you? Abroad. But look where you are now.” 

The words hit harder than I wanted them to. 

I looked down at the glass in my hands, the city glittering in its surface. “So what now?” 

“Now?” He tilted his head, considering. “Now, you grieve. You breathe. And when you’re ready… we’ll figure out what comes next.” 

We. 

He said it so easily. Like it was obvious, inevitable. Like I wasn’t as alone as I felt. 

For the first time that day, I let myself believe him. 

The next morning, the advisor summoned me to the study. The table was covered in documents, thick envelopes sealed with wax, folders neatly stacked. 

“This,” he said, tapping the pile, “is your father’s legacy. Your inheritance. You are the sole beneficiary.” 

The words washed over me in a blur. The only thing that stuck was sole. Alone. 

The advisor slid one envelope forward. “There are matters that require immediate attention. Chief among them, the agreement with the Geto family.” 

Agreement. My stomach twisted. 

Before I could ask, Suguru entered, silent as a shadow. He took the seat beside me like it was already his. 

The advisor cleared his throat. “A union. To ensure stability. Your father and his reached this understanding years ago.” 

My head spun. “You mean—marriage?” 

“Yes.” 

So that's why he was there the moment I landed.

Silence crashed into the room. I wanted to laugh, scream, tear the papers in half. But all I did was look at Suguru. 

His expression was unreadable. Calm. Almost sad. 

“I never wanted this for you either,” he said softly. “But maybe… maybe it’s the only way.” 

His words felt like resignation, not ambition. Like he was as trapped as me. 

And for one terrifying, dangerous moment—I believed him. 

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚🌸༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

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[tojisprettywife]

{note: i rewrote this, with b.s.t (hope someone gets the reference 🧍🏻‍♀️) anyway i cried, it got deleted first. i’m sleepy, hopefully it’s okay. minors DNI.}

warnings: smut. characters! m! x f! reader. characters are aged up to 21.

inexperienced men. who for the very first time feel, what a pussy feels like. your gummy, warm walls clenching around his throbbing cock. the way he clenches his jaw and gritting his teeth, to regain composure from cumming almost immediately. “f-fuck…so tight ..”. your pulsing soft walls suck his cock in, barely holding himself up. the way his soft, silky locks fall on your chest as he’s hunched over you. only gasps, curses and more whimpers slipping out of his lips. “so.. t—tight.. shit..”. pushing his full length into, till the base, gripping the plush of your hips, a bit too hard, in meek attempts to stop himself from painting your tight walls white. after what seems like forever, he slowly moves his hips, each stroke, sending shivers down his spine. he leans down to kiss you, again in attempts to keep him from moaning loud. he pushes his tongue into your mouth, his tongue lapping yours. but soon, the kissing gets sloppy, saliva dripping down both your chins. he leans down, burying his face into the crook of your neck. his teeth grazing the base of your neck, as his hips erratically, in haste buck against yours. the sound of his balls slapping against your ass, filling the room combined with his little whimpers and yours. “i-i’m cum-ming… f-fuck” he buries himself to the hilt, pushes himself even deeper, his tip bruising your cervix. his eyes squeezed shut, biting down your shoulder lightly. his cock, pumping ropes of milky, sticky cum. his cock twitching inside you, panting against your neck. just as he catches his breath, your walls convulse around his twitching cock, overstimulating. “o- fuckkk.. f..ck” barely able to form coherent sentences, slurring his words. burying his face into the pillow, beside your head, to stifle his moans. muffled moans, teary eyes as one hand gripped your waist tightly, bruising them lightly and the other hand gripping the sheets, crumpling them. his first feel of a vaginal orgasm. he presses soft kisses from your jawline to your neck, “it feels… so good.. one more time?.. please baby?..”. no longer will his hands suffice for him, as he felt what heaven feels like, you.

~ Choso Kamo, Gojo Satoru, Oikawa Toru, Nagi Seishiro, Inumaki Toge, Miya Atsumu, Yuuji Itadori, Kageyama Tobio + whoever you want 😵‍💫

[pixiesndberries]

wgtf , husband! hiromi higuruma

` nsfw hcs.

husband! hiromi higuruma is a lover boy. trust. i will always be a believer (and a yapper) that this man absolutely fucks like sex is a sacred thing⁠—⁠slow, tender, and vulnerable.

not fucking you like a man, but a husband.

he works his ass off, can't you see him stressing on that shit ass train? the way he dipped into that damn bathtub like it's the last time? yes, he is deprived but also wanting to make you feel special. vulnerability occurs inside that damn house.

he will be very pathetic, asking you politely for what he needs despite the fact that all he wanted to do was to have you⁠—⁠in many ways than sex of course.

but at that moment, maybe sex is what he really needs especially seeing you so gorgeous. like a meal served purposely for a man who works really hard.

being fucking deep inside you is his private language. his cock was fucking throbbing already and eager to meet you⁠—⁠ his tip nudging into the soft fabric, feeling the slit excited much like his. wet spot meeting the dripping tip. just like how it should be.

tongues colliding with your fingers deliberately trying to undo his blouse, his bigger one assisting your hand to properly discard his clothes with a slight grin on his lips. like a damn champ. his fourth smile of the day⁠— before he leaves for work, seeing your messages, welcoming him home, and having you like this.

those fucking hips uncontrollably rising, with your lips between his cock. your hand between his thighs, your eyes meeting his eyes⁠—⁠ he's fucking impatient but seeing you like this, he could manage. gently brushing your hair, seeing those cheeks hollow, flushed, and saliva dripping into your chin.

` so fucking pretty.

that's fucking it.

he eats pussy like it's a 5 star meal by the way, slow and deliberate but he knows how to feast⁠—⁠ to show how to properly thank a very tasty meal serve in front of him.

he could win an award for treating that pussy like its damn sacred, your existence makes him vulnerable. with your hands claws into his back, pelvis meeting each thrust.

his face buried into your neck, moaning your name quietly while feeling the tight and sloppy walls between his cock⁠—⁠ slow enough to make each thrust painfully good. his tip kissing the cervix, like hell.

your praises, it sounds like a damn drug in his ears. like he forgets the fact he almost everything pissed him off a week straight. he's a good husband, who pleases his wife well.

just like how it is.

and when he spilled inside, he holds you like he's not even thinking of letting go soon. i love you, i love you, i love you fuck.

and maybe then, seeing your belly swollen would be a good sight too.

want more? read ts! my beautiful hiromi cookie bear

ෆ PIXIE'S NOTE ! : in my quiet existence in this app, this man made me write again. fuh, im obsessed w him.

─ REBLOGS, LIKES, AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED FEEL FREE TO REQUEST!

[neotoru]

‧₊ ˚⊹ riding higuruma while he’s on a work call 18+

it was his own fault that he was in this position right now, not yours.

it wasn’t your fault that hiromi had been working on a case for hours at his desk. it wasn’t your fault that he just looked so good in that white shirt and tie that was slowly starting to come undone. it wasn't your fault that you were left watching him from the bed, wet and needy for him. it wasn't your fault that the next meeting he had was a voice call only—no video required. 

and it definitely wasn't your fault that you ended up straddling his lap while he was on said call. in fact, it was just a natural consequence of all of the day’s previous events. you were so desperate for him after having to just watch him from the sidelines all day, and circling your own clit over your underwear just wasn't doing it for you.

so now, you find yourself grinding against the straining bulge in his slacks, panties so soaked that they're creating a darkened patch on his trousers. your hands steady yourself using his firm chest. 

“baby,” higuruma whispers. his voice is low and gravelly and you can tell it’s taking everything in himself to keep his composure. “we shouldn’t be doing this.” 

“miss you,” you whimper, continuously dragging your clit over him, the fabric of his trousers providing a blissful friction. “jus’ feels so good.” 

hiromi shuffles in his seat, readjusting himself to try and create any semblance of relief from his throbbing cock. “we can do this after, i promise. i’ll touch you, i'll go down on you—”

he’s cut off by your hand that finds his dick, palming him through the fabric. hiromi swallows hard, muscles tensing up as you continue to squeeze lightly. 

you shake your head, no. “want you now, hiro.”

and he doesn't argue back anymore. he lets you unzip him and pull his boxers down just enough to free his aching cock. it’s leaking profusely—his body can’t hide just how much he truly needs you just as much as you need him. when you thumb over his head, he sighs a little too loudly than he would have hoped. 

“mr higuruma?” a voice speaks up from his laptop. “did you want to add anything?” 

panic flashes over his face. “n-no, i—”

his words are cut off by you pulling your dampened underwear to the side and aligning yourself on his tip, hands planted firmly on his shoulders. it takes all of his willpower to not audibly groan at the feeling of your warm, wet cunt sinking down on him inch by inch, fingertips digging into his skin through his shirt. 

“nothing to add, apologies,” higuruma finishes through clenched teeth, jaw tightening as you bury his dick up to the hilt within your gummy walls.

your head falls into the crook of his neck, saliva pooling in the corner of your mouth at the maddening stretch that you're experiencing. it still takes time for you to adjust to his size, even after all these years with him. hiromi’s hands fall to your waist, gripping tightly and urging you to move. 

when you begin to rock your hips, it’s impossible to stop the whine that moves past your lips. the feeling of him filling you up completely, his chest heaving with every shaky breath that he takes, trying to keep as quiet as possible, is utterly unbearable. higuruma guides you gently, moving your hips up, down, back and forth. 

“h-hiro—” you mumble into his skin. “fuuuck…”

soft grunts and pants escape him as he struggles to keep control over his body’s involuntary reactions to the stimulation. his hips snap up to meet yours with every slow, tantalising grind of your body. your walls clench around his length as the pleasure makes your insides buzz with desire. 

“keep going,” he whispers into your ear, breath ghosting over your skin. 

the two of you rut against one another like a pair of horny virgins thirsty for release. his cock squelches inside of you with every stroke as your sticky slick drips around him. 

it feels like the meeting is neverending because all you want to do is cum, but you know it’ll be impossible to refrain from crying out in euphoria when you do. you've been yearning for release all day, so riding higuruma while he’s on call, while you’re struggling to keep quiet, feels all too much for you to be able to hold out. 

and it seems like it’s too much for him, too, because he groans into your ear. “baby, ‘m close.” 

of course hiromi was going to be the one who was about to finish first, despite his initial disdain towards being in this situation in the first place. 

“can’t hold it for me?” you exhale, and he moans quietly, nodding his head.

he pants; jaw agape, eyebrows furrowed, hands clutching at your waist. 

“that’s all for discussion, today,” you hear muffled voices from the glowing electronic on his desk. “thank you for coming, everyone.” then the call drops. 

the man beneath you wastes little to no time in slamming the screen of his laptop shut and letting loose a long moooaaaan that he had been suppressing for far too long. 

you whine right back, calling out his name. he thrusts up into you and a warm heat spreads across your entire body. you know he’s close.

hurriedly, your hand flies to between where your bodies are connected, fingers finding your clit to rub circles into the sensitive bud. 

“hiro— hiromi, ngh—” you whimper helplessly, hips rolling into him fervidly. “gonna cum—”

he’s been reduced to an incoherent mess under you, so he just groans in approval. he pushes your hand that’s on your pussy away, replacing it with his own. the stimulation is all so much—his strokes sloppy and frantic, the wet slaps of skin-on-skin, his warm hands applying pressure on your clit. 

your stomach is coiled tight, threatening to burst, and when you feel his thick cock twitch in you, you cry out in pure delight. 

“fuck—!” your thighs quiver around him. waves of pleasure ripple throughout your body, hole fluttering uncontrollably around him. thick, creamy liquid pools at the base of his dick. 

you feel his hot cum spill into you, his head falling back against the chair as yours slumps into his chest. your hands grip his hair tightly and his clasp on you goes limp. 

both of you sit there in a stunned silence. 

higuruma uses his strength to easily scoop you up from his lap, strands of sticky cum connecting your cunt to him as he places you on the bed and spreads your legs with his large hands wrapping around your plush thighs. he eyes up your pussy like it’s a meal, eyes glassy with hunger. 

“let’s get you cleaned up.” 

masterlist

note im not too happy with how this turned out tbh..... hopefully the concept is hot enough to get past the mid writing :,)