Summary: The rest of the ED find out about their sunshine nurse and gruff attending in the most surprising of ways.
AN: Another short and sweet fic. I hope you guys like it! I'm hoping to get some more out but really I just write when the inspiration hits lol. Not proofread.
(I do NOT give anyone consent to use/publish my work. Any copying or translating of my writing is considered plagiarism. If you come across my work on any other site or app, please let me know and report them as well)
Everyone knew that you and Dr. Abbot were exceptionally close, more so than anyone else. Still, the two of you conducted yourselves in a professional manner and the residents chalked it up to doctors having their favourite/preferred nurse to work with; ie. Robby and Dana.
Whenever there was a case that Jack worked on, everyone knew that you'd be the first person he'd ask for. Whenever out with the team for a post-shift beer or rare bar night, Jack could always be found chatting with you or Robby, but with you always somewhere close behind. During short lulls in the shift, on the occasion that Jack would actually eat, he'd make his way into the staff room and plop himself down beside you, no words needed, just your company and the simple task of sharing a meal together.
So as far as relationships go, the residents and med students never even thought of pitting the two of you with one another. Regardless of how much time you spend with the doctor, your personalities were entirely different. You were the sunshine of the ED. Whenever someone was down, you were always the first person to try and comfort them, lending an ear or shoulder to cry on. When a difficult patient came in, you somehow always managed to calm them down, explaining the situation and never letting them feel blindsided by the steps and procedures needed to be done. To the rest of the staff, you were the epitome of rainbows and butterflies so they expected that if you were dating someone, they'd be just like you.
Jack on the other hand could not be more different. Just the fact that he was more senior in position and age to most of the people in the ED intimidated them already. Also, in their eyes, anyone who could spend years being Robby's best friend must already have something wrong going on with them, the SWAT shifts did not help to dissuade this assumption. Jack wasn't mean or rude, but he was definitely assertive. Jack knew how to run a trauma and didn't let anyone's mistakes get in the way of saving a patient. He could be gruff and sometimes appear cold but only because he didn't feel like oversharing about his life like the rest of the team. Jack knew what he liked and didn't like and was honest almost to a fault, the reason why some people felt scared to approach him.
Thus, all things considered, you and Jack were nowhere near the resident's radar, with only Dana and Robby knowing the truth about your relationship, that is, until the two of you stopped caring whether or not the rest of them knew.
It was one of those rare quiet times in the ED when no one needed immediate care and attention. Everyone was gathered around the nurses' station and computers. The residents were all catching on their charting while Robby and Jack sat close by reviewing patient labs and getting orders for medication ready. You of course were sat beside Jack catching up on your own work.
Trinity felt as though her head was gonna explode, closing her eyes for a brief second to try and will the ringing in her ears to go away. Dennis sat beside her and yawned for what felt like the hundredth time in ten minutes. Across from them, Victoria looked as though she was two seconds away from falling asleep while Mel's face scrunched up trying to focus on her screen. On either side of the desks, McKay was mindlessly scrolling through her chart, trying to look as if she was actually absorbing any information while Samira sat on the other end, the most put together of the bunch with her headphones in. The day seemed to drag on with no end in sight, the comfortable beeping of machines and low murmurs of patients acting as background noise.
"Would you still love me if I was a worm?"
Everyone's immediate attention was ripped away from whatever they were doing in order to turn in your direction which seemed to be entirely focused on Jack.
All of the residents looked at each other with incredulous eyes, even Samira took off her earphones once seeing how everyone reacted. Though, you seemed not to care at all that the rest of the ED seemed to be watching you as you continued to stare at Jack; even Dana looked up from where she was reading a chart to let out a small huff of laughter at your antics.
When Jack didn't immediately respond, you poked him lightly on the bicep trying to get his attention.
"Jaaaack" you draw out his name, "would you still love me if I was a worm?"
Without even looking up from his work, Jack silently grabbed your hand that you were holding out before bringing it up to his mouth to plant a brief kiss onto your hand, "yes darling, of course I would."
Satisfied with his answer, you gave a giddy nod of your head before turning back to your work, keeping your hand in Jack's as though this was the most normal thing in the world.
Less than five feet away, the residents felt as though they were witnessing a medical miracle. Victoria was left with her mouth hanging open while Mel sat completely still, blinking in fast intervals as though trying to understand what just happened. Dennis kept looking back and forth between the two of you before turning over to look at Trinity, knowing that if anyone was going to speak up, it'd be her.
"So, are we just pretending that didn't happen?" Trinity asked bewildered.
"Pretending what didn't happen?" Robby said, looking up from the chart in his hand.
"That, right there" McKay gestured widely at you and Jack still holding hands.
"I don't know what you're talking about" Robby smiled, before looking back down at his work.
The residents continued to share wide eyes with each other, even going as far as to look over at Dana for explanation but the charge nurse wouldn't even glance their way, choosing to stare at the tablet in front of her, but not without them seeing the obvious smirk on her face.
While the rest of the ED tried to make sense of what the hell just went on, you and Jack shared a loving look with one another before you leaned over and planted a small kiss on his cheek, the moment only lasting so long before you heard who you were sure was Trinity exclaim "oh what the fuck, now they're just messing with us!"
Bruce has never understood why other parents complain about how difficult their kids are when they’re sick, because the batkids actually turn out to be nicer to him when they’re sick
They’re so sweet and docile, listening to his every word and obediently taking their medicine, looking up at Bruce with watery red eyes and awaiting praise
The only thing they request is Bruce’s attention and lots and lots of cuddles
He doesn’t know it, but that’s only for Bruce. Being sick is just an excuse to act sweet to him without getting embarrassed
Bruce had to go to a meeting at the company for a bit, and called Clark to come take care of his kids. He went over what meds to take at what time and who likes what blanket, but other than that, there wasn’t really any briefing. He didn't think he had any reason to
To this day, Clark talks about that time as if he were fighting Darkside himself
Dick wouldn’t sit down for anything. No matter what Clark bribed him with, the moment he turned his back, Dick was up and moving, despite having thrown up five seconds ago. He was also bothering everyone and talking over whatever show or movie all the kids had finally agreed upon. He was trying to land a flip while also doing his best not to throw up. It did not work. Clark almost threw up cleaning it before throwing a blanket over him when he finally collapsed
Jason wouldn’t even look at Clark. And anytime he did it was with utter disgust that truly hurt Clark’s feelings, even if the younger man was sniffling with a bright red nose. He's always been standoffish with Clark since he was a kid, but Clark thought he got over his jealousy after he explained he wasn't trying to steal Bruce's attention. He has not, he's just good at hiding it. Clark threw a blanket over him and decided to deal with it later
Cassandra lunged at him the moment he tried to put a cold compress on her forehead. He wasn't expecting it, so he barely dodged, even with his superspeed. She let out a low growl, and Clark seriously didn't know what to do with that kind of hostility. He kinda just threw a blanket over her and hoped for the best while she dozed off in Bruce’s favorite chair. He didn't dare disturb her unless it was time for her to take her medicine
Tim turned the brightness of all his devices to the max, even though it made him dizzy and gag, because he claimed he couldn’t see through his watery eyes. It didn’t help that he had to be kept separate from his other siblings so he didn’t get worse. He kept trying to sneak off to be with everyone, and Clark couldn’t let him, but he got so sad thinking about it, so he divided the living room where they were all staying in half with pillows, so Tim could still be in the room but not too close to anyone. He then threw a blanket over him and moved his devices away
Steph, on the other hand, was trying to sneak over to see Tim, which was bad. Logically, he knew they all understood Tim was vulnerable, but being sick seemed to devolve their thinking processes. She also continued asking for food, and when Clark brought it over, she’d gag and push it away. She then asked Clark to make something, and when he presented it to her, she gagged so hard she threw up, so Clark also threw a blanket over her head
Duke, while the calmest, was not easy to handle either. He would just stare. Clark expected that from any other child under Bruce’s wing, but not Duke. Duke would turn himself invisible to stare at Clark, but Clark got goosebumps all over his skin nonetheless. Super hearing can only do so much when the person sneaking around you is trained by Batman himself. He threw a blanket over Duke and prayed he didn't remove it
Damian insisted on having all his pets near him at all times, then got scared his sickness would transfer over to them and cried so hard he threw up. Clark deposited him in Cassandra’s lap after cleaning him up, just so he could have some comfort, and gave him his phone so he could watch all the videos he wanted of the cows on the farm. He then threw an animal print blanket over him
And all of them, yes, all, would randomly burst into tears and call out for Bruce. Each time, he would have to deliver the devastating news that he still wasn’t back, then be subjected to all seven glares, which was a lot to handle. He wanted to fly into the attic and hide, but he promised Bruce he would try his best, and he was bound by moral obligation
Yes, Clark tries to appeal to the masses and children by wearing bright colors, but he’s never claimed to be good at handling children. In fact, his parents would say he’s the opposite
He can handle it for short amounts of time, but carrying them and having to interact with them for an extended period of time? Fuck no. He's never had to clean up or make throw up as in that moment. He will not do it again
When Bruce comes back, all his kids are absolute angels again, if not a little more pushy, so they can cling to him without Clark being there. They whine and tug Bruce into the living room so they can pile on top of him (Tim has a mask on) and bury him under their combined weight
Bruce simply doesn’t believe a word of what Clark says. Those are his babies. And even if they did do that… whatever
★ SYNOPSIS: Contrary to popular belief, Dick's not stupid. He's seen the way his own brother looks at you—the way Jason's very eyes seem to light up when you're in the room—and he. fucking. hates. it.
★ TAGS: jealousy, established relationship, possessive behaviour, his brother is crushing on his girl—let him be a bit possessive guys, background!jason todd x dick's gf!reader, oblivious!reader, love triangle
★ A/N: ugh guys, i'm such a sucker for the guy into his brother's gf trope it's not even funny. the angst potential is through the roof. anyway, this is technically part two to this oneshot but it can be read as its own separate thing!!
line divider by @cafekitsune
Now, Dick likes to think of himself as a reasonable sort of guy.
When Wally pranks him, he laughs it off with nothing but a big smile and a wave of his hand. When Babs lectures him, he chuckles sheepishly and all but promises to do better next time. When Bruce decides to be particularly difficult while working with him, he clenches his jaw and shoves all his annoyance back down the pit it came from before continuing on like it never bubbled out in the first place.
So yeah, all in all, Dick's a pretty reasonable guy—
—except, of course, when it comes to you.
In particular, when it comes to the way his brother looks at you.
He isn't blind. He's seen it. The way Jason's eyes seem to have all the life flood back into them the moment they land on you; the way his hands seem to twitch after you finish tending to his wounds and pull away, as though desperate to pull you back in.
Dick's seen it and he doesn't like it.
In fact, he fucking hates it.
It makes his skin crawl; has spiders flood his veins like he's an island straight after a tsunami, like he's an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere. Still standing. Still hoping. Still praying.
Perhaps for the moment he doesn't have to come home to his little brother eye-fucking his girl.
Dick's gaze narrows, sharpening straight into a blade ready to slice through skin. "Oh hey, didn't realise we had company."
Your lips turn up at the sight of him, and his eyes soften just a bit. "Dick! You're home!"
Then his lips curve up for a split second, only to immediately fall flat the very next one as movement catches the corner of his eye.
Jason shifts in his spot on the couch next to you, gaze darting to the side like he just got caught doing something he shouldn't be.
Something like flirting with his brother's girlfriend.
"Jay came over with an injury, so I'm just patching it up for him."
Dick hums, eyes leaving you in favour of narrowing again at his brother. "He seems to be doing that a lot more lately."
Jason refuses to meet his eyes.
"I know." You frown. "I'm really worried."
Ever the kind heart, you truly don't see what's really going on here, do you?
"Babe," Dick starts, reverting his attention towards you and letting his lips curve up once more, "do you think you can make me some of your special tea? My throat's a bit sore."
Immediately, you get up from your position on the couch, moving towards him so swiftly and with such care, he can't help but flash his gaze to the man behind you and let his lips quirk up just a tad bit more.
"Oh no... I told you to start wearing a scarf out. Winter's right around the corner."
You move to graze a hand over his throat, your brows scrunched in that sweet way they always are when you're concerned for him, and suddenly, as his hands slip right around your waist and he pulls you close, all he sees is you.
"I know, I know." He chuckles, squeezing your hips. "I'll wear one next time. Promise."
He won't, but he can't bring himself to turn you down.
Your lips tug down, almost as if you know this, know him (because you're his girlfriend, not Jason's), but you ultimately leave it alone, pulling away to head to the kitchen.
But then Dick catches the way his brother looks at you—that stupid puppy dog-eyed look Jason probably doesn't even realise he's doing—and he moves to catch your arm again, pulling you straight into a kiss.
Your eyes widen at first, but then you melt into him, and he's making his way into your mouth with his tongue, and you're pulling away not a moment later in both surprise and your own fluster.
A string of saliva is the only evidence that you two were connected further than just an innocent peck. But it's all the evidence he needs as he flicks his gaze back to his brother, sitting there now with a slight frown on his face.
"Dick," you scold him halfheartedly, lips curved up a little at the corners. "Not in front of your brother."
He only smirks back at you, causing you to roll your eyes and pull away to head to the kitchen, mumbling something under your breath and smiling all the while.
As soon as you're gone however, his smirk falls flat.
The room is quiet, a special kind of quiet, one you can cut through with a knife. The tense kind.
Dick's gaze is piercing through Jason, and Jason's is nowhere near Dick's.
How telling.
The older man crosses his arms, and just like that, the silence is shattered.
"So," he starts in a drawl almost too casual for the circumstance, "when were you gonna tell me you're into my girl?"
"Don't know what you're talking 'bout."
Dick scoffs. "Really?"
"Yeah, really."
His jaw ticks, teeth grinding so hard he's worried they'll shatter as Jason still makes no move to return his gaze.
"I'm not blind, Jason," he tries again in a near growl, "I've seen the way you look at her."
This time it's Jason's turn to scoff, and he finally turns his head to meet Dick's own. "Oh yeah? And how's that?"
How do I look at her? he adds with just his eyes.
"Like you want her," Dick shoots back quickly. "Like you love her."
Jason sits up a little, and now it's his turn to narrow his gaze at his brother. "So what if I do?"
At that moment, Dick feels something white, hot, and dangerously close to flames riddle his veins, and suddenly, shattering his teeth is the least of his worries.
"So, she's my girlfriend," he hisses through gritted teeth. "So, you back. off."
Jason scoffs again, but Dick doesn't let him get another word in, the older brother narrowing his gaze into slits as he takes a step forward in a silent warning.
"I want you out of my fucking house by the time she gets back."
Jason stands up. "Or what?"
Another flash of white hot flames.
"Or I'll fucking beat your feelings for her out of you."
The two of them stand there, nothing but tense silence filling the gap between them for a few long moments.
Then Jason lets out another scoff, and he passes by Dick with a particularly harsh shove that has the older man's mouth opening up to speak again before he can stop himself.
"Oh, and do us both a favour: lose her number and start getting someone else to patch you up."
-> not canon-compliant ⋆ no current romantic love-interest ⋆ non-story compliant storyline ⋆ reader is nonchalant about a lot ⋆ gender-neutral ⋆ reader is around 17 years old ⋆ reader is not a hero ⋆ this’ll probably be very boring ⋆ not proofread
♫ currently playing: Restless - untitled
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D I R E C T O R Y
prologue <- masterlist -> chapter 1
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-> Being the child of Bruce Wayne came with its ups and downs, the man is good, your father? He tries his best.
But you’re quiet, the most you’ve ever reached out for something was when you need a form signed for school. Despite having dealt with more difficult children than yourself, he for some reason gave up sooner with you than the others. Maybe it was the fact you really were his blood related child? No, he wasn’t this way with Damian.
Maybe it was the fact you chose not to be a vigilante, to be normal. Everyone was surprised when they heard that from you, guess they all expected it. The only person who didn’t care was Jason, he was relieved if anything, he was also the one closest to you before— it happened.
Never had it ever crossed your mind that this would be the reason your family began to isolate you, whether on purpose or not. Dick became elusive, only appearing before you to keep up the older brother image, Jason hardly ever came home, not that it was strange, Tim despite being the closest in age to you was always locked in his room or out on patrol, Cass was, quiet to say the least, not unusual. Stephanie tried but you were not compliant to her trying, not on purpose but it was just the way things were.
Damian grew to ignore you after your lack of reaction to him and his words, and Duke was the nicest, didn’t push, always greeted you even if it wasn’t reciprocated. Watching them come into the house, one year after another only further pushed you down the list of importance, it’s only thanks to Alfred’s consistency that you still even had a plate at the table. You saw in his eyes he was apologetic to the happenings around you, yet you insistent that it was not necessary for him to speak with your dad.
Speaking of the man, his priorities skewed with the new attendance of people in manor. It’s hard to remember the last time you even spoke to him without the conversation ending in ten seconds. God, you haven’t even gotten some of their contact info, you’ve got Dick’s from years ago, Jason’s as well, though you’re sure his number has changed in recent times— Duke and Stephanie’s, and your dad’s which you don’t use. Their texts dwindled down overtime.
It did hurt, a subtle ache in your chest whenever they had dinner without you, or left without goodbye. Thankfully you weren’t without your own company, Isla and Oliver, you made friends with them on your first day of middle school and stuck together since. Keeping your relations to the Wayne family secret until you were sure they wouldn’t leave you over it.
Or use you, both were viable options.
But they didn’t care, if anything, opening up about your estrangement only led them to resent your family. Ironic given that Isla was a huge Red Hood fan and Oliver was partial to Nightwing.
You kept their secrets though, no reason to share it.
It was only one day that things changed, your room, the original one, in the middle of the hall surrounded by everyone else’s. It became far too loud and hard to sneak your friends in without being noticed, so you moved— not out, can’t until you’re legally eighteen, but into a more quiet part of the house, turning one of the abandoned guest rooms into your sanctuary, close to another exit so your friends didn’t have to run out the front door every time. With Alfred’s help of course, it was already fully furnished, just needed to move your valuables down.
Taking down your clothes, posters and pictures, everything to make your room feel like home. You also may or may not have gotten a mini fridge and snack drawer using Bruce’s money, it didn’t make a dent in his account so he wouldn’t notice, now it was much easier to house your friends. The freedom helped push away the ache you’d have, the one you’d get when you laid in bed knowing that not a single person would question your lack of presence at dinner.
Oliver and Isla were more than happy to welcome you into their homes as well, Isla lived with her mom, dad in metropolis since they were divorced. Oliver with his older brother, mom and dad, kindly you informed Alfred of every single departure because it’d be cruel not to, and you also asked him to keep your absence hush from your family.
Annoyingly, even though they ignored you most of the time they still questioned your disappearances when they didn’t first ask Alfred, playing it off like they cared but it was truly just the hero in them making sure you didn’t get into trouble. Maybe that counted as caring.
For once in your life thing managed to move at a steady pace, you kept your outside life with your friends seperate from the one you hardly had with your family, can you guess who threw a wrench in that plan?
I can.
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-> that’s the prologue completed, it’ll preferably be short, only around a chapter or two if I can help it. But I have a habit of writing too much, so we have to wait.
First piece of writing on this account, hope it’s alright.
ᴄᴡ : satosugu x reader , fluffノrev comfort , hybrid au ⟶ dog! gojo , puppy! reader , owner! suguru , toru's a lil traumatized :( , shy! reader ( as ever :p ) , changed the request a little bit , reader is briefly described to be smaller than satoru , art by @/lau_wang99 on 𝕩 , read on ao3 here , ᴡᴄ : 𝟸.𝟸ᴋ
ʀᴇǫ : " i know this might sound kind of strange but i was thinking : owner!suguru who took in retired police dog!gojo and then much later on took in puppy!reader . . . "
it's been years since satoru has been on the force, discharged due to a bullet wound to the leg after an investigation went south — a criminal coming back to retreive the drugs satoru was sniffing out, let's just say he wasn't too pleased when he found satoru right where he stash was… the injury never properly healed, leaving him with a severe limp that made moving around quickly quite difficult. he wasn't kicked off the force, he decided with the guidance of his previous handler to leave. it was hard to keep up with the other sniffer dogs, and the pain he felt on the daily was too much.
now satoru spends most of his days on the sofa with his new owner, suguru — someone he's known since the beginning of his career. they were both rookies together at the police academy, but suguru ended up quitting the force as well, instead studying to become a defense attorney. satoru's life is much calmer now, keeping his owner company while he works on cases late into the nights and living a much more tranquil life than what his life was like on the force.
but there's an emptiness that lingers within satoru, a longing inside that craves for work, for purpose. he was so active before that now it's hard to sit still for longer than five minutes. he's always getting up after five minutes of cuddles just to wander around the apartment, and when he finds nothing to do, his tail tucks every so slightly and his ears flatten, soft, quiet whimpers leaving him until suguru coaxes him back over for more cuddles. with how busy suguru is, it's hard to give satoru the enrichment he needs, so he decides it's best to get him a companion.
it's something suguru has been wanting to do for a while, but he's hesitated due to satoru's close attatchment to him. they've been so close for so long, introducing a new person is a sensitive subject. that's why he's careful when bringing it up to satoru.
౨ৎ
the bedroom is quiet, suguru has his pup draped over his chest, his hand massaging his velvety ears as satoru listens to the steady thumping of his owners heartbeat. this is as still as satoru has been all, corteousy of the calming chamomile tea the two of them usually share in the late evenings and the melatonin satoru's been perscribed due to his insomnia. his memories tend to keep him up at night. his chest rises and falls slowly, his pretty lashes brushing his cheeks with every slow blink he takes. he's calm, maybe this is a good time to strike?
"hey… i have a question,"
suguru starts, his every so slightly longer nails scratching satoru's scalp in the way that always makes him preen. the hybrid hums in response, tilting his head up to look at his owner, tail gently thumping against the mattress as he meets his gaze.
"how would you feel about us getting another pup?"
the shift is instant. satoru's tail stills, his body stiffening as he takes in a sharp breath. a new pup in the house… what would that even be like? it's been him and suguru for so long, even when he was with his old handler, the two have been so close. how would introducing a new person even go? he can't deny though, it's lonely when suguru goes to work. the apartment is so quiet, he can only sit and stare out the window at all those outside, spending time with others while he's isolated.
"…mm… who?"
he asks, his brows furrowing softly as his bottom lip juts out, those soft puppy eyes coming out in full force. suguru is always weak to them, his pup sure is pretty. satoru's ears stay flat in trepidation, fingers digging into his owner's body as he holds onto him tightly, like if he let go suguru would find some other puppy to look after, leaving him behind.
suguru sighs, pulling suguru closer, rubbing soothing circles into his back while his other hand stays buried deep in his white, fluffy tresses. he presses a soft kiss to his forehead, guiding satoru to rest his head onto his collarbone.
"not sure yet, wanted to ask you first before i started looking…"
satoru hums again, nuzzling into the column of his owner's neck, breathing in the calming, natural scent mixed with the fresh eucalyptus scent of his body wash.
"mh… maybe,"
౨ৎ
finding a new pup proved to be a much more difficult task than suguru expected — and he expected a good amount of difficulty going into it. at first, suguru decided to take satoru with him to the shelters, after all he should have some input into who his new companion would be. however satoru decided to be a little… difficult. he wouldn't interact with the other hybrids and he kept telling suguru that he didn't like them. every. single. time. no matter what.
suguru would respect satoru's wishes if he just said he didn't want a new companion, but the pup kept saying that he was open to it, so suguru perservered. this time without satoru. he felt bad, but it was just too difficult lugging around the stubborn, possesive hybrid. it made it a lot easier to trial the hybrids.
they had a few come close to being adopted, even having a few stay for a couple nights at the apartment, but things never seemed to work out. some of them were too energetic, some were too disengaged, one was a little too aggressive and suguru had to send him home early. he took a break after that, he didn't want to overwhelm satoru with all the hybrids he kept having to meet.
turns out, taking that break was exactly what he needed, because once he came back to trying to find a new pup, he found perfection.
he found you.
so soft and delicate, shy but eager for affection and companionship. you wouldn't overwhelm satoru at all, you're exactly what he needs: someone who can keep him calm but still provide him with the right amount of stimulation. you were hesitant when meeting suguru, it took a little coaxing to get you comfortable, but once you were you just couldn't get enough of all the pets and cuddles he was giving you.
it was hard to part ways with you when he first met you, he could tell you were upset too, holding onto his hand right up until he had to leave. he could hardly sleep that night, terrified someone would get to you before he could take you home. he thought about it overnight, would it really be such a good idea to take you home before you even had a home trial? he thought about it all night as satoru slept soundly next to him, he just couldn't bear to leave you all by yourself.
it was love at first sight, what can he say?
he picked you up early the next morning, filling out the paperwork as quick as he could and taking you home with him. just as he expected, you were the perfect fit. introducing you was so much easier than suguru was anticipating.
satoru fell in love with you just as quickly as suguru did, giving you heart eyes as soon as you walked into the apartment all shy-like, hiding behind suguru, trembling with your little tail tucked between your legs. satoru was enchanted, and that hasn't changed a bit for the few months you've been living with them.
౨ৎ
nowadays, satoru isn't so restless. infact, he's the complete opposite. he'll spend all day on the sofa with you, grooming your silky ears with his rough tongue as you watch copious amounts of television together. he may be a little too attached, keeping you close to him as much as you allow him to (which is practically every second of the day), but at least he's not on the verge of depression, laying at the door for suguru to come home every day.
however, your addition to the household hasn't solved everything.
satoru holds you to his chest, the rest of his body draped around you from behind, his grip tight. almost too tight. his breath fans heavily against your neck as he sleeps a little less than peacefully. since having you as his companion, satoru has finally started sleeping in his own pup bed, but only if you're in there with him. sleeping on his own is difficult these days, he needs the warmth of another person to relax enough to sleep, but the occassional stress doesn't evade him.
your eyes flutter open at the feeling of the white haired pup's fingertips digging into your waist, something wet dripping onto your neck. satoru's grip is constricting, feeling like he's nearly cutting off your airways. quiet yips leave his throat, his tail patting the mattress with every cautious wag it takes, legs jolting, joslting your body in his arms. at first you think he must be having a very active dream, your mind still drunk on sleep, but then his whines get louder, and you realise the wetness forming in the crook of your neck is due to the copious amount of tears pouring out his pretty, closed eyes.
his dream sure is active, active like a horror movie is.
you hear the bedroom door click open, a tired suguru coming into a blurry view, your eyes still bleary and welling with slightly panicked tears of your own. you've never seen satoru like this, so distressed and out of himself. however, your owner is experienced, and gets to work quickly. the first thing he does is pry you out of satoru's arms, tucking you into his side and rubbing comforting circles over your hip where the other pup's had been hurting you. next, he coaxes satoru awake.
the pup jolts awake at the feeling of his owners hand on his cheek, eyes blown wide and frantic, hand flying down to the healed bullet wound on his hip, the scar throbbing with the memories of that fateful day. he wipes his cheeks, surprised with the wetnes he finds there, lifting his head in an attempt to come back to the land of the living.
"it's okay, sweet boy… nothing's gonna hurt you,"
your owner soothes, voice as smooth and sweet as caramel, coaxing satoru's head to lay against his chest. he's still trembling, sniffling while letting a few stray whimpers that muffle into suguru's t-shirt. you reach forwards, petting his flattened ears with your shaky hand, wiggling in your owner's hold to get closer to him once again.
you lean fowards, crowding against his back, your warmth enveloping him in safety as you hesitantly lave your tongue over his ear, just like he does to you. he softens below you, letting out one of his grumbly purrs. the three of you sit like that for as long as it takes for satoru to stop shaking, at least for the most part.
suguru presses a soft kiss to his temple, scooping him up in his arms as he stands, grabbing your hands as you follow his movements. the weight is hardly a struggle for your owner to carry, much too used to having to manoeuvre his pup around like this. it reminds him of the early days when satoru came to live with him, with his injuried hip and his resitricted mobility.
"c'mon princess…"
your owners voice is still gruff with sleep as he takes the two of you back to his bedroom, laying satoru down before guiding you down with him. you decide to be the big spoon for once, curling around his back despite your size difference, your arms wrapping around satoru's waist while he rests against suguru.
satoru mumbles something incoherent, voice all wobbly, like he's trying to explain himself but just can't quite get the words out properly. suguru shushes him, tucking his head under his chin. you don't quite understand the situation, but all you can do is make sure your companion is okay, rubbing a gentle hand over his pained hip, feeling him relax in front of you.
thankfully, it doesn't take long for satoru to fall back asleep, letting his soft breaths puff against suguru's bare chest. a good night's sleep is rare for satoru, but when he does sleep good, he's out cold. knowing you far too well despite the small amount of time you've been together, your owner coaxes you over to lay on his other side, tucking you close just like how he's holding satoru. you need those cuddles too, maybe not as much as satoru does right now, but still enough for your owner to take action.
"get some sleep, i'll explain in the morning,"
he plants one final kiss to your lips, letting you lay your head a little lower on his torso, your legs intertwining with his. the bedroom falls back into a soft silence, much calmer than before. satoru's hand unconciously reaches out, managing to find your hand curled up against suguru's chest, clumsily linking his fingers with yours.
it makes getting out of bed the next morning a little difficult for suguru to get your breakfasts ready, but it's a sweet image nonetheless. he manages to wiggle out from underneath the two of you and makes sure to snap a little picture he'll forever store in his heart after a tough night of tears.
ᴀɴ : i know i changed the request a little but i hope my requester still enjoys nonetheless !!
Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her, "You" referred )
Summary:
Everyone online thinks she has the perfect life: the face, the ring, the husband, the child, the dynasty, the kind of marriage people envy in photographs and edits online.
What they cannot see is the loneliness inside it, or how a woman can be deeply loved and still left starving for something gentler, warmer, and spoken aloud.
When their son brings home a rumour cruel enough to shatter the silence between them, Valarr is forced to reckon with the difference between loving his wife and making her feel loved.
Warnings:
unrequited love but not really unrequited, emotional neglect, marital loneliness, angst, Valarr is a damn fool, child caught in parental tension, rumours of infidelity, family pressure, difficult communication, crying, reconciliation, you have son, and he is named
A/N: Studying was the plan (but it's okay, my finals won't be here for another three weeks....yikes). but anywaysss, Valarr was the reality. I know what I said, and I know I should have committed to being productive, but I couldn’t help myself. Take this for what you will. I just love him very much.
The marriage had been arranged so early, and spoken of so often, that sometimes it felt less as though a wedding had happened and more as though a contract had simply risen one day and put on silk and gold.
Your family and House Targaryen had been tied to one another for years through old money, older obligations, and the kind of corporate alliances powerful families still dressed in softer language. By the time Baelor Targaryen began preparing Valarr to succeed him as CEO, the union had already been decided. It was practical. Strategic. Clean. Your family strengthened theirs, theirs elevated yours, and the future of the company looked steadier for it.
Everyone called it a perfect match.
You were beautiful, poised, educated, and from the right family, with the kind of grace that made people lower their voices when you entered a room. Valarr was Baelor’s heir, sharp and self-contained, the future face of Targaryen Consolidated, a man the business press had circled for years like hawks awaiting a crown. Together, you photographed beautifully.
That was the problem with beautiful things. They made people think they understood them.
The photographs caught your wedding in gold and white and crystal light: Valarr in a black tuxedo cut so perfectly it looked severe on any other man and princely on him, your gown falling in clean silk over your body, your veil soft behind you, his hand steady and possessive at your waist as though even then he had already decided where you belonged. They caught the old family chapel, the private reception high above the city, the way he bent to kiss you beneath flashes of light and chandeliers and everyone’s approval, one gloved hand sliding gently to your back as though shielding you even from the cameras. Later, they caught your son seated between you both in tailored little clothes, solemn-eyed before the camera, his dark hair smoothed carefully back.
They captured the shape of happiness.
They did not capture the quiet inside it.
His name was Vaegon.
He was six years old, sweet in a way that made your heart ache, all soft eyes and gentle hands and careful little questions. He was not loud or difficult or wild. He thanked the house staff when they brought him things. He apologized when he bumped into furniture. He pressed little kisses to your cheek for no reason at all except that he wanted to. He liked animals, soft blankets, storybooks, and curling up against you with complete trust, as though the whole world could not touch him while he was there.
You loved him with a ferocity that lived in your bones.
You fussed over him. Smoothed his hair. Buttoned his little shirts even when he could do it himself. Straightened the collar of his school coat. Cut his fruit into neat little pieces. Remembered every preference, every fear, every tiny thing that pleased him. You kissed bruises, soothed bad dreams, and packed his lunches yourself because you liked knowing that some small part of your care followed him out into the world.
Vaegon was the truest thing in your life.
The penthouse atop Targaryen Tower was all sleek glass, marble, soft lighting, curated art, and a view that made guests fall quiet when they first entered. It was elegant to the point of sterility, the kind of place that might appear in magazines under titles like How the Next Generation of Power Lives.
It only ever felt real when Vaegon left something out of place.
A toy dragon on the sitting room rug. A little cardigan draped over the back of a dining chair. Colored pencils left by the window where the light was best.
Valarr tolerated the mess.
This, in its own restrained language, was tenderness.
He was not cruel. Cruel would have been easier. Cruel men were simpler to hate, simpler to understand. Valarr was attentive in all the wrong ways and absent in all the ones that mattered most. He noticed everything. He missed you anyway.
He made sure your driver knew your exact weekly schedule. He had your preferred tea sent in when the brand you liked became difficult to find. He replaced Vaegon’s favorite books the moment one tore or went missing. He remembered anniversaries, doctor’s appointments, and the name of the florist your mother preferred. When you were sick, medicine appeared before you asked. When something in the house broke, it was fixed by morning. When Vaegon needed anything, it was already handled.
And when it came to you, he placed you above everything in the quiet, maddening architecture of his life — above the board, above appearances, above himself — yet he did it so wordlessly, so inefficiently, that it often felt less like devotion than management.
He noticed more than he ever said, remembered more than he let on, and took care of you in every way he knew how.
But he loved like a man who had been taught affection was safest when disguised as competence.
And because he loved you so badly — so deeply, so helplessly, so carefully — you often mistook it for the absence of love altogether.
That was the tragedy of it.
At dinner, he sat at the head of the table in dark work clothes, usually a charcoal shirt with the sleeves folded once over his forearms, the lines of the day still clinging to him. Vaegon sat to his right, small and neat in his school uniform, trying so hard to behave like a little gentleman. You sat to Valarr’s left in one of your softer house dresses, and from a distance the three of you must have looked impossibly composed. One elegant family above the city. The future of the dynasty already secured.
Vaegon tried, sometimes, to fill the silences.
“Mama made my lunch herself today,” he said one evening, with unmistakable pride.
Valarr looked up from the report he should not still have been reading. “Did she?”
Vaegon nodded brightly. “She cut the strawberries the way I like.”
You smiled despite yourself. “They taste the same whole.”
“No,” Vaegon said gravely. “They taste better when you do it.”
Something shifted in Valarr’s face then. Not much. Just enough for you to see it.
He loved moments like that.
Loved you in them, perhaps most of all — you with your softness, your patience, your impossible instinct for making care seem effortless.
But where another man might have smiled, might have reached across the table to take your hand, might have said something warm enough to settle in your chest and stay there all evening, Valarr only lowered his eyes again and said, after a moment, “Then your mother is spoiling you.”
Vaegon beamed. “Yes.”
You laughed softly.
Valarr’s mouth almost moved.
Almost.
That was how it always was. Almost.
You had tried, in the beginning, to meet him halfway.
You learned the names of the investors he disliked and the branch relatives he distrusted. You mastered the social rules of their world quickly enough that even Baelor’s hard-eyed wife had little to correct. You hosted beautifully, dressed perfectly, and moved through charity galas, shareholder dinners, and political fundraisers at Valarr’s side with the ease expected of you. In fitted gowns and diamonds chosen by family stylists, with Valarr’s hand resting firm at the small of your back, his thumb sometimes moving once in a gesture so slight no one else would notice, you became what such a wife was meant to become: graceful, useful, calm, impossible to fault.
And privately, you tried to love him too.
Not because you had no pride, but because he was your husband, and because there were quiet things about him that reached you in spite of yourself. The way he went still when he was deeply tired. The way he softened, almost imperceptibly, when Vaegon leaned against his arm. The way he watched you when he thought you did not notice. The way his hand at your back in public was always steady, protective, never careless. The way he reached for your hand in elevators or private corridors without ever seeming to realize he was doing it, only to let go once the doors opened and the world saw him again.
The internet loved those fragments.
A blurry video from a charity gala had once made the rounds for days because some account swore a lip reader had caught Valarr leaning close with his hand firm at your waist and murmuring, If I have to wear this tie another hour, it may actually kill me, in a tone so dry it had made you laugh and reach up to fix it for him. In the clip, your fingers smoothed the silk at his throat while he looked down at you with that rare, unguarded softness people online were always desperate to catch. The comments had been unbearable. People insisting he was in love with you. People replaying the few seconds over and over as though devotion could be proven in pixels.
There had been other moments too. Photographs of you at lunch with his parents, the four of you leaving some old restaurant uptown while Vaegon ran half a step ahead with a pastry in his hand, Baelor pretending sternness while his wife dabbed icing from his cheek. A grainy Sunday shot of the three of you at a winter market, your gloves linked with Vaegon’s little ones while Valarr carried far too many bags and looked faintly offended by the existence of handcrafted ornaments. Another set from the botanical gardens, where Vaegon had talked the adults into riding the miniature train meant for children, and the internet had nearly died over the sight of Valarr Targaryen, future terror of the financial world, folded awkwardly into the tiny carriage while you laughed beside him and his mother took photographs like any other grandmother.
People loved those pieces of you. The polished candidness of them. The proof, however small, that this beautiful and frightening family knew how to be warm with one another. Strangers built whole marriages out of five-second clips and long-lens stills. They called you enviable.
Once, after an ordinary afternoon in late autumn, a grainy paparazzi set made the rounds online — you and Vaegon leaving a children’s boutique downtown, your coat belted neatly at the waist, oversized sunglasses on though the sky was overcast, one hand holding a shopping bag and the other wrapped around your son’s little gloved hand. Vaegon, serious as a tiny prince in his wool coat and polished boots, looked up at you while you bent your head to listen to whatever solemn thing he was saying.
The caption on one gossip account had read: to be pretty, rich, and married to Valarr Targaryen while shopping for your beautiful little boy… some women really do live in fairytales.
Another post called you the internet’s favourite rich mother.
Someone zoomed in on the ring on your finger and wrote a thread about old dynastic jewelry. Someone else made a montage of photographs of the three of you, set to melancholy music, and called your family modern royalty, done right. There were comments from women who envied you, from men who wanted you, and from strangers who insisted they could tell from a single still frame that Valarr was obsessed with you. There were edits of him stepping out of black cars in dark coats, edits of you at galas in silk and diamonds, edits of Vaegon tucked between you both in little formalwear, all of it stitched together into the same glossy lie.
You had stared at one of those posts too long one evening while the apartment was quiet around you.
It had nearly made you laugh.
Because yes, you looked beautiful. Yes, your son was adored. Yes, your husband’s hand always found the small of your back before a camera could catch you at an awkward angle. Yes, from the outside it looked like a fairy tale.
Only you knew how lonely it was to be so beautifully kept.
You began to love him in the spaces where he failed to speak.
Which might have been romantic, perhaps, had it not also been so lonely.
Sometimes, late at night, he would come to your room after long hours in meetings with Baelor and the board, his tie loosened, his hair slightly disturbed, weariness hidden beneath that same elegant control. He would stand in the doorway for a moment as though bracing himself, then cross to you and touch you with a care so restrained it hurt.
He was never thoughtless with you.
Never rough. Never entitled. Never cold once his hands were on you.
That was almost worse.
Because it meant you knew there was feeling in him. Great feeling, perhaps. Enough to make his restraint tremble at the edges. Enough to make his breath catch when you touched him back. Enough to make him kiss you like a man trying not to show how badly he needed it — one hand at your waist, the other cupping your jaw, his mouth careful at first, lingering and warm, and then not careful at all, as though every quiet hunger in him lived there. Enough to make him hold you afterward with his face buried in your hair, one arm around your middle, his fingers spread at your hip as if anchoring himself there, as if he wanted to say something and never could.
And by morning it was gone again, tucked away behind polished silence and unreadable eyes, leaving you to wonder whether you had imagined all of it.
It began to feel less like marriage and more like loving a locked room.
And still you doted on Vaegon.
He became the place where all your untouched tenderness went. If Valarr made you feel kept at arm’s length, Vaegon flung himself at you with total certainty. You brushed his hair back from his forehead while he read. You packed little notes in his lunch. You let him crawl into your bed after bad dreams. You sat on the edge of the tub and washed shampoo from his hair while he told you solemn little stories about his day.
“Did you miss me?” he asked one afternoon after school, still in his uniform, climbing into your lap though he was getting a little too big for it.
“Always,” you said, kissing his temple.
He considered this. “Even when I am only gone a little bit?”
“Especially then.”
He smiled and tucked himself closer, satisfied.
Valarr stood in the doorway and saw it.
He said nothing.
But the look in his eyes lingered with you all evening — something pained, yearning, almost hungry. Not for the child, never that. For the softness. For the easy certainty with which Vaegon was loved and knew himself loved. For something in you he did not seem to know how to reach without breaking it. For the kind of tenderness he wanted from you and for you, and did not know how to ask for in words.
One Saturday morning, you were in the kitchen packing Vaegon’s lunch for a school picnic because he refused to eat “sad sandwiches” prepared by anyone else. You cut fruit, tucked in little sweets, folded napkins, and added the small chocolate wafer biscuits he loved most.
By the time you came downstairs dressed and ready, handbag over your shoulder and coat belted neatly at the waist, Valarr was already at the elevator with Vaegon in his little navy coat.
“You’re leaving now?” you asked.
Valarr checked his watch. “We should have gone three minutes ago.”
“I know. I just had to finish his lunch.”
Vaegon brightened when he saw you. “Mama, did you pack the little biscuits?”
“I did.”
Valarr took the lunch bag from your hand. “I’m taking him.”
You blinked. “I’m coming.”
His gaze rested on you. Calm. Controlled. Impossible.
“You were tired yesterday.”
It took you a second to understand. “That doesn’t mean I’m too tired to go to his school picnic.”
Vaegon looked between you both, his small face beginning to tighten with uncertainty.
Valarr’s voice stayed even. “It’s crowded. Loud. Half the parents there will want to talk to you. Stay home.”
Stay home.
As though he were sparing you something.
As though you were a delicate thing to be managed for your own good.
You smiled for Vaegon because mothers did that even when something inside them ached. “I wanted to go, sweetheart.”
Vaegon’s expression fell at once. “Can’t Mama come with us?”
Valarr was quiet for one beat too long. “Not today.”
It was not harsh, and perhaps that made it worse.
Vaegon stepped forward and wrapped his little arms around your waist before the elevator arrived, pressing his cheek against you. “I’ll bring you something back.”
Your throat tightened. You bent to kiss the top of his head. “You do that.”
When the doors closed behind them, the silence in the foyer felt enormous.
They came back three hours later, flushed with sun and schoolyard excitement. Vaegon ran to you at once, as he always did, clutching a paper craft in one hand.
“Mama! Papa beat all the dads at soccer.”
“Did he?”
Vaegon nodded with great seriousness. “It was very dramatic.”
Behind him, Valarr held out a small white box tied with ribbon.
You looked at it, then at him.
“I stopped on the way back,” he said. “I thought you might like them.”
You opened the box.
Inside were delicate pistachio-rose macarons from a famous patisserie downtown.
You hated pistachio.
He knew, in theory, that you did not particularly care for nut-based desserts, but somewhere amid the thousand details he carried about your life, he had remembered wrongly. Or half-remembered. Or perhaps he had only recalled that once, years ago, you had admired the shop window and failed to notice you had been looking at the cakes, not the macarons.
You stared one second too long.
Valarr saw it instantly.
Of course he did.
Vaegon peered into the box and said in a hushed voice, “Oh no.”
You let out the tiniest breath that might have been a laugh if it had not hurt. “I don’t like pistachio.”
Valarr went still.
Not angry. Not offended. Just still in that awful way he had when something struck deeper than he let show.
Vaegon looked stricken on both your behalves, as if he alone had witnessed a small domestic tragedy. He glanced from the box to your face, then back to his father with dawning alarm.
“But Mama doesn’t like those,” he said softly, in the tone of a child offering a correction with mercy.
Valarr’s gaze shifted to him. “No?”
“No,” Vaegon said, scandalized by the mistake. “Mama likes lemon things. Everybody knows that.”
“I know,” Valarr said, and the worst part was that he sounded like he hated himself for getting it wrong.
That night, the macarons remained untouched in their box.
The days did not collapse in some dramatic fashion. That would almost have been a relief. Instead, things eroded. Quietly. Tastefully. The sort of marital sadness that looked elegant from the outside and suffocating from within.
You still did everything expected of you. You still stood beside him at events. You still remembered every detail of Vaegon’s life. You still made the apartment warmer than it deserved to be. But some bright part of you began to withdraw.
You stopped texting Valarr in the middle of the day.
You stopped waiting up in the living room when he worked late.
You stopped trying to fill every silence at dinner.
Vaegon noticed first, because children always did.
He would come to you after school and hesitate, as though checking whether the old rituals still held. Would you kiss his forehead? Would you open your arms before he asked? Would you fuss over whether he had eaten enough?
You always did.
Always, always for him.
But even then, the sadness in the house had changed shape. It no longer belonged only to you.
One afternoon the school called.
There had been a fight.
You arrived first, heart in your throat, only to find Vaegon sitting outside the principal’s office with red-rimmed eyes and his little hands clenched in his lap. He looked so small in the chair that something in you twisted sharply at once.
You knelt in front of him. “Baby.”
He looked at you and burst into tears.
You gathered him immediately, stroking the back of his head, kissing his damp cheek, murmuring soft nonsense meant more to soothe than to mean anything. “I’m here, I’m here, sweetheart, it’s all right.”
Vaegon clung to you with shaking little hands. “I’m sorry.”
“You do not need to be sorry before I even know what happened.”
But he only cried harder, which frightened you more.
Valarr arrived twenty minutes later straight from the office, still in his suit, carrying that severe polished authority he wore like another skin. Staff moved differently when he entered rooms. Even school administrators seemed to feel it.
The principal invited all of you inside with the stiff, strained smile of someone who would have preferred to be anywhere else.
Valarr’s gaze went first to Vaegon. Always first. “What happened?”
Vaegon wiped his face with his sleeve and looked down.
The principal cleared her throat. “There was an altercation on the playground. Another student made some remarks, and Vaegon reacted physically.”
Valarr’s voice remained level. “What remarks?”
The principal hesitated.
You already knew you were going to hate the answer.
Vaegon’s mouth trembled. “He said Papa has a girl at work.”
The room went completely still.
Your stomach dropped so sharply it almost felt physical.
Vaegon’s face crumpled again. “He said everybody knows rich men do that, and that Mama probably cries when I’m at school, and I said to stop and he wouldn’t stop, and then he said Papa doesn’t really love Mama because if he did he wouldn’t—”
His voice broke.
You were not shocked by the rumor, not because you believed it, but because some sick, broken part of you knew at once why other people would.
The principal looked mortified. More than mortified, perhaps. This was not merely any family sitting in her office. The Targaryens had funded the new arts wing, the scholarship endowment, and half the restoration of the old chapel on campus. Their children had attended the school for generations. Their name was etched into buildings, printed in gala programs, spoken with careful gratitude at every fundraiser. Vaegon was not simply a student here. He was legacy, dynasty, expectation.
“We are handling the other child appropriately—” she began.
“Leave us,” Valarr said.
There was nothing raised in his tone. Nothing dramatic.
It was somehow more absolute because of that.
The principal went pale and stood at once, all apology and professional stiffness, as though she understood too late that this had moved beyond schoolyard discipline and into something far more intimate and dangerous.
The door closed.
Vaegon sat there breathing in little shaking gasps, humiliated by crying and too young to hide it properly. You moved toward him, but Valarr reached him first and crouched in front of his son.
He did not touch him immediately.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
Vaegon obeyed with wet lashes and trembling lips.
“You do not hit people at school.”
Vaegon swallowed hard. “I know.”
“But.”
That one word hung there.
Valarr’s expression did not change much, but something in him had sharpened into frightening clarity.
“But no one speaks about your mother that way.”
Vaegon’s face gave way entirely then. “He said you were making her sad.”
And that did it.
Whatever controlled distance Valarr usually kept between himself and his feelings cracked clean through.
He gathered Vaegon into his arms without hesitation, holding him firmly against his chest while your son cried in earnest now, all the pent-up confusion and fear pouring out at once.
“I am not cheating on your mother,” Valarr said into his hair, each word low and precise and meant to be believed. “Do you understand me?”
Vaegon nodded against him.
“I have never cheated on your mother.”
Another nod.
Valarr closed his eyes for one brief second, his hand large and steady at the back of Vaegon’s head. When he opened them again, he looked at you over your son’s shoulder.
And in that look was something almost unbearable.
Not indignation.
Not merely anger at the rumor.
Shame.
Because he understood, all at once, that the rumor had only been believable because of the kind of marriage you had all been visibly living inside.
That people could look at your sadness and his reserve and think: of course. Of course that powerful man is making his wife lonely. Of course there must be someone else. Of course she is the beautiful, neglected wife in the tower.
Not because it was true.
Because it looked true.
That night, after Vaegon had fallen asleep curled against you while you stroked his hair until his breathing turned soft and even, you stood alone by the apartment windows and looked out over the city.
Valarr came in behind you.
For once, he did not begin with composure.
“I have never touched another woman,” he said.
You shut your eyes.
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
He sounded tired. More than tired. Stripped back.
You turned to face him. He was still in his office clothes, tie loosened, the top button undone, as though he had come apart by increments and not nearly enough. “Do you?”
His face was pale in the low light, all sharp planes and restraint stretched too thin. “Yes.”
“Because if our son can sit in a principal’s office listening to another child tell him his father is cheating on his mother, and it sounds believable enough to hurt him, then something is very wrong.”
Valarr flinched.
Small. Barely visible.
But you saw it.
“I know,” he said again.
Anger rose then, not hot and explosive, but exhausted and aching. “You know what the worst part is? It isn’t even that I believed it. I didn’t. Not really. It’s that I understood why someone else would.”
He said nothing.
So you kept going, because years of sorrow had finally found a crack to rush through.
“You make me feel loved in fragments,” you whispered. “In competence. In arrangements. In things arriving on time. In your hand at my back before cameras. In every careful thing except the one thing I have been starving for.”
His breathing changed.
You stepped closer. “I know you are not faithless. I know you are not careless. That almost makes it worse. Because it means all this distance has happened while you were standing right there, loving me in your own way and watching me hurt, and still saying nothing.”
He looked at you as though each word had landed exactly where it was meant to.
“I was trying not to burden you with myself,” he said at last.
You stared at him. “What?”
His laugh was brief and joyless. “There it is. That look.”
“Valarr, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does to me.”
His voice had gone quieter now, roughened at the edges. “My father loves me. I know that he does.” He looked away for a moment, jaw tight, as though even saying that plainly cost him something. “He has never been careless with me. Never indifferent. He gave me everything — education, protection, discipline, a future already built strong enough to step into. He is proud of me. Proud in the way men like him know how to be.”
He paused, then looked back at you.
“But in this family, love rarely arrives by itself.”
You said nothing.
“It comes bound up with expectation. With pressure. With shaping you into what the family requires. With legacy, responsibility, performance. My father did not fail to love me.” His mouth tightened slightly. “He loved me with all the weight of what I was meant to become.”
Your throat tightened.
Valarr’s voice lowered further. “So I learned what it was to provide, to protect, to manage risk, to keep what mattered safe. I learned how to carry people. How to anticipate needs before they became problems. How to make myself useful, reliable, necessary.”
He exhaled once, quietly.
“But wanting someone gently,” he said, and there was something almost pained in the softness of it, “wanting someone in a way that was not also about duty or structure or obligation… that was never something I was taught how to do.”
Your throat tightened.
He looked away for a moment, then back. And there, finally, was the thing itself — not hidden well enough anymore.
“I loved you too early,” he said.
The words landed like a blow.
You did not move.
Valarr’s eyes held yours with painful steadiness. “Before I knew what to do with it. Before I knew how to speak it without ruining it. Before I knew how not to turn it into another obligation laid at your feet.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
He continued, more softly now. “So I tried to make your life easier. More comfortable. More secure. I tried to remove burdens before they touched you. I tried to be careful.” His mouth tightened. “And all the while I was apparently making you feel abandoned in your own marriage.”
You could hardly breathe.
That was the shape of it, then.
Not absence. Not rejection.
A love so repressed and badly expressed it had curdled into loneliness.
You whispered, “Valarr…”
He took one step closer, then stopped, as though even now some part of him needed permission to cross the rest.
“When Vaegon said that boy thought I didn’t love you,” he said, “I realized I have built a life with you that makes that lie look plausible. I would rather be accused of almost anything else.”
You pressed your fingers to your mouth.
His voice lowered further. “I have never loved anyone but you.”
It was not dramatic. That made it worse.
No flourish. No grand seduction. Just the plain truth, laid down at your feet years too late.
You felt tears prick at once.
“You make it feel unrequited,” you said shakily.
Something in his face broke then — not in spectacle, but in pain.
“I know.”
And the fact that he said it like confession, not defense, nearly undid you.
“I loved you,” you whispered, “like a fool. For years. In scraps. In looks. In the way you held Vaegon. In the way you came to me at night and then shut the door by morning. I kept thinking perhaps I had imagined it. Perhaps I was just… making a feast of crumbs.”
His eyes closed for one brief moment, and when they opened again, they were darker than before.
“No,” he said. “Never crumbs. I loved you in full. I simply handed it to you in a language no one should be asked to survive on.”
You cried then.
Not neatly. Not prettily. Years of being lonely beside the man you loved had made the tears too old for elegance.
Valarr crossed the rest of the distance at once and held you.
This time there was nothing measured in it. Nothing polite. He held you like a man whose restraint had finally become more unbearable than the risk of being known. One hand spread across your back, the other cradling the base of your skull, keeping you close with an urgency he no longer tried to hide. When he kissed your temple it was trembling and reverent and wrecked all at once, and when he drew you tighter it felt less like possession than desperation — as if he had spent years holding himself apart and could not bear another inch of it now.
You pressed your face into his chest and wept.
“I am sorry,” he said into your hair, and the rawness in his voice shocked you. “I am so sorry. You were never unloved. Only badly loved by a man too afraid of the size of it.”
You clutched his shirt harder.
He went on, quieter now, as though saying truths pulled from somewhere he had buried them deep. “Do you think I don’t see the way you love Vaegon? The way you soften for him? The way he runs to you first because you are warmth itself?” His breath shook once. “I have watched you for years and loved you for making this house human. For giving our son gentleness. For being everything I never knew how to ask for.”
You lifted your face enough to look at him.
“You really are terrible at showing it.”
To your surprise, a broken sort of smile touched his mouth. “Yes.”
You let out a watery laugh.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “But I will learn.”
That mattered.
Not perfection. Not some instant transformation into a different man. Just that. That he knew now. That he meant to try.
In the morning, Vaegon came to breakfast quieter than usual, watching both of you with careful little eyes, as though he did not trust peace unless he could see it held together in front of him.
You opened your arms at once, and he climbed into your lap as naturally as breathing. You kissed his cheek, smoothed his hair back from his forehead, and held him close while he leaned into you with the solemn, sleepy trust only children possessed.
Valarr stood at the far side of the kitchen for a moment, coffee untouched beside him, watching.
He had already dressed for the office. Dark suit. Crisp shirt. Silver watch at his wrist. Every line of him composed as ever — except for his eyes, which were fixed not on the table, not on the morning brief glowing on his phone, but on you and Vaegon.
Then, without a word, he crossed the room.
Vaegon looked up first.
Valarr crouched beside your chair, bringing himself level with your son. “Vaegon.”
Your son blinked. “Yes, Papa?”
“What that boy said yesterday was a lie.”
Vaegon studied his father’s face with painful seriousness, still small enough to hope adults could mend the world simply by saying the correct thing in the correct tone.
Valarr did not look away.
“I have never betrayed your mother,” he said. “I never will. There has never been anyone else. There will never be anyone else.”
Vaegon searched him for a long moment. “Promise?”
Valarr answered at once. “On everything I am.”
Vaegon seemed to accept that, but only partly. His little hand remained curled in the fabric of your sleeve.
And Valarr, who had once built whole walls out of silence, looked at him and did something he should perhaps have done years ago.
He kept speaking.
“I have made mistakes,” he said quietly. “Real ones. I have made your mother feel lonely when she should never have felt lonely a day in her life. I have loved her badly when I should have loved her openly. That is my fault. Not hers.”
You went completely still.
Vaegon frowned in the earnest way he did when trying to understand grown-up sorrow. “Did you forget to say nice things again?”
A sound escaped you — half laugh, half something much more fragile.
Valarr’s mouth changed, the ghost of pain moving through it. “Yes,” he said. “Among other things.”
Vaegon looked between you both, as if judging whether this answer was satisfactory, then turned in your lap and cupped your face in his little hands.
“Mama,” he said with deep concern, “Papa is silly.”
This time your laugh broke properly, wet at the edges.
“Yes,” you whispered. “He is.”
Valarr exhaled, but he did not retreat behind that small moment of ease. He rose, turned to you, and for one suspended second it felt as though the whole room had narrowed to the space between his body and yours.
Then, in full view of the morning light and your son and the silent staff moving somewhere far beyond the kitchen doors, he reached for you.
Not the polished hand at the small of your back that cameras knew. Not the discreet touch meant to guide, to manage, to maintain appearances.
This was different.
His fingers slid around yours and held.
Firmly. Deliberately. No audience in mind but the two people who mattered.
You looked up at him.
Valarr’s expression was unreadable to anyone who did not know him. But you knew him now. Or perhaps, at last, he was letting himself be known.
“I meant what I said last night,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
Vaegon had gone very still between you both, sensing something important and sacred in the air even if he could not name it.
Valarr did not look away from you. “I have spent years placing you above everything in my life,” he said, his voice low and even and far too honest to bear. “Above the company. Above the board. Above my father’s expectations. Above my own comfort. Above my own pride. But I did it like a coward.” His grip on your hand tightened. “I made you carry the consequences of my silence and called it care.”
You could not speak.
He took one step closer.
“I will not do that to you again.”
Something in your face must have changed, because his own softened in answer — not into ease, exactly, but into a kind of grief-struck tenderness so naked it almost hurt to look at.
“You are my wife,” he said. “You are the mother of my son. You are the best thing in my life, and the only person I have ever loved in a way that frightened me.” His jaw tightened once before he went on. “I am done behaving as though that love is something shameful, or dangerous, or better left unsaid.”
The room felt unbearably quiet.
Vaegon whispered, almost reverently, “Oh.”
Your eyes burned.
Valarr looked at you as though there were no one else in the world.
“I know apologies are cheap if the life beneath them does not change,” he said. “So watch me change it.”
And because he was still Valarr — still a man who did not mistake emotion for disorder, still a man built of discipline, timing, and the cold steadiness that had made half the board fear him and the other half depend on him — he did not theatrically cast aside the day.
He reached for his phone instead.
You watched him, not yet understanding.
Valarr opened his calendar, scanned the morning, and sent off three messages with the kind of terrifying efficiency that made entire departments move faster. One to his chief of staff. One to legal. One directly to the board secretary.
He lifted the phone to his ear when it rang back almost immediately.
“Push the investor call to eleven-thirty,” he said precisely. “Move the strategy review to this afternoon. I’ll join the Dorne numbers meeting remotely from the car if necessary. Anything requiring signature authority comes to me directly before noon.”
A pause.
“No,” he said, and something in his tone made it clear the discussion was already over. “Nothing is being neglected. It is being reordered.”
Another pause.
Then, more coolly, “If the board has a concern, they may raise it with me when I arrive.”
He ended the call.
For a moment the kitchen remained very still.
You stared at him. “You didn’t cancel anything.”
“No.”
It was not defensive. Merely true.
Valarr slipped the phone onto the table and looked at you with a steadiness that felt more intimate than if he had touched you. “I am not going to insult you by pretending my responsibilities do not exist. They do. They always will.”
Your throat tightened.
“But neither will I keep using them,” he said, “as an excuse for letting you live on whatever remains of me when the day is done.”
That landed harder than if he had shouted.
He took one step closer.
“For years I told myself I was doing right by you because everything material was handled. The home. The schedule. The staff. The schools. The security. The comfort. I made sure you never had to ask for anything.” His jaw tightened. “And all the while I was behaving as though love could be delegated into proof.”
Your breath caught.
“I can do my job,” he said. “I can run a company. I can manage a board that would happily eat weaker men alive. And I can still come home before my son is asleep. I can still stand beside my wife at dinner without making her feel alone. I can still answer a message from you before midnight like you are not an interruption to the machinery of my life.” His gaze did not leave yours. “I should have been doing all of that already.”
Something in your face must have changed, because his expression softened, not into weakness, but into something far more dangerous in a man like him: honesty.
“You were never asking me to be less capable,” he said quietly. “You were asking me to be present.”
“Yes,” you whispered.
He nodded once, like a man receiving a truth he should have understood years ago. “Then that is what will change.”
Vaegon, who had been listening with solemn concentration from your lap, blinked up at his father. “Are you still going to work?”
Valarr looked at him.
“Yes,” he said.
Vaegon frowned. “Then how are you fixing it?”
And there it was — the brutal simplicity only children possessed.
Valarr crouched in front of him. “By not making your mother compete with work for whatever is left of me,” he said. “By acting like she matters before the day is over, not after.”
Vaegon seemed to think this through with great seriousness.
“Oh,” he said.
Then, after a moment: “So… pancakes first?”
To your surprise, Valarr’s mouth shifted — not quite a smile, but something warmer and more human than usual.
“Yes,” he said. “Pancakes first.”
Vaegon brightened instantly.
Valarr rose and turned back to you. “I have forty minutes before I need to leave for the office.”
You looked at him, uncertain.
He stepped closer.
“In forty minutes,” he said, “I can have breakfast with my family. I can take my son downstairs myself. I can sit beside my wife and speak to her like she is not some beautiful fixture waiting for me to remember she has a heart.” His voice lowered. “And when I leave, you will know I am coming back to you, not merely to this apartment.”
Your eyes burned.
That seemed to undo something in him.
His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone, the gesture so careful it hurt more than roughness ever could have.
“I am not choosing the board over you,” he said. “I am choosing to stop behaving as though loving you properly would cost me my competence.”
You let out a shaky breath.
“And it won’t,” he said. “It will cost me pride. Habit. Distance. Silence.” A pause. “Good.”
That was better. Much better.
Because it still sounded like him.
Not a man becoming lesser for love.
A man finally understanding that love asked him to be braver, not smaller.
Something unsteady and damp and disbelieving moved through your face then, enough that his mouth softened at the edges.
“How noble,” you said, your voice fragile with the remains of tears. “A great sacrifice. Valarr Targaryen, at last laid low by the terrible burden of adoring his wife properly.”
A quiet, surprised huff of laughter left him.
It changed him more than the confession had, in some ways. Took ten years off his face. Made him look, for one suspended second, not like the heir to an empire or the future terror of a boardroom, but simply like your husband — the man beneath all that ironed self-command.
“Yes,” he murmured gravely, playing along with just enough solemnity to make it worse. “A tragic fate. Behold me. A man brought to ruin. Entirely beholden to his wife.”
You gave a wet laugh and slapped him lightly on the chest.
“Oh, shut up.”
His hand slipped from your cheek to your waist at once, and before you could say anything else he pulled you into him properly, not hard enough to startle, just firmly enough that the movement stole the rest of your breath. He dipped his head, smiling now against your skin in that rare, dangerous way of his, and nosed softly at your cheek, once, then again, until another unwilling laugh escaped you.
“There,” he murmured near your face. “That’s better.”
“Valarr—”
But you were laughing now, and he seemed almost helpless before the sound of it.
He kissed the corner of your mouth first, then your cheek, then lingered there as if reacquainting himself with the shape of your happiness. One of his hands stayed spread warm at your waist while the other moved behind you, drawing you closer still, until there was no space left for pride or distance or any of the old, careful silences.
When he bent his head to your neck, it was not theatrical, not some polished seduction. It was quiet and terribly fond, his mouth brushing the place just beneath your ear in a kiss so soft it made you shiver. Then another at the curve of your jaw. Then one more against your cheek when you turned back toward him with that half-breathless, half-embarrassed look he knew so well.
“You are laughing at me,” he said.
“You are being ridiculous.”
“I am being sincere.”
“You are being ridiculous and sincere.”
At that, his mouth curved properly.
A real smile this time. Small, but devastating.
When he bent to kiss you, it was still intimate, still aching, but now it carried that same steadiness too. One hand warm at your jaw, the other braced lightly at your waist, his mouth lingering as though he was learning the shape of honesty in real time. Not frantic. Not careless. Just devastatingly deliberate.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
“I will still go to work,” he murmured.
“I know.”
“But I will not leave you starving in the doorway of this marriage and call that sacrifice again.”
best friend ellie teaching reader how to swim and having a gay panic at how much physically contact and how little clothing is involved in the activity
in too deep 𓂃 𓈒𓏸
warnings : ellie williams x afab!reader. canon universe. oblivious best friends with feelings. swearing. lighthearted. no major warnings! i haven't done requests in so long, i feel kinda nervous eek.
w.c : 3.9k.
𓂃 𓈒𓏸
Summer in Jackson meant days spent by the lake, something that Ellie had participated in a multitude of times throughout her years so far spent in the safe community.
Everyone indulged–some more than others. Lake days tended to be slightly more popular amongst the younger crowd in Jackson, specifically those in their late teens and twenties. When Ellie had been just a few years younger–newly swimming–Cat had helped Ellie out of her shell, allowing her to spread her wings and grasp the idea that yes, Ellie could have fun moments, too.
Ellie had spent her summer of seventeen being kissed by Cat under the gazes of all of their friends, the grassy ground and lapping water serving as an oasis. Not entirely private, but comfortable.
Though things changed as time went on, days at the lake did not. Ellie was no longer being kissed, for Cat was no longer her girlfriend. Amicable still, and respected in quiet that didn’t need to be disturbed–the terms were just fine. Ellie and Cat didn’t really hang out much anymore, or talk frequently… but company would be shared by the water. A given, really, no matter the day or year.
These days, Dina and Jesse typically planned the outings, to which Ellie would be roused from her space to join them. Wyoming summers were pleasant, too, for the most part. The nights still got cold, however–so asses would be put into gear before sundown to make it home in time. As long as they were careful, Maria didn’t mind it. Let the younger ones have their fun, reminiscent of a world with carefree laughter and summers that might’ve been spent on beaches. As long as safety was a priority and job shifts were not flaked on–let there be lake!
This summer in particular wasn’t much different from the others that had happened so far. Ellie was a bit older, and more sure of her swimming skills than she had been at sixteen… but really, not much had changed. Not even the company.
Except for you, which had been the biggest change so far.
You had come to Jackson with a winter storm, though you were truly anything but.
In the midst of the harsh weather, just several months ago, you and your group had essentially been rescued by some of Jackson’s patrol people. The snow storm that day had been unrelenting, your fingers frozen so stiffly that you had genuinely feared potentially losing feeling in them forever.
Even with chattering teeth, and lips that had started to turn purple, you attempted to greet the people of Jackson with a smile. Your gratefulness went a long way, and if simple manners were all that you could offer in return at the time, then so be it.
Getting comfortable can be hard. Trusting safety can be difficult. Despite those things, and the other adjustments that come with joining a new community and meeting new people, you had found your place within Jackson rather quickly.
Found genuine friends, even.
For that, Ellie was grateful. A little disbelieving, too, that some girl–you–had suddenly shown up and liked to look at comics with her. Didn’t mind listening to the same albums on repeat, either. Your falling into friendship with Ellie had been like the warmth of the sun thawing frosted dew on the grass.
You fit into the small friend group like a piece that they didn’t realize was missing until your presence just worked. Plus, Ellie loved not having to be a third wheel anymore, despite how welcoming Dina and Jesse had always been with her. Ellie liked a lot of things about you being around, honestly. She wasn’t completely verbal about it, but it was shown in other ways. There was a photo of you–smiling and leaning against Shimmer’s stall–that was tacked to the board above Ellie’s bed. You had joined the visual space of her loved ones after a few months of friendship.
And now, as it was your first summer spent in Jackson, you were to have your first lake day with Ellie, Jesse, and Dina.
The four of you were lucky to sneak away alone, without any additional people tagging along or also heading there for their own plans that afternoon. The extra company wasn’t necessarily always minded, but it was nice to have some privacy, sometimes. Guards could be lowered, and all that. Jokes unrestricted. Inhibitions lowered.
The afternoon had been a good one so far.
The sun was bright, golden streaks of light reflecting off of the water. Dina had stripped down to her underwear and bra, and was floating peacefully on her back, eyes shut. Jesse idled nearby her, tracing his fingers through ripples on the water’s surface.
You had stripped down, too. Underwear and a tanktop were what had covered your body, though your flimsy attempt at some sort of modesty had been abandoned as you pulled off your top, opting to remain in your bra instead. The feeling of the wet material of the tanktop clinging to your skin had been driving you crazy. Sufficient apparel for swimming would’ve been brought, had any of you known that actually getting in the lake would’ve been feasible on this day. You had figured that the water would still be too cold for a proper submerging, and that the afternoon would’ve been spent lounging in the grass and dipping only your feet in.
The water was cold, but the sun was warm enough to make you all reconsider. You had hesitated, still. Dina had been the first to suggest it, and then to act on it. Fuck it, she had said with a grin. And then Jesse followed her into the water.
The lake was most shallow closest to the grassy edge, though you knew that it dropped off to be deeper near where Jesse and Dina were swimming.
You stayed in the shallow, eyes shut and face tilted toward the sun. Really, you were hardly in the water at all. You sat with your legs stretched out in front of you, leaning back on your elbows. The water lapped over your bare thighs, the tranquil sound mingling with the faint scratching of Ellie’s pencil against pages–taking place just behind you.
Ellie was on the grass–her choppy, auburn strands only half dried. She was bent over her journal, sketching trees that were in her line of sight. She had been in the water earlier, having had a splash fight with Jesse while very deliberately preventing her gaze from flickering toward your form whatsoever. Now, with you just a few feet in front of her, it was proving to be a little more difficult.
Well.
It really wasn’t a big deal, Ellie silently told herself. Over and over.
She kept her eyes fixated upon her sketched tree, and only her sketched tree. It wasn’t a big deal. Dina was half-naked, too. But… Dina was Dina. And you were… you.
“Are you seriously not even going to get in?”
You forced your eyes open, head falling slightly forward so that your eyes could land upon the source of the sudden voice–Dina. She was no longer floating on her back but was instead upright, the water just below her shoulders.
“I am in,” you called to her, to which Dina rolled her eyes and threw her head back.
Her hair had been thrown up into a bun, some dark strands slipping free and ending up wet and plastered to her cheeks. “All the way in,” Dina replied, shooting you a pointed look. “You’re practically on all… grass and dirt. I thought you were excited to come.”
You heard Ellie huff behind you. Your eyebrows pulled together, a slight crease appearing between them as you glanced down at your bare legs. Sure, you weren’t in the water much… but you were still enjoying it.
“I was, I am,” you said. “I’m good like this, really.” Your sentence had started loud to bridge the distance between yourself and Dina, but had softened as Jesse started swimming a bit toward the shallow end, just so that you didn’t have to raise your voice.
“Are you sure you’re good?” he questioned, water droplets flying from his hair as he gave a quick shake of his head. “We can head back, you know. If you aren’t–”
“I’m fine.” You offered a smile–a genuine one. “It’s way too cold to go that deep, you guys are crazy. I’m perfectly fine to stay right here,” you continued, shifting your feet a bit to gently splash them against the shallow water.
“What about you, huh?” Jesse said, directing his words toward Ellie now. “Sulking because you can’t handle a splash?”
“Fuck off.”
A soft snort of amusement escaped you at Ellie’s dry response. You looked over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of her, seeing that she hadn’t bothered to look up from her sketching while quipping back to Jesse. Her pencil was held by her right hand, and she scratched at her chin with her left one–eyebrows furrowed.
Your lips curved on instinct at the sight of her–a soft, fond sort of look. Ellie caught your smile. Returned it.
Ellie’s cheeks were tinted a faint pink, a result of the time spent out in the sun. Something about the sight caused a flutter within your stomach, made your heels dig farther into the ground beneath you. The tops of Ellie’s shoulders had gone pink too, though they were now hidden from you. You had noticed it earlier though, after she had gotten out of the water and before she had tugged her t-shirt back on.
“Whatcha drawing?” you asked, craning your neck slightly to still peer at Ellie from over your shoulder.
Jesse gave the smallest splash in your direction–to which you didn’t even flinch–before wading through the water to move back toward Dina.
It was a detail that escaped yourself and Ellie, but everyone else was privy to it… the fact that it was honestly hopeless to try to engage in a conversation with either one of you once the two of you–yourself and Ellie–began speaking to each other. The world seemed to narrow down within an instant, causing scoffs and knowing eyerolls that you both were oblivious to.
“Mmm, noneya,” Ellie mumbled, giving you a brief side glance before looking back down at her journal.
“Whatcha drawing?” you questioned again.
“The trees. You really aren’t gonna swim?”
You managed a shrug, relieving your neck of the strain as you turned to look forward once more, watching as Dina dipped her hair under the water.
“You said it was freezing,” you replied, pulling up your knees a little and giving them a sway. “Plus, I’m good right here.”
Ellie swallowed, her green eyes flickering to the back of your head. She tucked her pencil within the pages of her journal and slowly shut it, recognizing something within you that she had previously been able to identify within herself.
Within a matter of seconds, Ellie had moved to plop down on the grass next to you. She brought her knees up, resting her elbows upon the tops of them as she peered into the lake. “What’s up for real?” she muttered, hesitating just briefly before deciding against bumping her arm against your own. Normally she would, maybe. But you also didn’t normally have this much skin on display.
“What’s up with you?” you retorted softly. You bumped your arm against Ellie’s as the words left your lips. Ellie nearly shivered. “You’re being quiet,” you continued, gaze flickering over Ellie’s side profile. “All… contemplative like.”
“Contemplative,” Ellie snorted, giving a small shake of her head. “You know this doesn’t count as a real swim? I learned that the hard way,” she said, and then mustered up the courage to give your arm a gentle nudge in return.
You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out instead was a yelp of protest as yourself and Ellie were suddenly splashed by Dina. She swam closer with a grin, sending another splash in your direction for good measure.
“Don’t be boring. Come swim,” Dina taunted playfully, steadily meeting your gaze as she raised her eyebrows at you.
Huffing, you straightened out one leg, leaving the one closest to Ellie still pulled halfway up toward your chest. “I can’t.”
“You can. The water isn’t that bad. Don’t be a chicken. We’ve waited for this–”
“No, I can’t swim,” you relented, dropping your other leg to sit up straight.
“Wait, really?” Ellie’s eyebrows drew together, her gaze flickering over your face.
“I just never– There was never really a chance– I just haven’t been able to learn. There wasn’t–”
“It’s no big deal,” Jesse interrupted, using a large rock near the surface to pull himself out of the water. “Ellie can teach you.”
As soon as Jesse’s words registered in Ellie’s ears, her eyes widened. She was quick to shoot him a look of protest–a silent shut the fuck up.
“Really?” you asked, your voice pitched with enthusiasm as you focused your attention entirely on Ellie.
“No,” Ellie scrambled to reply, her limbs going slightly rigid.
“Sure you can,” Jesse said casually, sprawling his body on the rock to relax as he dried off.
“No, I actually can’t.” Ellie gritted her teeth, but you were already standing and Dina was beckoning you into the water.
Ellie’s gaze flickered to your back, to which she immediately regretted. She averted her gaze. Quickly. Not a big deal. Ellie just… liked being around you. Liked when she made you laugh, which was a lot, much to Ellie’s own disbelief. Liked the sound of your voice, even on days where everything felt annoying. And she had just… like, never seen that much of your skin before. It was whatever.
“Come on. Like, actually, please? It’s stupid. I should learn. I want to learn, but–”
No, sorry, Ellie wanted to say. Absolutely not, actually.
You stood and stared at Ellie, the water hitting just below your knees. Ellie tried to swallow, but her mouth was too goddamn fucking dry. “Dina can teach you,” Ellie croaked.
“No, I think you should do it, El,” Dina said cooly, maneuvering herself to the same rock that Jesse was lounging on.
“You are such a dick,” Ellie hissed under her breath, giving Dina a sharp glare before she forced herself to face you. “Uh. Fuck. Okay. Okay, sure,” Ellie mumbled, pulling herself up to her feet. She kept her shirt and shorts on before cautiously treading into the water, still keeping a good foot of space between your bodies.
You took a few steps backward, allowing yourself into slightly deeper waters with Ellie now approaching. “When did you learn? To swim, I mean.”
Ellie shrugged, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. She slowly followed your steps, her gaze only flickering between your face or the lake. “Few years ago. Joel taught me.”
You stopped moving through the water once the level hit your chest, your gaze stuck on Ellie’s face as you continued to face her. “How’d he teach you?”
Ellie’s lips faintly twitched, her eyebrows raising as she looked down at the water, taking a step closer to you. “Pushed me in. No warning, or anything. Just–”
She raised a hand to make a pushing motion, causing you to flinch and jerk away from her.
“Do not–!”
“Whoa, whoa. Jesus, I’m not gonna do that to you,” Ellie said, a soft scoff of amusement falling from her lips. Her hands awkwardly fell to her sides, though their submerging in the water did little to prevent the nervous twitch of her fingers.
You narrowed your eyes at her, though your expression of amusement was evident–and enough to cause Ellie to relax slightly.
“I trust you,” you said, almost like a warning. Ellie held her hands up in a surrender as her response.
“Should go just a little deeper,” Ellie muttered, rolling her shoulders back. “Like, just a little.”
You moved backward a bit more, until the water lapped just below your shoulders. “Good?”
Ellie hummed, and gave a jerky nod in response. “You don’t seem… scared.”
“I’m not,” you replied, placing your palms over the lake’s surface, feeling the gentle ripple beneath your skin. “I’m not scared of the water, I’m just not confident about my skill because I’ve never really practiced it. But I know you have to like… trust your body, trust the water, feel the movement…”
Ellie nodded, her gaze flickering over your face as you spoke. “Yeah.” She cleared her throat softly. “Yeah, basically. It’s really just… keeping yourself up? It’s hard when there’s, like, a lot of waves. But this is chill. It’s basically like glass,” she muttered, skimming her fingers over the water.
“Keeping myself up,” you muttered, straightening your posture as you were aware of how much of your body was submerged. “Staying afloat. I can do that. Easy. I just, like, have this weird thing about getting pulled under, and–”
“You won’t,” Ellie interrupted, keeping a tiny space still between your bodies. “This kind of water won’t just randomly suck you under. Plus, it’s like, physics. And–”
“And you’re here, so I’m good,” you finished, your tone soft and quiet as you tilted your head and smiled at her.
Ellie inhaled. Swallowed. “Yeah.”
Your heart did a stupid flutter, so you told yourself that it was nerves. “Let me just float first. Like, feel it. If that’s–”
“Yeah, you can– We can do that.”
“No flailing yet.”
“No flailing yet,” Ellie agreed, the corners of her lips tugging upwards. “If you move onto your back–”
“Feels like setting myself up for failure. Or, flailure.”
Ellie suppressed a snort, her eyes crinkling in amusement as she shot you a glance. “Ha-ha. If you wanna switch to Joel’s method…” she mused dryly.
“No, I’m good. Just… like, don’t let me go, okay? Let me get comfortable with it before anything else,” you said.
You puffed your cheeks momentarily as you prepared yourself, before maneuvering your form and adjusting onto your back. The slight dip feeling caused your breath to hitch, but you forced yourself to relax. You shut your eyes, the brightness of the sun just a touch overbearing like this.
In all honesty, you looked quite natural. Ellie’s head tilted idly to the side as she watched you. She bit the inside of her cheek as her gaze flickered over your form, just once.
“I feel like I’m–” you started to speak, a hint of resigned concern lacing your tone.
“No, you’re fine. It feels weird, but you’re fine. You can kinda… tread water with your hands, I guess. Or do slow circles with your arms.”
“I know. Just feels awkward,” you murmured.
“Great teaching, man,” Jesse called out from where he was apparently spectating on the rock. “Very interesting method of just standing and watching.”
Jesse’s words made you jolt, which ended in a small flail of your arms. “Ellie–” you huffed, realizing that she hadn’t truly made a move to assist.
“I gotchu,” Ellie murmured, ignoring the way in which her cheeks flamed due to Jesse’s bullshit. Her hands hovered just briefly–uncertain–before she tentatively moved them to your back, as if to hold you up.
At the steady support from Ellie’s palms, you relaxed once more against the gentle lapping of the water. Ellie, however, felt impossibly tense. It was a simple touch, really–her palms against the skin of your back. But it was also… a lot. Your body–yours–wet from the lake, relaxed against her touch, made Ellie’s fingers want to curl despite how rigid she was currently keeping herself.
Ellie did not look at Jesse or Dina. She did not look at your half-naked form, not really, and instead focused on the spot of water where her arms had dipped to support you. She was not thinking about how this was the most she’s ever seen of you, or that she’s never really felt you like this, a simple hand on the bare of your back should not be enough to turn Ellie’s brain to static–and yet.
You hummed, content with the simple floating under Ellie’s support.
“Still good?” Ellie questioned under her breath, her voice bordering on being slightly hoarse.
“Yeah, still good,” you murmured.
“This isn’t swimming, you know. Just floating,” Ellie muttered.
“I’ll get to it.”
You shifted just a little, resulting in one of Ellie’s hands to instinctively skim up your back, her finger accidentally brushing the band of your bra.
You shivered. Just barely. Ellie’s eyes–much too alert–caught sight of the goosebumps as soon as she felt them, a body’s reaction that can’t be suppressed. Ellie pays too much attention, and it unfortunately did very little to help her already struggling case.
“You cold?” Ellie rasped, her fingers twitching against your back.
“Nope,” you replied softly.
The ripples of the lake shifted you, your form pulling toward Ellie and then away from her–a gentle back and forth–as her hands remained your beam of support–just in case. Ellie’s fingertips skimmed, adjusting their positioning to what felt natural–call it instinct or the comfortability of helping a best friend–one arm slipped to rest under your knees, the other moving to the backs of your shoulders.
Your breath hitched imperceptibly, more goosebumps, but you were calm under Ellie’s touch. It shouldn’t have made her heart feel weird, but it did. Ellie was helping you, pretty much–of course you would be relaxed. You were floating. It was a nice day. But still.
Ellie tried to be careful about these things. Careful about not overstepping, careful about not reading into things. You could be more nervous about the water than you had let on, and maybe that’s why you had goosebumps. You could genuinely be cold. Or, even if it was due to Ellie’s touch, it didn’t necessarily have to mean anything.
Ellie’s breathing started to match your own, because yeah, yours had changed a little, and she had noticed. Her gaze flickered to the rise and fall of your chest–not to be weird–but to try to gauge how you were feeling. She wanted to make some stupid joke about feeling as though she was doing most of the work, but her mouth felt too dry. And the physical contact felt… nice. Admittedly. Nicer than it should, probably.
Ellie’s fingers flexed against you, the goosebumps still jarring her. It was a mixture of things, really, combined with your skin, soft and slippery and so close–
“Fuck–” Ellie hissed, pulling her arms out from under your form as if she had suddenly been burned.
You yelped at the brashness of it, your body flailing as your support had quite literally been pulled out from under you. Splashes washed over Ellie as you kicked your feet and circled your arms to steady yourself, and Ellie was already a few feet away by the time that you had gotten yourself upright.
“Ellie, what the fuck?” you sputtered, water dripping down your face as you whirled around to her, your face scrunched in confusion and mild annoyance.
Ellie’s chest heaved, her hands hovering awkwardly above the water as though she were afraid to touch anything else. The heat of humiliation washed over her face, and the sound of Dina and Jesse’s loud, echoing laughter from the rock didn’t help either.
“Sorry. I– Fuck, sorry. There was– I didn’t– It’s cold. Are you cold?”
You shook your head, wiping at your wet face with your wet hands, doing little to do away with the water droplets. Heart hammering in your chest, you pushed yourself through the water, moving back toward the shallow end anyway.
Ellie stood frozen as she watched, waiting until you were ahead of her before she forced herself to follow, her pulse feeling uncomfortably quick. “Fucking nice, Ellie,” she grumbled under her breath.
𓂃 𓈒𓏸
& thank you to @letmebeurbaby for helping me proofread <3
She was twenty, serving whiskey at a company dinner. He was forty-three, divorced, guarded, and far too old to be looking at her the way he did. One reckless night was supposed to be the end of it. Instead, it became the beginning of an unusual romance neither of them knew how to explain—and neither of them was willing to walk away from.
warning; age gap. smut.
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Ryomen Sukuna had not planned on falling in love again.
At forty-three, he had become comfortable with that truth.
Comfortable with the quiet house. Comfortable with the long hours spent at his drafting table, the low hum of his computer filling rooms that no one else disturbed. Comfortable with coffee gone cold beside architectural plans and evenings that ended precisely the way he expected them to.
He worked from home most days, designing hospitals, office towers, private residences, and expensive buildings that would belong to people he never intended to meet. He was good enough that clients tolerated his bluntness, wealthy enough that he no longer accepted projects he found boring, and established enough that no one questioned why he declined nearly every invitation that came his way.
Sukuna liked being alone.
Or at least he had convinced himself he did.
He had been married once in his early twenties, back when he still believed love was something two people could build correctly if they followed the proper plans. The marriage ended before he turned thirty. No dramatic betrayal. No overturned furniture or screaming in the street. Just two people slowly realizing that affection could not always survive the weight of everything they wanted the other person to become.
After the divorce, Sukuna stopped trying.
He dated occasionally.
Rarely more than once.
He disliked small talk, hated crowded bars, and had no patience for pretending he was interested in another person’s hobbies simply because their face was attractive. Women called him handsome, difficult, arrogant, emotionally unavailable.
All of those things were true.
He did not care.
Then he met you.
You were twenty.
Too young, though he had not known that immediately.
Beautiful enough that he noticed you before he noticed anything else in the room.
The company dinner had been held inside the ballroom of an expensive hotel, the kind of event Sukuna attended only because his name appeared on several of the projects being celebrated. Long tables were dressed in black linen. Champagne glasses caught the light. Executives laughed too loudly at one another’s jokes while architects pretended not to resent the contractors.
Sukuna had been there for less than twenty minutes when you approached with a tray of whiskey.
Your long brown curls fell in heavy ringlets down your back, half pinned away from your face. The black uniform hugged your soft waist and fuller hips, and the little name tag pinned over your chest sat slightly crooked.
You stopped beside him. “Whiskey?” Sukuna looked at the tray.
Then at you. “What kind?” Your brows lifted slightly. “The kind they gave me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
His mouth twitched.
You noticed.
That had been the beginning.
He took one glass.
Then another when you passed again.
By the third, you stopped beside him and glanced at the mostly untouched drink already in his hand. “You know, you’re supposed to finish the first one.”
“I know.”
“You keep taking them.”
“I know.”
“Why?” His eyes moved over your face. “Maybe I like the service.” You smiled.
Not shyly.
Not nervously.
Slowly.
Like you knew exactly what he meant and had decided to reward him for saying it.
“You tip well?”
“I don’t reward mediocrity.” Your smile widened. “Then I suppose I’ll have to impress you.” You walked away before he could answer.
Sukuna watched you go.
He should have left it there.
He knew that.
You were working. He was old enough to understand when attention could become pressure, and Sukuna had never needed to chase anyone who did not clearly want to be caught.
But you kept returning.
You brought him another whiskey without being asked.
You leaned closer when he spoke, though the music was not loud enough to require it. When he asked how long you had been waitressing, you admitted it was temporary, just something you did for extra money while attending college.
“What are you studying?” he asked. “Literature and communications.”
“You want to be a writer?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I want to work in publishing. Or teach. Or write. I haven’t decided.”
“That’s expensive indecision.” You gave him a flat look. “You’re an architect at a company dinner. I’m sure you had your life perfectly planned at twenty.”
“I did.”
“Of course you did.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I was hoping you had at least one interesting flaw.” He lifted his glass. “I have several.” You glanced at him over your shoulder as someone at another table called for you. “I’ll believe that when I see them.”
By the end of the night, Sukuna had taken enough whiskey from your tray that one of your coworkers noticed.
She whispered something when you returned to the service station.
You glanced at him.
Sukuna looked away before you caught him watching.
He was forty-three then.
You were twenty.
He learned your age near the end of the evening, when the tables had begun to empty and the executives were leaving in expensive cars.
The discovery should have ended everything.
Instead, he found you waiting near the hotel entrance after your shift, curls loosened from their pins, coat folded over one arm. “You need a ride?” he asked.
You looked toward the dark windows beyond the doors.
“My friend was supposed to get me.”
“And?”
“She forgot.” Sukuna took out his keys. “I’ll drive.” You looked at him carefully. “You do this for all the waitresses?”
“No.”
“Just the ones who keep bringing you whiskey?”
“Just the ones who flirt with me all night and then pretend they weren’t.” Your cheeks warmed. “I wasn’t pretending.” That answer followed both of you into the parking garage.
What happened in his car was not romantic.
Not at first.
It was heat and impatience, the tension from the ballroom snapping beneath the dim light of the garage. Your hands tangled in his shirt. His mouth found your neck. You kissed him like you had already decided there would be no morning after, no awkward conversation, no expectation of anything beyond one reckless night.
Afterward, you adjusted your clothes in the passenger seat, avoiding his eyes.
Sukuna watched you smooth your curls.
“You regret it?”
“No.”
“Then stop looking guilty.”
“I don’t look guilty.”
“You look like you’re about to apologize.” You turned toward him. “I mean, isn't this a one-time thing?” He looked at you for a moment.
Then he took your phone from where it sat between the seats.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you my number.”
“You could ask.”
“You would say yes.”
“That’s arrogant.”
“It’s accurate.”
He entered his name and handed the phone back.
You looked at the new contact.
Sukuna.
Nothing else.
No last name.
No explanation.
“Call me,” he said. “For what?” His gaze moved over your mouth. “To do it again.” You laughed softly. “One more night?”
“One more.”
There were many more.
At first, that was what the two of you called them.
One more night.
You met after your classes, after his work, after dinners neither of you attended together. Sometimes he picked you up near campus. Sometimes you arrived at his house by an Uber and left before morning. You told yourself it was casual because the alternative felt absurd.
Sukuna was more than twice your age.
He had a divorce behind him, a successful career, a large house, investments, routines, expensive tastes, and a personality sharpened by decades of knowing exactly what he wanted.
You were twenty, working events on weekends and surviving on instant noodles during finals.
There was no sensible shape for the two of you.
So you kept it shapeless.
Until one night, you stayed.
Not just until morning.
Through it.
You wore one of his shirts because yours had fallen somewhere beneath the bed. You sat curled into the corner of his couch, bare legs tucked beneath you, watching an old movie he claimed was good.
“It’s boring,” you said. “It’s been on for twelve minutes.”
“Nothing has happened.”
“People are talking.”
“That is not a plot.”
Sukuna looked at you.
You looked back.
Then, without thinking, you moved closer and rested your head against his shoulder.
He went still.
You noticed immediately. “Sorry.” You began to lift your head, Sukuna’s arm moved around you. “Stay.” You did.
By the middle of your twentieth year, one more night had turned into whole weekends.
You left clothes at his house.
A toothbrush appeared beside his in the bathroom. Your favorite tea began showing up in his kitchen despite the fact that he called it “perfumed water.” Sukuna started asking about your assignments.
Not politely.
“Did you finish the paper?”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’ve been saying that for three days.”
“I have a process.”
“You procrastinate.”
“That is my process.” He would complain, then sit beside you with his laptop while you wrote. If you got distracted, he tapped the table.
If you became overwhelmed, he ordered food.
If you fell asleep on the couch, he carried you to bed while muttering about how little common sense college students possessed.
You began dating without either of you formally announcing it.
The conversation happened after Sukuna canceled dinner with a woman he had known professionally for years because you had asked if he wanted to watch a movie.
You had not known it was a date.
When you found out, you stared at him from the kitchen doorway.
“You canceled for me?”
“She was irritating.”
“You hadn’t seen her yet.”
“I remembered.”
“Sukuna.”
“What?”
“Are you really not seeing other people?” He looked up from the cabinet where he was searching for popcorn. “No.” Your stomach fluttered. “Since when?”
“Months.” You hesitated. “I haven’t either.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You’re here constantly, and you told me how you felt.” Your eyes narrowed. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you don’t have time for anyone but me.” You crossed your arms. “You’re impossible.” Sukuna set the popcorn on the counter.
Then he looked at you. “Do you want to date me?” The bluntness made you blink. “Are you asking?”
“Yes.”
“Like actually date?”
“What other kind is there?”
“We already sleep together.”
“That isn’t dating.”
“We eat together.”
“That’s dinner.”
“I leave my clothes here.”
“That’s poor organization.” You laughed.
Sukuna stepped closer. “I want you here.” The humor faded from your face.
He touched your waist. “Not just when we’re in bed.” Your chest tightened. “What about the age difference?”
“What about it?”
“People will talk.”
“People talk when they have nothing worth saying.”
“That sounds like you don’t care.”
“I don’t.”
He did, though.
Not then, perhaps.
Not fully.
But he would.
You said yes.
By twenty-one, you lived with him.
The decision happened gradually enough that neither of you could identify the exact day you moved in. Your textbooks took over one shelf in his office. Your clothes filled half of his closet. Your skincare crowded the bathroom counter until Sukuna bought organizers and complained while arranging everything by height.
When your apartment lease ended, you did not renew it.
Sukuna cleared out one of the spare rooms and turned it into a study for you, though most nights you still worked at the dining table because he was nearby.
No one knew you were together.
Not your classmates.
Not his colleagues.
Not beyond a handful of people you trusted.
The secrecy was partly yours.
Partly his.
At twenty-one, you were old enough to make your own decisions, but the world had opinions about women your age and men like Sukuna. Some people looked at you as though you were being manipulated. Others looked at him as though he had chosen you only because younger women were easier to control.
Neither was true.
But truth rarely stopped strangers from enjoying themselves.
Once, at a restaurant, a couple seated behind you whispered loudly enough to be heard. “Unbecoming,” the woman said. “An older man taking out someone that young.” Sukuna’s hand stopped around his glass.
You watched his expression flatten.
Normally, he would have turned around.
Normally, he would have said something sharp enough to ruin their evening.
Instead, he placed the glass down and asked whether you wanted dessert.
You knew then that he cared.
Not about them.
About what their judgment could do to you.
You were building a reputation at school. Applying for internships. Earning recommendations. Sukuna understood that people were crueler to young women than they were to established men. He knew any rumor would cling to you more stubbornly than it would to him.
After that, you ate at home more often.
And you loved it.
Sukuna cooked while you sat on the counter and stole ingredients. You watched films with your legs across his lap. You studied while he drew revisions beside you. You spent long mornings tangled in bed and quiet evenings curled beneath blankets, the rest of the world safely outside the walls.
It did not feel like hiding.
Not most of the time.
It felt like protecting something tender.
Your father changed that.
Sukuna met your parents when you were twenty-one.
Your mother was polite.
Your father was not.
The dinner began badly and deteriorated quickly.
Your father was fifty.
Only five years older than Sukuna.
The realization sat visibly between them from the moment Sukuna introduced himself. Your father stared at him, then at you, then back again. “How old are you?” he asked.
Sukuna answered without embarrassment.
Your father gave a short, humorless laugh. “You’re practically my age.” Sukuna took a sip of water. “You look older.” You closed your eyes.
Your mother coughed into her napkin.
Your father’s face darkened.
The rest of the meal became an interrogation.
How did you meet?
Why was a man in his forties attending a dinner where college students worked?
How long had you been together?
Were you living with him?
Was he paying your bills?
Did you understand how this looked?
You answered calmly until your father accused Sukuna of using money to control you.
Then Sukuna spoke. “She moved in because she wanted to.” Your father leaned across the table. “And you let her.”
“She’s an adult.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“And?” The single word nearly ended the dinner.
Your father turned toward you. “If you continue this, I’m not paying another cent toward that school.” Your mother whispered his name.
He ignored her.
You went quiet.
Sukuna did not. “That’s your choice.” Your eyes snapped toward him. Your father scoffed. “Easy for you to say.” Sukuna’s face became still. “I said it’s your choice.” The two men stared at each other.
You knew then the evening was over.
The drive home was silent.
Rain streaked the windows. Streetlights passed in long gold lines over the windshield. Sukuna drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw set.
You stared out the passenger window.
Your father had already sent a message confirming he had removed his payment information from the university portal.
The semester bill was due in three weeks.
You had some savings.
Not enough.
Your throat felt tight, but you refused to cry in the car.
Sukuna glanced toward you twice.
He said nothing until you reached home.
The moment the front door closed, you took off your shoes and walked toward the bedroom without speaking. Sukuna followed.
You climbed into bed still wearing your clothes and curled onto your side, facing the wall.
The mattress dipped behind you.
Sukuna moved close, slid one hand beneath your cheek, and gently turned your face toward him.
Your eyes were wet.
His expression softened.
“Don’t worry about school.”
You swallowed.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“I already did.”
“What?”
“I’m paying for it.”
Your eyes widened.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Sukuna.”
“No.”
“You can’t pay my tuition.”
“I can.”
“I won’t let you.”
“You don’t control my bank account.”
“That’s so much money.”
“I have more.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It is to me.”
You pushed yourself up slightly.
“Sukuna, I have senior year next year, and then two years for my master’s.”
“I know.”
“That is not a small amount.”
“I know.”
“You already pay for the house, groceries, everything.”
“And?”
You stared at him.
He reached up and brushed one curl away from your face.
“I’ve saved more than enough.”
“For retirement.”
“I’m not retiring tomorrow.”
“For emergencies.”
“This is an emergency.”
“It is not.”
“You were just threatened out of school by someone who was supposed to help you.” Your face crumpled, Sukuna’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I adore you,” he said.
The bluntness of it broke something open.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice softened. “I’m not having children. I don’t want them.” You blinked through tears. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I have money. You have a future.” Your lips parted. “I’d rather put it into your career than watch it sit in an account until I die.”
“That’s morbid.”
“It’s practical.”
“You could change your mind about kids.”
“I won’t.”
“You could regret paying.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “I know myself.” You looked away. He touched your chin and turned you back. “I’m not buying you.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking you to owe me.”
“I know.”
“You finish school. You get your master’s. You do whatever you planned before your father decided money was a leash.” Your tears finally spilled.
Sukuna sighed.
Then he pulled you against him.
You pressed your face into his chest, crying quietly while his hand moved through your curls. No one had ever offered you something so large without using it to demand something in return. Your father had paid for school because he believed paying gave him authority.
Sukuna paid because he wanted your life to remain yours.
That night, gratitude blurred into love so intense it frightened you.
You kissed him first.
Not with urgency.
With tenderness.
You touched his face and told him you loved him even though the two of you rarely said it aloud then. Sukuna looked at you like the words had struck him somewhere unprotected.
Then he kissed you back.
You made love slowly, passionately, with none of the impatience of your first night in his car. Sukuna held you like he understood exactly what you were giving him. Every touch carried care. Every kiss lingered.
He loved how responsive you were.
How your breath caught when he touched you gently.
How your curls spread across his pillows.
How you said his name like it belonged only to you in those moments.
Afterward, he held you against his chest and reminded you twice that tuition would be paid before the deadline.
It was.
Now you were twenty-two.
A senior completing the final year of your bachelor’s degree, though graduation would not truly be the end. Two more years waited afterward for your master’s program, already mapped across notes and application deadlines pinned above your desk.
You had been with Sukuna for two years.
You had lived in his house for one.
The house no longer felt like his.
It was yours too.
Your books filled the shelves. Your shoes sat beside his at the door. Your mugs occupied half the kitchen cabinet, though Sukuna insisted three of them were “structurally useless.” Your shampoo filled the bathroom with the scent of flowers. A framed photograph of the two of you sat discreetly in his office, turned slightly away from the window.
Your private social media account held the only visible pieces of your relationship.
A picture of two coffee cups on his drafting table.
His hand resting over your knee in the passenger seat.
Your curls spread across his chest.
The profile photograph showed the two of you together, though your face was partly hidden against his shoulder and his was turned toward you. Anyone from your family could have scrolled past without realizing it was you.
Sukuna pretended not to care about social media.
Then he asked why one picture of him had fewer likes than another.
“You said likes were meaningless,” you reminded him.
“They are.”
“Then why are you counting?”
“I’m observing.”
“You’re jealous of your own picture.”
“That one was better.”
“You were frowning.”
“I look good when I frown.”
“You always frown.”
“Exactly.”
That evening, you sat at the kitchen island with your laptop open, surrounded by textbooks and highlighted articles. Sukuna worked in the adjoining office, visible through the glass doors he kept open whenever you were home.
You had a presentation due Monday.
He had a hospital design review at eight the next morning.
Neither of you was doing the work you were supposed to be doing.
You kept watching him.
Sukuna sat at his large drafting desk wearing dark trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Reading glasses rested low on his nose, something he hated enough that you had been sworn to secrecy about them.
They made him look devastatingly handsome.
Older.
Sharper.
Distinguished in a way he would have mocked if you said it aloud.
You stared too long.
Without looking up, Sukuna said, “Stop.”
You blinked.
“Stop what?”
“Staring.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“How would you know?”
“I know when you’re looking at me.”
“That sounds narcissistic.”
“It’s experience.”
You smiled and returned to your laptop.
Thirty seconds passed. “Come here,” he said.
You looked up.
Sukuna had removed the glasses. “I’m working.”
“No, you’re reading the same paragraph again.”
“You were watching me?”
“I know when you’re not working.”
“That sounds narcissistic too.”
“Come here.” You closed the laptop halfway. “I have a presentation.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Monday.”
“It’s Friday.”
“I like being prepared.” Sukuna leaned back in his chair.
“You’re lying.”
“I do.”
“You started the slides this morning.”
“I was busy.”
“With what?”
You hesitated.
He lifted one eyebrow.
“Laundry.”
“I did the laundry.”
“Reading.”
“You fell asleep.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“On my chest.” You smiled. “That sounds productive.” Sukuna stared at you.
Then held out one hand.
You knew better than to reward him.
You stood anyway.
The moment you entered the office, Sukuna pulled you between his knees and wrapped both arms around your waist.
You rested your hands on his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be working.”
“So are you.”
“You called me in here.”
“You came.”
“You’re impossible.” His face settled against your stomach.
You looked down at the top of his pink hair.
For someone who had spent two decades alone, Sukuna had become remarkably attached to having you nearby.
He did not admit this.
He demonstrated it constantly.
If you studied in the bedroom, he eventually moved his laptop there. If you sat on the couch, he appeared within ten minutes and stretched out with his head in your lap. If you went to make tea, he followed as though the kitchen had suddenly become architecturally significant.
“You miss me?” you asked. “You’re ten feet away.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
His arms tightened.
“No.”
You smiled.
“Liar.”
Sukuna lifted his head.
His eyes moved over your face.
“Did you eat?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A granola bar.”
“That’s not food.”
“It is literally food.”
“It’s compressed crumbs.”
You laughed.
He stood, still holding your waist, and guided you toward the kitchen.
“My presentation—”
“You’re eating.”
“You have a review tomorrow.”
“I’ll finish.”
“So will I.”
“After dinner.”
You watched him open the refrigerator.
There it was.
The shape of your life together.
Sukuna pretending orders were not affection.
You pretending you did not love being taken care of.
The age difference remained.
Twenty-three years could not be erased by affection. It existed in the music you did not recognize from his childhood, the technology he complained had changed unnecessarily, the gray beginning to thread subtly near his temples.
It existed in the way strangers sometimes looked at you.
The way your father spoke his name with disgust.
The way Sukuna checked your academic calendar more carefully than you did because he refused to let anyone claim your relationship had distracted you from school.
But it also existed in the patience he had learned before meeting you.
In the stability he could offer without using it to trap you.
In the quiet certainty with which he loved you.
You crossed the kitchen and wrapped your arms around him from behind.
Sukuna paused with one hand on the refrigerator door.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you attached to me?”
“You attach yourself to me all the time.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m older.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is authority.”
You laughed against his back.
Sukuna turned in your arms.
His hands settled at your waist.
“You’re in a mood.”
“I love you.”
The teasing left his face.
It always did when you said it unexpectedly.
His eyes softened.
“Yeah?”
You nodded.
“Even with the glasses.”
His expression darkened.
“I knew this was a mistake.”
You smiled brightly.
“You look very handsome in them.”
“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”
“Your secret is safe.”
He leaned down and kissed you.
Slowly.
Warmly.
His thumb brushed the curve of your waist beneath your shirt.
For a moment, deadlines and family and gossip disappeared.
There was only his mouth against yours.
The house around you.
The future waiting beyond Monday’s presentation.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You’re finishing school,” he said.
You smiled faintly.
“I know.”
“All of it.”
“I know.”
“No matter what your father says.” Your expression softened. “I know.” Sukuna kissed your forehead.
Then he turned back toward the refrigerator. “Now eat.” You sighed dramatically. “Romance is dead.”
“It’s in the pan.” You laughed and leaned against the counter while he began cooking. Two years earlier, you had thought he would become one more night you remembered too clearly.
Instead, he became breakfast.
Tuition receipts.
Movies on the couch.
His reading glasses left beside your textbooks.
A quiet house slowly filling with two lives instead of one.
And for the first time in decades, Sukuna no longer mistook solitude for peace.
Not when peace sounded like your laughter drifting through the room beside him.
