ricktastix

[ricktastix]

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𝐊𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐢 ⟡ 𝟗𝟎’𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 ⟡ 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐉

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⟢ 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐞 - 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 ㅤ -𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 (𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐀𝐔)

⟢ (𝐈𝐫)𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖 ㅤ -𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞

⟢ 𝐀 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 - 𝐜𝐡. 𝟒 ㅤ -𝐒𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⟢ 𝐔𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 - 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 ㅤ -𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞 𝐀𝐔)

𝐈 𝐚𝐢𝐧’𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐟 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈, 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

[ricktastix]

Whoa! I just realized I hit 200 followers!! Thank y’all so much! To celebrate, I’d love to write any requests you guys might have for any one shots (whether it be Rick or JJK men). Leave your requests in the comments below or shoot them to me with the request button on my page. ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

[ricktastix]

Had a little bit of writers block but I’m almost down with part 8 of (Ir)replaceable I promise!! 😭

[belimah]

art by Quietspark

[willowsslove]

Second Chances (Naoya x Reader)

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Chap 9 - The One With the Kiss ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·

⁺˚⋆｡°✩ Summary ✩°｡⋆˚⁺

After years of enduring Naoya's cruelty in your marriage, one desperate push at the top of the stairs changes everything.

He falls, but he doesn’t die. He wakes with no memory of who he was, or what he did to you.

With his family desperate to hide the truth and preserve his inheritance, you become his caretaker… and his only anchor. The man who once made you flinch at the sound of his footsteps, now follows you around like a lost ghost, soft-eyed and uncertain.

You could tell him the truth. You could walk away, but guilt keeps you here, and love, eventually, makes it hard to leave.

‧₊˚✧ Warnings ✧˚₊‧

18+ MDNI, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic descriptions of domestic abuse, Physical & emotional violence, Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy angst, Slow burn romance, Non-con elements, Eventual smut.

‧₊˚✧ Word Count ✧˚₊‧

8k+

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Previous Chapter ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖· -- ˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Next Chapter ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖· (TBA)

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨Masterlist୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!

TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!

The moment you stepped through the front door, Naoya disappeared.

He went up the stairs without a word, without a single glance over his shoulder, without the small, human gestures you had begun to expect from him. You stood at the bottom of the staircase, listening to the muted sound of his bedroom door closing above you. 

You understood, of course you understood. He had spent the entire day playing a character he did not know, all whist being watched by those almost salivating at the thought of his failure. He needed the cool sealed quiet of his own room the way you imagine a wounded animal needs the dark. You couldn't begrudge him that.

But you stood there longer than you meant to, hand resting on the banister, the silence of the house pressing in on you from every direction at once, and felt a thin lash of sadness moved through your chest that you could not entirely reason with. 

He had retreated from you. That was the truth of it, however carefully you wanted to dress it up for your own sake. After everything in his office, after feeling his arms around you and his face buried against your throat, he had walked into this house, gone upstairs alone, and you had not been invited.

You wondered, with a small, quiet shame, when you had started wanting to be invited.

You moved through the house aimlessly, trying to find something to do with your hands. There was nothing to clean, every surface gleamed with a sterility that you had spent four years failing to make a home of. You drifted from one room to another like something washed loose, opened a cupboard and closed it again.

You bit down on your thumbnail, worried its edge until it tore as your thoughts churned. 

He had done well. You kept coming back to that, kept holding onto it to cover the noise in your head, but the worry burned through it. He had done well, but he had not been perfect. People had seen him, had seen the wrong things. 

Everyone who had ever observed the two of you together knew exactly the way the two of you worked, knew the distance you kept, the way you arranged your body never to be in the same space as him, knew the stiffening of your shoulders, the fear in your eyes. 

But today, they had seen his little finger curled around yours. They had seen him lift you from your chair, the way he had stood between you and Nobuaki and pitched his voice across the room in your defence. They’d then watched as he marched you out of the cafeteria with the protectiveness of a man who could not bear to leave you in the same air as someone who had spoken to you sideways.

They would have noticed, how could they not? You had handed it to them on a plate. You had let him take your hand. You had let him defend you. You had even, in the private hush of his office afterwards, let yourself stand inside the cage of his arms and enjoy it. 

The truth of it made you flinch from yourself.

Careless. Stupid, irrational, careless. 

You knew better than this, you had spent years knowing better than this. You built your entire survival on the foundation of knowing better than this. But here you were, a couple weeks of him learning how to be tender had been enough to make you forget the rules that governed your life.

You heard the front door open behind you.

Ranta stepped into the foyer, not even bothering to look surprised at the sight of you adrift in the centre of the room, and crossed to the foot of the stairs and arranged himself there, back against the bannister, eyes lifted to the upper landing, hands folded loosely in front of him. 

You watched him for a long moment. You wondered, as you sometimes did, what he had seen, what version of Naoya he was grieving and what version he was waiting for. Whether he was waiting at all. 

"I'm going outside…” you murmured. "If — if he comes down, will you tell him where I am?” Your voice came out thin. 

You bit down on the side of your thumb again, worrying the torn edge of the nail until a small, bright pain bloomed, just enough to focus your thoughts. Ranta nodded without turning his head from the upper landing, eyes still fixed on the location of the door. He didn't need to look at you. He knew, as well as you did, what the were both of you were carrying, knew what you stood to lose if any of this came apart.

Because that was the thing.

You would lose. You would lose the chance at this fragile impossible thing that had been forming in this broken house, this possibly-doomed almost-life that the two of you had been building. You would lose the small relief of waking up in the morning and not having to count which version of him would come down the stairs. You would lose this fragile peace. 

You would also lose in any divorce that did come. The Zenin family would not let one come quickly, or quietly, and even then, they would decide every single thing you were permitted to leave with. You would lose anyone you cared about, and probably your future too. They would reach into your life and disfigure it in unimaginable ways.

And Ranta. 

Ranta would lose his standing. His name, the position his family had spent generations climbing to occupy, the work which had elevated his branch from the lower ranks to where he now stood now,  close enough to power to be useful, close enough to ruin to be punished. 

If this came apart it would not just be him, it would be the whole structure he had been raised inside, expected to uphold. The thought of what would happen to him if the truth came out made your hands begin to shake.

You had done this too soon. The words tore through your thoughts, clean, cold and undeniable. You had been reckless. You should have waited longer, kept Naoya inside for another month, two months, three, until he was steadier, until he could walk through a corridor without his eyes giving him away, until he could meet a hostile face across a table without reaching for your hand. You had been a fool. You had been a stupid, sentimental, hopeful fool, and now—

You pushed through the back door into the garden, the cold air hit you, but your lungs would not open.

You took two steps onto the gravel and felt the iron band that had been tightening around your ribs all afternoon close completely, and your chest would not rise, and your breath would not deepen, and the breaths that were coming out of you were thin, and shrill, bringing in no air at all.

You folded. Your hands caught your knees, and you stayed there, bent double on the gravel path, and registered, in some distant, faraway place, that you were making a noise. Some strangled wet hiccupping sound, like the noise of an animal that had been kicked and could not yet decide whether it were still breathing. 

Your ears were packed with cotton, the sound of your own heart drowned out everything else, beating up against the inside of your skull, and your vision tunnelled inward, the edges of the garden going grey and dark. Your knees were going to give, you could feel them beginning to. You were going to crumple on the gravel. You could not, you absolutely could not, get a single breath all the way down—

A hand settled on your back.

"In for three—"

The voice was Ranta’s, pitched low against your shoulder, his hand making slow steady passes against your spine, the other one coming up under your elbow to brace you so that the give in your knees did not put you on the ground.

"In for three, out for three. You're all right, in for three—"

You blinked up at him, your eyes blurred, and the careful composed planes of his face came in and out of focus through the wet of tears. You watched him take a slow exaggerated breath in front of you, as if to show you how, and you tried, you really tried, but the air kept catching at the top and refusing to go further down.

"I messed up." You weren't sure you'd meant to say it. "Oh god, Ranta, I messed up, I — they're going to know, they're going to find out, I shouldn't have — I let him, in front of everyone, I let him — they're going to take him —" your voice cracked as it climbed "—they're going to take him and they're going to make him back into the thing he was, and it'll be my fault, oh god, what have I done, what have I—"

"In for three" Ranta said again, perfectly calm, perfectly level "Slow now, just breathe"

"What do I do?" The words came up out of the very bottom of your chest, raw and ugly, and your free hand came up and seized a fistful of your own hair at the temple and pulled, hard, the small pain of it the only thing keeping you tethered. "What do I do, what do I do, Ranta—"

"We do our best.” He said it gently, the way you might say to a child you knew you could not save from the truth. "That's all we can do, Mrs Zenin. That's all anyone can do."

You let out a sob, one so fully outside your control that it broke up out of your throat. You clapped your hand over your eyes because you couldn't bear to be seen any longer, but the tears came hot through the gaps in your fingers, and your shoulders shook in a way you had not let them do in years. 

"Y/N."

You whipped upright so fast your vision swam for a moment.

Naoya's voice, the soft uncertain one, was behind you in the garden. The sound of it cut through the cotton in your ears with a clarity that punched the breath out of you a second time. 

You turned away from him, dragging the back of your hand across your eyes, snuffling hard, trying with a frantic clumsiness, to put your face back together before he could see it. He could not see you like this, not now, not when he had spent the day clinging to your steadiness. 

“Y/N…what's wrong?"

"Nothing." It came out a single, wet broken syllable, less a word than a wound. You tried again. "Nothing, I’m… I'm fine, I'm—"

You didn't hear him cross the gravel.

You only felt it, the sudden warmth of him at your back, the careful slide of his hand across your shoulders, his arm coming around the front of you and gathering you in toward his chest with a gentleness that did not ask. Your body went stiff inside the bracket of him. 

Every part of you knew that this was the moment to push him away, that this was when you ran. And you should have run weeks ago, from the very first morning, the moment he opened his eyes in that hospital bed and asked you who you were. You should have walked out of that room and never come back, you should have taken the small precious window of confusion and used it to vanish. 

Instead you had stayed, you had let him learn your name again, you had let him learn the shape of your heart, and now here you stood, weeping in a sterile garden in a sterile house, with his arms around you and the crevasse in your armour cracking open from temple to heel.

You did not push him away.

You stood there inside his arms and the careful warmth of his chest as the crack in your chest opened wider.

"Y/N?" His voice had gone tentative, almost frightened. He tightened his arms as though if he held you carefully enough he could hold you together by force alone. "Did I… did I mess up? Did I do something wrong? Was it the cafeteria? I — I shouldn't have shouted, I knew I shouldn't have, I'm sorry, I—"

"No."

The word tore up out of you with more force than you'd meant. You pressed your face into the front of his shirt, shaking your head against the soft cotton so hard tears smeared across your cheeks. "No. No, it's not you. You didn’t… you didn't do anything wrong, it's not — it's not you, Naoya, none of it is you—"

But it was.

You couldn't say it. You couldn't make the words come up out of your throat, you didn't have the cruelty in you to put them in this moment. 

But it was him. Every inch of the panic you were drowning in was a product of the misery he had made you live in, every fear you carried was a fear he had taught your body to expect,. And the unbearable thing, the worst thing, was that the man holding you now was not the man who had done it. 

The man holding you now did not even remember doing it. He was standing in a garden he could not remember planning, holding a wife he could not remember marrying, asking you whether he had been the cause of your distress. And the only answer was yes, yes, yes, for four years, yes, and you would have to look him in the face one day soon and tell him. 

The thought of his face when you finally did was a thought you could not survive looking at directly.

You cried harder.

You cried into him and could not stop, your fists gathering up the fabric of his shirt, your forehead pressing against his sternum, his hand moving in slow uncertain circles between your shoulder blades, and Ranta, the dignified ghost of him, had quietly withdrawn into the house and left you both there.

And Naoya held you in the cold sterility of the garden and murmured into your hair, all the small useless soothing nonsense of a man who would have done anything to fix a thing he could not understand.

"Tell me…” he whispered. "Tell me, please. Whatever it is. I'll fix it. Whatever it is, I'll—"

"No."

It came out of you small, tired and breathy, this single word the only thing you could give him "No, Naoya. I'll fix it."

You felt him still against you. Felt the small confused tilt of his head where it rested above yours, the breath he drew to ask another question, but chose not to spend. 

He gathered you a little closer instead, chin settling against the crown of your hair, and held you. He did not ask again, he did not, as the old Naoya would have done, demand an answer, and even that was its own small unbearable kindness. 

Your shoulders went on shaking and his hand went on moving in slow careful circles between them, until slowly, slowly, the tremors began to settle. The sniffles thinned, the fierce knot of your fingers in his shirt loosened by inches until your palms lay flat against his chest and the breath you were taking in finally went all the way down.

"This garden…” he murmured absently, cheek resting against the top of your head, his words shifting your hair faintly as he spoke. "Is really boring."

A laugh slipped out of you before you knew it was coming, husked through with the salt of the crying. The old Naoya would not have said that. The old Naoya had chosen every plant, every paving stone, every piece of expensive understated landscaping in this garden, and the mere suggestion that any of it might be boring would have been a personal affront to him so total that whoever had said it would be banished.

His hands stilled against your back. He leaned back from you a fraction, just enough to look at your face, and there was something soft and curious in the way his eyes searched yours.

"Did you… did you just laugh?"

His face had tilted, head canted at that angle that made him look particularly feline, the corners of his eyes lifting into something close to wonder. You sniffled, scrubbed the back of your hand across your cheeks to catch the last stray wet of the tears, and nodded.

"Did I make you laugh?" he asked, slowly, as though he were trying out the sentence to see if it could possibly be true, as though he were not entirely sure such a thing were within his powers.

"Yes" you said, voice rough. "Yes, you did."

He beamed, it was the only word for it. 

It wasn’t a smile, it was a beam, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his teeth showing and a flush of pleased colour rising to the very tops of his cheekbones, and the sight of it on his face stopped you completely. 

You stood there and stared up at him, because that face, the face of which you had known for four years, had not been built for that expression. That face had been built for disdain, for contempt, for the small private smirk of a man pleased at someone else's failure. You had spent your marriage watching a thousand variations of those expressions cross that face and you had never, not once, seen it do this.

You had lifted your hand, watched yourself do it as though watching someone else, your palm cupping against the curve of his warm cheek. You touched him to check, to verify that the man beaming down at you was not a trick of the light, not some fever-dream you had constructed out of loneliness, but was actually here, right in front of you.

His eyes flickered down to your hand on his cheek.

And then, as easily and as automatic as if he’d done it his whole life, he tilted his face into your palm.

He met your hand halfway, pressed his cheek into the curve of it, his eyes fluttering closed, lashes dark against the high colour on his face, and a small contented sound escaped him. 

You couldn't breathe.

The grief that moved through you in that moment was so total, so wide that there was no room in it for tears. It went past tears, it went past words. 

It was the grief of every night you had lain in the dark and made yourself small, the grief of every morning you practised your face in the mirror before going downstairs, the grief of standing in this garden, in this house, beside this man, and watching him lean into your touch and knowing that this version of him had been denied to you by no one but himself. By the cruelty he had cultivated, by the deliberate training into the man his family had built him to be. 

And now, in some strange terrible mercy, the lock had been broken open by a hospital bed and a head injury, and the man under your hand was leaning into your palm like a kitten and you could not, for the life of you, decide whether the universe was being kind or unspeakably cruel.

"Let's plant some flowers…” he murmured. He didn't open his eyes as he spoke. "Like the ones in your greenhouse“

Your breath caught, catching on memories you’d rather forget.

"You want to do that?" you whispered. He opened his eyes a fraction at the sound of your voice, just the smallest soft slit of brown, the sunlight catching them and turning them into the colour of honey. You realised in that moment that you would never again be able to think of his eyes as anything else. You had spent the last four years calling them cold, dark and flat. The truth was they had been waiting all this time to be the colour they were now, and you had simply never been allowed to see.

"I would" he hummed. The corners of his mouth lifted. "I'd like to."

You nodded.

You nodded, you did not trust your voice anymore, and slipped your hand, very gently, from his cheek. He made the smallest sound of complaint at the loss of it, a small bereft little noise that he himself looked surprised to have produced, and you almost laughed again. 

He reached out and caught your hand before you had fully withdrawn it, turned it over in his and pressed his lips to the centre of your palm.

He didn't seem to know he had done it. He looked, when he raised his eyes again, slightly startled at himself, but he didn't say anything about it, and neither did you. 

The kiss stayed warm against the centre of your palm long after he had let your hand fall.

…

You would never have dreamt up a moment like this.

The only explanation, if you had, would have been that something inside your head had finally given way, that the long unbearable pain of the last four years had collapsed on you at last and left you wandering through some merciful hallucination of your own design, because no part of your actual life had ever offered you the materials for a scene such as this one. 

You and Naoya, hands crusted with soil, shoulder to shoulder. His once pristine sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smear of dark earth across the high curve of his cheekbone, and the late day sun slanting across the garden.

You worked side by side, crouched on the grass by the bed you'd chosen, your arms occasionally crossing as you reached for the same tulip pot, the rough fabric of his shirt brushing the back of your wrist, the warm low murmur of him talking to himself as he tried to coax the roots of a stubborn bulb free of its plastic container without snapping anything off in the process.

"Oh — no, no, no, please, please don't break, please—"

You laughed for the third time today, your shoulders shaking a little where they pressed against his.

"Why is it like this?" he murmured, brow furrowed in such severe concentration that it nearly tipped you over. "Why is it so…it’s like the roots don't want to come out. Are they meant to fight me? Am I killing it?"

"You're not killing it."

"It feels like I'm killing it." His voice had gone genuinely worried, the small line between his brows deepening. "Look at this bit, see this bit here, where it's all white… am I, should it look like that?"

"That's just the root."

"Are you sure."

"Naoya."

You leaned across him, took the pot gently from his hands, and showed him how to ease the pads of his fingers down the inside of the plastic, loosening the soil from the edges before trying to lift the plant out. 

The old Naoya would not have asked, would not have crouched in damp earth in a button-down shirt with mud working its way into the cuffs. The old Naoya would not have cared whether the tulip lived or died, would not have cared, more pointedly, whether you did. So the version of him beside you now, fretting about a flower he had asked to plant, was such a complete inversion of the man you had known that you had to stop for a moment and just breathe.

"It's okay" you said, your voice softer than you'd meant. You parted the earth between you with your hand, scooping out a neat little hollow in the dark soil for the bulb to sit in. "All right, be brave."

You teased with a smile, the small piece of nonsense slipping out of you before you'd registered the tone, the particular gentle sing-song lilt that you had not used in years.

"Behave" he whispered back, his forehead bumping gently against the side of your head as he said it, and you laughed again, properly this time, and something inside you loosened another half-inch.

It was so strange. 

You felt, for a moment, the small disorienting suspicion that perhaps you were the one who had fallen down the stairs that day. Perhaps you had hit your head somewhere along the line, perhaps years ago, and that this whole improbable life you were currently living was simply a long delicate elaborate hallucination your mind had constructed. Because the mind, when pushed past a certain point, will sometimes refuse the truth and offer the brain a kinder thing in its place.

The thought struck you. If it was a hallucination… you didn't want to wake up.

Not yet. Not yet, please. 

Please let you let you stay in this lie a little longer, please let you stay here in this empty garden with the last sun warming the small of your back and Naoya's shoulder pressed against yours and his voice, low and worried in your ear. Let you stay in the moment where his nearness did not register as warning, where his hand reaching for yours did not send you up onto your haunches. Where you no longer measured your mornings by how much the bruises had faded, where you no longer angled yourself in the bathroom mirror to inspect, the place along your jaw that the concealer didn't quite cover. 

Let you stay in the version of your life where none of that had ever been true. Let you stay here. Let you stay with him.

The bulb came free of the pot.

“Oh…oh, look, look, I did it.” he breathed, with such genuine bright delight that it made you smile. You took his hands in yours, soil-crusted, both of them, broader than you remembered, warmer, and guided them down into the hollow you'd opened in the bed.

"Like this" you murmured. “There, now tuck the dirt back in around it, pat it in. There, we did it."

He sat back on his heels and looked at it, the tulip bulb in its small earthy pocket, the slim green stalk of the early shoot just visible above the line of the earth. Naoya looked at the small planted thing as if it were the most remarkable object he had ever been responsible for. His mouth had fallen slightly open, the smear of dark soil still sat unnoticed across the high curve of his cheek.

"It's in" he said quietly.

"It's in."

He looked at you. The expression on his face, the simple uncomplicated delight of it, the soft proud disbelief, the way the corners of his eyes had crinkled the way they do now, was almost too much to look at directly. You had to glance down at the soil between you for a moment to gather yourself before you could meet him again.

"Thank you" he murmured.

You shook your head. "It's just a tulip, Naoya."

"It's not just a tulip."

He said it so simply, the way a person says a thing they know to be true at the bone. Then he reached for another pot.

You worked your way along the bed as the light continued to slant. Red, white, and yellow bulbs, spaced evenly, alternating colour. Naoya kept up his low conversation with the flowers, he even named one of them, announcing solemnly that this one would be called Edward because it had a face. You laughed so hard, for the fourth time, that you had to sit down properly on the ground for a moment.

When the tulips were in, you brought out the wildflower bombs from the small paper sack you'd had Ranta fetch from the greenhouse, the kind you tossed into a bed and forgot about and then watched, in spring, as the whole thing exploded into a controlled riot of poppy and ox-eye daisy and whatever else is hiding inside.

You held one out to him in the palm of your hand.

"What's this?"

"You throw it."

He frowned at you. "Throw it?”

“Just pick a spot you want and throw it. Wherever it lands, that's where flowers will grow."

He looked at the small earthy ball in his palm, then at you. He looked, with new and dawning interest, at the spread of bare earth at the edge of the bed.

"Anywhere?"

"Anywhere."

His face changed.

You watched it happen, the mischievousness behind his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting into something that was very close to the smirk of the old Naoya, and yet was not the old Naoya's smirk at all, because the old Naoya's smirk had always been at the expense of someone, where as this was the lit small delight of a man being told he was allowed to throw things in his own garden.

He stood up, took two steps back, weighing the seed bomb in his palm with the seriousness of a man preparing to throw a discus at the Olympic Games, and then he lobbed it with a small grunt of effort. It landed with a soft satisfying thud in the bare earth fifteen feet away.

"Oh" he breathed, he turned to you, eyes were shining. “Y/N, give me another one."

You laughed and quickly handed him another. He threw it and you handed him another. He threw that one too, into the bed, then into a planter he definitely wasn't supposed to be aiming for, but you didn't stop him, you simply stood at his elbow and handed him the seed bombs one after another until the small paper sack was empty.

The garden, that boring sterile clipped expensive garden, now sat speckled all over with small lumps of dirt and seed.

"It's going to look mad" he said quietly, slightly delirious.

"It's going to look beautiful."

"Mad and beautiful" he amended, and turned his head and looked at you, and the last gold of the day caught the side of his face. 

He stepped toward you, the same way he had been stepping toward you all day, careful, hesitant, the movements of a man who had learned that closeness with you was a thing to be requested and not assumed. He lifted his hand and brushed the back of his knuckles, very lightly, down the side of your face.

There was soil on his hand, you felt the grit of it on your cheek. You didn't mind.

His eyes hadn't left your face. His hand turned and curved against the side of your jaw, his thumb stroked slowly across the rise of your cheekbone.

You leaned into his palm, the way he had done earlier, and you let your eyes slip shut and rested your weight, for one stolen second, into the warm bracket of his hand. The wind moved through the trees behind you, the last of the gold sunlight sliding behind the wall, leaving the garden in a thin lilac dusk that made everything look slightly softer than it was.

His thumb stopped moving.

You opened your eyes a fraction to find him looking at your mouth.

Not in the way people sometimes did, but in the way a man does when fighting some small invisible war inside himself. His brows had drawn faintly together, the high colour had risen again to the tops of his cheeks, deeper than before, and his lower lip had caught between his teeth for half a second before he released it. 

You watched him work through the silent math of whether he was allowed to do this, whether asking would ruin it, whether not asking would be worse. He didn't know. You could see he didn't know.

So you decided for both of you.

“Naoya…” you whispered. The word felt like something you were stealing, something you would not be allowed if you waited even one more breath to take it. “Naoya, kiss me."

He did not need to be asked twice.

The arm that wasn't already at your face slipped around the small of your back with a surety that surprised you both, drawing you in and slightly up, lifting you onto your toes without effort. The hand at your jaw steered you, gently, the angle of your face tilting up into his. His head dipped, his lashes lowered, and his mouth pressed against yours with such soft careful warmth that, for one disoriented second, you didn't believe it was happening.

It was nothing like any kiss before.

You couldn't remember, suddenly, why you'd thought every kiss before had been a kiss at all. 

The kiss on your wedding day, the brisk dry official pressure of his mouth, the small impatient turn of his head toward the photographer, had been the closing of a contract. 

This was something else entirely. This was him. The man whose hands trembled, the man who cried, the man who had defended you in a cafeteria full of watching faces and chosen you, over and over and over again across this impossible day.

Your heart felt like a water balloon stretched to bursting. The pressure of it inside your chest was so great, so total, that you weren't sure your ribs were going to hold. 

Some great soft thing had swelled up inside you and was pressing against the cage of your bones from the inside, and you felt , for one absurd untethered moment, that the gravity of the garden no longer applied to you, that your feet had left the gravel entirely, that the only thing keeping you on the earth was the warm circle of his arm at your back and his mouth careful on yours.

He kissed you once.

He drew back the smallest distance, breathing softly, the tip of his nose still brushing the side of yours, and you felt the warmth of him hesitate as if checking, was that all right, can I have another, please tell me I can have another. 

You didn't have a word in you to say yes but your body answered for you, your face tilting back up into his, and he made a small low sound at the back of his throat that you'd never heard from him before and kissed you again.

Longer this time, slower.

His lips moved against yours with the care of someone who had been allowed to taste something and wanted to be careful not to waste a single second of it. 

You felt his other hand come up to cradle the side of your jaw, fingers spreading gently into the hair at the back of your ear, the calluses of his thumb shifting against the angle of your cheekbone, and his mouth deepened against yours by the smallest fraction, and you tasted the warmth of him, the faintest trace of the espresso you had brought up from the absurd man at the café this afternoon, and somewhere very far below your sternum the last small disbelieving guard of you laid down its weapons.

Your hands slipped around the back of him.

You felt his heart through the cotton of his shirt, felt it hammering against the heel of your palm, as though it had not, in all his years on the earth, been called upon for a job quite like this one before. The discovery of this, the evidence of his nerves, almost broke you. 

He was nervous. He had wanted this and he was nervous. The man whose hand you had spent four years bracing for was kissing you in the late dusk of a garden he had asked to plant flowers in, and his heart was hammering against your hand like a small frightened bird, and you had spent your entire adult life not knowing it could be like this.

That was the most unbearable thing.

You had been twenty-two when you had first been kissed by your husband at an altar in front of two hundred witnesses, and now here you were, four-year laters, having the first kiss of your adult life. 

The first kiss that had not been required of you, the first one not given out of obligation or duty, the first one not survived through quiet dissociation, not endured, not waited out. The first one chosen, the first one returned, the first one where both hearts had stopped what they were doing and turned, briefly, in the same direction.

You kissed him back.

You kissed him with everything in you that was not on fire with grief. You kissed him with your hands curling into the back of his shirt and your head tilting and your eyes shut so tight that colours bloomed behind your lids. 

He made another small soft sound against your mouth, and you felt the give of him, the small unmistakable surrender of his whole body, and you tightened your arms around him and let him fold in toward you, and you understood that whatever you were going to lose to the rest of this life, this kiss was now permanently yours. 

They could not take it. They could come and take everything else, but they could never take this.

rOH MY GOD, Guys. I'm so soooorry. I've been absolutely swamped with uni work 😱. Honestly, all my time went poof! LOVE YOU GUYS FOR ALL THE MESSAGES, I will get to them!

DO NOT FEED INTO AI, OR REPOST WITHOUT CREDIT, OR ELSE I WILL CURSE YOU WITH FOOD POISONING AND MAKE YOU JACKSON POLLOCK YOUR BATHROOM!

[willowsslove]

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[madamechrissy]

˚⊹♡ Fade Out ♡⊹˚

It's your ten year high school reunion and there's just one person you're don't want to see, your first love - Satoru Gojo. He was the football captain, you were the cheerleader, it was that high school love that consumed you, only for it to all fall apart when Satoru broke your heart. Even after all these years, you still resent him for it, you hate him, in fact - so how do you two end up in the backseat of his sports car!?

˚⊹♡ pairings- ex bf! gojo x reader

˚⊹♡warnings- a little angsty, past emotions, high school sweethearts, you were a cheer captain and he was an allstar player, flashbacks, idiots in love, insecurities, teasing, mutual pining, longing, oral ( f receiving) fingering, squirting, riding him in the backseat, love confessions, happy ending <3

this one just randomly popped into my head out of nowhere, comments/rbs always appreciated if you enjoy! Wc- 7.3k

Art creds right here!

Ten years - it's been ten years since you saw him, your first love, your first kiss, the first everything.

High school reunion and truly the two of you look the same, he's a little buffer, his shoulders are broader, perhaps his jaw has sharpened ever so slightly - but it's undeniably him and you. Satoru Gojo - the top football player in the school and you - the pretty cheerleader who was always with him.

On him, near him, on top of him in the front seat of his sports car, smacking your head and giggling as he fucked up into you, stretching you out on his cock. He'd been sweet that first time, even as you all snuck around and parked in the middle of nowhere, even with the cramped confines.

Yet he'd been there - kissing you deep, messy and slow, pumping you up and down that veiny length as you took more and more from him, kissing you with his tongue ring clicking against your teeth. You'd whined out, desperately arching for more, shattering and fluttering your eyes shut.

The memories heat you up as you stand there across from him, trembling with your thighs pressed together, nails pressing into your palms, seeing him catching up with all his friends. He'd gone to university, but you'd gone out of state, and that was when it had all fallen apart.

The pain is there, lingering, eating at you - yet those feelings linger, the first love, the youth you all had where you couldn't get enough of each other, just for it all to end.

When those eerie blue eyes catch you across the room, however, he's not smirking, not laughing and shoving his friends, no he's got them locked on you now. Suguru and Nanami pause, peering over at you, then at each other, as you turn and rush to grab a drink.

You can't even stand to be in the same room with him after ten years.

You run into Shoko and Utahime, they give you a hug and the three of you throw back a shot, laughing a bit as you catch up with them.

“You two together, hmm?” Your lips twitch up in amusement, they look at each other and then kiss. “Stop that, you’re making me jealous!”

“Have you decided to stop being into men?”

“No I wish,” you pout and lean back, letting Shoko grab you another shot. “It’s been nothing but hell.”

“Another shithead?” Utahime asks, frowning a bit.

“Yeah, but it was three years…” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t talk about it, I’ll cry again, and I am not crying with Gojo at this party.”

“Ah, Gojo,” Utahime makes Shoko laugh. “What, I can’t stand him!”

“He’s not that bad, just an idiot,” she grabs her pack of cigarettes and starts smacking them on her palm, raising a dark brow as you look over at him, turning quickly when he catches you staring.

“You still have it bad, all these years, sweets?”

“No! Shoko!” You cover your face and shake your head. “Never again, I haven’t even spoken to him.”

“In ten years?” Shoko asks, surprise clear on her features.

“No, I’ve not even been in the country for five years, but he never reached out to me, and neither did I, aside from when his parents were sick and it was on the news. I did write to him, but he just… hearted it. I’m sure he had a lot going on.”

And that fucking hurt, that you couldn’t even comfort him, that you knew he faced a fuck ton of responsibilities now. Yet all these years Satoru hearted one of your photos, and reacted to the only message you sent – you swear the heart must have been a misclick, too.

It hurts so bad, that you were too stubborn to reach out in the darkest times, that he wouldn’t leave your memories. Sure – it faded, you went and got your master’s degree, you went abroad, now you’re back home, though, and you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d run into him somewhere. Yet, Satoru had been doing a lot of traveling himself this past year.

You’d know, you stalked his IG.

How pathetic after a decade to still want to know about him, but there was nothing to be done – since the breakup you’ve been even more so thinking of him.

Of how nothing ever felt like him touching you, him inside you, him looking at you the way he did. Yet it’s always overshadowed by the fact that you never heard him say those words, just three words that you craved so badly as a young girl. Even now, the words that spill from your lips never feel the same as that confession.

“He takes care of the company now, I think that’s hard for him.”

“He’s still just a dick,” Utahime says to Shoko, she laughs and shakes her head at her. “Sorry, but he is.”

“You two always hated each other,” you muse, peeking again to see him walking over. “Shit!”

“I’m… gonna smoke,” you gasp and Shoko grabs Utahime. “Outside… bye, baby!”

“You brats!” You hiss as they laugh and rush out, you tense as you smell his goddamn cologne the closer he gets.

Bergamot.

It was so distinctly him – even when he had none of it on, his smell on clean skin just did something – especially with raging hormones as a teenager. You clench your thighs just inhaling him, trying to ignore his very presence, but he’s already standing next to you, murmuring your name.

“Gojo.” He raises a brow, he’s just gotten hotter, his jaw is so cut it’s unfair, his blue eyes peeking at you.

Suddenly you’re nervous, tugging at your dress – you’re not eighteen anymore, your tits don’t sit up quite like they did, your hips widened, you’re just… different. And Satoru looks the same, if not more cut.

You become conscious of everything, almost holding your breath as he takes you in, smiling at you. His girl you’d seen him with was a fucking actress, you’re just a small town girl, nothing glamorous. Surely he wanted-

Why do you care what he wants?

Why is he sending you spiraling just coming near you?

“What do you want?” He sighs at that, the cocky grin off his face, easing back when you push at his chest just a bit, hand pausing before you tug it back, staring down into your drink.

“That’s the greeting I get, sweetheart? After a decade?”

“Should just smack you.”

“I’d probably like it,” you snort and roll your eyes, making his tentative little smile come back, sitting next to you. “Can’t I get a hi?”

“Hi,” you narrow your eyes now. “And bye.”

“God you’re mean,” he leans close, lips brushing against your ear, your heart hammers in your chest. “It’s hot on you.”

“You’re so full of it,” you lean back and sip your drink, narrowing your eyes at him. “As if you don’t have a girlfriend or five.”

“Yeah, no,” you raise a brow. “I was engaged, but that was over as of… let’s see,” he calculates in his head. “A month now.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking down at your own finger, the little change of color where the band once was. “Me too, but like two months.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you shrug a bit, seeing his eyes dart to your finger.

“He fucked my former best friend – and she got pregnant.”

“What!?”

“Yeah,” you throw back the rest of your wine, shaking your head. “Go ahead, laugh at it.”

“Why would I fucking do that?” You look at him and feel your heart pound in your chest at his face, at how he looks at you in that moment.

Fuck you missed him, didn’t you?

“You were mean then,” you whisper, and he falters, looking down, hurt clear on his features. “So mean to me at the end.”

“I know that,” it kills him to think of then, how upset he had been that you weren’t going to his university, the sheer upset of you moving, the fear of how desperately in love he was already.

He never even got to tell you.

His parents were pushing him to marry even back then, and it was anyone but you – a pretty middle class girl wasn’t up to ‘their standard’. It had killed him to try to keep up with that, but even so he never wanted to lose you – though he was scared shitless by what he felt for you, by the sheer obsession he had.

Even ten years ago he was searching for you, pictures of you where you’d moved, trying to keep tabs – fuck, last year he saw you with that fiance and almost got sick from it. His fiance was just someone his parents pushed enough, and with him having to take over their place soon, he’d gone along with it.

It’s not like he could ever love anyone after you.

There was nothing like what he felt, countless women underneath him, on top of him, bent over with their asses arched, but nothing came close to the breathless way he held you, how your lips brushed together. He wondered often if it was because you were his first love, you were so many of his firsts, no he wasn’t a virgin, but he didn’t do all the things you two did before you.

Before that it was awkward, fumbling around, he’d usually been so nervous he’d let the girls take the lead, but everything about you made him want to – the way you fell apart when he learned to eat pussy with every flick of his tongue on you. You didn’t know that, of course, he ended up being sort of a prodigy at it rather quickly.

Satoru may have been a jock, but he was also very much a nerd at heart, so he studied it all extensively – porn wasn’t even for jerking his cock, it was to learn how to make you squirt. It was to make his girlfriend feel good.

Satoru was good at making you cum.

Yet he failed in so many other areas of your relationship – royally failed, especially that day you said good bye at the airport, and he was so very fucking hurt by you. It rushes through his head – and is if he is on the same wavelength –you say it softly.

“That day at the airport, I can’t forget that,” you shake your head. “Call me petty, a ten year long grudge holder, I agree.”

“You’re not…” He trails off then, cupping your face in a way he shouldn’t.

How does Satoru remember your scent still? After a decade it’s as vivid as ever, the scent that if he even caught a whiff of it he’d search for you, even now.

That’s what scared him the most – how obsessed he was then.

How hopeless in love he was, and scared of getting hurt – only to hurt you.

*****

Ten years ago

You were trembling, tears streaming down your face – you get it, why Satoru didn’t think long distance could work, some fucking promise to be friends, but staring at him now has you furious. You see him holding back, his own eyes glassy with unshed tears, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re happy I’m going far away,” you whisper, clutching your luggage as he glares.

“I’m not fucking happy, what?”

“You are,” you laugh then, swiping at your cheeks, hating those trails that revealed just how upset you were. “Why’d you take me here? To make the break up more permanent?”

“I don’t want to…” He didn’t want to lose you, it’s on the tip of his dumb ass eighteen your old brain to say it.

– I don’t want to lose you. –

Yet those words never spill – he just cups your face, thumb brushing a tear away, looking into the face of the girl he’s terrified of. He’s scared to feel it all, to lose you to someone, to be put under all that pressure to marry and cause you more pain. Then he didn’t truly know how to handle it.

“Wanted to feel better by saying goodbye?”

“We were friends for years before this,” he desperately cups your face, leaning low as the rush of people walk past you all, headed toward their flight, and the attendant is making her announcements. “I just want what’s best for you, how would us being across the country ever going to be okay?”

“I’d have made it work,” you had shut your eyes, tugged him close by his letterman’s jacket, the one you used to wear all the time after you both went on dates. He’d wrap it all around your shoulders, enveloping you in that scent, the warmth. Now it’s a cruel joke to have it underneath your fingers.

“I’m your first boyfriend, what if you…” He had swallowed down that bile in his throat at the thought. “What if you regret only being with me, what if you wanted more experience?”

“You think that?” You asked, lost in his eyes, unsure how he thinks you’d ever want a boy but him. “No, I-”

‘Boarding flight 111 now, five minutes to board.’

You curse, turning to leave when he slams his lips down on yours, and for just a moment you’re done for, you’re melting in his arms, hands slipping up his chest as he presses you right against one of the pillars, uncaring of who walked by. You meet his kisses, exhaling and letting his tongue slide in, the familiar barbell dancing on the roof of your mouth.

His hands are firm on your waist, pulling back and looking down at you. “I’m doing this for you.”

You glare then, shoving at him. “For me!? Leaving me?”

“You’re the one leaving!”

“No, I’m going to college, you’re the one who won’t try! I can’t believe I let you kiss me again!” you rush off and he grabs your wrist, you jerk back and glare up at him again. “I’m done. Satoru, just let me go – don’t hurt me more.”

“I don’t want you to-”

“You don’t know what you want,” he lets your wrist go, his own eyes glazing over with emotion, pretty even under the harsh lights of the airport. “You don’t get to tell me what I’ll want in the future, you don’t get to decide that for me, and you sure don’t get to tell me that this is ‘for my own good’. It hurts, and you have to deal with that.”

“Please, just,” you can’t. You can’t fall into his arms, how would you let him go? “Just keep talking to me, keep-”

“It’ll kill me,” you stepped forward and tiptoed then, kissing his lips softly, tasting the salt of both your tears. “It’ll kill me to have to talk to you when I can’t have you.”

“Sweetheart-”

“I love you,” he faltered then, you’d not said it because he hadn’t, but there was no stopping it now. “I’ll miss you, Toru.”

You rushed off before he could say anything, tears hot down your cheeks, Satoru had rushed to catch you, but you were…

Gone.

*****

“I shouldn’t have broken up with you,” you pause, leaning back in shock. “Though now you’re probably glad I did.”

“You… you’re… saying sorry?”

“Is it so surprising?” He rubs the back of his neck, you’re in shock clearly. “Guess so, I wasn’t one to admit I was wrong then.”

“Why do you say you shouldn’t have?” He sips his own drink, eyes shutting for a moment. “You feel bad how it happened?”

No, Satoru knows he’ll never feel that way about anyone – and a decade of loneliness has only made him regret that shit more. He could have three babies with you by now, have given you anything you wanted – he stalks your pages, he knows you work constantly, and he loves that. But another part of him wishes you didn’t have to, that you were taken care of.

You’d probably smack him and call him a misogynist for that shit, and he loves that about you.

He still loves that girl from high school, the woman sitting here with her face just a bit more defined, with her tits so soft and pretty looking, hips he bets would feel so good to grab as he bent her over. Thighs that he has to touch, they just look too smooth with whatever shimmery lotion you put on them.

He gives into the urge, fingertips brushing on your skin, eliciting a shaky little breath from your lips, your eyes catching each other. “Yeah, you could say I feel bad about how I did it. I never said…”

He’s not really gonna apologize is he?

“Shh,” you put a finger to his lips, he smirks a bit. “Don’t make me like you, Toru.”

“Toru, fuck, been forever since I heard that,” he grins all dopey and cute, taking your wrist in his hand, long fingers wrapping it. He presses a little kiss to your fingers, a gesture he used to do forever ago, pausing as it feels too natural.

“I don’t want to like you.” He nods a bit, thumb brushing over your knuckles, eyeing the place where that ring was.

“He was an idiot.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d know, I’m a big fucking idiot,” you laugh a bit, nodding. “Don’t agree with me!? Brat.”

“Well, you are,” you sigh then, he nips your finger hard with his sharp ass teeth, and Shoko and Utahime walk back in, watching you both.

You have the eyes of your entire graduating class on you both.

Satoru and you, the perfect couple – that perky cheerleader and the star player, voted in the yearbook to be the best couple in fact, most popular, the best looking, you name it. You and Satoru won so many they had to give them to other people – and all for what?

To hate looking at your yearbook?

To look at how happy you were?

“Do you ever wonder…” He eases your hand down now, but he doesn’t let it go. “If it was just the first love, the hormones, the high school puppy love?”

“Puppy love…” You’ve never even heard him say that word – love. Though he means it differently, it gets you. “I guess everyone’s first love is kind of epic.”

“Nah, not really,” he sips on his drink, a little droplet clinging to his lips, one of his thighs brushing against yours and you barely hold back a gasp at the contact. “I haven’t found many people that had… what we did.”

“A toxic ass relationship, nasty breakup?”

“That was some of it,” he admits, heart racing like he’s some inexperienced boy and not a grown man – you just make him feel that way.

“Yes I wonder,” you sigh, admitting it finally. “I wonder if it was hyped up in my head, if the nostalgia and the… pain of you breaking up mess with me more. All the what ifs.”

“I hurt you.” It’s a quiet little statement.

“You hurt me, and I hated you,” he looks down where your hand brushes on his thigh, covering it with his huge one. “You were a dick.”

“I know, I just-” you lean forward and kiss him before you can stop yourself, making him tense up, his hand on the small of your back tugging close as he relaxes into it, exhaling against your lips. You pull back with a little dazed look, lips glossy. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“I was trying to see if that’s what it was,” you whisper softly. “Puppy love.”

“Ah,” he tilts your chin up, kissing you again, your earrings fall back, brushing the side of your neck as he tugs you close until your ass is half off that barstool. “We should see, yeah? If it’s just nostalgia.”

“Yeah just for um… closure,” he laughs a bit, and you glare. “Closure and I’m horny and single.”

“I’ll take it,” fuck he’d take any of you. “For true nostalgia we should…”

He’s kissing down the side of your neck, your eyes flutter closed as his mouth leaves a wet trail, his tongue flicking over your racing pulse. You cling so tightly, it’s hard to let go, whining out and arching your hips, thankful there is loud music reverberating all over.

Satoru heard it, though, leaking pre and pulsing from your taste, your scent, the softness of your skin.

Fuck he can’t ever do this and hope to be ‘normal’.

But there was no way he didn’t take one night with you.

“Should what?” You murmur, biting down on your lip when he gently nips behind your ear, your nails cling to his jacket tightly.

“For old times sake, I’d say we go to my car,” you laugh then, shaking your head as he pulls back, kissing your lips again. “Lemme drink your pretty little cunt up again, finger you till you squirt all over my new seats.”

Fuck.

Fuck him, really.

“In your car? Are we in high school?” He looks around and you laugh then, shaking your head. “Fine, but I’m not as flexible, I haven’t tumbled since college.”

“I bet you still are,” he teases. “Used to fold you right in-”

“Now.”

“Now?” You hop down with his help, turning and just walking. “Wait!”

It’s moments and you all are devouring each other, stumbling against the cool brick wall outside as the night air brushes against your skin, you’re shivering as he walks you to his car – by walking, that meant him carrying your ass, cock pressing your needy cunt as your thighs wrap his hips.

The car is nicer than his in high school – a fancy ass Audi – you aren’t one to know anything about cars, but the damn thing looked like it was exactly what Satoru would drive. The expensive leather hits your senses as he slides you in, your mouths are all over each other, needy and desperate.

"Missed this," you almost don’t believe it, that he ever could, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip before trailing his mouth down your jaw. "Missed you."

“You don’t…”

“No?” You sigh, shaking your head as Satoru shifts, maneuvering you both until you're lying back across the wide seats, his body covering yours, an even heavier weight than you remembered, pinning you down with his hand on your wrists, his mouth claiming yours in a bruising, possessive kiss.

It's a tight fit even with how surprisingly big the interior is, the cramped space reminding you of every stolen moment you had in his old car, sneaking before curfew, fuck you two would ditch school and go drive in that car, you’d lay your feet in his lap and just let him drive you around with the tops down. The memory of his smile, of his laugh, of his kisses all come together as he captures your very breath.

This isn't the sweet, messy kissing of teenage versions of you and Satoru – this is pent up need, a decade of frustration poured into a single, desperate kiss, his hands all over you, huge palms taking you over. Satoru’s tongue is delving in and out of the hot recesses of your mouth, tongue gliding right along yours, the click of his tongue ring against your teeth shooting every bit of memory back.

God you remember when he pierced it.

You remember him buying that vibrating tongue ring so he could eat your pussy out – and oh, he did it every time he could, no one has made you feel that way since, no one could figure your body out like him. The nostalgia hits as much as the need, the pleasure, your nails digging into the corded muscles of his shoulders over his dress shirt.

“Need more,” you whisper out, pausing then as he looks at you under his lashes. “Just tonight, right?”

He doesn’t say anything – as if he’d take only one night and be fine with that.

"Fuck, I've thought about this so often it’s pathetic," he laughs out without humor, hands slipping up your hips and bunching that little dress up your hips.

“You thought of me?” You ask, and he stares at you then – swollen lips all pretty and glossy in the night, ruining him.

You don’t think he remembers?

You don’t think he regrets it all?

He kisses you softer, nipping a plump lower lip between his sharp teeth, drinking up your little gasp. "Thought about this mouth, this body, the way you used to squirt all over me."

“Satoru…” You shake your head, moaning softly when he tugs your neckline down, hands squishing your pretty tits. “You don’t mean it.”

“No?” You shake your head, eyes rolling back in your skull when his tongue swirls around your nipple ever so slowly, tongue ring flicking that sensitive peak. “You think I forgot you, huh?”

“I know you did, ah!” His fingers find you, sliding your panties aside and swiping up and down in that mess. “Toru…”

“God please,” he’s plunging them inside you, she clamps right down, spasming as he finds that spot he remembers in those tacky walls, watching your face as he presses over and over. “Call me that again.”

“Sh-should call you dickhead,” he laughs breathlessly, curving those fingers again so that your head smacks back, almost hitting the handle in the car door, he kisses your lips as he fucks his fingers into you, the stretch making you ache. “Ngh!”

“Tight as ever, god, how…” he marvels as he plays with your cunt, all pretense gone when he looks down at you, breaking the kiss, breathless from you. “I’ve thought of you an embarrassing amount of times.”

“Don’t say it,” you sniffle just a bit. “I can’t handle it.”

“The truth?”

“I can’t believe you thought of me too…” You trail off, emotional even as you are soaking wet and needy, Satoru keeps kissing down, lower, lower, feeling his breath against your skin makes you jolt. “You didn’t.”

“I did, sweetheart, I missed this so much, the sounds you make… how soaking wet you got,” he’s running his thumb on your clit, gauging your reaction, shoving your thighs even higher. “How pretty you looked when you fell apart f’me.”

“You can’t remember,” he sighs and watches you get closer, getting you so, so close until he knows it’s not enough. He’s shoving you up, damn near folding you in half. “Ah! Toru I can’t bend like that?!”

“No?” he murmurs, big hands gripping your thighs bruisingly, pushing them up and apart, you blink a bit, gasping when he’s licking the trails of slick from your inner thigh, inhaling your cunt and bumping your clit affectionately almost. “God, your scent drives me fucking crazy, why do you have to smell s’good?”

“Do I? I – ah! Satoru, what are you…" He places an open mouthed kiss on your messy, dripping entrance, peeking up at you. “You’re um…”

“I’m starving,” he teases softly, kissing it again, you feel that pleasure shoot up your body until you’re dizzy, weak from it, so exposed to him when he tugs those panties further aside, on one side of those puffy lips. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“No…”

“Yeah, and I’ve seen alot,” you glare and he chuckles, resting his hands on those knees and flicking his tongue to gather the drops of arousal falling down between your slit. “What, ya jealous?”

“No!?” Yes.

“No?”

“No,” he smirks just a bit and then he folds you in half, those broad shoulders pressing against the backs of your thighs, forcing your knees to your chest, your dress hopelessly shoved up.

“See? Still a cheerleader,” you want to laugh but you’re smushed.

“I so am not, ah!” You're completely exposed to him then, utterly vulnerable in a way that makes you nervous.

“Relax,” he says then, softly, peeking up at you and kissing your inner thigh. “If you want me to stop, just tell me. It was enough I got to kiss you again.”

You falter, that boy you fell in love with – the sweet, nerdy one? The jock who was also an entire nerd? Goofy and yet ultimately serious Satoru Gojo, leaning his head against your inner knee, nuzzling you damn near. You’re weak then, as every feeling you’ve shoved down for over a third of your life comes back full force.

“We can go back in, or just look at the stars,” he eases up, and sees how nervous you are. “You’re so beautiful, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not in high school now,” you whisper, he eases up your body then, brushing your cheek and shaking his head.

“Neither am I, sweetheart.”

“Yet you look even better-”

“You’re even sexier, even prettier than the first time I saw you,” you kiss him again, lost in his every kiss, his every touch, afraid that he’ll just disappear, clinging to him so tightly you don’t know if you can ever let go. “You are.”

“You haven’t seen me all naked…”

“I wanna,” he grins and you giggle, even as he’s kissing up your cheeks. “I wanna see every part of you.”

God you can’t take it – it feels just like that first date all over again. “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he slides your dress up and off you then, breath catching as he takes in your body – you’ve only gotten sexier, it’s so evident when he just looks down at you, folded in half in his damn car and the prettiest thing he’s seen.

You cover yourself a bit then ease your hands off, breasts rising and falling as Satoru looks at you, his gaze heating you up before his fingers can touch. “You’re seeing all of me.”

“I am,” he grips a tit and squishes it in his hand, that familiar barbell flicking an areola, having your back arch in the cramped confines of the car, still humming softly underneath you. “Is it bad if I say I jerked it to your IG?”

“Satoru!” He’s chuckling now, grinning all big as you smack at him. “We were having a touching moment!?”

“Yeah I know,” he’s back down between your thighs, shoving them high and sighing.

“Did you really?” His lips curve up in amusement, watching your slick pussy drip down.

“You love that, huh?”

“No!?”

Yes.

“How often?” He’s laughing now.

“I’m not tellin’ ya, no way.”

“Hmmph,” he’s too gone then, every bit of this moment the very thing he’s searched for.

He could have had it.

He’ll think of that later, the hot regret of letting you go, of being young and dumb and then too fucking stubborn, for now you’re his, underneath him, looking up in that way that you used to – like he was the very stars in the sky. The ones peppering the sky overhead and shining through that little sky light in his car, illuminating your pretty body for his gaze.

“A lot. Happy?” He whispers, you just bite your lip, not answering, letting his lips graze your entrance once more.

“Satoru!” Your eyes roll back in your skull, pleasure shooting as the tip of that tongue swirls your clit lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world.

"Look at this pretty little cunt," he breathes out softly, feeling your slick coat his tongue, lapping another filthy stripe achingly slow. "Still so fucking perfect.”

“You d-don’t have to…”

“S’perfect,” he whispers, holding back what he truly wants to say.

Mine.

You’re not his, he can’t get possessive and psychotic, even when faced with your winking hole and the soft give of your thighs underneath his fingertips. He buries his face in you, his mouth hot and messy as it drinks up every bit of those juices your pussy is pouring, lavving a broad, flat stripe up your slit and slurping you up, eliciting the prettiest whines for his ears.

“Mmm, that’s it,” he whispers, flicking his tongue on your clit and groaning as he parts those lips. “She’s jumpin’ all around, fuck… look at her.”

You cry out, your fingers tangling in the soft white strands of Satoru’s hair, only for him to place them on your thighs, looking at you in that way only Satoru Gojo can.

“Hold ‘em up f’me,” he’s slurring, mouth just full of that messy cunt, swallowing it as he watches you do just that. “Good girl.”

Fuck him.

Fuck him truly and completely, for what those damn words do to you, how they have you a needy mess for him. He groans at the sight of your manicured nails pressing on the back of your thighs, the vibrations rushing on your pretty pussy, and then his tongue is inside you, fucking your hole as if he’s never forgotten how.

“Toru!” You’re quivering, thighs threatening to close, he groans, that barbell smacking your spongy spot over and over, with the same intensity he used to use with his cock.

Your first time with him flits through your mind, he’d made sure to lick your pussy for thirty minutes, even then he’d been worried he’d hurt you – even then he’d eased into you, watching your every movement. That Satoru and this one merge – the jock and the cheerleader now groan business people.

But you’re still just the two of you.

He's lavishing every crevice, every bit of your cunt like it’s worship – his tongue, his lips, the sharp edge of those fangs of his scraping against your clit just making you scream out, weak from it. He bites it again, groaning as your juices spill over his mouth, his chin, down his neck.

Satoru wants to drown in you.

"You like that, huh?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin glistening embarrassingly with how much you’re gushing. He swirls two fingers down it, raising a thin white brow. "Like me eating this pussy?”

“Yes… ah!” He’s curving his fingers up, rutting his cock along the leather seats, dying to bury it inside you.

“Missed this, didn't you? Missed my tongue on you?"

You can only nod quickly and let out a pathetic little moan, wishing you could play coy or tease – but how can you, when he’s taking you over. One hand pumping fingers into you, his tongue finding your clit again, sucking it into his mouth with a mean little hum, and the cold metal of his tongue ring just flicking.

“Toru! I’m so… I’m…”

He pulls back and sighs.

You’re so beautiful like this.

“Cum for me,” he says softly, curving up one more time, and you shatter for him, peak crashing into you so hard you see stars – ones that aren’t the ones hanging in the sky. No, they’re right behind your eyelids, pussy spasming as moans escape those lips that hold you in that kiss.

Satoru eases back, curving his fingers a few more times, every slide sensitive. “Please…”

“Please what, baby?” He whispers – he hadn’t called you that since the last time you saw him, brushing your hair back and kissing you, your juices spilling into your own mouth with a push of his tongue.

“Need you.”

“I’m here-”

“Need more,” he pauses, blushing a bit and making you giggle. “What, you think I don’t want more?”

“I didn’t know,” he trails off now, sitting up and dragging you on his lap, undoing his zipper as you’re on your knees, head smacking the ceiling, Satoru chuckles and puts his hand right over it, sighing. “You want my cock inside you?”

“You’re such a jerk,” he grins now, running his hands down your waist. “You gonna make me say it?”

“Nah but it’d be fun to hear,” he frees his cock, watching the blush dance across your cheeks when faced with his pearly pink cock, thick and veiny, leaking all that white. You gather some and swirl it on your thumb, sucking it off. “God…”

It’s moments when he’s got you positioned on his cock, slamming you down in one mean stroke, filling you so full you feel him everywhere – in your stomach, so fucking deep your cervix hurts. But fuck you want it, you want more, but he holds you down for a moment, hands brutal on your hips.

“Fuck, don’t move yet,” he barely bites out those words, looking up at you underneath that fringe of lashes, breaths coming in short pants, fogging up all the car windows. “Please, baby. Hold on a sec.”

“Feel good, Toru?” You tease, he glares and bites your shoulder. “Ah! Sharp t-teeth…”

“Jus’ stay here for a minute,” he’s mumbling against your skin, exhaling at the feeling of your pussy wrapping around his cock. “You’re so warm, so tight… god you feel s’good…”

You’re holding there, cunt gripping him so tight he’s gonna bust, and he was not doing that after ten damn years. He has stamina now, he can’t bust inside you in one minute – has it even been a minute!?

“Wanna move, please,” you’re damn near whining, wriggling as he pins you even more firmly. “Toru!”

“You’re bratty still,” he murmurs, lifting you up and slamming you back down, that mess of slick pouring all over. “You want me to cum in three pumps?”

You blush then, realizing that one key thing – he’d never cum inside you, the two of you were careful to make sure it never happened. “I um… inside me?”

“Only if you wanted… god imagine breeding your cunt,” you suck in a breath as his hands press into your hips. “Breedable fucking hips, bet you’d have so many babies for me.”

“Babies!?”

“God yes, bet you’d give me three, hah…” he’s fucking lost it now, fucking up into your cunt, your head smacks his ceiling, your hand up to brace yourself as he begins to move, feet planted on the floor of the car, cock gliding in and out of your mess even faster. “Sorry baby.”

“Sorry? You’re psychotic, j-just once,” he holds you down and runs his thumb on your clit then, watching your eyes flutter closed as you cum again, this time milking him. “Ngh!”

“So beautiful, fuck,” he’s looking right at you with those blue eyes, your arms wrap his neck, letting him lift you up and down him, huge hands just using you, you’re quivering around him, cunt squelching in the backseat of that car, his lips slamming on yours and drinking down your whines.

You hear the faint noises of the party with your ringing ears, his thumb brushing faster, your tits bouncing right in his face. “Breed k-kink tracks for you…”

He chuckles, grinning up at you, painting those pretty patterns until you’re overstimulated, thighs twitching on either side of his hips, the open leather belt pressing on your heated skin. His lips are swollen when his tongue runs across them, as if to catch any lingering juices he can, his brows drawing together as he gets closer, cheeks flushed pink in the dark.

“Should I pump you full? Hmm?” Your answer is to roll your hips, making his own eyes shut, those fluffy lashes sweeping across his cheeks. He’s pinning you down, slipping that thumb in between your lips and letting you suck as his cock twitches. “I used to jerk it to your cheer pictures b-before we w-went out…”

“Toru, you freak,” you’re breathless, struggling to take that stretch, whining out as his veiny length brushes your walls, white pre kissin’ your cute little cervix with every pump. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he’s full of confessions, you guess, but that one has you blushing, even mid fuck, giggling a bit until he slams hard, your head falling back. “You love it.”

“Cum inside,” he moans – you don’t have to tell him twice – cock pumping your hole full, so much your walls are just coated, those puffy ropes flooding you. “Ah!”

You’ve never been so full, his warmth rushing in hot and sticky as you kiss him desperately, needy, shaking as your teeth click together, your mouths messy and dripping saliva. It’s filthy, the sounds of your whines mixing with the squishing and clicking of his cock pumping impossibly more, his moans filling your mouth, tongues dancing along each other as his cock keeps twitching.

“F-fuck…” He’s whimpering in your ear as he holds you tight, burying his face in the crook of your neck, arms wrapping your waist as he bucks his hips up and fucks more cum inside you. “God I love you.”

“Wha-? Huh?” You must be fucked out and hearing shit, you barely blink any sense into yourself, as he pulls back, looking at you and sighing.

“I should have said it then, not let you leave thinking…” He swallows now, cupping your face with one hand, thumb slipping across your cheek reverently. “That I didn’t.”

“You can’t… I didn’t… you…” You’re trembling now as it all hits, breaths mingling as you hardly hold back. “You did then?”

“Of course I fucking loved you, how couldn’t I?” You kiss him then, tears slipping down between your mouths, salty on his tongue as his hand slips up the curve of your spine, the two of your hearts racing in your own ears. “I never stopped.”

“Don’t say that…” You pull back now, hands on his wrists. “That’s impossible, it’s been t-ten years and… you don’t know me now, and…”

“Do you still love me?” He asks, voice breaking, still intimately joined with you, easing you off and eyeing the mess that pours, sighing. “Fuck I shouldn’t ask that.”

“Yes,” he blinks a bit, looking up in shock as you go back to sitting on his lap, cunt pouring him right back down on his cock. “I never stopped loving you, even though I hated you, too. I hated you so much for so long… but I never quit loving you, Satoru.”

“I hated me too, s’okay,” you shake your head. “I did, for being so dumb. For letting you go – pushing you away.”

“We were so young, Toru… so young.”

“There was all that time we could have had this,” he sighs now, nose brushing yours, looking into your eyes with utter devotion. “I can’t let you go again. I can’t let this be once, this? I’ve never felt anything close to you.”

“I know…” you’re kissing again, forgetting about anything else, and soon you’re in Satoru’s pretty penthouse, fucked out after he’d lifted you right up on that glass, so many stories up.

After he’d ate his cum out of you, and you’d lapped your pussy off – after your friends started texting you both, making sure you’re all right since you two had disappeared. After Satoru orders you food, and the two of you are laughing in bed, and you’re in one of his big shirts, does he bring out that jacket, making you pause.

“Toru…”

“This was yours,” he exhales and throws it over your shoulders, tugging the lapels closed and kissing your head. You’re all flushed and pretty, your hair a tangled mess, that mascara long gone, swallowed by that letterman’s jacket. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

“I get to keep it this time?” You tease, but the emotions are rushing still, tummy fluttering as you toy with the snaps, the familiar scent bringing you right back.

“It was always yours.”

He was always yours.

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[hijkio]

Zuko

[anniewinniie]

wip

[to00fu]

continuation from this art

[willowsslove]

Second Chances (Naoya x Reader)

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Chap 8 - The One With the Wedding Video─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·

⁺˚⋆｡°✩ Summary ✩°｡⋆˚⁺

After years of enduring Naoya's cruelty in your marriage, one desperate push at the top of the stairs changes everything.

He falls, but he doesn’t die. He wakes with no memory of who he was, or what he did to you.

With his family desperate to hide the truth and preserve his inheritance, you become his caretaker… and his only anchor. The man who once made you flinch at the sound of his footsteps, now follows you around like a lost ghost, soft-eyed and uncertain.

You could tell him the truth. You could walk away, but guilt keeps you here, and love, eventually, makes it hard to leave.

‧₊˚✧ Warnings ✧˚₊‧

18+ MDNI, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic descriptions of domestic abuse, Physical & emotional violence, Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy angst, Slow burn romance, Non-con elements, Eventual smut.

‧₊˚✧ Word Count ✧˚₊‧

8k+

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Previous Chapter ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖· -- ˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Next Chapter ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖· (TBA)

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨Masterlist୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!

TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!

The Zenin headquarters towered over everything around it, designed to be seen, and impossible to ignore.

Forty-six floors of glass and angular steel, a brainchild of architects who had been given too much money and not enough restraint. The whole structure was faceted, catching the light and throwing it back at the city in great, blinding sheets. 

You could see it from blocks away. That was entirely the point. Everything about it announced itself before you'd had the chance to decide whether you wanted to look at it or not, jutting up into the sky with the overbearing confidence of something that never considered it might be an unwelcome sight.

You hated it.

You’d hated it the moment you saw it. This…garish monument to everything the Zenin family believed about themselves. A tacky declaration of wealth so total and so deliberate it had ceased to function as a building. 

You thought of the old cities you loved, Rome and Venice, the Gothic cathedrals, the Renaissance chateau’s, buildings that had survived plagues and floods and the slow erosion of time and still stood proud. There was nothing of endurance here. Only exhibition. Only the Zenin family, pointing a very expensive middle finger at no one and everyone all at once.

The car eased to a stop before the front entrance.

A red carpet had been rolled out, running from the kerb to the revolving doors. The sight of made you slightly nauseous, because it meant they'd planned for this. They’d arranged themselves and their watching eyes before you'd even arrived. 

You scanned the crowd gathered on either side and began the necessary task of sorting them into categories. The sheep were easy, lower staff, assistants, people who'd come because they'd been told to, and who would scatter at the first sharp look or bitten out word. 

But the others. The ones stood at the edges, watching the car with an expression that was careful in its blankness. They were the jackals. They weren't here to welcome anyone back, they were here to take inventory, to catalogue every inconsistency, to carry whatever they found back to whoever had sent them.

Emiko had told you she'd managed the story, something about emergency surgery, his appendix, an extended recovery that had kept him home longer than expected.

It was a reasonable lie, reasonable enough for the sheep at least. But as you looked at Naoya sitting beside you in the back seat, hands wrung together in his lap, eyes moving too quickly over everything and everyone present, you felt the doubt settle in your bones.

He didn't look like the same person. That was the problem. 

The Naoya who had walked these corridors before had not looked at things the way he looks at them now, constantly, compulsively, tracking every movement for potential threat.

He had always looked ahead, at whatever he'd already decided mattered, as if glancing around was beneath him. He had moved through spaces as though they existed to accommodate him, as though the people in them were beneath the investment of his attention. 

That quality, that absolute, almost insulting self-confidence was what the jackals would be looking for. And it was exactly what was missing.

"Just don't speak much" you said, it was approximately the hundredth time you'd said it. "If you have to speak, keep it short. Don't explain yourself."

Ranta had already come around to Naoya's door. He stood with one hand resting on the handle, patiently waiting for your signal.

"You need to look… angry" you added.

Naoya turned to you. "Angry?" Something shifted behind his eyes, but it wasn’t anger, just genuine confusion. "Why angry?"

"Because angry men don't get asked questions." You looked back out the window, at the faces arranged along the carpet. "The less you say, the less they have to work with. Anger fills the silence, it's easier to believe."

His hands tightened in his lap. You felt your nerves beginning to fail, the sudden, almost overwhelming impulse to rap on the glass and tell Ranta to simply drive away almost compelling you to move. But there was no going back, not now, not with everyone watching with their questions and their suspicions. 

"Naoya." He turned. "Look at me."

He shifted in his seat to face you properly, the building looming behind his head, and you held his gaze steady. "You are confident. You are in control. You are the head of this company and of this family, and every single person standing on that carpet knows it." You kept your voice level, each word chosen carefully. "Don't shift your weight. Don't stutter. Don't wring your hands, don't blink too much, don't flush, and whatever you do—" you looked at him, and tried to make it mean something "—don't cry."

His mouth opened, something in his throat worked. He looked, briefly, like someone who had just been asked to perform the impossible.

You reached over without thinking and smoothed the hair back from his face, you'd spent longer than you would admit getting it right that morning, pressing it into place. You moved to his tie, straightening it against his collar, adjusting the knot until it sat perfectly.

He began, almost immediately, to tug it loose.

"Don't" you straightened it once more.

He stopped. An endearingly sheepish expression moved across his face, and in another life, you might have smiled at it.

"We'll be okay" you said instead, and knocked twice on the glass.

Ranta opened the door and stepped back, and the world outside came rushing in, the ambient noise of the district, the particular charged atmosphere of a waiting crowd. Almost every face along the carpet tilted toward the car at once, craning their necks to peer inside.

Naoya went absolutely still.

You felt it, the shift in his breathing, the minute seizing of his posture, and leaned slightly toward him. "We need to get out."

"Who are they?" His voice was barely a whisper as he turned to look at you.

"They don't matter." You held his gaze for one more second. "Only you do."

Then you put your hand against his back and pushed. He swallowed and swung his legs out.

He looked at Ranta, who nodded once, the particular nod of someone who has always been steady in a crisis. Then Naoya looked back at the car, checking that you were indeed following. 

You stepped out beside him onto the carpet and arranged your expression into something that you hoped gave nothing away, despite the fact that your heart was going at twice its natural pace and you were fairly certain you'd left your capacity for calm somewhere on the back seat.

"Confidence" you said, low enough that only he could hear.

Something happened then.

It crossed his face first, a flicker of something, a minute recalibration. And then his whole demeanour seemed to shift, a slow, deliberate roll of his shoulders, settling the jacket back into place, his chin tilting up by a fraction.

His hands moved to his cuffs, checking them with an idle gesture that communicated, without a single word, that he had all the time in the world, that the crowd waiting to receive him was welcome to keep waiting, as their time was worth a whole lot less than his.

You stared at him.

It was so entirely, recognisably him, or rather, the him that had existed before that you almost laughed. The sight of it made something ache in your chest though, leaving you wondering how much was performance, and how much was instinct?.

But at least the jackals, if only for a moment, were very still.

…

Without Ranta, you weren't sure you’d have gotten Naoya halfway through the revolving doors before he was caught out.

He was extraordinary, that was the only word that fit. He rattled off figures and updates and names of projects Naoya had absolutely no knowledge of, doing it in a way that required nothing further than a simple nod, yet still created the impression of a conversation so involved that it would be rude to interrupt

And Naoya, to his credit, and to your absolute relief, nodded on time, his expression perfectly arranged. He said nothing that couldn't be said with the set of his jaw or the slight lift of his chin.

When someone got too close, Ranta moved. Not so obviously that it could be read as deflection, just a smooth, unhurried repositioning, a hand half-raised to indicate a direction, a murmured word that made it sound as though Naoya's time was simply too precious for whatever this person had come to ask. 

They all left looking vaguely apologetic. You watched it happen three times and still couldn't entirely explain how he did it.

He made sure to walk a half-step ahead too, just enough to lead without appearing to, calling the elevator before Naoya arrived, holding door before Naoya's even hand reached for it, so that the whole progression through the building looked like authority rather than a man being quietly lead through somewhere he no longer recognised. It was seamless, almost beautifully so.

But Naoya was coming apart at the edges.

You could see him cracking under the pressure with every floor you climbed, every office you passed, every head that swivelled and every pair of eyes that tracked him across the room. None of them were foolish enough to stare outright, but the quality of their stillness when he passed gave it away.

By the time Ranta opened the office door on the top floor, Naoya looked defeated.

You'd thought him having a top floor office was obnoxious the first time you'd seen it. The whole arrangement of it, the elevation above everyone else, the throne-room logic of it all. It had seemed then like the most Zenin thing imaginable. 

But now, standing in the muted hush of it with the blinds drawn and no one who could walk in uninvited, you felt something close to gratitude.

"So many people" Naoya breathed, almost a gasp.

He'd gone to the far corner of the room, the furthest point from the door, and pressed himself back into it.

"You did well" you said, and meant it more than he would probably believe. "We can stay here now, all right? No one's coming in." You looked around the room, at the muted, barely there decor, and tried to keep your voice steady. "We can pretend we're home. Just you and me, okay?”

The line between his brows eased a little. His eyes closed, head falling back to rest against the wall, and for a moment the performance dropped away entirely.

"I want to go home" he said, he wasn’t pleading, just giving you the flattest possible report of his feelings. "Can't we just... can't we forget this?"

The thought had rose in you before, the same one that kept surfacing no matter how many times you pressed it back down.

"No" you said. "We can't run from it."

He nodded slowly, the way people did when they were forced to accept something they didn’t like, and pushed himself off the wall and crossed to the desk.

It was enormous, a dark colossus of cold metal and glass, the kind of desk that communicated power and wealth. But it was bare, almost unsettlingly bare. No stacked documents, no personal clutter, no evidence that anyone had ever sat here. 

His nameplate caught the light, a glossy rectangle of metal with his name pressed into it. Naoya stood before it and ran the tips of his fingers across it slowly, as if trying to commit it to memory.

"There are no pictures" he said, quietly enough that it might have been directed at himself rather than you. His eyes moved over the desk's empty surface, the bare edges, the absence of anything that would have identified its owner. "Why aren't there any pictures?"

You looked. He was right, not a single photograph anywhere in the office, not on the desk, not on the shelves, not on the walls behind it. Nothing of you or him. Nothing of the family that had built this building and put his name on the door.

"I don't know" you said with a gentle sigh. “But we have to get to work now, Naoya”. 

You weren't entirely well-versed in what he actually did here.

You'd never been part of that side of his life, but fortunately, you'd been present for enough of its overflow over the years to have absorbed a working idea of it.

You knew that the company had dealings in real estate and finance, and a handful of more discreet interests that were spoken of only in whispers. What you didn't know, Ranta would fill in. He always had.

You crossed to the chair on the visitor's side of the desk and dragged it round, planting it next to his, and noted that the visitor's chair sat noticeably lower than the executive's.

Not so much that you'd register it upon walking in, but enough that whoever sat in it would find themselves looking up, by some small but persistent angle, at whoever sat behind the desk. Enough to put them on the back foot before a single word had been exchanged. 

You imagined every meeting that had ever taken place in this room, every man or woman who had lowered themselves into that chair suddenly finding themselves smaller, while Naoya looked down his nose at them with that expression of mild boredom he wore so well.

It was deliberate. All of it.

Naoya lowered himself reluctantly into the desk chair, and you settled yourself right beside him.

"Right" you said. "Let's start somewhere easy."

You leant towards the laptop that sat open on the desk. The login screen was already filled in, Ranta's doing, and clicked through to the directories without comment.

You'd thought about this on the drive over. About what to start with, what would be safest.

Anything from the last year was out, too recent, too liable to brush against memories you didn't want to risk surfacing here, not with people waiting on the other side of the door. 

Deeper, older material was safer. Quarterly reports from three or four years back, when the company had been navigating a restructure he'd led. The contents would be remote enough to feel like learning rather than remembering, and the patterns of how the company moved would be clearer there than in anything more current. 

You opened a folder. Selected a presentation file, an internal one, all clean graphics and bullet points. Functional and dry. The opposite of anything that might pull at the seams of him.

"This is from a few years ago" you said, keeping your tone light. "It's an overview, what the company does, who the main players are, the structure of the thing. Boring, mostly. But it'll give you somewhere to start."

He leaned in beside you. You felt the warmth of his shoulder against yours through the fabric of his jacket, you didn't shift way, though every instinct told you too.

You walked him through it slowly. The company sat at the centre, branching outward into its various holdings, property here, finance there, a logistics arm, a smaller division dealing in security that you skimmed over.

He nodded along, the way he had been doing all morning. There was something almost painful about how easily he was taking it all. The Naoya who had run this company would have demanded specifics, would have wanted numbers. This one simply absorbed what you offered him and moved on when you did.

You moved to a video next, a recording internal meeting from before he'd taken the top role, when his uncle had been the acting CEO for a period. You wanted him to hear the cadence, the way his uncle spoke, formality of these gatherings. Naoya needed to know how the room sounded before he had to stand in front of one.

He watched it with his chin in his hand, eyes narrowed, and you watched him watching it, looking for any flicker of recognition.

There was none, he was studying it the way you might study a documentary.

"That's your uncle, Ogi" you said quietly, when his uncle came on-screen. "You'll meet him eventually."

Naoya's brow drew together. "Are we…close?"

You took a breath before you answered, the Zenin’s didn’t know the concept of ‘close’, they knew ‘valuable’ and ‘worthless’. That was it, that was their language. 

"You're family" you said simply, choosing the words carefully. "That's what matters. He'll expect certain things from you."

He nodded, but again, he did not press.

You moved on, through another short video, a clip of him from a panel he'd sat on at some industry function, brief enough to give him a glimpse of his own register, how he'd spoken in public, the particular arrogant expression he'd worn. 

You felt him stiffen slightly beside you when his own face appeared on the screen, the sharp intake of breath, the way his hand on the desk closed and then uncurled.

"That's me" he said.

"That's you."

He watched himself say something, watched the way he give a short, dismissive smile to a question he clearly considered beneath him.

The version of him on the screen looked nothing like the man sitting beside you. The set of the jaw, the angle of the shoulders, the coldness in the eyes, it was all there and intact, the behaviour of someone who had never once doubted their place in the world.

Naoya stared at himself for a long moment.

"I don't like him" he said quietly, as if he were some separate entity.

You didn't know what to do with that. You paused the video and sat with it for a moment, trying to find the right thing to say in response to something so abstract.

"You don't have to be him" you said. "You just have to look like him for a while."

He turned his head and looked at you, the light in the office was low through the drawn blinds, gold seeping in around the edges where the slats hadn't fully closed, bathing his softened features in tones of honeyed gold.

"And what if I can’t?"

You didn't answer. You couldn’t. Because the only honest one was the one you had been pushing down all morning, all week, since the moment Emiko's had hissed down the phone. You didn’t want him to change, you couldn’t bear to watch him harden back into that cruel version of himself.

So you reached over instead and pressed play again, and you sat shoulder to shoulder with the man beside you and watched the ghost of who he used to be perform itself, and the silence between you held the answer you couldn't bear to say.

…

"All right. One more time."

You said it as gently as you could, conscious of how thin his patience had worn over the last hour, but it landed flat against the wall he'd built somewhere in his head. 

The family tree was where he kept floundering. You couldn't, for the life of you, understand why. He had retained the broad structure of the company without much trouble, had understood the division names and revenue streams and the rough hierarchy of who reported to whom. 

But the moment the conversation turned to the family itself, something behind his eyes simply… closed off. He remembered his mother and his father. He understood that Ranta was a cousin, somewhere on the periphery, attached to the main line by a thread he could trace if pressed to. Beyond that, it all dissolved.

And you needed it not to.

It would not be long now before he was made to sit at a dinner table with these people. Before someone he was supposed to have known his entire life would lean across a glass of wine and ask him a casual but pointed question, and the moment he hesitated, the moment he glanced sideways for help, they would have what they had come for. 

You couldn't afford for him to confuse an uncle with a cousin. You couldn't afford for him to forget which of the women in the room had been a Zenin by birth and which had married in. The tree was simple, a handful of branches connected by marriages and births.

He should have been able to hold it in his head, but he wasn't.

"I don't want to" he said.

He folded his arms onto the desk and dropped his forehead against them, hiding his face entirely, a posture so unguardedly childish that something in your chest clenched at the sight of it. You reached over and nudged his shoulder. He didn't move.

"Naoya. We don't have time for this."

Nothing. Just the slow rise and fall of his back, a quiet, obstinate refusal.

"I want to stop" he said, and his voice came out muffled, slightly thick, the words pushed through the fabric of his sleeve.

"Naoya—"

"No more!"

The shout came up out of him like a bomb detonating.

He stood up so fast the chair rocked backwards beneath him, and his voice cracked the air apart with such suddenness that for half a second your entire body simply... stopped, every system in you cutting out at once. 

Your shoulders drew in, your spine went rigid against the back of the chair, and your eyes dropped immediately to the dark glass surface of the desk because not looking was safer, a lesson your body had spent years learning. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands went still in your lap. 

Some part of you was already bracing for what came next, for the weight of the impact, for the angle of it, for which part it was likeliest to land on.

It didn't come.

The office door burst open, Ranta was there, one hand still braced against the frame, his eyes moving rapidly between you and Naoya and back again. He didn't speak immediately. He simply registered the room, registered your posture, the look on Naoya's face, and made a quick calculation.

"Oh — oh god."

Naoya's voice was completely different now. Stripped, suddenly, of whatever had risen up through him a moment ago, now hollow and horrified in the same breath. 

His hand came down on your shoulder before you had fully come back to yourself, and your body did the thing it always did, and you flinched, eyes screwing shut, every muscle in you cringing inward.

"I'm sorry." His voice was urgent now, frantic at the edges. "I'm sorry, I — I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to...Y/N —"

"You need to take a break."

Ranta's voice came from much closer than you'd expected. You opened your eyes, and he was already standing beside your chair, somehow, his arm extended in the direction of the door in a gesture that managed to be both invitation and instruction at once. 

His face was perfectly calm. That was something you'd been noticing all morning, this calmness was not an absence of feeling, but discipline, something maintained at a specific cost and deployed exactly when needed. "Step out for a minute. I'll take over here."

"I don't want her to go."

Naoya said it quietly, and when you looked at him, his eyes were on you and only you. They were wet, glassed over with something he was still in the process of understanding, guilt, you wondered, or shock at himself, or the slow, sickened recognition of what had happened to your body in response to his voice.

But your heart was still going too fast to breathe properly. Your hands were trembling in your lap, fine, helpless tremors you could not will away immediately.

Adrenaline had flooded you so completely that there was nothing of you yet that could be reasoned with, no part of your nervous system that had got the message that the threat had not, in fact, materialised. Your body did not know that. Your body knew only what it had spent four years memorising, dreading and healing from.

"Naoya." Ranta moved.

It was a small movement, just a shift of his weight, but it placed him neatly between the two of you, a shield between Naoya's reach and yours.

Something shifted in Naoya's face when he noticed it. You saw it. You’d learned to read his face, to catch the expressions that meant you should ready yourself for pain. The flicker behind the eyes, the narrowing. The hot, bright thing that sparked in him whenever he was crossed, whenever something or someone got between him and what he wanted.

Anger. Fury. Hatred.

It moved across his face for less than a second, but it was there nonetheless. Whatever softness had begun to grow in the gaps of his memory, the old Naoya was still in him, still capable of surfacing the moment he didn't get his way.

Your stomach churned at the thought.

"I'll go get us a coffee." Your own voice surprised you, it was steady, almost normal, only a hairline thread of a tremor running through the centre. You arranged a smile across your face, one designed to communicate that nothing was wrong, that you weren't running, that you'd be back. “Just… give me a minute. I'll come right back."

Ranta did not move from where he stood between you.

Naoya's eyes stayed on yours, but the anger had gone, or had been buried again, in its place sat something pleading, something afraid, and you stood up before he could speak, because if he asked you to stay one more time you weren't sure your body would let you leave.

…

"Here you go."

You nudged the small paper cup across desk toward him, the espresso steaming faintly through the lid, and tried very hard to keep the gesture casual, to make your re-entry into the room feel as ordinary as possible "Double espresso. The barista said it's their best blend, though I think he says that about everything they serve."

The barista, who you now knew was called Fumihiko. A piece of information that had been pressed upon you over the course of three terrible jokes, an extended unsolicited monologue on the merits of high-altitude Ethiopian beans, and one fairly heroic effort on your part to escape with the order before he could work up to a fourth punchline. 

You'd left feeling vaguely as though you'd been mugged by his enthusiasm. The cappuccino in your own hand was excellent, you had to admit. He had not lied about the beans.

You turned to Ranta.

He was sitting, perfectly composed, in the chair he'd pulled up to the side of the desk, hands folded in his lap, watching Naoya with the expression of a man whose job was not to be noticed. He looked up when he registered your attention, and you held the second small cup out toward him.

"I got you one as well. I wasn't sure…”

He stood abruptly, his chair almost toppling, taking the cup from you with both hands and a small, deferential bow of his shoulders, his eyes briefly wide.

"Thank you, Mrs Zenin."

The flinch was small, involuntary. It was still a name that had only ever been said to you by people who wanted something from you, or wanted to remind you of something.

You arranged your face into a smile. "I wasn't sure if you'd want sugar, they've got some at the cart by the elevator if—"

"Double espresso is good" he said quickly, mercifully releasing you from the obligation of small talk. "Thank you."

You sat down beside Naoya.

You sipped your cappuccino slowly, letting the warmth of the cup steady the tremor that hadn't fully gone from your hands, and watched him over the rim of it.

He was leaning into the laptop screen in a way that he hadn't been when you'd left, his face, that face which all morning had been soft and uncertain and openly out of its depth, had gone curiously hard, jaw set, the way it used to be set when he was concentrating on something that mattered to him. 

He didn't notice the espresso you'd placed at his elbow, he didn't really notice you sitting down. Whatever he was looking at had hold of him completely.

You leaned a little closer to see what it was.

You almost dropped your cup.

He was watching your wedding video.

Of all the videos, of all the files, of every safely abstract piece of footage stored on the company servers, this was what he had found his way to in the few minutes you'd been away. 

The screen showed a wide pan across a vaulted hall, white and gold, flowers arrangements that had cost more than most people's cars adorned the aisle, and a younger version of you in a dress you had not chosen and a hairstyle that wasn't yours, standing in front of a man you barely knew, while several hundred people you had never met before that day watched from the pews.

Even now, you could see how thoroughly out of your element you had been. Wide-eyed, frozen, head turning incrementally as you tried to take it all in, the marble columns, the music, the crowd of unfamiliar faces, your hand resting on the arm of a stranger to you, both then and now.

And the Naoya, the Naoya you had married, stood beside you with the stoic, blank-faced expression of a man performing a function. You'd thought that he was nervous, that the rigidity in his face was just a man trying to hold himself steady through something significant.

You'd held onto that thought for a time, longer than was sensible. You knew now it had actually been boredom. To him it was just a formality being endured, a box on a list being checked. 

He was speaking on the screen now. Saying his vows, delivering a series of declarations about loyalty and partnership and the unending devotion of his heart, and you knew, with a sickening certainty, that he had not written a single word of them. 

He hadn't been the kind of man capable of those sentiments, even thinking them. Someone had been paid to compose those vows for him, a writer briefed on the brand of ‘love’ he was supposed to project.

The Naoya beside you on that screen had stood before the assembled witnesses and recited a love he did not feel for a wife he was not interested in, and the room had applauded. The memory made you nauseous. 

"Why are you watching this?"

The question came out sharper than you intended. You'd meant it for Naoya, but somehow your eyes went past him and landed on Ranta, who returned the look with the faintest lift of the shoulders that read ‘he asked for it, I didn't know how to refuse’.

"I wanted to remember." Naoya didn't look up from the screen, he simply leaned in further, his face nearly close enough to the screen to obscure his reflection, eyes tracking you in your wedding dress with a focus that made your stomach turn over. "I wanted to remember what you looked like on our wedding day."

His voice was small, bereft in a way you weren't ready for.

"And I can’t…” he said. "I can't remember any of it. Not a thing."

You set the coffee cup down on the desk carefully. You didn't trust your hand with it any longer.

"Naoya" you said.

You could see it building in him, anger giving way to panic, and under it all, the deep, helpless sorrow of not remembering your own past. His hands had gone tight on the desk, knuckles pale, his jaw had set, and his shoulders had begun the slight, almost imperceptible draw inward of a body preparing to fight, or flee what it could not.

"It's all right…” you said. "You don't have to remember it. I told you before, our marriage wasn’t…” you searched for a word that was true and not damaging”...You married out of obligation, not love, this here…” You placed your hand over the image of you both. “This was just a performance, it’s not worth remembering”.

His head turned, his eyes, when they found yours, were glassy, the bright, wet shine of a man who had been holding something just beneath the surface had now run out of space to keep it there.

"But I don’t feel like that now."

His words left you breathless. You withdrew your hand from the screen and ran it through your hair, trying to still the faint tremor.

"I want to remember you. I want to remember… all of it, the good and the bad. I want to remember our memories, the things we did, the things we said, I—" He broke off and swallowed hard. "I want to know who we were."

You sat very still.

Something inside your chest had bottomed out, you were suspended in the moment with no clear sense of where the ground was.

He didn't know what he was asking for. He didn’t… He was sitting there with his glassy, earnest eyes asking for the return of the very thing that had hollowed you out, the very thing that you had spent these past weeks beginning to set down.

He was asking for the memory of his hand striking your face.

He was asking for the memory of the night you had locked yourself in the bathroom and waited for the sun to come up, counting tiles on the floor to keep your mind from turning over.

He was asking for the return of countless tears, of constant fear of-of- terror, sadness and…

He thought he was asking for a wedding.

Instead he was asking for every blow, every vile word, every chosen silence afterward. He was asking for every wound he had ever given you.

And the worst part was, he was asking for it with such gentleness. That was somehow the part that hurt the most. Because there was no version of this, in which you got to keep the version of him that you had now, without him remembering what you had been before. 

You’d lose him the moment he found out. You’d run the moment he returned.

…

"Is this wise?"

It struck you as somewhat late for Ranta to be asking this, particularly given that he was the one who'd told you Naoya took his lunch in the cafeteria. Visually, it was the same lunch as everyone else, however it was ordered separately and prepared in a different kitchen. All consumed at one of the small corner tables where the rest of the staff could see him.

'He likes to survey his kingdom', was how Ranta had put it.

Apparently the appearance of accessibility had mattered to Naoya in the way most things had mattered to him, as a calibrated instrument of impression, deployed with intention, never the same as the thing it imitated.

"Well, this is what he usually does, isn't it?" you hissed back, keeping your voice low. “We’re trying to keep this as normal as possible”. 

The cafeteria was packed. You could feel the room's attention even without looking up. You met more eyes than you could count, you were a fish, and the cafeteria was the bowl, and the rest of the building had simply come down to watch.

"Yes" Ranta said, leaning slightly closer, lowering his own voice further. "But he's still... altered."

His eyes flickered toward Naoya as he said it, you both knew that Naoya could hear every word of this. He was beside you with his elbow on the table and his chin angled toward the window, gaze fixed on the city laid out forty-six floors below.

He didn't turn his head, he didn't object. He simply looked out at the skyline he had once apparently enjoyed and let the conversation pass over him.

"He's doing well…” you said quietly, and watched the small twitch in his shoulders from the periphery of your vision, the slight downward tilt of his chin that told you he was listening more closely than he was letting on. "It must be… hard for him. But he's trying. He's trying very hard."

Naoya's hand, resting flat on the surface of the cafeteria table, drifted closer, his little finger finding yours. He didn't look at you, he kept his eyes on the window, as if the rest of him had nothing to do with the hand that had moved.

Ranta watched it happen. 

You felt his gaze, felt the brief, careful judgement he made of your hands resting against each other, his finger curled around yours, and you felt, without needing to look up, exactly what passed across his face. Confusion morphing into pity. And underneath it, the resignation of a man watching something happen that he could not stop and was no longer sure he should try to. 

The urge rise to pull your hand back, to break the contact, to spare yourself whatever conclusions he was drawing was immediate. Poor woman, poor stupid woman, going back, going back to him after everything... 

Your face heated, and your throat closed, but you did not move. Naoya's finger tightened around yours.

"I just want to go home." Naoya's voice was low, pitched so only you could hear. He still hadn't turned from the window, but his eyes had dropped from the skyline to the place where your hands met, and his fingers shifted, claiming more, sliding his fingers between yours. "I hate it here."

Your chest pulled tight at the simplicity of it, at the notion that this man was sitting beside you saying the word home as though it were a place where everything was safe. You didn't know what to do with your grief, the grief of how late it was, the grief of how much time you had spent learning to live with the version of him that hated you so.

But at least he was still the warm, gentle Naoya for now. The thing you had been afraid of all morning, the slow seepage of the old Naoya back into the shape of him, hadn't happened. The flash you'd seen earlier in the office had not won. 

There would be no cold drive home, there would be no slammed doors. There would be, when this day finally ended, only your home, and the film you'd left paused on the absurdly large television, and his hand finding yours in the dark.

You did not let yourself think about how long it might last.

"Okay" you said. "Let's eat. Then we'll go home."

"Mrs Zenin."

Ranta's voice had gone quiet, full of warning at the edges.

"Yes?" You turned your head toward him slowly, kept your face entirely composed. "He wants to leave, so we're leaving."

"But—"

"Stop."

The word came out level, almost gentle. You held his eyes long enough for the rest of whatever he had been about to say to die in his throat, and you watched him register that this was not something you were willing to negotiate over.

He held your gaze for another second, then his shoulders dropped a fraction, and he leaned back into his chair with the specific bad grace of a man who has been overruled by someone he had not previously credited with the authority to do so.

When you turned back to Naoya, he was smiling.

It was a small, private thing, a smile made for one person to see, and that person was you. Most of it was tucked away behind the tilt of his head, the angle he held his face at, but his eyes lifted to yours and the brown caught the cafeteria light like ambergris.

"Thank you, Mrs Zenin" he murmured, and this time you didn’t flinch.

…

You were almost finished eating when it happened.

You'd just set down your chopsticks and were reaching for your water when you heard the chair to your left scrape back a fraction, and a man you had never wanted to see again lowered himself into the empty seat beside you.

"Naoya."

He said it with the warmth of greeting and the sharpness of a knife.

You knew him. Of course you knew him. Nobuaki, whose face had been a fixture at every Zenin gathering you had endured and whose attention had cost you too much already. He was smiling, that ugly, slick smile that made your skin crawl.

"You haven't called" he said, the way everyone in this family spoke when they were testing a wound to see if you’ll flinch. “We’ve been worried.” 

Lies. 

Naoya looked at him, you felt him go still. You worried Nobuaki’s face had triggered memories you’d rather he not recall. He set his chopsticks down with a movement that took longer than it should have.

"I've been recovering" Naoya said, it came out clipped, exactly the way he would have spoken before. You felt a thread of relief loosen somewhere in you at the sound of it, and then immediately tighten again, because the man at the table was not going to leave it there.

He hummed softly as he turned his head slowly toward you. His gaze travelled across your face with that same old appraising lecherousness, and then dropped to where your hand still sat beneath Naoya's on the surface of the table. "I have to say, I'm surprised to see you here, though."

"Are you?” You matched his cadence, not giving him an inch to work with.

“Mm…” Again, that small considering sound, like he was tasting something. "Last I'd heard, you didn't really…” his smile widened by a fraction, almost delighted by what he was going to say next "mean all that much to—"

"Don't."

The single word landed with a confidence that shocked you. His smile didn't fall so much as frozen in place, and you stared at him, hard, every inch of your face conveying one specific instruction. Do not finish that sentence.

A moment passed, he had opened his mouth to test it anyway, the breath drawn in for a sentence he had decided he was going to deliver because the sting of being silenced by you in public was a cost he could absorb if it meant landing the blow.

But beside you, something in Naoya had shifted, he leant forward.

Not far, but the lean of it placed him fully into the Nobuaki’s space, looming forward, his weight tipping over the table.

Naoya did not look angry yet, but he had gone very, very still, the way a snake might before they strike, and his hand had withdrawn from yours and come to rest flat against the table between you and Nobuaki.

“What…” Naoya said, voice like warping steel "did you just say to my wife?"

Nobuaki tried to recover, suddenly registering the situation "I was only—"

"What did you say to her?"

It cracked through the din of the cafeteria. The voice that came out of him was the same one that had buckled your spine and sent your hands into your lap, but pointed outward this time, pointed in the specific direction of a man who deserved it, and the room around you reacted as one. 

Three tables over, a woman flinched and looked down at her tray. The man at the salad bar with the long pretence stopped pretending and stared. The whole room went silent. 

Nobuaki himself recoiled, his shoulders going up around his ears for a half-second before he caught himself, his face going pale.

You did not flinch.

The voice landed and your body registered it and it did not, this time, send you folding inward. Maybe because it wasn't aimed at you. Maybe because some part of you understood that for once, his voice was a shield and you were standing safely behind it.

Naoya stood.

He stood without taking his eyes from Nobuaki face, the chair scraping back across the cafeteria floor, and the silence that had spread out from your table to the corners of the room held. Not a single person moved, not a single conversation resumed. His hand came down and closed around yours and lifted it from the surface of the table. 

“I suggest you don’t speak about her like that…” he hissed, each word slipping down your spine like ice as he loomed over the man, his eyes lit with a cold fury you knew all too well.“Ever. again”.

With that, he turned and walked, the whole of the cafeteria parting around you both like water.

You were almost running by the time you reached the doors, his stride too long for yours, his grip on your hand tight enough that your fingers ached. But you didn't speak, didn't try to slow him, didn't look back at Ranta who would, as usual, deal with whatever was left behind. 

The doors swung shut behind you, the elevator already waiting to take you back up.

The two of you stepped into it and finally, you were alone.

He didn't speak in the elevator, even as the doors opened up onto the top floor. He didn't speak as he walked you the length of the corridor to his office, his hand still wrapped around yours, his pace finally slowing and the tension in his fingers loosening by the smallest degree. 

But finally, when the office door closed behind you both and the world reduced itself again to this single quiet room, he let go of you.

He took two steps to the desk and then stopped, as though the energy that had carried him out of the cafeteria had simply run dry. He leaned back against the edge of the desk with his palms braced on either side of him and his chin dropped to his chest, and for a long moment he did make a sound.

"Naoya" you tested the air softly.

He looked up.

The anger that had carried him through had drained out of him entirely and what remained was something rawer and much softer.

"Come here…” he said quietly, hands lifting nervously towards you "Please."

You crossed the room. You weren't sure what part of you made that decision, but your body chose to move closer. You stopped in front of him, close enough that he could reach for you, which he did, his hands curling gently around the small of your back and drawing you in against him.

He did not crush, he did not grip, he simply gathered you, carefully, as though he were handling something as fragile as spun glass. His face dropped to the side of your throat, and he pressed there, and you felt the long, shuddering breath he let out against your skin.

You stood there, in the hold of him, and you felt your shoulders, very slowly, lower from where they'd been up somewhere near your ears.

Your hands, which had come up between you, settle against his chest and felt the warmth of him through the cotton of his shirt, the rise and fall of his chest, the slight tremor in his arms where they wrapped you in. 

And for the first time in any of the careful, frightened, half-permitted moments of contact between you over these past weeks, your body simply give up its vigilance. You stopped scanning, stopped bracing, stopped holding your breath as you waited for the inevitable. 

Your forehead came to rest against the line of his jaw. Your hands flattened against the front of his shirt and stayed there, fingertips pressing into the muscle of his chest. You closed your eyes and simply…existed.

He was murmuring something, you didn't catch it at first, they were spoken directly into the curve of your neck, but when you tilted your head a fraction you heard the rest of it.

"—let anyone speak to you like that. Not ever. Not while I'm here."

You felt his hand slide up the length of your spine and splay open between your shoulder blades. The other was still wrapped around your waist. He didn't move beyond that, he just held you, his face buried in the soft place beneath your ear.

You stood in the warmth of him and let yourself be.

And for one full, suspended minute, with the building pressing in on every side and the cafeteria still silent forty-six floors below, nothing else existed but the both of you.

I'm so sorry, I overwrote this a little 😭. I promise I'll reign it in next chapter.

DO NOT FEED INTO AI, OR REPOST WITHOUT CREDIT, OR ELSE I WILL CURSE YOU WITH FOOD POISONING AND MAKE YOU JACKSON POLLOCK YOUR BATHROOM!

[willowsslove]

Taglist: @alebrasil0101, @sadlovergirlhere, @rentaldarling, @kingshitonly, @msxxo, @megumzs, @apsychedelicacy, @ckilhj, @ilovethemarias, @lovelymavs, @snailsolidarity, @ginibeanie, @fuckalrighty, @saltymooninternet, @actuallyshard, @reemoony, @guhyeonni, @romanticjoong, @silvyael, @jungkookwife16, @electrifiedslayersummit, @kamushekgi, @skibidiohiosigmafamuntaxrizzmew, @sonic5764,@changoman37,@vehuzzzz, @prime-vere, @kranktruther, @shenzithetitan, @aleelesu1tana,@quincys-world, @zifler, @waffleconecrumbs, @arachnida-0, @louiebababooey, @fjordg, @blssfljjk, @simplyamberj, @atlasyaps, @nousija, @peach0o0, @nhb00, @amesenseii, @ricktastix, @vampirec0w, @shnookums,@sunqi053, @nonomei

[reignpage]

would you wet your fingers for me?... would you place a bookmark in me?

LIBRARY (n.) a playground for books and readers, but also for occasional debauchery

Synopsis: your plan is to avoid your rival, now that you’ve both been hired as assistant librarians, to minimise the chances of getting into hours long debates and committing murder. the problem is that he's everywhere — helping you carry heavy boxes, scoffing at your choice of literature, eating you out in the back corner between the We Shouldn't Do This and the We'll Never Speak of This Again shelves. in all the bickering and orgasms, you're left with one question:

is the smell of books an aphrodisiac?

Warnings: plot with porn, a romcom vibe series, college au, nerd!nanami x nerd!reader, both classical lit students, f!reader, rivals to lovers, forced proximity, they're mean to each other, specific warnings have been added to the relevant chapters, Nanami art by @/thatsallitchief, will eventually be available on AO3, not proofread Word Count: tbc

Canto I - The Hopeless Gate

℘ you wanted the librarian job. unfortunately so did he. and the world hates you so you both got the job. now you have to learn how to tolerate his existence with much closer proximity than before. it's doable, isn't it?

Canto II - The Second Circle

℘ this job's not as stimulating as you thought it would be. people are predictable, unadventurous, and too serious. he looks bored too. stoking some harmless competition wouldn't be so bad, right?

Canto III - The Dark Descent

℘ stakes have been added to the pot. you should stop letting him part your legs, should stop allowing him to light your fire, but no harm no foul if you guys just continue as you have been, no?

Canto IV - The Emerging Stars

℘ this was a mistake. all of it was. from the very beginning, it was doomed. you're too similar, too ambitious, too cutthroat. at the end of the day, you're only ever meant to be rivals...aren't you?

EPILOGUE

Do not copy, remake, repost, feed my work into AI, or translate any of my works © 2026 ReignPage on Tumblr, all rights reserved

[belimah]

Yakuza AU by Lilly

[ricktastix]

A Thousand Years: Prologue

✦Masterlist✦

Summary: He wasn’t always the monster people know him as now. The King of Curses was just a man once. A man who loved his wife and she him. When the corruption of his power begins to take hold, he loses sight of what he was meant to cherish. A thousand years without one another, their bond is more powerful than even he realized.

wc: 742

“Sukuna where have you been? You said you’d be back days ago, I was worried sick!” You had seen him through the kitchen window and practically sprinted outside and barreled into his waiting arms. He’d been gone far longer than he initially said he would be. You had feared the worst.

“Come now, wife? Do you not believe in your husband's abilities?” You pouted up at him. He gazed down into your eyes with that charming smile of his as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Of course I do!” You brought one hand up to cup his jaw. “I just worry about you, it’s a wife’s duty to.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about me. I will always return home to you.” He leans down and kisses your lips softly, softer than you would think a man like him could. “That is a husband’s duty.” He whispers against your lips then pulls you as close as possible. “Amongst other things.” He purrs and nips at your ear.

“Kuna!” You laugh and push on his chest. His hands come to your waist then he pauses before pulling away to look down at your stomach. You give him a closed lip smile, bringing your hand from his cheek to rest on your growing belly. “I found out not long after you left.” He’s quiet for a long while. “Sukuna?” He has a distant look in his eyes that he gets when deep in thought. Finally he moves and kisses your forehead.

“Let’s go inside. It’s cold out.” He places his hand over yours then leads you inside.

“You’re leaving already?” It hadn’t even been an entire week before he was packing up and heading out the door again. Even worse, he had been uncharacteristically quiet the entire time. Normally he would be boasting about all of the accomplishments and curses he had slain or about how strong he’d gotten.

“You know I don’t have a choice.” He turns to you and takes your hand. “I am the strongest after all, who else would they assign? Besides, I have plans.” He pulls you closer to wrap his arms around your waist. “I’ll return home as always for you.”

“You make it sound like a chore.” You felt a pang in your chest by how little he looked to care about leaving you again so soon. It seemed like every time he returned he was more and more distant. He groans and runs his fingers through his pink hair, pulling at the knots he hadn’t cared to brush out.

“What do you want me to say, woman? That I enjoy coming back to this boring domestic life?” He lowers his voice and looks down his nose at you. Almost a scowl on his face. “Your unyielding loyalty used to be amusing to me, but your attachment is becoming more of a nuisance than it’s worth.” How dare he. Your jaw dropped, he couldn’t be serious. You were used to his changing moods and maybe even the occasional rude comment, but nothing this cruel. “I come back to sate you since you’re my wife, but now you have this.” He gestures to your belly flippantly. “That should be enough.” You glare up at the man you call your husband and finally see him for the monster he’s been becoming.

“Do what you want.” You keep your voice as level as you can with gritted teeth. “Don’t expect me to wait for you any longer.” You turn to head back towards your home when you feel a rough hand on your wrist, yanking you back around to face him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He spat.

“If you no longer want me, I’ll find someone who does.” His grip on your wrist tightens. You try not to flinch. You won’t show him any more signs of weakness. He steps closer to you, invading your space and looking menacingly down at you. “Isn’t that what you want? For you not to have to come back? Since I am such a nuisance.” You throw the words back at him with a flat expression. He leans down to where his nose is almost touching yours.

“You’re mine and no one else’s.” He says menacingly.

“You’re selfish Sukuna Ryomen.”

“I know.” He smirks and pulls away, dropping your wrist then twirling a lock of your hair between his fingers as he turns to leave. “I’ll be back, wife.”

Liar.

Chapter 1: Ashen Shrine

I’ve been working on this for a while and I’m hoping the concept works the way I want it to. If you’d like to be added to the tag list, let me know!

[beaniesayshi]

THE LAMB

Sukuna is reincarnated into the modern world, only to realize that being a villain is actually kind of a bore. Now a teacher at Jujutsu High by pure technicality, he’s decided being a “good guy” is way more entertaining, mostly because it still lets him do whatever he wants while everyone thanks him for it. Unfortunately for you, that also means you get assigned to him as a specialist, since your technique is one of the very few things that can smooth out the jagged, overwhelming nature of his cursed energy after he uses it. The problem is… you’re absolutely terrified of him. Every second in the same room feels like your body is trying to shut down, and the idea of having to touch him to do your job makes it even worse. Sukuna, on the other hand, finds that fear hilarious and treats you like the funniest toy he’s ever been gifted.

pairing: sorcerer sukuna x sorcerer f!reader

content: mdni, slow burn, kinda enemies to lovers, objectification, toxic dynamics, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion, possessive sukuna, violence, murder, blood, gore, dubious consent vibes, true form sukuna, yuji's not his vessel (...and probably smut)

sukuna is reincarnated into jin’s twin (so yes, he’s technically yuji’s uncle), can freely switch between his human and true form, and is, in fact, a massive asshole (minor changes to how cursed energy works)

main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ banner by @graphic0rn

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 4 chapter 5 chapter 6 chapter 7 chapter 8 chapter 9 chapter 10

taglist open!

[ricktastix]

Used to Know

Summary: It had been years since you last saw your childhood friend, Satoru Gojo. Your family had moved away suddenly and the two of you lost contact. You hadn't seen him again until you just so happen to end up at the same university, but he wasn't that same sweet, blue-eyed boy that you used to know. wc: 1.5k

₊ ♪˚⊹ 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰.. ⊹˚♪₊

“Excuse me?” You were baffled, utterly flabbergasted.

“I know it seems like a hard concept.” There was no way that the sweet, innocent, kind Saturo Gojo that you used to know had turned into this disgustingly sleazy playboy. You refused to believe it. “But a one night stand is exactly what it sounds like, so don’t think because we slept together once means that you can come up to me like you know me.” Wow.

What a dick.

What had you done to deserve this sort of response from the blue-eyed, white-haired astrophysics major? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You had only come to the library today because your new friend, Kento, had said they required a certain number of students in order to reserve one of the study rooms. One of the guys in his frat had ditched last minute and they were down a body, so, being the good friend that you were, you agreed.

You had gotten there a little early and decided to go to the small coffee shop at the front of the library. As you turned away from the counter, coffee in hand, you noticed a familiar mop of white hair sitting at one of the corner tables. Excitement immediately filled you. There was no mistaking who that hair belonged to, even if it had been nearly ten years since you’d last seen him.

You had honestly thought you’d never see him again. Your family had moved away before middle school and you had no way to contact each other back then. Such a precious friendship— lost, or so you had thought. Because, there he was, sitting at a table in a coffee shop in a library at the same university as you. With a bright smile on your face, you made your way to the table. Only one of the guys looked up from their phone as you approached, an eyebrow raised. You just give him a small wave then turn your attention to reason you had come over in the first place.

“Satoru?” He’s leaned back in his chair, arm thrown over the back, legs spread, scrolling on his phone, circular sunglasses resting on the tip of his nose. He doesn’t even look up. Maybe he didn’t hear you? “Toru?” His thumb stops mid-scroll. His brows furrow and he lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Come on, Toru.” One of his friends mock. He looks up to glare the man across from him— pink hair and…face tattoos? Satoru looks back down at his phone, not bothering to make eye contact with you.

“Look, just because we fucked once, doesn’t mean we’re together or something.” And that brings us back to the present. He’s lucky you’ve been craving the coffee in your hand all day because otherwise, he would’ve been wearing it by now.

“I see.” You hiss through gritted teeth. It was taking everything in you not the crush the flimsy paper cup in your hand. The same friend from before seemed to be amused by your frustration.

“Don’t worry babe, I’m available.” He smirks, slowly eyeing you up and down. By the time you turn your attention to him, you’ve wrangled your anger back in place.

“Thanks,” you deadpan “how generous.” He pouts. The other guy at the table, that had been sitting quietly until then, snorted behind his hand. Pink Hair shot him a glare. He only shrugged in response, his long black hair falling over his shoulders still shaking from laughter. “Just to be clear,” you turn back to Gojo. “I’ve never slept with you, and never will. Entitled man-whores with daddy’s money and Digimon boxers don’t really do it for me.” Satoru tenses, thumb frozen on the screen. The dark haired friend raised a brow as he looked between the two of you, because how could you possibly know that?

“Ha!” Pink Hair holds his stomach as he bursts out laughing.

“Sorry I bothered you. You guys have a nice rest of your day.” You turn on your heel. A chair scrapes loudly behind you.

“Hey!” Satoru calls after you, you stay your course and don’t turn around. “Wait- shit!” You heard something tip and spill over the side of the table, splattering on the floor. The pink haired guys laughter turned into howling until something must have gotten on his bag and he started yelling.

“Damnit, Gojo!” They start arguing loudly with one another while you slip into the library, out of sight.

°̩̥·‧̥༄

“She had you pegged, bro.” Sukuna was still laughing at his friend’s misfortune. “Fuckin’ hilarious.” Gojo shot him an icy glare. He was currently mopping up the mess he made when he knocked his coffee over trying to stop you. Big L to his ego. He had an image to maintain, and being a clutz trying to chase after a girl could do some serious damage to his reputation.

“What are you doing?” Nanami’s flat tone was filled with judgment. Gojo pouted, leaning on the handle of the mop.

“Snowflake here made a fool of himself.”

“Shut up! Did not!” He did.

“Yeah, okay.” Sukuna rolls his eyes, standing from his seat. “Hurry it up, would ya? We gotta get to our room.” Satoru sticks out his tongue at his friends back and returns the mop to the staff. Nanami, unamused, checked his phone.

“My classmate already grabbed the room for us. We shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

“Her~?” Satoru teases, smirk on his face as he slings his bag over his shoulder. Nanami narrows his eyes.

“Is she hot?” Sukuna prods, a mischievous glint in his eye. At this rate, if Nanami kept rolling his eyes, they were bound to get stuck in the back of his head. He ignores their comments and starts for the door to the library. The rest of them snicker and trail behind him.

°̩̥·‧̥༄

“Apologies for being late.” You give him a smile as he comes through the door.

“Not at all! I literally just got here.” He sets his bag down, taking the seat next to you. You go back to unpacking your own bag when there’s a sharp bark of laughter. You look up to see the same pink-haired, face-tattooed guy from earlier walk in and throw his stuff on the table across from you. Following him, the ravenette and…

“You gotta be kidding me.” You mumble under your breath as none other than Satoru Gojo brings up the rear— frozen in the doorway staring at you.

Great.

“Everything alright, y/n?” Nanami was pulling out his chair, about to sit down, when he saw your face. At the sound of your name, Gojo’s eyes widen even more— glasses falling to the tip of his nose.

“Yeah,” your eyes didn’t leave Satoru’s blue ones. “Everything’s fine.” Only then to you break eye contact and give Nanami a smile. The two of you start chatting and take your seats, discussing something to do with your shared class.

“Ah, I almost forgot.” Nanami introduces you to his frat brothers— telling you each of their names and them yours.

“Nice to meet you guys.” Sukuna was far too amused by this turn of events. He snorts, eyes flitting between you and Gojo— Geto smacks his arm as he plops down in his own seat.

Surprisingly Luckily, none of them decided to bring up what had happened earlier and worked in silence. They were actually very studious for a group of frat guys. The two hour time slot was coming to an end and you were starting to think you could get out of there without further incident— hopefully forgetting it altogether and preserve the memory of the blue-eyes boy you used to know, instead of what he had become.

°̩̥·‧̥༄

“Thank you again for coming.” Nanami thanked you as he held the door open for you— ever the gentleman.

“No problem! I should be thanking you. I really needed some study time and you’re a great tutor.” A light blush crept up his neck and he cleared his throat.

“Would you like me t-”

“Can we talk?” You couldn’t help the startled gasp that escaped you when Gojo’s voice sounded from right behind you— cutting Nanami off. You hadn’t heard him approach. You will your heart to slow down before you turn to face him— arms crossed, brows furrowed. He was looking at his feet, and for a moment, just a moment, he looked like that sweet boy from way back when. Maybe that’s what made you agree.

“Fine.” Your answer is flat. He perks up at that, straightening back to his full height, eyes still not quite meeting yours. You turn back to Kento and give him a smile. “I guess I’ll see you in class Monday.” He looks between the two of you— face unreadable, then he nods.

“Alright. Will I see you Saturday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” The corner of his lip turns up just slightly before it falls again. He nods, gives Gojo what seems to be a warning look before heading off. Once he’s out of earshot, you turn to the man next to you. “Well?”

Likes, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list for part 2!

[yenayaps]

Rose Garden Dreams master list

pairing: firelord!zuko x royaladvisor!reader

content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor. [tw: MDNI, longfic, angst/fluff/smut, slowburn apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit tho, we’re already married in his head]

notes: this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance?? lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.

chapters:

one

two

three

four

five

six

‼️ TAG LIST IS CLOSED ‼️

All rights reserved © 2026 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform. Do not feed my works into ai and do not turn them into chat bots.

[willowsslove]

Second Chances (Naoya x Reader)

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Chap 7 - The One I Want to Keep ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·

⁺˚⋆｡°✩ Summary ✩°｡⋆˚⁺

After years of enduring Naoya's cruelty in your marriage, one desperate push at the top of the stairs changes everything.

He falls, but he doesn’t die. He wakes with no memory of who he was, or what he did to you.

With his family desperate to hide the truth and preserve his inheritance, you become his caretaker… and his only anchor. The man who once made you flinch at the sound of his footsteps, now follows you around like a lost ghost, soft-eyed and uncertain.

You could tell him the truth. You could walk away, but guilt keeps you here, and love, eventually, makes it hard to leave.

‧₊˚✧ Warnings ✧˚₊‧

18+ MDNI, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic descriptions of domestic abuse, Physical & emotional violence, Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy angst, Slow burn romance, Non-con elements, Eventual smut.

‧₊˚✧ Word Count ✧˚₊‧

5k+

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Previous Chapter ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨Masterlist୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!

TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!

You were ridiculously comfortable. A comfort so complete that you struggle to shake off the clutches of sleep for a long, blissful minute, your body heavy and warm in a way it had never been allowed to feel before. 

You blink slowly, your brain finally registering the circumstances, the thick arm wound securely around your waist, the soft tickle of breath ghosting over the back of your neck, the solid weight of another body pressed against yours from shoulder to ankle.

His legs are curled up against yours, chest flush to your back, face buried against the nape of your neck as though he had sought you out even in sleep. This, too, is an experience you are not used to. 

Most mornings you woke alone, in a cold bed, within a grey room, waiting for the moment the front door shut before you tiptoed out, trying not to leave any evidence that you existed. The air would always carry the smell of his cologne, his scent lingering almost everywhere in a way yours never would.

But here, now, he smells so warm. Like freshly tumble-dried laundry, with a faint whisper of soap or shampoo clinging to his skin. He shifts in his sleep, pressing himself just a little closer, arm tightening around you like you are nothing more than a teddy bear he had grabbed in the night.

“Morning” his voice comes thick with sleep, but still soft, spoken gently into your hair.

“Naoya” you breathe, already squirming within his grip, the knowledge that he is awake suddenly breaking the fragile comfort of the moment. Your hands find his arm, gently attempting to pry it off while hiding the worst of the panic rising in your chest.

“Thank you” he murmurs, the arm around you beginning to stroke slowly across your stomach, petting you with careful, absent affection. “I haven’t been able to sleep very well, and… after last night—”

“It’s okay” you quickly stop him there, not wanting to relive what happened last night, that irrational spark in your chest that wondered what would have happened had he not stopped himself, and whether you would have found yourself enjoying it.

“Y/N” he says it so gently that your stupid stomach gives a little flutter, so used to your name being snapped or growled that it almost doesn’t sound like the same name at all. “Can you look at me?”

You resist for a moment, staring holes into the bedroom wall, but he begins gently turning you, leaning back so he can press you onto your back with careful hands.

“Y/N” he says again, that same breathy tone. You roll the rest of the way over, facing him on the bed, staring at the flick of his lush lashes instead of properly meeting his eyes. It is rather irritating that you had always found him, objectively, good-looking.

He had become an ugly creature right before your very eyes, a mere glance in your direction enough to drag a violent retching from you at times, but you would never deny that he was handsome, in a sharp, feline, elegant sort of way. Something he was painfully aware of.

“I’m sorry” he whispers, voice wrecked, lifting a hand to cup your cheek. You flinch, just slightly, finally managing to suppress the majority of it. You shake your head quickly, forcing a smile.

“Don’t… worry about it.”

“No, what I did was wrong.”

Was he talking about the kiss, or the night you realised, truly, how much he despised you?

“I shouldn’t have touched you like that” his thumb strokes absently across your skin. “It was…” He struggles to find the words, eyebrows drawing down, blinking as if trying to rifle through a rolodex in his head. “Not very nice.”

You can’t help but snort, dipping your head just slightly out of view. His thumb stills on your cheek.

“Did you laugh?” he questions, and ordinarily a question like that might make your blood run cold, but he says it so softly, so full of wonder, that you can’t suppress the growing smile.

He attempts to tilt your head back up, but you squirm away, tilting your head even further down and burrowing your face the pillows.

“Y/N, did you laugh?” He is teasing now, his other hand coming up to cup your other cheek, finally managing to tilt your head back up to meet his.

His smile is so genuine, so soft and boyish, that your heart gives a sudden clench, like he had just reached right into your chest and given it a gentle squeeze.

His eyes trace your features, slowing when they reach your mouth, lingering there just a little longer.

“You’re so pretty” he breathes, eyes flitting back to your, and that is more than you can take.

You slip from his hands, sitting bolt upright, heart doing somersaults in your chest, so many conflicting emotions butting heads with one another that your thoughts are a jumbled mess.

“Breakfast” you announce lamely, scooting up the bed until your feet hit the floor. You are off before he can reply, shooting from the room and closing the door behind you like that might slow him down.

… 

You slide the bowl across the counter toward him, watching as he flicks his wrist again with careful concentration, the whisk arcing smoothly through the pale batter exactly as you had shown him. “Is it like this?” he asks once more, voice soft with a gentle determination that has become so familiar these past days.

You nod, drizzling a light trickle of oil onto the hot pan while glancing over at him. He smiles to himself, a small and private thing, repeating the motion with such earnest focus that something warm and unexpected spreads through your chest.

“You’re doing great, Naoya” you say gently, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them.

He lights up at the praise, that simple affirmation seeming to mean the world to him.

“Okay, hand it over.”

He drops the whisk into the sink with a soft clatter and slides the bowl toward you, the fluffy batter sloshing gently against the sides. You hover your hand just above the pan for a moment, testing the heat, and catch the way Naoya lurches forward instinctively, his hands flexing in the air as though ready to pull you back from any possible danger.

You ladle the first portion of batter onto the pan, swirling it carefully until it spreads into a thin, even circle. Naoya shuffles closer, forever your quiet shadow now, peering over your shoulder as you work, his presence oddly warm and steady.

“I’m sure you’ve told me before…” he begins, his voice a pleasant, low rumble that vibrates gently through you. “And forgive me for forgetting, but what is it you do for work?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, the spatula pausing mid-air as memories surface without warning.

When you had first taken the job, the old Naoya had demanded you quit immediately, declaring that a woman’s place was in the home. You had begged, explaining it was only a few hours a week, that it might even look good for his image to have a wife who wasn’t simply idle.

After that he had never mentioned it again. He had never asked how your day was, never inquired about the plants or the people or the small joys you found there, even as you slowly increased your hours and spent less and less time trapped within these walls.

“I work at a greenhouse” you say quietly, watching the batter begin to bubble and set at the edges. You slide the spatula underneath and flip it cleanly, a quiet flicker of pride warming you when it holds together perfectly.

“A… greenhouse?” He tilts his head, clearly trying to place the word, the concept slipping through the gaps in his memory.

“It’s a place where we grow plants” you explain, sliding the finished pancake onto a waiting plate. “Like the one attached to our house.”

He nods slowly, understanding dawning across his face with a gentle hum. “And what do you do there?”

He continues to probe, needing to understand, the uncertainty seeming to make him anxious in a way you can well imagine. You cannot fathom what it must feel like to wake up without the knowledge of your own history, without knowing how you came to have a wife who still flinches when you step too close.

“I’m a horticulturist” you tell him, the words feeling both ordinary and strangely intimate in this kitchen. “I propagate plants, care for them, help them grow strong.” You scoff lightly at your own oversimplification, a small, self-deprecating sound.

You slip the plate across the countertop and murmur, “Try it” turning your head just enough to watch him settle into a stool at the kitchen island.

He tears into it like an excited child, eyes widening as he chews, a delighted hum rising from his throat. You cannot help but smile as he does a little happy shimmy, speaking around a mouthful of pancake. “This is amazing.”

“Are you eating it without syrup?” you laugh, already ladling another portion into the pan. He looks up at you, mouth frozen mid-chew.

“Syrup sounds amazing.”

You leave the second pancake cooking while you retrieve the syrup from the cupboard, sliding the bottle across the counter to him. He seems to recognise it immediately, some instinctive part of him reacting as he reaches out, pops the cap, and smothers the last few bites in a generous swirl of amber goodness.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten” he moans as he finishes the final bite, those warm eyes fluttering shut for a moment in pure bliss. “You’re such a good cook.”

Your smile falters. The warmth that had been spreading through your chest is suddenly choked off, turning cold and heavy in an instant.

You had always loved cooking. To you it was a kind of alchemy, taking ordinary things that tasted like nothing on their own and turning them into something nourishing, something that could speak love without words.

There was no greater way to show care than to feed someone, to ease their hunger with your own hands.

It had been early in the marriage, before you had truly learned who Naoya was. He had warned you the dinner was important, and you had begged him to take the guests to a restaurant instead, but he had insisted.

He wanted to show off his home, his family, and some part of you now wonders if he had also wanted to display how perfectly submissive his wife could be, how firmly he ruled his household.

The shame of that night still sits in your bones, something you have never quite recovered from.

Everything had been going well at first. You had been almost excited, wanting him to be proud, wanting his praise. But the expectations piled up, you were meant to host, to mingle, to smile prettily while also cooking an entire meal.

You had left the potato dauphinoise in the oven after being called out to entertain, and when you finally returned to the kitchen it was too late.

It was burnt beyond saving. You had tried desperately to scrape the worst of it away, but the damage was obvious.

Naoya had found you there, close to tears, bent over the ruined dish. You had hoped, naively, that he might soothe you, that he might laugh it off with you. How foolish that hope had been.

“I thought I told you how important this dinner was” he had bit out, eyes snapping between you and the charred side dish still smouldering on the counter.

“I know, I’m sorry Naoya…” you had begun, not yet understanding that excuses were unacceptable, that you were expected to get it right the first time or suffer the consequences. “B-but I can’t host and cook at the same time, you know.”

“What?” His voice had gone dangerously cold, those eyes emptying of everything human, like staring into a bottomless pit. You swallowed hard, heart hammering.

“You… called me out while I—”

“So it’s my fault?” He had hissed, stepping closer, the sharp scent of alcohol on his breath. 

“No, I mean, that’s not—” You had cleared your throat, embarrassed by how your voice trembled. “I just think if I’d been allowed to stay in the kitchen instead of—”

“I am not to blame for your fuckup” he had shouted, voice loud enough that the guests turned to watch. “I warned you, and you still failed me.”

Embarrassment had burned through you like a wildfire, your cheeks flaming hot as you wanted nothing more than to disappear, to let the tears already gathering fall. All you could do was stare at him, your eyes flicking involuntarily to the audience you now had, silently begging them to look away.

They didn’t.

“I’m sorry, I—it’s still edible” you had whispered, eyes dropping to the floor, unable to bear the anger radiating from him.

“Edible?” He had scoffed, pacing a few steps away before stalking back, leaning in close to hiss into your ear. “That’s brilliant. You made edible food. You are completely useless.” His voice had dropped even lower. “If I lose this client there will be hell to pay.”

You had felt yourself cave inward, hands curling into fists at your sides, shrinking as though you might vanish if you tried hard enough. You had listened to him stomp out of the kitchen, ears ringing, heart thundering in your throat.

You are not sure how the rest of the dinner passed, only that the food you had spent hours preparing somehow ended up in the bin, replaced by a spread of takeaway laid out like a lavish banquet.

You could barely eat, could barely move, picking nervously at whatever was placed in front of you. It had felt like risking everything simply to breathe, the oppressive weight of his disappointment and anger suffocating you.

He had avoided looking in your direction the entire evening, as though the mere sight of you disgusted him, and everyone else had followed his lead, treating you like you weren’t even there.

You had tried to smile as they said their goodbyes, standing just behind Naoya while he bid them good night. You had wanted nothing more than to hide from their looks, some full of contempt, others of pity.

And at long last the door had shut for the final time. The silence that followed had been cloying, terrible and oppressive, the kind that felt as though it would take a miracle to break.

You had watched him drift away from the door, shoes tapping against the marble as he moved toward the stairs. His face had remained blank, but the set of his shoulders and the ice in his eyes had told you everything you needed to know.

“Naoya” you had croaked, wincing at the sound of your own voice, fists tightening in the fabric of your skirt. “Naoya, I’m sorry about tonight. I really am.”

He had continued moving as if you hadn’t spoken. You had followed, desperate to soothe him.

“Naoya, I really am sorry, okay?” you had tried again, a painful knot forming in your throat. “Maybe next time, if I just… if I just do the cooking instead of—”

The slap had come so hard your head was forced to the side, the pain registering a moment later. The sound of it had echoed through the lofty hallway like a shot.

You had lifted a trembling hand, holding it just shy of your cheek as you turned back toward him, blinking rapidly as tears gathered in your eyes.

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. The shame and shock almost eclipsed the blooming sting across your cheek. He had clicked his tongue, pulling his hand back and rolling his wrist as if limbering up for more.

“Next time?” he had hissed, cocking his head as he slipped a finger beneath the knot of his tie, the swish of silk loud in the silence. “There will be no next time. Why the hell would I want to embarrass myself by showing off my utter failure of a wife?”

The shame had slammed into you again, desperate, stunted breaths struggling into lungs that no longer seemed willing to work. His words had torn into something deep inside you, as though he had reached in with both hands and crushed whatever remained of your pride.

How could he say something like that? You had made a mistake, yes, but one deserving of such vitriol?

You had shaken your head weakly, tears falling freely now, the pain and misery all-consuming. You had pressed your cool hand to your burning cheek, hoping the sting might fade soon, even as you already knew it would linger for days.

"Y/N…"

His voice reached you before you'd registered he'd moved, closer than it had any right to be, softer than anything you'd ever associate with him. You flinched anyway, head snapping toward him on instinct, the way you always did when his voice came from behind you, the way your body had always learned to do.

"Y/N, it's burning"

You whipped back around. The smell hit you a second later, a thin, acrid curl of grey smoke rising from the pan. You yanked it from the heat with a soft curse, hands unsteady as you tried to scrape the blackened mess into the bin before he could look at it too long.

"I'm sorry." The words came before you'd thought to say them, reflexive as a muscle. "I'm sorry, Naoya, I wasn't — I wasn't concentrating, I'm sorry, really, I—" Your voice climbed, thinning at the edges, shrill and uneven by the time you ran out of breath.

The stool he was sat in scraped softly against the floor as he stood.

You didn't look at him, couldn’t. You were staring at the bin, at the smear of burnt batter against the rim, hands still trembling around the handle of the pan, knuckles white where you gripped it too tight, because if you loosened it even slightly something else might give way entirely.

Then his hands were over yours.

Carefully in a way that stopped you cold, his fingers curling around the handle, easing it gently from your grip and setting it back onto the hob like it was some afterthought, like none of it mattered, and then his arms were around you.

"It's okay" he murmured.

You stood rigid within the bracket of his arms, his chest was warm against your cheek. His hands began to move against your back in slow, gentle passes, a little uncertain at first, the pressure shifting, adjusting, as though he was working out the language of comfort in real time.

"It's okay" he said again, whispering it into your hair this time, but the sharp memories of how he had once hurt you collide violently with the gentleness of his current actions, leaving you adrift.

But he kept murmuring, his hands grew steadier, and you were so tired of pushing, of shrinking yourself, of having no-one to hold you whilst you broke.

The sob, when it came, was small and ugly, muffled against his chest, the kind you'd spent years swallowing down.

Your arms curled around his waist, fingers twisting into the fabric of his t-shirt, holding on desperately as you pressed your face into the warmth of his chest and let your eyes fall shut. And for one moment, you allowed yourself to stop fighting the weight of it all.

He gathered you closer. One hand threading through your hair, the other curling over your shoulder with a grip that was almost desperate, almost like he needed as much as you did, like he was clinging as much as holding. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, as if he were trying to give you a rhythm to follow.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Y/N."

The tears came harder, soaking into his shirt while you dragged in small, shallow breaths and tried not to shatter completely over a burnt pancake, over a what was a quiet morning, over the unbearable softness of him now and what it meant about everything that came before.

"I'm sorry" you whispered into the fabric.

You felt him shake his head, his chin coming down to rest atop your head, tucking you beneath his chin, encasing you fully within his arms as though he could shield you from the world.

"Stop apologising." His voice was quiet, worn at the edges. "You don't need to. Not with me."

And that was the thing that broke something open.

‘Not with me’. As though there were a version of this that had always been available to you. As though it had just been waiting there while four years passed overhead.

Why hadn't he said that then, before the fear had rotted inside you? Why did he have to hurt you instead of saying this? Why did you have to fear him instead of love him? Why now? Why like this? Why, why, why-

You stepped back.

Not far, but just enough, hands dropping from his shirt, putting a breath of space between his warmth and your skin. And when you looked up at him he was still standing there with his arms slightly open, the shape of you still held in them somehow.

Your head was throbbing, your throat a closed fist.

You wanted to disappear, to go and pull the covers over your head and lie in the dark and not exist for a while, to simply pretend this life here never existed, that the last four years of torture never happened, that you’d never met Naoya, the old one and the new.

"Y/N." His fingertips found yours, catching them slightly and carefully drawing them towards him. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, because the words simply wouldn't come.

He cradles your hand against his chest, and you let him pull you back to him a half-step.

"I'm sorry for freaking out." Your voice came out wrong, scratchy, thin, and entirely unconvincing. You saw it in his eyes, the careful way they searched yours, the questions he wants to ask but isn’t sure he wants the answers to. "Let me finish breakfast, hm?"

"Can I try?” He'd tilted his head as he asked, an absurd little movement, tentative and almost feline. Something in it was so unexpectedly small that you felt the last of the tears threaten to spill for an entirely different reason. 

You lifted your free hand and caught the one that clung to your lash line before it could fall, pressing the back of your finger against the wet of it.

You nodded.

He released your hand and crossed to the hob with something close to enthusiasm, and you watched him stand before the burners with his brow furrowed, turning one knob and then another, getting nowhere, trying again, a small noise of frustration escaping him before the correct one finally caught and the flame bloomed beneath the pan.

He stood back, stared at it, a look uncertainty creeping in.

Then he glanced over at you, stripped for a moment of everything except the question.

“Uh…how do I do this?"

… 

You'd known it was coming.

You'd been buying time, stretching the days and weeks out as long as they would go, keeping the world of the Zenin at a careful distance from the small, fragile thing forming in the walls of this house. 

Your phone skittered across the cushion beside you, buzzing with insistence.

You didn't move. Across the room, the television threw great washes of light and noise across the room, some film Naoya had selected with the remote held slightly too close to his face, squinting at the buttons like it they were hieroglyphics. You stubbornly kept your eyes on the screen and let the call ring out.

It rang again.

You turned your face away from it.

By the third time, you knew.

Whoever it was had already decided they would not be ignored. You reached across and turned the phone over, looking at the name that lit up the screen. Something in your chest dropped.

Your time was up.

You rose from the couch slowly, already composing your face into something neutral, something that would not give the Naoya anything to misread.

You felt Naoya's eyes track you the moment you moved, you always felt when he looked at you now, some animal part of you that hadn't yet unlearned what it meant when his attention was focused on you. 

When you glanced back his brows had drawn together, gaze dropping briefly to the phone in your hand, something shifting behind his expression that he didn't put into words.

“Just… give me a second" you said softly, voice slipping beneath the noise of the film. An explosion bloomed across the screen in that same moment, painting his face in amber and white, and in the light you could see every line of the worry he was trying not to show. He nodded, yet watched every step you took from the room.

You answered as soon as the door had closed enough behind you.

"Good evening, Mada—"

"None of that." Emiko's voice came through thin and precise, nothing like the trembling, fractured thing you'd heard the last time she'd spoken to you. The vulnerability had been packed away entirely, every seam of it sealed shut, and for a moment you almost wanted to laugh, turning over the question of which version of her was the mask. The one that begged or the one that commanded? “You’ve had weeks now to do what you wanted. Now it’s time to do what I want”. 

"I understand." You kept your voice flat, devoid of any emotion, giving her nothing she could use. It was safer that way, it had always been safer that way.

"He needs to be seen at work." She didn't pause for your understanding, never had. "People are talking. There are only so many excuses I can keep making before they stop believing them."

You could hear the street behind her, the muted sounds of footsteps on stone, a passing car, the particular ambient noise of a city going about its night.  Even that small detail told you something, that she hadn't made this call from inside the house, that even she couldn't trust that family with her secrets.

"You need to start preparing him. Ranta can help. I'll send some documents with him, it should be enough to bring Naoya up to speed."

Ranta was the only one you might have called a mercy, loyal to Naoya with a fervency that had always struck you as strangely misplaced, devotion given to a man who had not, for most of his life, done much to deserve it.

But misplaced or not, you were grateful for it. He was the nearest thing you had to an ally that you had, and you'd been glad, these past weeks, not to have needed him.

"Yes, madam."

The words came without effort, slipping from your mouth with a smoothness that surprised even you, the old role settling back across your shoulders, as if none of the last weeks had happened, as if you hadn't sat across a hospital room and watched her come apart over the body of her son.

There is a moment of silence.

You could hear her breathing, quick and shallow, the sound of someone walking fast, and then the noise dropped away all at once, muffled, as though she'd stepped beneath a canopy or ducked into a doorway.

"This better work." Her voice had changed again, the edge had softened, something rawer was showing through, something she hadn't managed to keep sealed for too long. "If it doesn't—" She stopped. The sentence hung there, unfinished.

She hung up before you could answer.

Three soft, flat beeps, and then nothing.

You lowered the phone slowly. The breath you let out wasn't quite a sigh and wasn't quite a groan. You dragged a hand through your hair, fingers closing around a fist of it, grounding yourself in the small, sharp pull of it against your scalp, anything to give the tightness in your chest somewhere to go.

It was time.

Time to shape him. Time to sand him back down into the thing they needed him to be, the perfect instrument, the Zenin heir returned, polished and compliant and pointed in the right direction. 

You know that every day you creep closer to destroying the only version of him you have ever truly wanted.

And the moment you begin preparing him for that world again, you may never get this gentle, uncertain man back.

Because the Naoya you were coming to know, the one who held you against his chest, the one with hands that didn't know what to do with themselves and then learned, slowly, gently, how to be kind. That Naoya would not survive what came next.

The family would reclaim him. The role would reclaim him.

You stood in the hallway, phone in hand, the film still audible through the door.

And you thought, not with any real belief it was possible, but with a longing so sudden and sharp it almost hurt, of going back into that room and simply taking his hand and walking out of this house and not stopping.

The thought lasted exactly as long as thoughts like that ever did.

And then you reached for the door.

DO NOT FEED INTO AI, OR REPOST WITHOUT CREDIT, OR ELSE I WILL CURSE YOU WITH FOOD POISONING!

[willowsslove]

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