It was announced by the editor yesterday, but thew newest chapter has been updated on GanGan Online. Thank you very much! The contents of that chapter were like that, so the doodle here is more lighthearted. Whenever I put Ashiya through some hardship, some electronic in my house either crashes or disappears, so I'm steeling myself for the month.
Do you think we can see a fic between prologue and chapter I on how Damian met reader after leaving her room afterwards? Did he met her outside of the mask or straight up as robin? Also who asked who our first? No ur seriously I love the way you write them omggggg 😭😭😭❤️
Behind the mask✧₊⁺
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
pairing|damian wayne x reader
summary|continuation of the prologue/how damian and his girlfriend fell in love💗
word count|1196
notes|this has been in my drafts for a while cause I couldn’t figure the ending which ended up being a little corny i can’t lie but I choose to embrace it after watching Superman.
Family dinner masterlist
Ever since the night you saved him, you’d been on Damian’s mind far more than he was comfortable admitting.
Naturally, he'd looked you up the moment he got home—background checks, facial recognition, school records. Everything. He knew your name, your birthday, your bunny’s name (Bambi), and the fact that you were on your school’s cheer squad. You had a modest online presence, mostly pictures of yourself—some sweet, some... less so. Nothing inappropriate. Just enough to make his ears burn when he stared too long.
You lived a normal life. A soft life. And something about that tugged at his chest in a way he wasn’t used to.
So he started leaving your favorite flower at your window every night. Quietly. Without a word. It was his silent way of saying thank you—for helping him that night. For being kind. Even when he didn’t deserve it.
But two weeks in, it went off script.
You’d been getting frustrated. Sure, the flowers were sweet—your favorite kind, every single night. But you wanted to see him again. Properly. Not in blurry glimpses and midnight shadows.
So you stayed up.
Red Bulls, cold water to the face, every sleep-deprived trick in the book—and just when you were about to pass out, you saw movement on your balcony. That distinct silhouette—sharp posture, cape fluttering in the wind—and a flower held carefully between gloved fingers.
You shot up.
“Wait! Please—don’t leave!”
He froze mid-motion, the flower just an inch from the floor. His head turned slightly. He didn’t run.
And that’s all the permission you needed.
You slid open your door and stepped out into the cool air, barefoot and brimming with adrenaline.
“I knew it was you,” you whispered, smiling as you picked up the flower. Your fingers brushed his as you did. “I love them, by the way. Every single one.”
He was quiet for a moment. Watching you like he didn’t know what to do with you—like a stray cat too proud to admit it wanted attention.
“They’re a symbol,” he said at last. “Of gratitude. For saving my life.”
“Then keep bringing them,” you smiled. “I like having something to look forward to.”
He blinked, startled. And then, a rare thing happened: the corners of his mouth twitched.
That night became the first of many.
He didn’t stay long on any of his visits. Usually just ten or fifteen minutes, crouched on your balcony railing or leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. But the quiet talks that followed meant everything to you—and more than he would ever admit to himself.
You learned a lot about him, even though he kept details vague. He hated being called “Bird Boy,” had strong opinions on vigilante aliases, and was constantly annoyed by media speculations about his identity. He never said much about himself, but you learned to read between the lines.
And in turn, he learned about you—how Bambi was a baby you rescued from a shelter, how you pressed the flowers he brings in books to preserve them, how your parents were strict, but you’d break every rule in the house just to talk to him. You told him he was your favorite hero, and he didn’t say anything. But the next night, he brought two flowers.
The change in him was subtle—but obvious to the people who knew him best.
Dick noticed how he didn’t flinch away from his dotting quite as much after patrol.
Jason clocked how his temper didn’t flare when they sparred.
Tim remarked on how few insults he’d received over the past two weeks.
Even Jon started picking up on it during their game nights. “You’re unusually chill,” he’d muttered once. Damian ignored him.
But the real red flag came when Damian smiled—an actual, real smile—mid-patrol.
Barbara flagged it immediately.
“You’ve been offline between 2:15 and 3 AM for the past few weeks,” she said. “You wanna tell me why?”
The entire Batfamily had a full-blown comms debate while Damian conveniently went missing again.
Dick was threatening to move back to Blüdhaven.
Tim was convinced it was a girl.
They were all right. Sort of.
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
“Your muscles are so tense.”
You giggled as you gently massaged at Damian’s calf. He sat in the chair on your balcony again, a new gash across his leg from a run-in with some idiot with a dagger. You’d insisted on helping clean and wrap it.
Damian let out a breath. “It’s nothing.”
You scoffed. “You got stabbed.”
He looked at you sidelong. “Barely.”
“‘Barely,’” you mocked under your breath, then let your hands slide a little higher, settling at the top of his thigh so you could lean your chin on them. You blinked up at him sweetly. “Practice was okay, by the way.”
He nodded. “Any injuries?”
“None for me. But a girl who was mean to me in eighth grade fell flat on her face.”
You smiled giddily. Your big eyes glinted in the moonlight.
Damian chuckled under his breath, amused despite himself. “You’re sadistic.”
“You’re one to talk,” you teased. “You beat up criminals for a living.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but a sudden beeping in his ear made him stiffen. He pressed his fingers to his comms and raised a finger to his lips. You nodded quickly and sat upright.
“Robin, you’re needed on the field. Where the hell are you?”
It was Barbara. And Damian had never been more annoyed to hear her voice.
He stood with a sigh, already prepping his gear. “I need to leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
But your face had fallen. Arms crossed. Lips pressed into a pout as you stood.
He paused. “Is something wrong?”
You shook your head. “It’s fine. Just… I wish you could stay longer. I want to talk to you. Not Robin. You.”
Damian frowned.
“I get it,” you sighed. “You’ve got responsibilities. But I just… I want more than fifteen minutes on a balcony. I wanna know you. Not just the part of you behind a mask.”
There was silence.
Damian looked at you, the moonlight soft on your face, the wind brushing hair from your eyes, and for a moment, he hated the mask, hated that he had the fortune of meeting you as Robin.
He stepped closer.
“I can’t give you my name,” he said quietly. “Not yet. But… this is the most honest I’ve ever been with anyone. You’ve earned that.”
Your eyes met his.
“And when I can tell you— I.. you just have to wait.”
You nodded, heart racing. “Okay.”
He hesitated again, then leaned forward. His gloved hand cupped your jaw with surprising gentleness, tilting your chin up just slightly.
The kiss was soft. Barely there. Like he was testing the weight of it.
And then it deepened—just enough to make your toes curl.
When he pulled away, you were both quiet for a moment.
“Be safe,” you whispered.
“I always am,” he lied—and then disappeared into the night, like he always did.
Hello, it's been a while since I wrote one of these, hasn't it? This is a long update post about the behind-the-scenes of chapter 3 work and other things.
TL;DR: I finished writing the first draft and am working on proofreading.
About the progress
I finished writing the first draft for all of chapter 3, as well as the bonus episodes of chapter 3. I've also written the first draft for some other stories that I would like to release before chapter 3: bonus episodes of chapter 2, an interlude about Teruko's childhood, and an additional thing.
The next steps are to proofread all of these scripts. Please keep in mind that for me, proofreading is also a rather long process. For chapter 2, the time spent on proofreading alone exceeded 6 months. I apologize, it seems like it's rather slow. But also, please keep in mind that the amount of script to proofread is a bit. The combination of everything is several hundred pages. I'm surprised I wrote so much… I'm worried that some of it is too long.
Thoughts about chapter 3
It's very long!
Hopefully not too long!
…Sorry, there's not much else I can say without spoiling anything!
It's longer than chapter 1 and chapter 2, but not longer than both of them combined. That's about as much as I can say right now.
There are no guarantees on this, but I think that this might be the longest chapter in DT, and the rest will be shorter. I think in general, chapter 3 of Fangans are longer… That's just my guess, though.
Future plans
Work on visual assets will begin after proofreading, so once that begins, I'll have more interesting things to show you as previews. Currently, I don't have anything I can show…
I'm changing the program and method with which I use to produce episodes, so I hope that the end result is that I will be able to make them more quickly and efficiently than in the past.
I will definitely do another round of FTEs before chapter 3. Some time in the future, I'll put out a poll asking for what character pairs you would like to see an FTE of. Think about it carefully in advance until then!
I may start thinking about hiring additional staff. I may need art assistance, especially for the Argument Armament, Closing Argument, and Execution, because these things took a lot of time in chapter 2 to make. (It would be nice to have an animation assistant as well, but finding someone like that is probably out of the question…) There is the appearance of additional side/background characters, so additional voice actors may be needed.
Well, there is no guarantee at this point in time for either of these things. Working with people is overwhelming, so I'm unsure about it... It's just something to think about.
Lately, I feel like I want to remake the prologue. The quality is low, and many things have changed since 2020, so I feel like it no longer reflects the rest of the story well. However, I have a lot on my plate right now, so I'm not sure where I'll fit in the time to do such a thing.
Other notes
I would like to post more small content, like illustrations and comics, during this hiatus, but working on chapter 3 is very busy and unfortunately it's hard to find time to work on these things. Still, I do my best to post something every month or every two months. Please continue to keep an eye out for it.
Music videos aren't planned in advance, and they aren't part of a greater plan of the story. There is no such guarantee that every character will get a music video, or that all MVs follow some such theme, or something like that. They are just things I make on a whim because I like a song. You can consider them like doodles I post to social media.
Closing thoughts
It will be a long time until the release of chapter 3 is ready, so I am deeply thankful for your patience at this time. If you have the patience to wait until then, I am grateful. But even if you lose interest in DRDT during this time and move on to something else, that is alright too. As long as my works were able to bring you happiness at some point in your life, then I am grateful nonetheless. Please don't worry about these things.
Even now, I'm really surprised that it seems like there are a lot of people who are into DRDT. I'm very honored! Thank you to everyone who has supported me, and to everyone who will continue to support me. I'll continue to work hard on DRDT!
Genre: enemies to lovers; angst; smut; obsession; power imbalance; socioeconomic gap; toxic seokjin; hurt/comfort; bully seokjin; dark romance; billionaire au
Summary: They call him Saint. He's anything but. A monster hidden behind charm, wealth, and a perfect reputation. Seokjin Saint Kim is ruthless, obsessive, and far more cruel than anyone realises. The only thing standing between him and what he wants is...you. Too bad he's not willing to let that stop him.
a/n: phew this is officially the longest chapter so far and so much happens here, so buckle up and have fun reading!! i genuinely cannot believe my own memory because i read the book almost a decade ago and yet the plot came back to me so quickly?? 😭 that being said, i’m definitely not sticking to the original storyline completely, so expect some changes along the way 👀 fmc might seem rather tame for now, but please trust me when i say she’s no doormat. she’ll push back and have him absolutely wrecked in chapters to come 😛 also writing seokjin has been SO fun ahhh.. as always, please leave comments because i love hearing what you guys think!!
Your brain was your own worst enemy.
Why else would it keep shoving his face into your thoughts every waking hour? You should be thinking about your unemployment. About rent. About how you were going to pay next month’s bills.
To make it worse, your heart wasn’t any better either.
It was humiliating enough that, once upon a time, you’d managed to harbour a crush on the very man who had spent a decade making your life miserable. But you’d sooner bite your own tongue off than admit it aloud. That secret would follow you to the grave.
It had been twenty-four hours since you’d last seen Seokjin, and you loathed yourself for letting him crawl back under your skin so easily.
You wisely hadn’t told Bella about any of it. The last thing you needed was for her to march across the city and attempt to murder him herself.
Rain began pelting the pavement the moment you stepped into your apartment building.
It was only going to get colder.
Most people expected warmth when they came home. Yours greeted you with a stubborn draft that seemed to seep through every crack in the walls. The radiator had given up weeks ago, leaving the apartment permanently chilled.
Bella laid curled beneath what looked like every blanket the two of you owned, another rerun of Gilmore Girls playing in the background. At this point, you’d both lost count somewhere after the hundredth rewatch.
You set the bag of medicine and the container of chicken broth on the table.
“I brought you some soup,” you said, forcing brightness into your voice. “How are we feeling today?”
“So much better,” Bella replied far too quickly. “I think I’m almost ready to go back to work.”
Another thing the two of you had in common—you were both terrible liars.
You saw right through her.
You saw it in the way colour had drained from her face, the dark circles bruising the skin beneath her eyes, the way her clothes hung looser than they had only weeks ago.
As if to expose her lie, a violent coughing fit seized her before she could say another word.
Bella cleared her throat. “How’s the job search going? Any leads?”
You poured the chicken broth into two bowls, instinctively giving Bella the bigger portion and yourself the smaller.
“Not really,” you admitted with a tired sigh. “At this rate, we’ll be homeless by January.”
Silence settled between you.
“I don’t think I need these medicines anymore,” Bella said after a moment, her eyes drifting towards the paper bag on the table. “I told you, I already feel better. You should return them and get a refund.”
Your heart broke. She wasn’t getting better. If anything, she looked worse with each passing day.
“They’re non-refundable,” you lied, setting the bowls down before shrugging off your coat. You sank beside her on the tiny couch, the springs creaking under your combined weight.
The two of you ate quietly, Gilmore Girls humming in the background until Bella suddenly started reciting Lorelai’s lines in perfect sync with the television.
Without missing a beat, you joined in as Rory responds.
By the time the scene ends, you’re both laughing so hard your stomach hurts.
“I’m sorry,” Bella murmured softly after a moment, staring down at the half-empty bowl in her lap. She worries at the sleeve of her jumper instead of looking at you. “I’m so sorry for doing this to you. I’ve become such a leech.”
Tears pricked your eyes and you swallowed to keep them away.
“I’ve been thinking…” She swallows. “Maybe I should just go back to Blackwood. You’ve already done way more than enough for me.”
At sixty years old, your mother was still working at the Kim estate, still trying to pay off debts that never seemed to shrink. Sending Bella back wouldn’t save either of you. It would only trade one hardship for another.
Besides, she only had a year left before graduation. You could manage. You were struggling but you were happy.
Better days would come. You refused to believe otherwise.
Reaching for the blanket draped over the armrest, you wrapped it around Bella’s shoulders before pulling her into your side.
“You’re not going anywhere, missy,” you whispered, tucking the blanket snugly around her. Then loudly, “Don’t even think about it.”
You punctuate the threat by gently booping her nose.
Bella lets out the tiniest giggle.
Eventually, her breathing evens out, her head growing heavier against your shoulder as sleep takes her.
You stay exactly where you are—tired, confused, but certain the two of you would somehow make it through.
Six days later, and you were still just as unemployed.
You’d applied everywhere. Cafes, bookstores, reception desks, retail, tutoring centres. You’d stopped caring what the job was as long as someone was willing to hire you.
And still nothing.
Your credit card was a few swipes away from being maxed out, your savings had long since run dry, and the cash tucked inside your wallet barely amounted to enough for next week’s groceries.
At this point, the only thing capable of pulling you out of the financial hole you were sinking into was a miracle.
Streetlights stretched across the empty sidewalks as you made your way home from another late shift at the diner.
Despite yourself, your thoughts wandered back to Seokjin.
He hadn’t tried contacting you since that night. Good. That’s exactly how you wanted it.
So why did disappointment prick at you every time you realised he hadn’t?
You shoved the thought aside before it could take root.
A cold gust of wind swept through the empty street, making you pull your coat tighter around yourself.
Behind you, another set of footsteps echoed against the pavement, followed by a low whistle.
Instinctively, your hand slipped into your coat pocket, fingers curling tightly around the pepper spray as you quickened your steps, your pulse beginning to drum louder with every passing second.
You didn’t dare look back.
Relief flooded you the moment your apartment building came into view. However, it only lasted for a few seconds.
You climbed the narrow, ageing staircase two steps at a time, its wooden steps creaking beneath your weight while a single flickering bulb struggled to keep the hallway lit.
You stopped dead a few feet from your apartment door, the spray almost slipping from your hand.
Surely your eyes were playing tricks on you.
Because there was simply no logical explanation for Seokjin standing outside your apartment.
He leaned lazily against your front door, looking entirely too comfortable as though he owned the building. Which wait…did he? Given his ridiculous wealth, it wasn’t entirely impossible.
Hands tucked inside the pockets of an impeccably tailored black overcoat that probably cost more than your rent for the year. The dim hallway did nothing to dull him. If anything, it only made him look more like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine.
“I’m surprised you didn’t come to collect your tip, help.”
His gaze lifted to meet yours before drifting slowly down your body and back up again, unhurried and shameless, leaving you with the familiar urge to disappear from under it.
You scowled, your heart still beating a touch too fast. You told yourself it was the adrenaline from earlier as you fished your keys out of your bag.
“Really?” you scoffed. “I thought it was common sense not to expect someone whose life you’ve already ruined to come running because you asked her to.”
As usual, your bitter words barely earned a reaction. Instead, it seemed to amuse him.
He pushed himself off the door and sauntered over to you. This time, before he could invade your space, you took a step back, folding your arms tightly across your chest as if they alone could keep him out.
Your eyes narrowed.
“Why are you here, Seokjin?” you asked, unable to keep the suspicion from your voice, because if there was one thing you knew about Saint, it was that he never sought anyone out unless he wanted something from them. You didn’t even want to think about how he’d managed to find where you lived.
“You’re a receptionist.” He shrugged. “I’m looking for one.”
What?
You let out a disbelieving laugh.
“I don’t care. Leave.”
Turning your back to him, you fumbled your keys towards the lock, cursing the flickering hallway light that made it nearly impossible to see.
“Hundred and twenty thousand,” he said behind you, without missing a beat. “Company accommodation. Full benefits.”
Your hand hesitated for the briefest moment before you forced yourself to keep going.
“Not interested,” you replied evenly. “You can leave now.”
You never heard him cross the distance between you. You were still struggling with the stubborn lock when his hands settled around your waist, firmly pulling your back until your back brushed against the hard planes of his chest. A sharp breath caught in your throat as the warmth of him enveloped you, his breath tickling over the sensitive skin under your ear.
“Everyone has a price,” he growled, the sound low and deliberate.
His grip tightened, just enough to stop you from pulling away.
“So…Name yours.”
“World peace. A cure for cancer. An end to global hunger,” you shot back.
“One hundred and fifty thousand a year.”
The number rolled off his tongue without the slightest hesitation.
“If I were you,” he continued, “I’d already be signing the contract. Your sister’s sick. Your mother’s old and still paying off debt instead of retiring. And you…” His breath ghosted across your neck. “…don’t even have a job.”
Your entire body went rigid.
A job like this was the miracle you’d been praying for all week, but this was Seokjin, and you still hadn’t recovered from what he’d done that night. You were poor, yes, but you still had your pride, and if there was one person it refused to bow to, it was Seokjin Saint Kim.
“No.”
“…No?” He tilted his head, a brow lifting as though he’d genuinely misheard you.
“Do you want me to write it down for you?” You met his gaze.
“Two hundred.”
He said without blinking. To your horror, you felt yourself falter.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” you said through gritted teeth. “No amount of money is going to change the fact that I hate your guts.”
He watched you for a minute too long, a smug smile creeping onto his face. “I almost forgot how fun it is to see you going off.”
“Seokjin!”
“A twenty-four-seven private nurse for Bella. A joining bonus.” His jaw ticked, those plump pink lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s my final offer.”
You wanted to lunge at him, take the deal, and thank every god that had ever existed.
What did that make you? A spineless loser who couldn’t even stand up for herself?
What’s more, you couldn’t wrap your head around why Seokjin was so hell-bent on hiring you of all people. You knew him better than most. He wasn’t a generous man. He didn’t do favours. Every move he made served a purpose, every word was calculated, everything came with a price attached to it.
He was the same man who had run you out of your own home. Now he was worming his way back into your life, dangling everything you had ever wanted in front of you, and expecting you to bite.
It unnerved you.
Seokjin, as always, unnerved you.
“What’s the catch, Seokjin?” you asked, the fight draining from your voice.
The corner of his lips quirked as he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture so awfully sudden yet slow it made your stomach flutter.
“Oh?” he mused. “Why must there always be a catch, help?”
“Because it’s you,” you replied, exasperation finally bleeding through. “You don’t do anything unless there’s something in it for you.”
His smile widened.
“There may be…the occasional task outside what’s mentioned in your contract.”
You raised a brow, waiting.
“Nothing illegal.” He paused. “Or sexual.”
It was as though he’d plucked the question straight from your head.
“Trust me, help.” His thumb brushed your cheek almost absentmindedly. “I still see more pussy than a gynaecologist in a year. Besides, I have some standards when it comes to my women.” His gaze travelled lazily over you. “So you have nothing to worry about.”
The condescension laced through his words wasn’t lost on you. It was intentional, you knew that.
It relieved you but at the same time a strange twinge of annoyance flared hot in your chest.
Of course he was sleeping around. That much had never surprised you.
After all, Seokjin Saint Kim was the most sought-after bachelor in the country—rich, powerful, devastatingly handsome. Women practically threw themselves at him.
Reading between the lines, your mind chose to settle on to the fact that he was still single.
It had always struck you as odd how he never kept anyone around long enough for people to remember their names.
“I don’t want to do this,” you said one last time, making one final, pathetic attempt to salvage what little dignity you had left, even though deep down you already knew the battle had been lost.
How fitting.
Seokjin had found you at the exact moment you were hitting rock bottom, extending a hand just when you had nowhere else to turn. It reminded you of those stories you’d read as a child, where the devil arrived disguised as an angel, offering salvation with one hand while collecting your soul with the other.
“Sure,” he said simply. “But you kinda don’t have any other option.”
Slipping a hand into the pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out a neatly folded envelope, and held it out to you.
“Consider this an advance.”
You frowned before reluctantly taking it from him.
The moment you unfolded it, your breath caught.
Ten thousand dollars.
For a second, you simply stared at the cheque, blinking several times, convinced you’d read another zero by mistake.
You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen that much money.
Hell, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen that much money.
Seokjin reached up, his knuckles grazing your cheek as he gently tipped your face towards him. Standing this close, his figure swallowed yours completely, and you found yourself closing your eyes as he spoke, his voice smooth as silk, pouring over you like sweet poison.
“Do you trust me?”
“No,” you answered truthfully.
It was the easiest question he’d asked all night.
He chuckled quietly, and your ears almost strained to catch the sound. You couldn’t really remember hearing Seokjin laugh before.
“But…” His thumb lingered against your jaw. “Would you trust me with my own life?”
Your eyes slowly opened.
Seokjin was a genius.
Cunning, calculating, and always a step ahead of everyone else. More importantly, he always knew how to cover his own tracks. You knew that better than anyone. In all the years you’d lived under the same roof, you’d watched him walk away from trouble that would’ve buried anyone else.
You nodded.
“It’s settled then. Be there at eight sharp, help. The address is on the back of the cheque.” He adjusted the cuff of his coat before looking at you one last time. “And don’t make me regret my generosity.”
With that, he left the hallway, his footsteps fading until only silence remained.
You stood there for another minute, the cheque still clutched in your hand, before finally unlocking your apartment door.
Bella was fast asleep.
Relief washed over you knowing the medication had kept her asleep through the entire exchange in the hallway.
That was the moment you decided.
This was the right choice.
You would submit, bow your head, play by the devil’s rules, and take everything he was willing to give until you had what you needed.
“Who the fuck does she think she is?” Seokjin fumed, spinning lazily in his executive chair as he looked out over Manhattan from the forty-sixth floor of his New York office.
“Your stepmom?” Nate’s sleepy voice came from the other end of the phone, amusement bleeding through his words.
It was barely five in the morning in Los Angeles. Not that Seokjin gave a shit.
Seokjin could hear sheets rustling, followed by a muffled whine in the background. He rolled his eyes. At this point Nate had probably fucked his way through half of Los Angeles in his bed.
“She’s landing tomorrow and wants me to clear my entire fucking schedule for her,” he scoffed.
“This wouldn’t even be a problem if you were back in L.A. like you were supposed to be.”
Nate wasn’t wrong.
The moment it had been decided he’d take over the New York office, Seokjin had wanted to tell them all to go fuck themselves. But they all had to rotate—that was the rule. A stupid fucking rule, but a rule nonetheless. Didn’t mean he had to like it.
He missed California. His house. His fucking bed which Nate was probably defiling as they spoke.
New York was loud, overcrowded, and one giant dick-measuring contest full of desperate assholes trying to convince everyone they were important. No wonder Nate loved the place so fucking much.
Originally, the plan had been simple. Nate had spent years in New York after law school, knew the city inside out, and actually liked living there for reasons Seokjin would never understand. Seokjin had offered to swap offices the second the expansion was announced.
Instead, Nate had laughed in his face and told him to suck it up.
So here he was.
Truthfully, the four of them switched offices often enough that it hardly mattered. They had offices in Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, and London.
Jimin had volunteered to oversee London.
Not because the office needed him.
Because Wren had moved back.
Fucking simp.
“So when the fuck are we switching back dude?” Nate grumbled.
Seokjin glanced absentmindedly at the clock. “Not anytime soon. Not until the thing with Anthony’s sorted.”
The lie left his mouth easily. The Anthony situation had been wrapped up days ago.
What he wasn’t about to tell Nate was that he’d just hired you. In fact, Nate had no idea you were even living in New York.
Seokjin intended to keep it that way.
Normally, Nate ran New York while Seokjin handled Los Angeles. Yoongi floated between offices whenever negotiations got too delicate. Jimin would be on call when clients needed smooth talking.
And Seokjin was the one they sent when playing nice stopped working.
Currently, Nate was making himself comfortable in Los Angeles, using Seokjin’s house like he owned it.
As far as the four of them were concerned, it was normal. Seokjin never really minded.
This time, though, Seokjin especially didn’t mind Nate crashing at his condo. After all, he wasn’t in any rush to drag his own ass back there either.
The New York branch was all over the place, and he genuinely needed someone to clean up the mess. What you didn’t know yet was that you’d never been hired as a receptionist in the first place. That little lie had simply been easier to sell.
You’d be his personal assistant.
For now.
And once you’d served your purpose, you’d be out, dumped back to the shithole you were staying in.
There was no universe where he was letting you end up working for Nate.
Not that Nate would’ve wanted to look at your fucking face anyway. To Nate, you’d been dead ever since you ripped his heart out.
Then again…
That wasn’t Seokjin’s problem.
“If it makes you feel any better,” Nate yawned, “Jimin’s probably getting rejected in a different timezone right now.”
“Serves the desperate fucker right.”
“So…” Nate snorted. “What’s Katherine want this time?”
“Who the fuck knows.”
A muffled voice complained from somewhere beside Nate, telling him to keep it down.
“You’ll survive, Jin.” Nate replied. “Just hurry the fuck up and give me my apartment and office back, asshole.”
“Yeah, whatever. Have a good fucking night, dickhead.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Nate laughed. “I definitely will have a good fucking—“
Seokjin rolled his eyes as the line went dead.
Just in time, a soft knock sounded as the office door swung open.
“Good morning, Mr. Kim!” the woman beamed far too enthusiastically for eight in the fucking morning, as she walked in balancing a tray in her hands. “I brought your breakfast—Double Americano, egg white omelette, and avocado toast.”
“And you are?” Seokjin asked, barely sparing her a glance as he continued signing a document.
“I’m Ava, your PA.” She chirped, smiling so brightly it was bordering on obnoxious. “I was actually the very first employee hired for the New York office. Mr. Parker hired me himself.”
That finally earned her his attention.
He looked her over once.
Well…That tracked.
Tall. Blonde. Legs for days. Dressed head-to-toe in Ralph Lauren, hair immaculate, smile polished enough to sell religion.
Made perfect fucking sense why Nate had hired her. She was exactly his type. Which begged the question: what the fuck had he ever seen in you?
“Nice meeting you, Ava.”
She smiled wider.
“You’re fired Ava.”
Ava’s face visibly fell, the smile disappearing almost instantly. Tough fucking luck.
“…Excuse me?”
“You’ll get this month’s salary, three months’ severance, and HR will sort out the paperwork.”
Her mouth fell open. “Mr. Kim, You can’t fire me.”
“I can’t?” Seokjin arched a brow, feigning mild interest, his eyes never leaving the document on his screen.
She nodded too fast.
“Oh? And pray tell, Ana… why not?”
“Ava,” she corrected with a huff. “Because we have a contract.” The panic creeping into her voice was already getting on his nerves.“If I’ve done something wrong, you’re required to give me three months’ written notice first. This would be wrongful termination.”
She was beginning to piss him off. “Show me your contract,” he said flatly.
She huffed, spun on her heel, and stomped out of his office. A few minutes later, she marched back in and dropped a copy of the contract onto his desk.
Seokjin skimmed the first page.
She wasn’t lying.
That motherfucker Nate had practically gift-wrapped the contract for her. Was he fucking her?
“What do you think about working in Los Angeles?”
She frowned, clearly caught off guard by the question, before slowly nodding.
“I’d love that.”
“Great.” Seokjin tossed the contract onto his desk. “Pack your bags. You’re transferring to the L.A. office. Effective tomorrow. You’ll be working under Nate until further notice.”
Her entire face lit up. Seokjin watched the smile spread across it and snorted to himself.
Yeah. They were definitely fucking.
Seokjin had a hell of a lot more important shit to do than sit around waiting for you.
He went back to reviewing the contract in front of him, his eyes flicking to the clock every other minute. You weren’t even here yet you’ve found a way to annoy him.
Exactly ten minutes later, another knock echoed through his office. He already knew who it was.
“Come in.”
Truth be told, Seokjin still had no fucking clue why he’d gone after you that day at the diner.
Well…
He did.
A small part of him felt responsible for the mess you and Bella were in.
A very small fucking part.
Sure, he’d played a role in turning your life into the trainwreck it was today. But he wasn’t the one who’d told you to move to the most expensive fucking city in the country with a sick sister and barely two pennies to rub together. That spectacularly stupid decision had been all yours.
He didn’t have much time to think about it before you stepped through the door.
You’d clearly made an effort. Seokjin liked that.
A cream knit sweater hugged your frame, tucked into a pair of dark jeans that had seen better days, while your hair was pulled back neatly in a low pony tail.
Instead of greeting him, you stood there with those stupidly big honey-brown eyes fixed on him in open defiance.
“Do you know how to use an iPad?” Seokjin finally asked.
“Do you know how not to be an asshole?” you replied in the exact same tone.
He had to bite back a smirk.
Jesus Christ, you were so fucking easy to rile up.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He slid the iPad across the desk. “Now sit down and start writing.”
Without giving you so much as a second to breathe, he began rattling off appointments, meetings, flight bookings, dinner reservations, and half a dozen other things that had accumulated over the past week.
You barely managed to keep up, fingers flying furiously across the screen as you tried to catch every word.
Too busy typing to notice the way Seokjin’s gaze kept drifting over your body.
Well, he couldn’t exactly be blamed. You looked fucking hot. You always had. And that was just a fact.
“I think that’s it. You’ can leave now.”
The moment you finished jotting down the last of his instructions, Seokjin dismissed you and turned his attention back to the laptop in front of him, back to typing nothing.
With every second ticking by, he grew more restless.
His shirt was freshly ironed, his watch sat perfectly against his wrist, not a single crease or speck of dust anywhere on him. He knew he looked handsome. Gorgeous, even.
So what the fuck were you staring at?
You’d always made him uncomfortable and despite that, he’d been the one to seek you out.
Hell if he knew why.
At this very moment, though, he simply wanted you to leave.
He finally looked up.
“What?”
“I still don’t understand why you hired me.” You squinted at him, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“You don’t need to.” His jaw ticked.
Seokjin was irritated now. The way you looked at him, like you could still see through him, irked the fuck out of him.
There were a multitude of reasons why Seokjin hated you. You knew too much, after all.
The first—and by far the most glaring—was that he suspected you knew his secret from that day in the library. The thought alone made him feel weak and pathetic. Whether you actually remembered it or not hardly mattered. The possibility alone made him feel exposed.
There was nothing he loathed more than that. The second was far more irrational. You had the same hair colour as his stepmother. Thank fuck you’d dyed it.
Hating you almost felt like penance for his mother, Vivienne.
And then there was the third reason that pissed him off most.
He respected you. It wasn’t because you were particularly clever or capable, but rather that his name, his money, his power—they meant fuck all to you. Your indifference to him was oddly disarming.
He undid the top button of his dress shirt before rolling his sleeves to his forearms, dragging the moment out because he knew you were still standing there, watching him.
“Now get your ass out of my office and get to work, Help. I have things to do.”
“Heavens, look at you dear…handsome as ever.”
Katherine cupped Seokjin’s face in her cold, manicured hands. She kissed his forehead before letting him go, leaving behind the nauseating scent of vanilla perfume.
It was the most physical contact he’d allowed her in years, and she knew better than to push her luck.
They moved towards the table, and she took the seat across from him. The small concealed scar beneath her nose suggested she was recovering from yet another cosmetic procedure. No amount of designer clothes, fresh fillers, or Hermès bags could hide the one thing she refused to accept.
She was getting old.
Seokjin’s mother never got the chance.
Vivienne Saint Hawthorne had died at thirty-seven, still breathtakingly beautiful, with honey-brown hair and skin pale as snow. She had looked as though she’d stepped straight out of a fairy tale.
Only it had never been one.
The prince she’d fallen in love with had turned out to be the monster.
“I’m afraid your father won’t be with us much longer.”
Katherine’s gratingly sweet voice cut through his thoughts. Her hands were neatly clasped together, her expression carefully arranged into one of heartbreaking grief.
She really ought to have been an actress.
Instead of responding, Seokjin continued eating his dinner, cutting into the steak loudly.
Katherine sighed.
“Jin…”
His grip around the knife tightened.
He hated when she called him that.
It was his mother’s nickname for him. Hearing it from Katherine’s rotten mouth made his blood boil.
He shut his eyes for the briefest second, his jaw locking so tightly he thought it might crack. The urge to throw the crystal glass nearby was becoming a dangerously appealing idea.
“Your father is dying,” she said softly, reaching for a napkin to dab under perfectly dry eyes.
“I have no interest in what I inherit,” she continued.
Seokjin would’ve laughed if he didn’t find the lie so painfully predictable.
“The mansion means more to me than anything else. It’s where your father and I spent our years together, where our love lived.”
This bullshit was almost impressive.
Seokjin had been five when his father married Katherine. Despite being supposedly madly in love with her, his father had still made sure to have her sign a prenup.
A smart decision, in hindsight.
“If, by some unfortunate chance…” she trailed off.
Seokjin slowly raised a brow.
This was going to be so much fun.
“Spit it out, Katherine.” He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t have all day, and we both know you’re not getting anywhere with this whole…”
He gestured vaguely towards her, his expression flat.
“…performance.”
“Give me the mansion. That’s all I ask of you.”
The sweet, grieving widow act lasted exactly a second longer, replaced by the woman Seokjin had known all along. Her voice turned sharp, expression hardening into something far more cunning and calculated.
“I can’t.” Seokjin sighed mockingly and caught the flash of anger crossing Katherine’s face in real time.
“It’s my home,” she snapped. “You don’t even like that house, and you don’t even live there.”
His mother’s home.
He felt the anger hit his veins instantly, hot and familiar, but his face gave away nothing, expression composed and polite. Katherine would never get the satisfaction.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Seokjin smiled, but there was nothing kind about it. “I still have no intention of living there.”
“Well, this has been a wonderful dinner.” He stood, adjusting his coat. “I enjoyed it so much, Katherine. We should definitely do this more often.”
He turned to leave with a smile tugging at his lips, and for once he wasn’t lying. This had been far more entertaining than he’d expected.
“Don’t forget, Saint.”
He paused, glancing over his shoulder.
Oh.
So now it’s Saint? Interesting.
“We don’t know what’s in the will yet,” Katherine continued, her voice smooth again, slipping back into that sweet polished facade she’d spent twenty-five years perfecting. “And your generosity will surely be repaid when the tables turn.”
Seokjin almost laughed. As if he gave a flying fuck about inheriting any of it.
Then again…he did enjoy proving people wrong.
Katherine set her wine glass down with enough force for the crystal to clink against the table, the corners of her mouth pulling into a subtle but ugly frown.
Seokjin’s gaze lingered on the glass for a second.
Huh. So much for etiquette.
Katherine would’ve slapped him across the face for less when he was a kid. The rest of the punishment would’ve been finished by her brother in the library.
“Should I be getting legal representation, Saint?” she asked, her voice clipped. “Is that what you’re implying?”
Truthfully, Seokjin already had a pretty fucking good idea of what the will looked like. The moment his father became bedridden, Seokjin had everything set in motion. His first call had been to Nate’s father, the Kim family’s trusted legal counsel for over two decades.
He’d been preparing for this for months. No, years.
Katherine Rothschild wasn’t walking away with a single fucking penny that carried the Kim name.
The mansion itself meant nothing to him. He hadn’t called it home since forever. But now that he knew Katherine wanted it so desperately, he’d sooner burn the place to the ground himself than let her have it.
He walked back towards the table until he was standing over her, leaning down just enough for their faces to be level.
“By all means, Mother,” his smile never faltered. “Lawyer up.”
Seokjin was in a foul mood.
If there was one thing he hated more than dealing with people, it was dealing with stupid fucking people with expensive degrees. Every time, it was the same circus. They tiptoed around him like he was about to bite someone’s head off, then opened their mouths just to ask the most brain-dead, pointless questions imaginable.
Nothing new, really.
Seokjin had always been antisocial. Whatever popularity he’d had in high school came with his circle—Nate, Jimin and Jungkook. Those idiots could make friends with a brick wall if they tried. Seokjin couldn’t be bothered.
The humming of expensive electronics inside his Los Feliz penthouse and absolute fucking silence had always been his ideal way of spending a week. Well, maybe the occasional groans and moans of nameless women under him, preferably those with honey-brown eyes, soft pillowy lips, and hair that looked like yours. With the lights low and his imagination doing the rest, it made the fantasy all the more real.
The appetite that had been clawing at him for the last thirty minutes had now fully disappeared. Scowling, he shoved the now-cold steak and eggs away from himself.
What a fucking waste.
And well, of course, you were to blame. Seokjin had made the mistake of underestimating you. Turns out you were a hell of a lot sharper than he’d given you credit for. It hadn’t taken you long to realise he needed you as much as you needed him, and so you’d managed to back him into this idiotic team-building lunch.
His eyes narrowed into slits as he shot another glare your way.
You were laughing at something Zoe, his receptionist, had just said, the woman looking pleased with herself. The sound of your laugh carried across the table, bright and irritating.
Christ.
If he spent another minute at this godforsaken table, he was going to lose his mind.
Rising from his chair, he spared you one last glance, only to catch you offering to throw a retirement dinner for some old geezer whose name he couldn’t give less of a shit about remembering.
You wouldn’t even be here by then, he mused to himself. Whatever. He wasn’t going to burst your bubble just yet.
Two hours later, Seokjin was returning from a deposition when something in the corner of his eye caught his attention as he passed your desk.
…What the hell?
You were completely engrossed in a conversation with Ethan, one of the senior accountants. The douchebag was ridiculously young to hold the position—fresh-faced, preppy, dressed in a navy Ralph Lauren quarter-zip over an Oxford shirt. He looked like every private-school-to-ivy-league pipeline rich kid Seokjin had ever met.
Pompous little prick.
Seokjin knew his type. Hell, he was the type.
He cleared his throat once, expecting that to be enough for you to notice him.
It wasn’t.
His lips pressed into a thin line before he snapped his fingers as if he were calling over a disobedient pet.
Your head immediately turned towards him, brows raised in clear annoyance as if to ask, what?
Ethan’s reaction was far more satisfying.
The colour had practically drained from the poor idiot’s face.
“Both of you. My office. Now.”
Seokjin didn’t bother waiting for a response. He turned on his heel and walked away, a smug smile threatening to break across his face.
He’d gotten him.
He’d seen it flash across Ethan’s face. Fuck, he’d seen that same look on countless faces before. He was so damn young and already a multimillionaire CEO, and that was before anyone even brought up his family’s money.
Ruthless. Powerful. Privileged. And an absolute dick when he wanted to be, which well, was most of the time. People found him intimidating, and fuck, he loved it. Especially now.
He heard your footsteps quicken behind him, and the grin tugging at his lips only widened.
The second he stepped into his office, he shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of his chair.
“Book two tickets to Blackwood for this evening and arrange for a limo to pick us up.”
You looked up from your iPad, confused.
“I’ll need the other passenger’s name.”
“The other passenger is you.” Seokjin replied flatly without so much as glancing up.
You blinked, your brows knitting together as you stared at him.
“I can’t leave my sister.”
“You weren’t hired to question me,” Seokjin said, finally looking up. “You were hired to do what you’re told.”
“And I will, until it compromises Bella’s health—”
“I already said this once. Don’t make me repeat myself.” His tone dropped a notch. “Bella will have a private nurse with her whenever you’re gone. Have her moved into this apartment today.”
He scribbled an address onto a slip of paper and slid it across the desk.
Ofcourse, he didn’t tell you it was the same building he lived in—or that he owned a handful of units there himself. Funny how investments paid off in more ways than one.
You stared at the address before squeezing your eyes shut, biting your lip as you let out a slow breath.
“I’ll talk to Bella first.”
His gaze lingered on your mouth, watching the way your teeth worried your bottom lip, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
For fucks sake.
How could he not want to fuck you?
“Here’s the thing,” Seokjin leaned back in his chair, his voice stern. “Bella isn’t your boss. I am. Which means I decide how it works.”
His eyes bored into yours.
“The moment you signed the contact, you became mine. You serve me. You will obey me. Is that clear?”
You didn’t respond but continued staring at him with those ridiculous big doe eyes.
Three sharp knocks interrupted the silence.
“Come in.”
Ethan stepped inside looking considerably less smug than he’d been five minutes ago.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Kim?”
“Yeah.” Seokjin gestured lazily towards the chairs opposite his desk.
“Have a seat.”
When he caught you taking a step backwards, he added without looking at you.
“Both of you.”
You looked at Seokjin warily before lowering yourself into the chair beside him.
“Ethan,” Seokjin said, his gaze settling on him. “Do you know who I am?”
Ethan swallowed hard. “Y-you’re the CEO of Axiom Heights.”
Seokjin gave a slow shake of his head.
“Let’s try that again.”
His voice remained calm, bored even.
“Who am I?”
Ethan looked seconds away from being sick.
“I… I…” He opened his mouth, closed it again, his throat working as panic settled in.
Seokjin turned his head towards you.
“Ms. ____?”
You met his gaze without blinking. “A self absorbed egoistic jerk?”
Damn, you had a mouth on you.
Seokjin felt the blood surge through his veins. He swallowed the irritation behind a grin that came easily. He loved it when you were like this. The more you challenged him, the more he wanted to strip that defiance from you piece by piece until all that fire burnt itself out.
Fuck. He was so hard. Fuck. You were so pretty.
Ethan, on the other hand, was horrified.
“One last chance, Mr. Ethan.”
““I-I’m…” Ethan stammered before forcing himself to straighten in his chair. “You’re… my boss, Mr. Kim.”
“There we go.” Seokjin nodded once, pleased.
“And as your boss, I expect you to remember exactly where the line is.” His smile disappeared as quickly as it’d appeared.
“I don’t give a damn what you do outside these walls, but inside this company I won’t tolerate something as stupid and careless as an office romance.” Seokjin watched the colour drain from Ethan’s face as realisation washed over him.
“I built Axiom from the ground up, and I'll be damned if either of you drag its name through the mud. Am I making myself clear?” Seokjin said, glancing between them.
“O-Oh, Mr. Kim.” Ethan practically lurched forward in his chair. “We were just talking. It’s a huge misunderstanding. I—I have a girlfriend.”
Of course he did.
Which meant you knew that now, too.
“Good,” Seokjin said with an indifferent shrug. “As long as we’re all on the same page.” He gave Ethan a curt nod, “You’re excused.”
Ethan all but fled the office.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room steeped in silence.
Seokjin went back to the papers spread across his desk as though nothing had happened.
You, however, hadn’t moved.
Your plush lips were pressed into a thin, furious line, your arms folded tightly across your chest. If looks could kill, he’d have been six feet under already.
He could feel your glare burning a hole through the side of his face.
Finally—
“You’re pissing me off.”
He relished knowing he’d crawled under your skin.
“And you’re turning me on,” Seokjin replied without lifting his eyes from the file, his voice flat. “So unless you want to end up getting fucked against the window right there, you might wanna tone down those glares.”
“You’re sick,” you breathed out, your expression more irritated than revolted.
“Probably,” Seokjin cracked his neck before signing the bottom of a page.“But you’ve always known that, Help, haven’t you?”, he purred.
Your eyes flashed with rage, and fuck, Seokjin couldn’t take his eyes away from you as he felt his cock throb. And if there were any doubts before this moment, they were all erased. This was so on.
Seokjin was going to fuck you, use you for what he wanted, and then dump you back when he was done.
It was only deserved after what you’ve done. You should’ve known better than to let Nate have what had always belonged to him.
And right now, you’d be coming to California with him whether you liked it or not.
“I don’t understand you at all. I don’t understand why you act like this,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Then again…maybe you don’t understand yourself either. Especially not whatever this is.” You gestured between the two of you.
Only, Seokjin understood perfectly. There was nothing confusing about it.
He hated you.
He wanted you.
The two had never been mutually exclusive.
He wanted you in a way that made no fucking sense. It was a relentless, stubborn itch inside his skin that anger couldn’t erase and distance couldn’t dull. It lived beneath all the hatred and resentment —only becoming more unbearable and stronger over time.
But that ended now.
Because finally—finally—he was going to stop fighting it, and when he was finished, he’d make sure there was nothing left to haunt him after.
Alligator Bites Never Heal by flawlessassholes (Explicit, 57,684 words so far, 8/9 chapters)
His outstretched glove hangs there, frozen, as the noise of the arena mutates into a ringing buzz. Then he’s moving, pushed away by Marlow, and then Boston’s goalie. There’s a flurry of movement, a trainer with a towel, more blood dripping onto the ice, and he just. Stands there. Staring.
Ilya is helped off the ice. Shane doesn’t even tap his stick.
Remember when Sidney Crosby caught a puck with his jaw? That doesn't happen to Shane. That happens to Ilya.
another flaw in our equation by liveinsalt, placebythering (Explicit, 50,889 words so far, 3/4 chapters)
Shane had spent time—a lot of time, really—thinking about retirement. It came with the territory; on average, hockey players retired in their 30s, with a few outliers playing into their 40s. The really good ones got maybe three decades out of it all before putting the stick down and hanging the jersey up. In his mind, Shane liked to think he’d be one of them, playing till he hit forty-five, ending on some high note—the Centaurs winning their nth or so Cup, maybe—before fading, slowly, into the background.
It turned out it would all just end in a random game, with a random team, boom— all so definitively over that Shane was left falling, completely flailing, clueless about any next step.
anybody like you by plonk (Not Rated, 36,916 words so far, 4/5 chapters)
"Hey, are parties just… like that, for you?" Shane asks. "Like the figure skating kickbacks were in Sochi?"
"What do you mean? Like what?" Joe asks.
"Like. I don't know. Fun?"
"Yeah? Do you go to a lot of bad parties?"
"I don't know." Shane stuffs some kale in his mouth.
"So yes."
It gets lonely at the top. In Sochi, unrivaled generational hockey talent Shane Hollander reconnects with his old skate training buddy, Joe.
At Pinpoint by chaentics (Explicit, 33,523 words so far, 3/4 chapters)
“No one else knows of these,” Ilya tells him, and there it is, that glint of possessiveness in Hollander’s eyes. It makes Ilya’s head reel. And it is why he doesn’t hesitate to say, “I could mark you just like that. If you want.”
Hollander moans around him, his hand scrambling to get past the press of his jeans, into his underwear, to get himself off.
“Would last longer than bruises,” Ilya continues. “Maybe forever.”
behind enemy lines by Anonymous (Teen, 15735 words so far, 2/4 chapters)
Shane and Ilya had mutually agreed to keep their whatever-they’re-doing out of Sochi. It was an easy decision to make: this was bigger than any MLH rivalry and definitely bigger than a few hotel hook-ups. There was no room for distractions, not with Olympic gold on the line.
So it’d be really fucking great if their daemons could get on the same page and stop trying to cause an international fucking incident.
frequently, secretly fond of each other. by milominderbinder (Explicit, 145,209 words so far, 21/25 chapters)
Shrugging one shoulder far more casually than he possibly feels, Ilya says, “I like both. Is secret, okay?”
“Okay,” Hollander says, voice cracking.
He doesn’t say anything else. The air’s so heavy around them that it feels like being in the middle of a scrum, the weight and heat of all those bodies pressing down on you. Danger always feels like hockey; it’s the most dangerous thing Ilya knows, except for this. Everything dangerous in his life involves men’s bodies and just how close he can get to them. Closer than he probably should.
Nobody knows why Shane Hollander dropped out of the 2009 draft at the last second, and a year later it stuns the whole hockey world when he's signed by the Boston Raiders. Having the two biggest stars in the league on the same line is great for Boston - but playing alongside their worst rival was never exactly in Shane or Ilya's plans. Especially not when staying away from each other starts to feel just as impossible as getting along.
Halt and Catch Fire by mashawisotsky (Not Rated, 61,281 words so far, 9/? chapters)
In March 2019, gambling syndicates dump data from 7,500 hacked athletes online - the biggest breach in sports history. Shane and Ilya's years of private texts are buried somewhere in three million leaked files. A story about privacy, professional hockey, and what happens when the internet finds what you thought was hidden.
-----
(HCF):
An early computer command that sent the machine into a race condition, forcing all instructions to compete for superiority at once.
Control of the computer could not be regained.
hold a cut inside by dinosaur (Explicit, 19,139 words so far, 3/6 chapters)
It's the Metros' season; Shane knows it. And no matter how many hits he takes, Shane's always been good at getting back on the ice.
Letting Ilya Rozanov touch his bruised body when he comes off the ice doesn't change anything. It can't; Shane knows that, too.
I'll build a house inside of you by jtimu (Explicit, 15,969 words so far, 2/6 chapters)
In late 2014, celebrity photos start dropping. Ilya deletes his texts, his photos, a video he should never have taken. It isn't soon enough.
matryoshka by MilesbyMicah (Mature, 21,450 words so far, 3/6 chapters) - svetlana focused
For as long as she can remember, people have looked at Svetlana Vetrova and only seen her in pieces. Her hair, her skin, her name, her accent. Fragmented sections, sometimes complimentary but often contradictory. People embrace what they want, and ask her to tuck away the parts that don’t make sense to them. But Svetlana is not half or part anything, she is wholly and completely herself.
This is a love story, of a sort.
Proving Ground by maplesalad, smugrobotics (Mature, 5,119 words so far)
Select MLH hopefuls spend one year living with a mentor as part of the League’s Prospect Orientation Program. These eighteen-year-old prospects learn a lot from their veteran league mentors; they attend camps, retreats, practices, and discover what it means to be part of such an old and distinguished tradition. Without graduating from the Prospect Orientation Program, a top draft spot is impossible.
You want to play? You learn everything you can: on and off the ice.
Route 96 Kanata by Anonymous (Explicit, 51,325 words so far, 6/10 chapters)
When Shane Hollander looks into the future he sees— not a flat sheet of ice, not that, not anymore, but something equally as empty.
His backup plan was always to go to university. He hadn't thought he'd ever need it, not really. Especially not near the end, when everything felt so certain. But his grades were good, his mom made sure of that, so when he woke up in the hospital he already knew what he was going to do next. But after?
There's a standard path people take, he knows, that comes after school. But when he tries to picture it, slot himself into the picket fence and the corporate overhead fluorescents, it disappears. Like it was never going to be real at all.
(Or: after ending up at a jazz bar to celebrate the end of finals season, Shane Hollander finds himself where he never thought he'd be— in the orbit of NHL superstar Ilya Rozanov.)
slash and burn by eleadore (Explicit, 20,495 words so far, 3/4 chapters)
Shane had everything he'd ever wanted, plus a girlfriend. Ilya Rozanov was not his problem.
The chips are set to fall by icopythefax (Teen, 49,141 words so far, 14/? chapters)
At the 2017 All Star Weekend, Ilya takes fate into his own hands to produce at least one out MLH player by the end of the season. Thus begins his part-time side hustle as community organizer, mastermind, and Commander-in-Chief of the Gay Hockey Army.
The Hottest Cold War by Vee (Vera_DragonMuse) (Explicit, 87,921 words so far, 8/10 chapters)
Once is a mistake, twice is terrible judgment, three times is enemy action. After four times, it might just be something worse.
OR
What if Scott hooked up with Ilya during the summer of 2010 entirely by accident, then kept doing it on purpose.
part one — the apartment | series m. list | > next chapter
in your haste to move away from your obnoxious ex, you find yourself agreeing to rent one of the first apartments in your price range— the only problem is, said apartment was also the scene of a murder less than a year prior...
what could go wrong?
pairings: ghost!gojo x f!reader
content: mentions of murder/blood/death, reader's ex sucks, lots of background info on reader + her family/friends, gojo is lowkey a little shit even as a ghost
notes: welcome to part one of my long awaited ghost gojo series! I've been planning this for so long now and am incredibly excited to finally share it with everyone!! that being said, please be sure to read this warning before continuing ♡.
credit: gojo fanart by 510_juju on twt | sparkle divider by @/cursed-carmine
wc: 11k
"This the place?"
The gruff rumble of your step-brother’s voice triggered you to look up from your phone for the first time in nearly twenty minutes, eyes darting around the small cabin of the rented moving truck you were both sitting in before being cast back down toward your screen. You thumbed away the tab containing the lengthy text you’d been drafting— quickly bringing up the one that contained the GPS directions to your new apartment, and nodded, unbuckling your seat belt.
"Yup, this is it."
Reaching over to open the heavy truck door, you watched it swing outward on its hinges before you stepped down onto the running board, taking a deep breath of cool fall air into your lungs.
You stayed like that for a few moments, relishing in the feeling of freedom and peace, before finally you motioned with your thumb to the apartment complex across the street.
"It's the one attached to that second floor balcony. I'll run ahead and unlock the door before everyone else gets here."
You looked back just long enough to see Sukuna nod his head once in reply before you stepped down onto the pavement, looking up at what was about to be your new home with a mild sense of bewilderment.
How had you gotten here?
Well, actually, you knew the answer to that all too well.
The end to your three-year relationship had made your rooming situation with your ex pretty tense, and after four long months of trying to make it work for the convenience of not having to move, you'd finally given in and started looking at apartments back near the more suburban parts of Tokyo, closer to where you’d grown up.
The only problem had been that there was next to nothing available.
Tokyo wasn't exactly a cheap place to live, and you weren't really feeling all that great about a roommate after your previous living situation— leaving you to pour over all sorts of sketchy listings in hopes of finding something suitable.
And in the end, that had landed you at a four story apartment complex built in the early seventies.
It was a fifteen minute drive away from the more metropolitan parts of the city, a seven minute walk from a park, a five minute walk from a convenience store, and a three minute walk from your new job at a coffee shop that your friends were always talking about.
A spot to grab pre-made meals and groceries, a place to sit and enjoy nature, and a nice cafe to work at all within ten minutes of you, and you didn't even have to deal with heavy traffic on your street. What more could a girl ask for?
Well, she could probably ask for appliances that weren't older than her, a functioning heating unit, and an apartment that someone hadn't been murdered in, but how else could she afford rent in an area like this one?
You shuddered a bit at the thought of what had supposedly happened inside the building, and tried to shake it off as you reached the front door, pausing to take note of the name that was scribbled on tape next to the call button for apartment 2C— your new home.
Gojo Satoru
You made a mental note to change that later on before punching in the code to the main entrance, sighing in relief when the old door gave an electronic click to convey that it had unlocked.
The landlord had warned you that it could be difficult at times since it was an old door equipped with a far more modern system, and you'd be lying if you said his comment about "just shouting until someone buzzed you in" hadn't made you a little nervous about getting your stuff inside.
"Alright, so far so good.”
You muttered under your breath, knocking briefly on the old wood of the door in front of you so as not to jinx yourself before pushing it open and taking a hesitant step inside, where the scent of old wood and floor polish enthusiastically greeted you.
Your shoes tapped on the linoleum beneath your feet as you moved further inside, snapping the deadbolt of the lock out manually before the door could close in order to keep it wedged open. The electronic lock gave a sharp beep to warn you that it had been left ajar, but beyond that, didn't set off any alarms or give any security warnings— so you decided to leave it so your brother could get inside on his own.
Taking another brief glance around the lobby area, you found little worth noting and opted to take the stairs immediately to your left rather than the elevator a few paces ahead.
The stairs were made of aged wood that creaked ominously with each step you took, but even so, you could feel their sturdiness, somehow having remained structurally sound even after years of use.
Upon reaching the top of the staircase, which landed you on the second floor, you stepped forward instead of continuing up, shoe planting firmly atop the heavily marred wood flooring that adorned the hallway.
From there, you took a right, reaching into your coat pocket as you walked all the way to the end of the hall, pulling your key out just as you made it to the door.
It was quiet, but not eerily so for a Tuesday at 10am, when you knew that almost everyone who lived in your complex was likely working or sleeping in. Still, you couldn't help but wish it were a little more populated around here, to help the sound of your footsteps feel a bit less loud in your ears if nothing else.
Sighing to yourself, you placed your key in the lock, turning it slowly before pushing the heavy wooden door open with a grunt, taking note of how weighty it felt beneath your palms.
"At least I'll know they worked for it if the murderer comes back for me too." You muttered under your breath, stepping in and placing a brick that was just inside between the door and its frame to keep it from closing.
It wasn't uncommon to see them used as doorstops around here, but in a brick stone building of this age, you couldn't help but worry that it had once been of some structural importance.
Still, you shrugged off the thought soon after it surfaced, pulling your coat closer around yourself as you began to survey your surroundings.
Sure, you'd toured the place just a little over two weeks back, but this was the very first time you'd ever been in it alone, and as you lingered in the stifling silence of your new home, you couldn't help but shiver a little.
At that, the question of your thermostat's location rose to mind, and you began taking small steps into the living area, until you found it on the wall beside the entrance to your hallway.
The landlord had warned you that the apartment ran cold (partially because of the poor sealing job done on the balcony doors, and partially because of the rather ancient heating system), but you increased the temperature on the thermostat nonetheless, mentally praying that it might bring the heat up a degree or two.
The soft ticking of the radiator located further down the same wall indicated to you that you had at least managed to do something regarding the chill, so you decided to take the little victory in stride and leave well enough alone for now.
You had a new apartment to explore alone for the very first time, after all.
Walking into the kitchen, you immediately set your bag down on top of the nearby counter, shimmying the accessory off your shoulder and leaning it against the wall, careful to ensure that nothing spilled out in the process.
After that you moved on to the old seventies style yellow fridge, sighing in relief when you pulled it open to reveal a pristine white interior that seemed to be sustaining a cool temperature without issue. This fact also remained true about the freezer located above it, so with that, you moved on to the cabinets, checking inside of each one to make sure that the previous tenant hadn't left anything behind.
Your thoughts regarding the man who had lived there before you drifted a bit as you continued your chore of checking all the wooden cabinets in the drafty kitchen, steering your mind back to the day of your tour, when your landlord, a man who’d introduced himself to you simply as “Mr. Ishida”, had informed you of the real reason that rent was so cheap in what would soon be your new apartment.
"So, before we go inside I am required to let you know that someone did pass away here a little under a year ago."
He'd said far too casually as he wedged the key into the lock, and if not for how desperate you were to get out of the place you’d been sharing with your ex, you probably would have called everything off right there. That said, you had long since grown tired of dealing with the awkwardness associated with trying to make your current living situation work, so if the only apartment in your price range that didn't require a roommate had its quirks, then so be it.
"The previous tenant?"
You’d asked curiously, stepping into the apartment after the man and taking a look around the naturally lit space, which allowed you to see the open concept kitchen and living room as well as the glass balcony doors.
"Yes.”
Mr Ishida had replied as nonchalantly as possible before he gestured to the hardwood floors adorning the entire open area that was visible to you.
"So, as you can see, I meant it when I said no carpet. There used to be a ton, but we removed it after the last tenant’s things were moved out. The floor is a little scratched up from the job, but we tried to make sure all of the staples were collected."
You stiffened a bit at the mention of the carpeting being ripped up recently, sticking your vaguely chilled hands into your pockets as you looked around the room.
"They look nice..."
You murmured, trying to remain as open minded as possible despite the strange topic of discussion.
"So the guy who lived here last… died in the apartment?”
You asked nervously, hoping to learn at least a little bit more about what had happened. With any luck, the cause may have even been something natural, like old age or disease.
The landlord had nodded in response to your query and walked over to the balcony doors, cracking them open and letting them swing inward in opposite directions as he motioned for you to follow him onto the concrete landing.
"That is correct. He was killed in the spare bedroom.”
You froze at that, eyes widening into saucers as you struggled not to gape at the man in front of you.
"You mean that the person who died here was murdered? By who?!”
You asked incredulously, watching in shock as your soon to be landlord simply nodded.
"Yes, he was murdered, but I don’t quite remember the killer’s name…”
He trailed off for a few moments as if deep in thought before speaking up again,
“Fu…”
He scowled subtly to himself, brows furrowing in obvious frustration as he tried to recall the name you’d asked him for.
“Fu… Fujiwara? Furukawa? It was something along those lines, and I’m sure it was in the news anyhow.” He made a gesture with his hand as if to brush off the topic, an ease to his words that left you wondering just what type of life one had to lead to appear so unaffected by death.
You shivered a bit at the thought, rubbing at your arms and making your way off the balcony and back into the apartment, which suddenly felt a lot less welcoming than before.
"Is uh, is the murder why the carpet was removed in here?" You asked hesitantly, gesturing vaguely toward the floor as the landlord raised a brow at your question, working to process it for a moment before a look of understanding came across his face, and he began shaking his head with a slight smile.
"Oh no, we really did just think it dated the place, all of the other vacant apartments got the same treatment." He began, making his way down the hall before he stopped suddenly at a doorway to his right, the room inside of which appeared to have the same view of outside as the balcony did.
"This is the spare bedroom. The previous tenant was using it as an office space because he liked the windowsill sitting area and needed a place to grade his student’s work. He was a teacher, although I don’t think I ever asked what he taught."
He paused for a moment, and before he even spoke, you already knew exactly what he was going to say.
You let him finish anyway.
"This is the room he passed away in, if you were wondering. We took the carpet out and had a forensic cleaning team deal with the rest before we decided to basically replace everything anyway. Even the cushion on the bench windowsill and a section of the wallpaper. It wasn’t pretty. I think the police said he’d been stabbed upwards of 20 times."
You nodded softly, feeling a dull nausea settle in the pit of your stomach.
"That's... good to know."
Mr. Ishida hummed, patting the side of the door frame before carrying on with the tour, showing you the bathroom, which consisted of a standing shower, a retro style baby blue toilet, and a vintage sink with a mirror cabinet mounted onto the wall above it.
You found it charming in an odd way, despite how clearly dated it was, and nodded when asked if you were ready to see the bedroom, which apparently had a bathroom of its very own attached to it.
Together, you walked to a door at the very end of the hall.
The owner reached forward to open it, and it swung gently inward with a soft creak before he pushed it further, stepping inside to reveal a rather large bedroom lit up entirely by the sun.
A great deal of the wall opposite you was windowed save for one solidly walled space in the center, where a bed was clearly meant to go. The windows had been frosted in a way that made them nearly impossible to see through from the outside, and you couldn't help but ogle at how clear they were from where you stood in spite of that.
You gave yourself a few more moments to appreciate the view of the street some fifteen to twenty feet below before you allowed the owner to guide you in the direction of the en suite bathroom, which to your surprise, was a lot less dated than the other one.
In this bathroom, rather than another standing shower, there was a claw-foot tub, which was as pristine of a white as the ceramic tiles beneath it. In addition to this, all of the metal that you could see was brass, from the claws of the tub to the faucets and even the radiator in the corner.
"This bathroom was touched up during the renovations too, the interior design guy said it would help bring the value up after everything that happened."
The landlord had explained, letting you look for a few seconds longer before you both started to make your way back out into the living area/kitchen and toward the front door.
The next time either of you spoke up again, you were standing out in the hallway just beyond the front door to the apartment.
“So, what do you think?” The man had asked, wasting no time in cutting right to the chase as he looked pointedly at his watch.
"It’s nice. Would it be alright for me to leave my renters application with you, or do you have somewhere else I should drop it off?" You asked, pulling out a manila folder from your purse as you spoke.
Something about the apartment, even in spite of its frankly terrifying past, just felt right to you.
It felt like home.
(Or, at least, more like home than the place you’d been living for the past several years).
The owner seemed surprised at your question, faltering for a few moments before he gave a polite nod and reached out to take the folder, offering you a slight smile as he began walking you to the elevator.
"Thank you for coming, I'll be in touch soon regarding your potential tenancy."
And that was it.
Or rather, it would have been it if not for the woman who stepped onto the landing of the stairway right across from the elevator door.
There wasn’t much about her that would have caught your eye, save for the way that she faltered when she saw you and the landlord standing there, pausing in her journey to the floor above your own.
Two little girls held on to each of her hands, blinking up in obvious confusion regarding the reason for their sudden halt.
The woman seemed to look back and forth between both you and the landlord several times, her gaze occasionally darting further down the hall in the direction you had just come from.
In the end, it was Mr. Ishida who broke the less than comfortable silence.
“Perfect timing.” He intoned, “I was just about to broach the subject of fellow tenants and noise complaints.”
The woman standing on the stairs rolled her eyes in reply, and you watched the way her hands tightened ever so slightly around those of the girls standing on either side of her.
However, if you had been expecting her to comment on the man’s statement, you were swiftly let down.
“You’re showing the apartment already?” She asked instead, a twinge of something that you almost wanted to define as anger evident in her tone.
If the landlord heard it, however, he certainly didn’t seem to care.
“I am. This is Ms. L/N, one of the potential tenants looking to move in on the first.”
He glanced toward you then, being sure to catch your eye before gesturing loosely toward the woman with a single hand,
“Ms. L/N, This is your would-be upstairs neighbor, Ms.-”
“Call me Itako.” The woman interrupted before the man could finish, remaining precisely where she had stopped upon the landing as she spoke. Her gaze was trained on you.
“All my friends do. And everyone else really.”
The man standing beside you seemed to bristle a bit at her impoliteness, but didn’t bother remarking on it.
Instead, he chose to carry on, a less than subtle edge that hadn’t been there before now evident in his tone.
“Yes, well, as I was saying— this woman here would be your upstairs neighbor should we approve your application.”
You watched as his eyes fell to the young girls at her side, narrowing ever so slightly,
“The children aren’t hers, but they are over quite often if the noise complaints I’ve received from other tenants are any indication. If you do end up moving in and should find yourself having any trouble, you can file a complaint with my wife at the number that would be provided on your lease.”
The woman standing before you— Itako— just nodded subtly in response, a look in her eye that told you she didn’t care very much about having been made an example of.
“The girls are good, but they’re only seven. Feel free to knock if you ever need us to shut up. We don’t bite.”
Her gaze shifted toward the door to the empty apartment you’d just toured before moving quickly back to the landlord.
“Did you look into that sound I told you about? The thumping?”
She asked, pausing briefly once in the middle of her questioning to mumble something softly to the girl on her left, who seemed to be growing antsy at the lack of entertainment to be found in an almost empty stairway.
Mr. Ishida just nodded, shifting the manila folder you’d handed him so it was wedged beneath his arm, allowing him to cross both in front of him, “I did. The electrician and the heating company that manages the radiators both said nothing was amiss, so there’s nothing to worry about.”
And while the man standing beside you spoke as if what he was saying was good news, the woman looked more than a little concerned; her eyes shifting once more to the door down at the end of the hall before they moved to the girls at her sides and remained there, brows furrowed and mouth tight at the corners.
“I see. Thank you for checking.”
She nudged the girls gently then, allowing the more eager of the two to all but drag her and what you assumed to be her sister up the next set of stairs. Still, as she went, her gaze found yours one final time as she offered a polite nod,
“It was nice meeting you. Good luck.”
And with that, she was gone— the stairs creaking above you serving as the only indication that she and the girls had ever even been there at all, until finally, even that faded into silence.
You had left shortly thereafter, trying not to think too hard about the strange interaction you’d had in the hallway as you began the lengthy journey back to the apartment you’d shared with your ex.
And soon enough, in the haze of packing and avoiding your less than friendly “roommate”, the awkward encounter was forgotten about entirely.
Three days later, the owner had called you with the good news, and told you that all he needed was a down payment and the first month's rent before you could basically move in whenever you pleased.
And now, here you were, two weeks post apartment tour, standing in the kitchen of your new place and checking the cabinets for any evidence of Satoru Gojo’s existence, as if he had moved out himself and potentially left something behind in the process.
You paused to consider that— wondering briefly whose job it was to move someone's things out in the event of their untimely demise— when suddenly, a vague blur of movement in your periphery caught your attention, and you turned to the right toward the living room and the hallway that connected to it.
There was nothing there.
Even still, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck rise, as if you were subconsciously aware of something you couldn’t quite see, but could almost feel the presence of…
As quietly as possible, you shut the cabinet door, taking a few small steps into the living area, scanning your surroundings all the while.
It was only a few seconds later, as you breached the divide between kitchen and living room— marked only by the shift from linoleum to wood— that you heard a sharp creaking sound from the direction of the hallway, which was to your left.
Heart pounding as you tried to make sense of what was going on, you swallowed thickly as you began to make your way closer to whatever the source of that sound was, halting entirely when you finally realized with a start where it had come from.
It was the first room to the right of you, the only room to the right of you in fact, and if your landlord had been telling the truth, it was also the room where the previous tenant had been murdered.
Cursing under your breath at the dread that was pooling deep in the pit of your belly, you forced yourself to move forward despite how terribly you wanted to pretend as if you'd never heard anything at all.
You peeked your head around the doorway slowly as you came upon it, fighting back a literal sigh of relief when you found it empty.
Still, the urge to know what had made that noise in the first place drove you forward, taking slow and cautious steps into the spare bedroom, eyes darting about the small space.
It was then you noticed that the window— the one next to the sitting sill— was open, swinging outward on its hinges and blowing gently in the wind.
Slowly and with a great deal of hesitance, you approached it, reaching for the cool metal handle and pulling it back in before latching it shut, noting with vague confusion the way that the metal pin slid firmly into the hook, leading you to wonder how it had managed to come undone in the first place…
Had Mr. Ishida opened it up earlier that morning? And if so, what had you heard a minute or so prior if not the sound of the hinge creaking with use?
You forced yourself to shrug off your own questions, reaching over to make sure the latch was firmly secured— only to notice a speck of red spattered on the windowsill.
You tilted your head curiously at the sight of it, leaning forward with squinted eyes in an attempt to get a better look. Hesitantly, you reached forward, running your thumb over the mark and taking note of the way it was slightly raised, like a drop of new paint sitting atop old lacquer.
You swallowed, not wanting to admit to yourself what the substance probably was, yet unable to stop your mind from wandering back to what had happened.
Had he been afraid? Did he know he was going to die before he did? Had the killer surprised him? How long had it taken before someone had noticed that he wasn’t leaving his apartment anymore?
You pondered these questions morbidly despite your best efforts to stop yourself, eyes fixated on that stain, until the feeling of a warm hand on your shoulder caused you to let out a rather unattractive yelp before you fell into the side of the seated window sill.
Standing there looking unamused and very nearly irritated (as was his default) was Ryomen “Sukuna” Itadori, your older step-brother (although it was rare you referred to him as such, opting instead to exclude “step” from his title after so many years of siblinghood).
"You left the building doors open, so I figured you wanted me to come up."
He explained gruffly, wide arms crossing over his chest as he turned his attention to the window, looking out of it as if searching for whatever had previously enraptured you so.
After seemingly coming up with nothing, he continued, red eyes finding yours and sternly holding your gaze,
"You good?"
Slowly, and with a bit of effort, you began to nod in the affirmative, forcing a smile until you yourself started to believe it and stood to face your brother with a somewhat nervous chuckle.
"Yeah.” You began, clearing your throat to rid your voice of the shakiness you could hear within it. “Yeah, I’m good, just freaked myself out is all. New house, new sounds, kinda thing."
Sukuna raised an eyebrow but didn't question you further, though he was no doubt thinking what you weren't willing to say— that someone had died in the place you now called home, and that the creepy feeling may not have had as much to do with sound as you were hoping it did.
Not quite prepared for that conversation at the moment, you clapped the tattooed giant on the shoulder as you walked past him, propping your apartment door open even further once you reached it.
"Come on Ryo, let's see how much furniture we can get up here before everyone else arrives. I bet Yuki twenty bucks that we could get the couch inside just fine without her haughty ass here to help."
Your older brother rolled his eyes at the mention of your constantly overzealous friend, but followed you over to the door regardless, exiting without hesitation even as you lingered for just a few more moments, watching curiously as a shadow seemed to briefly creep out from the doorway of the spare bedroom before disappearing entirely— as if someone had been standing in front of the window in there only to suddenly vanish into thin air.
"Hey shithead, are you gonna come help me, or are we trying to increase the size of Yuki's monster ego?"
Your curiosity regarding the situation at hand disappeared almost immediately, replaced by your perhaps too competitive spirit, which had you following Sukuna down the stairs and toward the moving truck without a second thought.
. . .
“Oh, and get this! When I asked the guy if he wanted a cigarette, he said yes at first, but then got all pissy when I pulled out a pack of Marlboros and asked if I had any Seven Stars instead! Can you believe that?!”
As the familiar sound of Yuki’s rambling filled your sparsely decorated living room, you and Choso made eye contact from where you each sat on either side of your coffee table— before promptly devolving into quiet laughter.
Leave it to Yuki to always find something to rant about, even during completely unrelated hangouts.
“I don’t blame ‘im.”
Sukuna grumbled from where he was sitting to your left, picking away at some of the black nail polish on one of his thumbs,
“No clue how you smoke that American junk. The filters on those things are complete shit, there’s nothing smooth about ‘em.”
Yuki shrugged,
“I like how they feel, plus I only smoke socially. ‘S not like I’m trying to form a habit like some people.” She mocked, tossing a purposeful look to your brother even as he rolled his eyes and flipped her off in return, the reminder of his bad habit already drawing him to stand, his hand in the left pocket of his hoodie where you knew he kept his pack of cigarettes and the lighter you’d bought him for Christmas four years prior.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
He grumbled, making his way over to the glass doors that made up the entrance to your porch and opening one before he leaned against the edge of the other and brought the bundle of tobacco, paper, and god knows what chemicals to his lips, lighting it soon after before holding the thing outside so the smoke didn’t flow indoors.
Across from you, Ijichi’s nose wrinkled at the faint smell of cigarette smoke, and you chuckled to yourself as Nitta rolled her eyes at his sensitivity from where she was seated beside him.
“You know, Kiyotaka, I have no clue how you work as a driver for one of the wealthiest families in the country while having an aversion to the smell of cigarettes.” She teased, causing the man to flush all the way up to his ears and cough awkwardly into his fist.
“The partition does a pretty good job of filtering things out.” He mumbled, shrugging his lanky shoulders as he spoke, “And the people who sign my checks tend to be more bearable if they have things like that available to them.”
You bit back a grimace, nodding in agreement as you reached behind you for the bottle of wine that sat just beyond the edge of the rug you’d spread out in the center of your living room earlier that evening.
Currently, all but two of you were sitting on the floor and forming a circle around your coffee table, which was surrounded by a mismatched yet charming set of furniture and sat atop a decorative rug. Not too far behind you was a couch (a gift from Sukuna), several feet to your left a loveseat, and then equidistant from the couch in the opposite direction, a chair, which Yuki was currently draped across, legs dangling over the armrest.
“You could say that again.” You muttered mostly to yourself, knowing all too well just how irate certain members of the family Ijichi worked for could become if they didn’t have immediate access to whatever it was that they wanted at any given moment.
After all, you’d dated one of them for three whole years.
Trying not to think too hard about that fact, you held up the bottle of wine to your friends, swirling it back and forth inside its glass receptacle.
"Anyone else need a refill?” You asked, moving a bit closer to your coffee table to pour some of the overly sweet pink moscato (your brother’s favorite, even if he would never admit it) into your nearly empty glass.
Sheepishly, Ijichi pushed his own cup (a mug, punishment for the time a year and a half ago where he’d been the cause of three broken wine glasses in one month) closer, and wordlessly, Uraume, who had rather characteristically remained silent throughout the discussion of vices, did the same.
You filled both of their glasses before splitting the remainder between Sukuna and Yuki, who would no doubt have ended up fighting for it otherwise once one of them noticed that the second and final bottle of the night was dwindling.
A comfortable silence filled the room for several long moments, the only sounds being that of Ijichi’s quiet sipping from his mug (the words ‘Mug Jail’ appropriately emblazoned on the side), and Sukuna’s final deep inhale off his cigarette before he crushed out the embers and carelessly shoved it into his pocket.
You took your own sip of wine alongside Ijichi before breaking the silence,
"Thanks again for being here today you guys, it really does mean a lot.”
And even though it was probably the fifth or sixth time you’d said so, it still didn’t feel like enough.
You drew in a deep and slightly shaky breath before continuing,
"When Naoya and I broke up, I wasn't sure what was gonna come next for me. I had nowhere to go but the shittiest spare bedroom he had to offer for a price that basically had me trapped for two whole months before I found this place.”
Sukuna scowled at that, stepping fully inside and shutting the night out before he made his way back over to the coffee table, the joints in his knees popping as he lowered himself to sit beside you once more.
“Shoulda told me sooner that you were willing to move away from Kyoto.” He grumbled, reaching for his glass, “I woulda let you crash at my place until you found something else.”
All around the table, people nodded in agreement (save for Ijichi, who, of course, would have gladly let you stay with him if not for the fact that he literally worked for your ex’s family and would have likely had a lot to answer for if they found out about it).
“Totally,” Yuki drawled from the chair, sitting up slightly to actually look at you as she spoke, “My place is big as hell too, I could’ve given you your own bathroom and everything…”
She trailed off at that, pouting for a few moments before she seemed to brighten up, shooting you one of her trademark winks,
“Still could. Offers always open, babe.”
You opened your mouth to assure her that you were all set (for what was probably the one millionth time that month alone), only to find yourself being cut off by a quiet voice that you knew abundantly well.
“It’s true.” Uraume noted, their eyes meeting yours from where they were sitting beside Choso,
“Choso and I even talked about buying a futon so you could stay with us if you needed to.”
From beside them, your pigtail wearing friend nodded,
“We always did say we’d get a place together after Uraume and I were done with college.”
He reminded you, lips curved upward in that ceaselessly kind smile that you’d been thanking your lucky stars for since childhood, when the three of you had all become fast friends due to living on the same street.
You laughed off the feeling of fullness that was forming in the back of your throat, hoping that no one would call out the way that your eyes were beginning to grow teary.
“Yeah well,” You mumbled, “It was sort of embarrassing, you know? I introduced every one of you except for Kiyotaka to this asswipe, wasted over three miserable years with him where he made me do nearly all of the housework and treated me like an idiot— and then when I finally came to my senses and dumped him, I couldn’t even move out.”
You scoffed at yourself, unable to meet anyone’s gaze as you continued,
“I didn’t want to admit that staying there for so damn long even after we split up wasn’t really a choice on my part. I tried to convince myself that it was, and for a while that worked, but by the time I came to terms with how I really felt, I’d already been staying in that stupid spare room of his for a month, and I felt like such an idiot for letting myself live in that situation that I didn’t want to explain it to anyone out loud.”
From where she was sitting across from you, Nitta frowned, reaching over the table to rest her hand atop of your own.
“Naoya’s a spoiled little prick, and there wasn’t one second of your relationship where he deserved you.”
Sukuna gave a grunt of agreement, gently nudging your leg with his own in a quiet show of support as he drank from his glass once more.
After letting her words sink in for a few seconds, Nitta continued,
“Any one of us would have been happy to help you get out of there no matter what situation you were in, because to be honest, having to see that freak every single time we wanted to hang out with you felt like capital punishment.”
You laughed at that, tears spilling down your cheeks as the sound burst forth past your lips.
Sitting in the living room of your new place with six of your closest friends, it all felt sort of surreal.
Here was Sukuna, who had known you since before you could walk— your brother not by blood but by something else entirely, something deeper and far less fickle than that.
Here were Choso and Uraume, who you’d met all the way back in your preschool days after your mothers had become fast friends during a pool party that Uraume’s parents had thrown.
Here was Nitta, who you’d met in middle school after her delinquency at a local private institution had gotten her kicked out and enrolled at your public school instead.
Here was Yuki, who you’d met on one of the worst days of your life back when you were eighteen, sitting on the steps of the hospital that your mother had just been pronounced dead in, unable to contact your long estranged step-father, and waiting for someone to get there and tell you that it would somehow all be okay. She’d sat with you for almost two hours until Jin’s incredibly boring SUV had peeled into the parking lot and both of your brothers had rushed to your side, one slightly slower than the other due to the pink haired kindergartener he’d been helping out of the back seat.
And here was Ijichi, who you’d met a little over three years ago during your very first date with Naoya Zenin, when you and him had talked for over an hour about your favorite movies after the same man who had asked you out in the first place had ended up leaving you to wait in the car while he talked at length with his father about something pertaining to his grades.
You were free of the stuffy men in suits who would come by the place you’d once called home, of the distasteful looks thrown your way during Zenin family gatherings, of the asshole who had never been taught how to cook or clean for himself— you were free of it all and finally had your own place once more, the people at your side now a testament to how full life could feel when you weren’t being suffocated by a man with an ego about the same size as his enormous head.
At the sight of your tears, Choso frowned from where he was sitting on the other side of the table, tone soft yet tinged with a subtle frustration as he spoke up,
"Honestly, I think we all feel lucky that you even want to keep us around after most of us chose not to say anything for so long. Zenin was absent, and took you for granted constantly— if I could go back in time and warn you sooner, I would."
Seeing how truly apologetic your friend clearly felt, you were quick to shake your head, reaching across the table with your free hand to squeeze one of his own.
"I had to do it on my own." You assured him.
"There wasn't anything you could've said. I was completely in denial about how little he cared for me until the very end, and even then it wasn't until after the breakup that I learned how easily he could turn on someone that he used to claim to love..."
You trailed off as you looked over to the cat bed in the corner of the living room beside the glass doors.
There was a cat bed in every room, even the spare bedroom in spite of how much it creeped you out— just in case Naoya ever let you bring your best friend home instead of keeping her trapped with him.
Nitta, having noticed where your gaze had fallen, piped up,
"We're going to get Kaiya back." She promised.
Immediately Sukuna nodded, “Damn right we are.”
His hands clenched into fists as he continued, and you found yourself grateful for the fact that he was no longer holding a wine glass,
“If you’d told me he wasn’t letting you take her while we were still over at his place, I would have punched the little freak’s lights out. If he doesn’t come to his senses soon, then maybe a trip to the hospital will help him with that.”
He cracked his knuckles as if to emphasize his statement, and immediately you reached over to put a hand upon his shoulder.
“Chill out, Ryo. I’d prefer to keep you out of prison, if possible.”
Your brother scowled in response to your teasing comment, shooting you a glare that held no real heat behind it.
"Kaiya is your cat— you had her for three years before you and that shithead even started dating. The only way he’s keeping her is if I end up in a casket."
You nodded in response, taking a deep breath before letting the stress of the day go to the best of your ability, wanting to spend these next few hours having fun with your friends again for the first time since your breakup had halted most hangouts.
There was silence for a few moments before Yuki spoke up,
"Okay so where did we end up putting the party games in this joint? Because I am so ready to kick Uraume's ass at Cards Against Humanity tonight."
You laughed at that, raising a brow at the aforementioned reigning champ, who simply shrugged, a subtle grin tugging at the corners of their lips.
. . .
By the time everyone was leaving, it was 1:30 am, and the group was thoroughly exhausted after the long day of moving and unpacking.
"Thanks again for coming guys."You yawned out as you held the door open, matching their smiles as they left for the evening. "Come back soon, okay?"
Everyone vocalized their agreement, promising to plan out another game night soon before they all walked down the hallway.
Heading out onto the balcony, you shivered at the chilly fall air, but watched nonetheless as everyone got into their respective vehicles.
Choso (one of two designated drivers for that evening) got into the moving truck that Sukuna had rented, ushering his roommate and your brother, who lived across the hall from them, into what would no doubt be a crowded cab. Meanwhile, Yuki, Ijichi, and Nitta piled into Yuki’s sleek black convertible (which would be in dire need of a roof reattachment soon if the weather was any indication) with Nitta in the driver’s seat.
Everyone beeped their horns at you as they drove off in the same direction, heading deeper into the city where they all lived (or, in Ijichi’s case, would be staying for the night).
It was only once everyone was gone, the warm smog from their cars’ exhaust pipes rising up and becoming as invisible as their fading taillights, that you stepped back inside and closed the balcony doors tight behind you.
It was time for your least favorite part of hosting a gathering— the aftermath.
Walking into the kitchen, you made quick work of boxing up the leftover pizza that Nitta had insisted you deserved, scoffing when you opened the fridge to set it inside and noticed four of your brother’s favorite beers sitting inside the door.
At your very first apartment, he had done the same thing, wordlessly inserting evidence of himself into your home as if it might bring one of you (namely him) comfort to know it was there.
Still, the only two things in your fridge being pizza and beer on night one wasn’t exactly a classy look (not that anything about living in an apartment that someone had been murdered in screamed classy).
Rolling your eyes at your older sibling’s antics, you stepped back from the refrigerator, allowing the door to swing shut on its own as you turned your attention to the sink.
You were already finding yourself grateful for the fact that Nitta had thought to bring paper plates and plastic utensils for everyone there on your first night, because all that awaited you within the stainless steel basin were a few used wine glasses, some regular cups, and, of course, Ijichi’s wine mug.
Washing and drying those was a simple task, robotic and habitual in a way that was almost soothing.
Maybe it was just the feeling of being free from the man who had obnoxiously depended on you without even a shred of respect in return, or perhaps just the fact that you were finally in your own space again, but even something so mundane as doing the dishes seemed to fly by in your new place.
Soon enough, you found yourself turning off the faucet, drying cloth returned to its designated spot before you opened up the cabinet you’d decided earlier in the day would be for cups.
One mug, two regular glasses, and 4 wine glasses later, you were reaching up to return the final wine glass to its rightful place in the cupboard when you were suddenly shaken by that same sharp sound from earlier, creaking out high and clear in your otherwise soundless apartment.
You nearly jumped out of your skin at the unexpected sound, letting out a (admittedly pretty embarrassing) shriek of fear as the glass you’d been holding tumbled out of your grasp and crashed off the edge of the counter, spraying glass everywhere.
You pressed your hand against your chest, eyes squeezed shut for several long moments as you fought to catch your breath.
And when you finally did open them, the sight that greeted you was far from pleasant.
Glass littered your kitchen, scattered across your countertops and even your stove, glinting in a deceptively pretty manner beneath the low yellow light of the room.
Sighing, you set out to find where Uraume had put your miniature hand broom and dust pan set after having used both earlier in the evening.
Thankfully enough, this venture didn’t take too long, and you found both nestled together and hanging on a hook inside your pantry.
For the next fifteen minutes, you worked carefully to sweep glass from your countertops, stove, and floor, silently thanking whatever god might be watching that you had already put the pizza away, lowering your chances of accidentally eating glass for breakfast the following morning.
And yet, once the cleanup effort appeared to be behind you, the glass shards you’d swept up discarded in the garbage to become a problem for future you, it still somehow wasn’t quite time for you to finally settle in.
No, because the chill spreading throughout your home was far too uncomfortable to ignore, and you had a distinct feeling that you knew exactly where it was coming from.
The spare bedroom window.
Cursing under your breath, you flicked on the hallway light switch before making your way toward the room in question— except when you finally did get there and attempted to turn on that light as well, you found that it no longer worked.
"Seriously?" You muttered under your breath, your feigned annoyance little more than a disguise for the fear you felt rapidly quickening the pace of your heart.
Still, the late fall chill demanded your attention as it poured in through what you could now confirm was a very open window, urging you onward despite your increasing discomfort.
Moving ever closer to that wide pane of glass as it shifted slightly upon its hinges in a thankfully gentle breeze, you shuddered at what you told yourself was the cold— your knee finding the plush fabric of the pillow that graced the benched window seat as you reached outward to pull the open window shut once more.
You secured the latch as firmly as you could manage before standing up, finding relief in the forgone feeling of autumn wind in your hair— delicate as it may have been.
That said, the absence of the chill you’d been enduring previously did little to ease the shiver that raced down your spine.
It almost felt like someone was watching you as you stood all alone in that cold room, the inky nature of the darkness seeming to deepen the longer that you took it all in, as if your eyes were adjusting in reverse.
Your mind screamed at you to flee no matter how ridiculous it may have been to consider doing so in your own home— the urge to leave well enough alone causing your fingertips to twitch as if your body could scarcely wait to make a hasty exit.
And yet, stubborn as that fearful little primate part of your brain was, you couldn’t bring yourself to give in. Three years of discomfort in your last home had been plenty.
So, even though you couldn’t quite bring yourself to actually believe that someone was there in some shadowed corner of the room, you spoke up anyway.
"Look, if this is the guy who died here, I'm going to have to ask you to quit it with the window opening. It's cold as hell outside, and I don't want to pay extra for heat just because you want to play a game of unlatch the window."
At that, you began walking toward the open doorway, pausing once to add,
"And if you absolutely have to open it, don't do it at night. I almost pissed myself."
And with that said and done, you made your way to the bedroom, where, despite your brave words and the knowledge that there was almost certainly no ghost in your apartment, you immediately locked the door behind you.
Heart still hammering a bit from the previous scare, you were quiet as you got ready for bed, brushing your teeth and changing into a familiar set of pajamas as quickly as possible, all too ready to put the day behind you in hopes that it had somehow all been a fluke, and that the mysteriously opening window and the shadow from earlier on in the day had some obvious explanation that only a good night's rest could provide you.
But if that was the case, you weren't about to get it.
Fruitlessly, you tossed and turned about all night, falling into bout after bout of fitful sleep as nightmares plagued your ailing mind.
The sound of tires screeching on pavement, a cat yowling somewhere distant, familiar voices calling your name, and persistent sobbing all flitted throughout your thoughts, until finally, you shot upright in bed for the final time at 7:08am on a Wednesday morning.
Groaning as you got up, eyes still bleary with sleep and wounded by pervasive sunlight, you made a beeline for the bedroom door, opening it before immediately walking into the far dimmer hallway, which was lit solely by the windows lining your bedroom wall, and the windows lining the balcony door in the living room, both of which allowed light to pour in from either end.
If you had been more awake, you might have noticed that the door to your bedroom was no longer locked— but with your mind still so groggy with restless sleep, you didn't think anything of it, and instead went to grab the only thing you could for breakfast: a cold piece of pizza.
Sighing, you opened your dishware cabinet, fighting back another groan when you noticed how high up and far back Yuki had placed your plates.
That girl really didn't have a mean bone in her body (well, at least not where you were concerned), but she definitely wasn't the most cognizant of others' personal struggles.
Like how you could in no way reach those plates without a boost.
Grumbling to yourself about how it was way too early for this shit, you placed both hands firmly on the counter to hoist yourself up, only to hiss in pain as you yanked your left hand away as if you’d thrust it upon fiery hot coals.
"Motherfucker!"
You shouted, turning your palm upward only to be met with a gruesome sight.
There, lodged in the center of your hand, was a piece of glass about the size of your pinky nail— and it hurt like a bitch.
Not bothering to ruminate over how you could have possibly missed a piece of glass that big while cleaning up the night before, you rushed to the bathroom in the hallway, yanking open the mirrored cabinet to find your bandages and a set of tweezers that you were almost certain Nitta had left upon realizing you didn't have any yesterday, because of course she carried tweezers around with her in case of emergencies.
Yanking the two supplies out of the medicine cabinet, you briefly let your eyes search for anything else you might need, noting the peroxide and alcohol wipes sitting toward the end of the middle row.
I cleaned this cup right before I broke it, there's no reason it should be dirty.
Your injured brain insisted, and you quickly moved to close the cabinet door, having decided that you wanted this to be over with far too badly to bother properly tending to your wound.
But then,
"Yeah you're gonna wanna clean that."
You startled slightly as a voice you had never heard before spoke from what sounded like the left of you— though a quick glance in that direction yielded nothing of note.
What the fuck was going on? Had the stress of moving finally caused you to lose your mind?
You groaned as you grabbed the alcohol wipes and peroxide out of the cabinet as quickly as you could before all but slamming the mirrored door shut. You then lined everything up on the counter, sat yourself down on the closed toilet lid, and got to work.
"Shit."
You muttered to yourself as you began attempting to use the tweezers to pull the glass shard out of your hand, the pain causing your fingers to shake as you wiggled at the piece to dislodge it, brain clouded by pain and the surprise of an unexpected injury so early in the morning.
"Jeez, don't twist the thing, just pull it straight out. Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to take a splinter out before?"
There was that voice again, this time from your right, but you didn't even bother to look over this time, firmly believing that it was all in your head, some sort of coping mechanism for the pain that was radiating throughout your injured palm.
You did as the voice said, pulling the piece straight out (albeit a bit unsteadily) before sighing in relief, dropping the glass shard and the pair of tweezers onto the bathroom counter with a soft clatter, smearing the pristine surface with a shade of red that stuck out vibrantly against the white.
Finally finished, you used an alcohol wipe, fighting back tears at the sting of it before forcing yourself to use the peroxide as well just to be safe.
You watched the cut bubble as you poured the liquid onto it, just as you continued to do little by little until the reaction ceased, at which point you were finally able to dry off your hand and apply a bandage to help staunch the bleeding (or at least to make it harder to see, if nothing else).
Sighing, you leaned your head back against the wall, injured hand hanging limp at your side as you tried to catch your breath.
In reality, it had only been a few minutes, but that whole ordeal had felt like it had taken hours, a feeling that was no doubt exacerbated by the poor sleep you’d gotten the night before.
So poor, in fact, that you began to doze off without even realizing, chin falling to your chest as your eyelids fluttered shut…
Until suddenly, you were snapped back into a sense of awareness by a persistent knocking sound.
Drowsily, you looked around the bathroom for the source, only to realize with a start that you weren’t going to find one in there, because the sound was coming from your front door.
Groaning with effort, you heaved your tired body up, and, still donning your pajamas, made your way to the front door, just barely containing the urge to shout to the person beyond it that you were coming and they therefore didn’t have to wake up the whole building with their incessant hammering.
You made quick work of both the deadbolt and the chain lock upon your arrival, swinging the door open with no warning to the person who was still knocking on the other side.
And suddenly, you found yourself wishing that you would’ve thought to check the peephole first.
Because standing in your doorway was Naoya Zenin— your ex boyfriend— with that obnoxiously haughty air about him and a cat carrier in hand.
His eyes gave you a once over before he rolled them about inside his skull, a less than subtle scoff falling past his lips.
“It took you that long to answer the door and you don’t even look presentable?” He asked, wearing that same look of disgust that you’d come to know so well throughout the course of your three-year-long relationship.
“Naoya." You said, trying not to let how shaken up you were at just the sight of him show, “How did you get this address?”
The man in front of you simply rolled his eyes again as if you were an idiot for asking.
“Kamo gave it to me.” He informed you icily, and the way he’d spat out the last name of your best friend made your skin crawl.
Naoya had never liked Choso, not even for one second of your relationship, no matter how many times you’d begged him to actually get to know the man (or literally any of your friends, for that matter).
“The fool took ages to actually give it to me, but relented when I agreed not to just show up unannounced.”
You stared up at your ex blankly, expression wholly unamused.
“So what do you call this then?” You asked, gesturing around yourself as if to emphasize the situation.
The heir to the Zenin family fortune scoffed, and if not for the cat carrier in his hand you were certain he’d be dramatically crossing his arms over his chest in that same way he always had.
“You have me blocked, remember?” He countered, flicking his head to the side to keep his bangs out of his eyes,
“And besides, I couldn’t care less what promises I made to your insipid friend, I’m just here to drop off your ridiculous cat so I can finally be rid of you.”
And with that, he reached out to all but shove the cat carrier into your arms, lips curling upward ever so slightly as he watched you struggle to steady yourself.
Still, that smirk soon faded into a frown as he seemed to recall something,
“Now tell your neanderthal of a step-brother to leave me alone. If he contacts me again, burner phone or no burner phone, I’ll have him arrested and back in prison by the end of the night.”
Now it was your turn to roll your eyes.
“Ryomen has never been in prison, Naoya.” You corrected for what felt like the one millionth time. “But fine. I’ll let him know that you brought Kaiya home. I’m sure he doesn’t have any more desire to deal with you than you do him.”
“Good, because if I have to come back to this disgusting building to inform you of his behavior again, I won’t be so kind as to buzz in— I’ll just contact whatever slumlord owns this place and make sure he knows exactly how troublesome his tenant is when he comes to unlock the door.”
At that, you faltered, mouth going dry.
“Buzz in?” You asked, tone cracking with disbelief.
And in response, Naoya shot you a glare, finally crossing his arms over his chest in that very same way you knew he would.
“Oh please, there’s no need to act more obtuse than you already are.” Your ex bit out through pearly white and perfect teeth, “You know full well that I used that ridiculous buzzer to get inside, you’re the one who let me in.”
Immediately you shot a glance at the device that was mounted to the wall beside your door, which your landlord had explained the workings of over the phone the day before.
Your brow creased in confusion as you wondered how on earth Naoya had gotten into the complex without the help of your landlord if you’d never even known he’d attempted to buzz in at all— much less granted him access.
Still, eager to get the man away from you as expeditiously as possible, you pushed any questions about the odd circumstances from your mind.
After all, you had a cat to worry about.
“Whatever.” You said tersely,
“I’d say thank you for bringing my cat home, but you were literally holding her hostage, so I think I’ll stick with a simple fuck you.”
You could’ve sworn you saw your Naoya’s eye twitch at that, his hands clenching into fists where he had dropped them to his sides.
And there was that look of complete and utter disgust again, back with a vengeance this time.
“I have no idea what I ever saw in you.” The blond spat, immediately turning on his heel to walk away, determined to have the last word just as he had throughout the entirety of your relationship.
Except this time, you didn’t let him.
“Likewise, asshole.”
And before he could even think to retort, you slammed your front door shut, wincing a bit once the rush wore off and mentally apologizing to your poor neighbors.
Still, there was at least one thing to celebrate, and as you rounded the couch you couldn't help but smile at the cat lying down inside of the gray carrier held in front of you.
Setting the heavy plastic on the floor, you opened up the metal door slowly, wanting to let her come out at her own pace— but almost as soon as it was open, your sweet Kaiya was calmly walking out toward the couch, rubbing her brown head against your hands as you knelt down in front of her, beyond relieved to have her home.
After all, you'd had her since she was a three year old stray that the previous tenant of your old rental duplex had been feeding prior to you moving in.
It had started off as you just giving her food, but soon enough you were inviting her inside as well, where she had eventually retired her outdoor cat status in favor of staying with you.
She was a beautiful little lady, even now at eight, which was when most cats tended to grow a little lax with their self grooming. She was entirely chestnut brown in color, with two stunning yellow eyes and an adorable pink nose.
Before Kaiya, you had never seen an all brown cat before, and you could still remember how shocked you'd been to hear she was a stray from your neighbor.
You smiled down at her as you recalled the fond memories of some of your first interactions, lowering your head so she could rub her soft face against yours, easing your mind of any and all troubles almost instantly.
"I missed you so much, sweet girl."
As you spoke, you reached out to pet her— only to falter when she bristled, staring straight past you.
Fighting the urge to turn around for the second time that morning, you ran a hand down her back, smoothing down her slightly raised fur as you spoke.
"It's alright Kaiya, there's nobody else he-"
"Okay, so I'm kind enough to buzz that guy in for you while you incorrectly treat your wounds, and this is how you repay me? By forcing me to live with a cat?"
You shrieked, falling to the side as you turned toward where the voice had come from, only to see an ever so slightly translucent man standing beside your couch with his arms crossed.
"What the— who the hell are you?!"
You shouted, watching as the corner of the man’s lips quirked upward, intensely blue eyes almost seeming to shine with amusement,
"What, you can't guess?"
You shook your head emphatically, hoping that you would wake up from this strange dream soon.
The man sighed in response to your insistence, and raised a brow at you as if you were more than a little dumb for not figuring it out yourself.
"I'm Gojo Satoru. You know, the guy who died here?”
series taglist: @gojoswaterbottle, @izumkay, @travelerth, @rikhotta, @syrsarte
