Summary - Sukuna spent years building the future he thought you deserved. You spent those same years quietly supporting him and his brothers, Choso and Yuji. Somewhere between success, sacrifice, and unspoken words, he forgot to cherish what he already had. By the time he realizes that home was never the penthouse or the company, you're already gone.
Tags - Yearning Sukuna, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Established Relationship, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Relationship Problems, Temporary Breakup, Happy Ending (Eventually), Protective Sukuna, Soft Sukuna, Sukuna Has Feelings, Whipped Sukuna, No Cheating, Eventual Reconciliation, Choso & Yuji are Sukuna's younger brothers, non-sorcerers au, slight cursing, Taking Someone for Granted, Sukuna is down bad, Whipped Sukuna, Sukuna losing his mind with regret.
Word count - 6.6k
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You had been there for Sukuna since college. Back when everyone thought he was the biggest asshole on campus, until you realized just how much responsibility he was carrying all alone. Responsibility that was never supposed to be his in the first place. When you first approached him, he reminded you of a wild cat. Angry. Hissy. Ready to scratch anyone who came too close. But deep down... he never really wanted you to leave.
So you didn't.
Slowly, he began trusting you. He started opening up, little by little, and then one day he introduced you to his younger brothers. Choso and Yuji. You adored them instantly, and they welcomed you with tiny, shy smiles that completely melted your heart. Then eventually, with flushed cheeks and slightly trembling hands, Sukuna asked you to be his girl. All that time, you had been convinced you were the only one with a crush on him, so hearing those words felt almost unreal.
His parents had never cared about any of them and had left the three brothers to fend for themselves. Sukuna had been forced to grow up far too early, taking responsibility for Yuji and Choso while he was still just a kid himself. Even in college, he was juggling three jobs just to make ends meet while trying his best not to lose his scholarship. He never had much time back then, but somehow, no matter how exhausted he was, he never forgot about you.
You, on the other hand, came from a wealthy family. Sukuna was never the kind of person who would accept financial help, so you practically had to force him to move into your apartment just so he could stop wasting money on rent. It wasn't even yours to begin with. Your grandmother had gifted it to you. Once he finally gave in, it slowly stopped feeling like two people sharing a place. You felt like you had become a family.
You knew how important his work was to him so you helped him take care of his younger brothers, while also helping Sukuna get his business off the ground until he finally started attracting investors, business partners and greater opportunities. Then, slowly, the business began to grow. He had become someone people wanted to know and impress.
The more successful he became, the busier he got. You tried to understand it but then there were moments, when it felt like you were no longer a part of his world. Slowly the lack of time, efforts and assurance turned your relationship bitter. At one point you couldn't even remember the last time the two of you had laughed together or simply enjoyed each other's company. You guys barely even talked and when you did, they turned into fights. Constantly for months now.
He was always busy with work, meetings, and events, while more and more women kept throwing themselves at him. You understood he couldn't control that part, but it still pissed you off because he reacted like it was no big deal. Like you were overreacting. He used to get visibility irritated when some tried to hit on him before but now it was difficult to recognise him at times. Somewhere along the way, those frustrations slowly turned into suspicions. Were all those business trips really about work? Was there someone else? Did he still love you?
You watched the way women looked at him, with obvious desire in their eyes, not caring that you were standing right there beside him. And honestly you couldn't even blame them. Sukuna was attractive. Painfully so. Tall, handsome, successful, confident, and carrying himself with the kind of quiet authority that naturally drew people's attention the moment he walked into a room. It was almost impossible not to notice.
Some wore polite smiles. Others barely acknowledged your existence. But a few... a few looked at you with that same mocking smile, like they couldn't understand why someone like you was standing next to someone like him. Like you were some naïve little girl who had somehow ended up with a man completely out of her league.
And every single time it happened, a small part of you deep down had started wondering the same thing.
The doubts only seemed to grow stronger. Women - investors, business partners, assistants - kept messaging him, sometimes even late at night. Other times when he would step outside to answer a call, and you couldn't help overhearing a little, he didn't sound annoyed.
If anything, he sounded interested. Or maybe just amused. Like he was playing hard to get. He had changed a lot. And maybe his feelings changed.
It wasn't really his fault... was it?
You had helped him through some of the hardest years of his life. Maybe he stayed because he felt guilty about leaving you, even if deep down he wanted to. At first, the two of you fought all the time, but these past few weeks... even that had stopped. The silence between you had become cold, almost as if neither of you thought the relationship was worth fighting for anymore.
And then he forgot your anniversary. He never even realized it. Or if he did... he didn't seem guilty enough to bring it up.You never reminded him.What was the point? He would've probably shown up with some ridiculously expensive gift, thinking money could fix what had been broken for months. It couldn't.
You had spent years helping raise Sukuna's younger brothers, putting yourself and your own career second because you wanted to help all of them. You missed the girl you were back in college. The girl who was ambitious, who genuinely loved the work she did, who woke up excited for the future. Somewhere along the way, life became everyone else first and you somewhere at the very end. And now you were just tired.
But it was not just Sukuna who had changed. Even Yuji and Choso had.
Choso had always been the shy one. The kind of kid who practically hovered around you but hid behind you whenever someone new spoke to him. At first, you kept telling yourself that maybe he was just growing up. College changed people. He was probably busy trying to find his own friends and his own place in the world.
Yuji was easier to explain too. He was a teenager now. Teenagers changed. They stopped clinging to people and became more independent. That's what you kept telling yourself anyway. But no matter how many excuses you came up with, that strange feeling never really went away. Both of them had slowly become distant.
Yuji, who used to cling to your arm, scold Sukuna on your behalf whenever you two fought, and refuse to let you leave the house without hugging him first, had become someone who barely spoke more than three words to you. He still smiled politely whenever you crossed paths, but that was all they were now. Polite smiles. The kind you gave strangers.
Choso wasn't much different. He no longer hovered around you or quietly followed you into the kitchen just to keep you company while you cooked. Instead, it almost felt like he was avoiding you. At first, you thought maybe you were overthinking it. Then one afternoon, you overheard him talking to a few of his college friends. They were talking about you.
"I mean... she's lucky. Sukuna's loaded now. Must be nice living off all that money while he works day and night."
You paused and waited.
You knew Choso would say something. He knew better than anyone that you had been there long before Sukuna ever had money. So you waited for him to correct them. To defend you. Instead there was silence. Your heart sank. He didn't agree but he didn't disagree either. And somehow, that hurt just as much.
Did Choso think that too? Was that why he had been avoiding you? Not because he was shy anymore, but because he genuinely didn't like you? It suddenly hit you that maybe they had all changed. You had just refused to accept it. You had fed them, helped them with their homework, cleaned up after them, worried about them, celebrated their birthdays, and loved them like they were your own. But what were you to them now? Just some girl living off Sukuna's money? A nanny? A convenience?
You kept telling yourself Choso was just busy with college, trying to find his people, while Yuji was simply acting like every teenager did. Until one afternoon, when you came back from the supermarket. The three of them were sitting together in the living room, eating, laughing, and joking around. They hadn't noticed you standing at the front door yet, your arms full of grocery bags, but something inside you broke that day because, for the first time in months, you saw them laughing the way they used to.
Just...Not with you.
You stood there for a few seconds before finally stepping inside. The laughter stopped almost immediately. The room fell silent, and it felt like a stranger had just walked into a private conversation instead of coming home. Like you no longer belonged there. The only person who spoke was Sukuna.
"There's dinner for you in the oven."
You simply nodded before making your way straight to your bedroom.
You knew you had to talk to Sukuna. You had been putting it off for months, but this couldn't continue anymore. Except... he never came to your room that night. A quiet chuckle escaped your lips as you lay down on the bed. When was the last time the two of you had even gone to sleep together peacefully? Most nights ended in arguments, while the rest ended with him staying in his office until he eventually fell asleep there instead.
As you stared at the ceiling, you remembered something Shoko had told you months ago when the two of you had met. You're doing wife duties while you're still just the girlfriend.It never ends well. Back then, you hadn't listened. Because back then they needed you.
But people changed, and maybe the biggest thing you had failed to realize was that you weren't actually family. You were just convenient. And now that they didn't need you anymore, you couldn't help but feel like a burden more than ever. Sleep never came that night. Sukuna and you barely even felt like you were in a relationship anymore. As difficult as it was to admit, maybe his feelings really had changed. His circle had grown. His world had grown. Deep down, he probably knew he'd be better off with someone else.
Just when you finally gathered the courage to talk to Sukuna, he walked into the bedroom.
"I have to leave now," he said, already reaching for his suitcase. "Business trip."
You simply nodded. He disappeared back out to finish packing when his phone, which he had left on the bed, lit up with a notification.
A woman's name..
She was just one of those women. One of the many who seemed to cling to Sukuna even more whenever you were around, acting as if they knew him better than you did. The conversation would always somehow drift towards business, investors, meetings, and deals, leaving you standing there feeling like an outsider in your own relationship. Then there were the little things. The way her hand always seemed to linger on his arm a little longer than necessary. The way she stood just a little too close. The smiles that almost felt intentional, like she was trying to send you a message without ever saying a word. But she wasn't the only one. There had been others. Too many for you to even remember their names.
‘Let's meet at the same hotel after the meeting.’
Before you could even process what you had read, Sukuna walked back into the room and immediately picked up his phone. It was quick. Almost instinctive. Like he was hiding something.
You didn't feel angry. You didn't even feel like asking him to explain. You had done that before. Every single time it ended the same way. Another fight. Another argument about how you were overthinking things. How you were reading too much into it. How you just needed to trust him.
But you did not trust him anymore. Not after everything had changed. You remembered how he used to get irritated whenever another woman openly flirted with him. Now, it almost felt like he enjoyed it. And you were tired of wondering. Tired of convincing yourself that nothing had changed when everything around you said otherwise.
There were plenty of women interested in him. Women with influence. Women with powerful connections. Women who naturally belonged in the world he had built for himself. You weren't insecure. At least, you didn't think you were. You were just trying to be realistic.
Sukuna had outgrown you. He deserved someone who matched him. Honestly, he might even be relieved when you finally left. That night, Sukuna left for his business trip. You started packing.
There wasn't much that was truly yours anymore. Most of what surrounded you had been bought by Sukuna. At first, they were gifts because he wanted to repay you for standing beside him during the hardest years of his life. Somewhere along the way, they slowly became apologies instead. Expensive gifts after every argument, after every forgotten promise, after every disappointment. You just hadn't realized it back then.
Your eyes drifted to the ring on your finger. A ruby. Your favorite stone.
He had given it to you after landing his first major client almost four years ago. It wasn't an engagement ring. It was a promise ring. A promise that the two of you would get married one day as soon as his business got more stable so you guys could plan a lavish wedding.
Did you even want that anymore? You couldn't honestly say yes. Because love wasn't supposed to make you feel this small. You slowly slipped it off your finger and gently placed the ring inside the bedside drawer.
The next morning, two large suitcases sat by the bedroom door. One held your clothes. The other was filled with your books, important documents, and work files. Two smaller suitcases carried your gadgets and all the little pieces of yourself that had quietly found their place around the penthouse over the years.
Maybe you weren't being as calm as you had convinced yourself you were about this. Maybe you were being just a little petty because you wanted to erase every little trace of you out of his life.
Your shampoo. Your bath bombs. Your soft pink towel. The stupid little decorations you had insisted on buying because they made the place feel warmer. Everything went into a box.
The things you couldn't take with you, you had removed from the apartment entirely. Your old desk. Your bookshelf. Your oversized chair where you spent countless nights working while Yuji and Choso did their homework beside you. Sukuna will get his life back. Without you. Without even the smallest fragments of you left behind. After all, it was only polite.
Before leaving, you decided to have breakfast one last time with Yuji and Choso. You let out a quiet chuckle when both of them seemed to be in a hurry to leave. It took them barely three minutes to finish eating before they were already grabbing their bags and heading towards the door. You simply watched them and had your breakfast.
The two brothers exchanged a confused glance as you didn't say much today. You usually asked them what they had planned, their friends or just about anything but today you were very quiet. They shrugged it off thinking you were just in one of your quieter moods today. They walked toward the door, mumbled their goodbyes and turned to leave.
But you didn't answer.
That made them pause. Yuji looked back first. You were staring at the family picture hanging on the wall. The one you had insisted on framing years ago. Back then, all you could see was your family.
Now all you saw was a family of three brothers and a woman who was about to become someone they used to know. Eventually, you would just become another stranger from their past. You weren't going to fool yourself into believing Yuji or Choso would want to keep in touch with you after this. They barely spoke to you anymore. Some days you didn't even see them because they stayed over at friends' houses. You only knew the names of a few friends because they occasionally came over.
"Y/n?"
Yuji's voice pulled you out of your thoughts. You looked over at him as you replied. "Yeah?"
No smile.
"We're leaving."
"Okay."
Your face remained blank. No ‘Take care’, No ‘Don't do anything stupid’.
Nothing. Both of them frowned. It felt... strange.
Choso hesitated before quietly asking, "You okay? You seem distracted."
His eyes shifted towards the family picture you had been staring at. You finally gave them a small smile as you looked away.
"Yeah. I was just thinking it's time to change this old picture."
The two brothers simply nodded before leaving. It was unusual. But they were already running late. As soon as they left you got up and carried your suitcases down to the car. After one trip, you came back upstairs to check the penthouse one last time.
You looked around and there wasn't a single thing left that belonged to you anymore. The apartment looked exactly the way it had before you ever moved in.
Like a luxury hotel.
Only one thing remained. The family picture.
You walked over and carefully took it off the wall. As soon as it was in your hands, every bit of anger and frustration you had been holding back came rushing to the surface. Your fingers tightened around the frame as tears silently rolled down your cheeks. You remembered the day you had proudly hung it above the fireplace. You remembered Choso's shy smile and Yuji excitedly pointing at himself in the picture.
You couldn't take it with you. But you did not want to leave it here either. It didn't belong above that fireplace anymore. In a sudden burst of anger, you threw it onto the floor. The glass shattered across the room.
After a moment of satisfaction, you let out an exhausted groan.
Great. Now I have to clean it up.
Those idiots would probably end up cutting themselves trying to do it. Just then, your phone buzzed. A message from Sukuna.
‘Choso and Yuji will be staying at their friends' place and will return next week.’
You stared at the screen for a second before letting out a hollow laugh. They hadn't even bothered telling you when you just saw them now. But why are you even surprised anymore? You were not family to them, at least not anymore.
You threw the broken frame into the bin. And gave the photograph one final look, before you walked over to the stove.
And burned it.
Like it had never existed before you finally walked out of the penthouse. Away from the life you had built. And the life you had only convinced yourself was yours.
You had your own money. More than enough, actually. You had never actually stopped working. You still had your own assets and investments, and although you had slowed down over the years, you continued taking independent projects from home whenever you had the time. You had simply spent so much of that time giving everyone else their share of you that your own dreams had quietly been pushed aside.
That was going to change now.
A friend owned an apartment nearby and handed you the keys without hesitation. You moved in that very day. There wasn't much to organize since it came fully furnished, so by evening you found yourself shopping for an entirely new wardrobe. Professional clothes. Clothes that made you feel like yourself again. You signed up for a gym too. Not because you were unhappy with how you looked, but because you missed feeling strong.
Besides, working out had always been your way of clearing your head. It gave you a reason to eat better, stay active, and focus on yourself again. For the first time in months... You were excited. Everything felt new.
The following day, you sat down and mapped out the next six months of your life. Registering your company. Legal paperwork. Finance. Marketing. Every little detail had already been planned years ago back in college. Somewhere along the way, you had forgotten about that dream.
Now... It was finally beginning.
You slept well that night. You had already grown so used to sleeping alone these past few weeks that it didn't even feel strange anymore. There was a lot you were looking forward to.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday morning
Choso picked Yuji up before heading back to the penthouse together. The moment they stepped inside, both of them instinctively looked towards the dining table, expecting to see you already sitting there, probably waiting for them to finally wake up so breakfast could begin.
Instead the house was quiet. It felt strange.
"Maybe she went out," Yuji mumbled with a small shrug as he looked around for you, before making his way towards his room. Choso silently followed behind him.
As they walked upstairs, both of their eyes drifted towards the empty space above the fireplace. The family picture was still gone. A small frown settled on both their faces. The whole place looked weird without it.
After changing, the two brothers wandered back downstairs, grabbed a box of cereal, and sat across from each other at the dining table. Both were lost in their own thoughts before Choso finally spoke.
"...Did she message you over the weekend?"
Yuji looked up immediately. He didn't even need to ask who Choso was talking about.
"No." He frowned. "I honestly thought my phone was broken or something."
Choso slowly nodded, absentmindedly pushing the cereal around his bowl.
"I was expecting at least two calls," he admitted quietly. "She didn't even text."
Yuji stayed silent.
"...She didn't seem okay that day either," Choso continued after a moment. "Where is she so early anyway?"
Yuji shrugged. "Maybe she's with Sukuna?"
The two brothers looked at each other before nodding. That made the most sense. Anything else, didn't.
Just then, Sukuna finally returned from his business trip. He walked in carrying lunch. Your favorite. You had left his "Good morning" message on read earlier that day. It had felt more like a formality than anything else, especially since he had spent most of the weekend buried in work anyway. He figured you were still upset with him, so he had picked up your favorite food on the way home, hoping it might at least get you to talk to him.
The moment he stepped inside, his eyes instinctively searched the apartment. He expected to see you. Instead he found Yuji and Choso sitting silently at the dining table.
His brows furrowed.
"Where is she?" he asked as he placed the takeaway bags on the table before looking around the place.
Yuji looked just as confused.
"Isn't she with you?"
"I just got back from a work trip. How the hell could she be with me?"
Choso slowly looked up.
"...She hasn't been home since morning."
Sukuna's head snapped towards him.
"And you're telling me that just now?" His voice came out much harsher than he intended as he immediately pulled his phone out. "Did either of you at least call her?"
The two brothers exchanged guilty looks before quietly shaking their heads. They had both assumed you'd be back by now. Muttering a curse under his breath, Sukuna immediately called you.
You didn’t answer. He called again.This time the call disconnected, only for a message to appear a few seconds later.
‘I'm busy with some work.’
He stared at it for a second before quickly typing back.
‘Where are you? At least tell me when you'll be home.’
No reply. Another minute passed. Still nothing. Sukuna let out a frustrated sigh before slipping his phone back into his pocket.
"She's busy."
He gestured towards the food.
"I brought food. Eat."
The three of them sat down in silence. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable atmosphere, Sukuna finally spoke.
"What did you two do over the weekend, brats?"
"Nothing much," Yuji answered quietly. "Just hung out with friends."
Normally he would've rambled for another five minutes after that. But today he spoke nothing else. Sukuna glanced towards Choso.
"And you?"
"...Same."
Another silence settled over the table before Choso quietly looked down at the pasta in front of him.
"...She makes this much better."
Yuji nodded in agreement. Sukuna rolled his eyes, already about to make some sarcastic remark, when his gaze drifted towards the fireplace.
He paused.
"...Where did that picture go?"
Yuji looked over. "Oh."
"She said it was getting old. She must have taken it down to replace it."
Sukuna frowned. Old? You loved that picture. You had always gone on about how it was your favorite one in the house. Now the wall looked very empty. For some reason, it bothered him more than it should have.
"When did she say that?"
Yuji thought for a second.
"...Thursday morning."
Choso quietly added. "That was the last time we talked to her."
Something heavy settled in Sukuna's chest.
"Did..." Yuji hesitated before asking quietly, "...did you guys fight?"
Choso glanced towards him before adding,
"...She didn't look okay that day."
Sukuna frowned.
"...You're telling me she didn't call either of you the entire weekend?"
Both brothers slowly shook their heads.
That wasn't like you. No matter how bad things got between the two of you, you never dragged Yuji or Choso into it. You always made sure they were okay, especially whenever they stayed somewhere else. You always checked if they had eaten, if they reached safely, if they needed anything.
So why...
"I'll fix it."
It came out more like a promise to himself than to anyone else. He stood up, phone already in his hand, sending you another message.
Call me when you're free
Then he sat back down, staring at the screen as if somehow that would make it ring faster. A few minutes later, it finally did. Sukuna answered the phone almost immediately.
"What do you want?"
He frowned at your detached tone. It was cold. Polite. Like he was talking to a stranger. He deserved that much. Honestly, at this point he wasn't even sure what exactly you were still mad about anymore. Somewhere along the way, every fight had blurred into the next until he couldn't tell where one ended and another began.
"Look..." he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, alright?"
"Okay."
The reply came so quickly it almost caught him off guard. No arguing. No sarcasm. No telling him to go to hell.
Just ‘Okay’ Somehow, that felt worse. He continued anyway.
"Please just come home so we can sort this out."
There was a long pause. Long enough for him to wonder whether the call had disconnected. Then he heard you sigh as you realised he still hadn't noticed it yet.
"Sukuna..."
Your voice was calm. Too calm.
"I'm not coming back."
He frowned.
"What do you mean?...Are you staying at Shoko's? Just tell me where you are."
He assumed just like every other time, you will still stay. Maybe not happily, but you always did. Even when you were furious. Somewhere deep down, he had always known why.
Yuji.
Choso.
No matter how angry you were with him, you never let it affect them. But this time was different. And he was yet to realise it.
"Sukuna..." You took a slow breath before saying the words that had been sitting on your chest for days.
"I moved out."
Silence. You could hear his breathing. Nothing else. It was almost like his brain had refused to process what you had just said.
"...What?"
"I moved out."
"What the hell are you talking about?" he snapped, his voice suddenly rising. "I get that you're mad, but don't fucking joke like this."
You leaned your head back against your office chair, closing your eyes for a moment. You already knew he wasn't going to make this easy. Not because he loved you. Because you had become a habit. And habits were hard to break.
"I already moved out," you repeated quietly. "Three days ago."
Sukuna slowly sat down on the edge of the bed. His eyes wandered around the room. For the first time he actually looked.
Your desk. Gone.
The chair you always curled up in while reading. Gone.
Your books. Gone.
The little decorations you insisted made the room feel warmer. Gone.
It was so subtle that he hadn't noticed before. Now it looked like you had never lived there at all. His breathing became uneven. His hand started trembling as he stood up and walked towards the wardrobe. He pulled the door open.
Almost empty.
Only the expensive things he had bought you over the years were still hanging inside. His chest tightened painfully. Suddenly it felt too real.
"B-Baby..." His voice cracked for the first time. "Where are you?"
You stayed silent. He swallowed hard.
"Please." The word came out so quietly you almost didn't hear it.
"Think about Choso." Another pause. "...about Yuji."
Your voice remained calm. "They'll still have you... and that's enough. I know you'll all be alright."
Something inside Sukuna snapped. "NO!"
His voice echoed through the bedroom.
"YOU DON'T GET TO DECIDE THAT!"
His breathing had become ragged.
"YOU DON'T GET TO JUST LEAVE AND TELL ME WE'LL BE OKAY WHEN YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WE WON'T!"
For the first time since the call had started, anger finally surged through you. How dare he. How dare he act like this now? Like none of this had been his fault? A quiet, bitter chuckle escaped your lips.
"You were doing just fine all this time," you replied softly. "Even when I wasn't."
He froze.
"So why pretend now?" Your voice cracked just slightly. "Why are you acting like we weren't already over?"
A tear slipped down his face before he even realized it was there. He knew things had gotten bad. He knew the two of you had been fighting more than either of you were smiling lately. Every misunderstanding seemed to turn into another argument, every conversation into another disappointment. But somewhere, somehow, he had convinced himself that no matter how ugly things got...
You would still be there. He had taken that for granted.
"But..." His voice broke. "You can't just leave. We are family. You don;t get to do this" He didn't even know what he was saying anymore. "We have to at least try. We can fix this." He shook his head desperately, like if he refused to accept it hard enough, everything would somehow go back to normal. "Please... just give me one more chance. I swear I'll -"
You had heard it before. You had done this dance before. It always ended the same way. A few days of trying. A few promises. Then work took over again, another misunderstanding happened, and before you knew it, you were right back where you started. Now you couldn't believe him anymore. Not even if a part of you wanted to.
"Check your bedside drawer," you said quietly. "I left you something."
Your voice was so calm that it scared him. With trembling hands, he walked over to the bedside table. Somewhere deep down he already knew as he slowly pulled the drawer open.
His breath caught. There it was. Your ruby ring.
The one he had spent months saving for after landing his first major client. He still remembered how nervous he had been handing it to you, promising that one day he'd replace it with a real engagement ring. He remembered how brightly you had smiled, teasing him that he had somehow managed to remember your favorite gemstone. Now it was lying alone inside the drawer.
Returned.
The promise had been returned with it. He understood exactly what you were trying to say. You didn't trust him anymore. You didn't believe in him anymore. You didn't believe in the relationship anymore. His trembling hand held onto the bed as another sob escaped him.
Ryomen Sukuna.
The man who hadn't cried when his parents abandoned them. The man who hadn't cried while working three jobs just to keep food on the table. The man who had built an entire company from nothing with his own hands. Was now crying so hard he could barely breathe.
You had left.
The one person who had stayed beside him when he had absolutely nothing. The one who never looked down on him. The one who made sure Yuji and Choso always smiled. The one who had somehow turned a tiny apartment into a home..
"You..." His voice came out as nothing more than a broken whisper. "...You can't just leave us."
Your eyes filled with tears again. "We don’t belong together anymore, Sukuna. And I've accepted it. You should too."
And before he could say another word, you ended the call.
"No... no..."
His hands shook violently as he called you back. Again and again. Straight to voicemail. He sent a message. No reply. His breathing became more frantic as he looked around the bedroom again.
It wasn't just your clothes. Everything that had belonged to you was gone. Even your favorite blanket. It suddenly looked like no one had ever lived there besides him. Like you had erased yourself from the apartment...And from his life.
A strangled sound escaped his throat before rage exploded through him. He grabbed the chair nearest to him and hurled it across the room. It slammed into the wall, knocking a lamp onto the floor where it shattered instantly. His breathing became heavier. His vision blurred with tears.
He ripped the curtains down with one violent pull before punching the wardrobe hard enough to leave a dent in the wood. Nothing mattered. None of it. Not the penthouse. Not the company. Not the money. None of it meant a damn thing if you weren't there to come home to.
The crashing downstairs was loud enough that Yuji and Choso came running.
"Sukuna!"
"What happened?"
The two brothers stopped dead in the doorway. The room looked like a disaster. Broken glass covered the floor. The chair lay on its side. The curtains had been ripped down.
Their older brother stood in the middle of it all, breathing heavily, tears streaming down his face. Neither of them had ever seen him like this. Choso was the first to find his voice.
"...what’s wrong?"
Sukuna slowly turned around. His eyes were red. Broken. Empty.
"She left."
Neither of them moved.
"She's..." His voice cracked again. "...She's not coming back."
The room fell completely silent. Yuji felt the color drain from his face. Choso's heart dropped into his stomach.
What? Why?
Neither of them moved. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was Sukuna's uneven breathing.
"...When?" Yuji finally managed to ask. Sukuna stared blankly ahead.
"Thursday."
Both brothers froze.
"...Thursday?" Choso frowned.
Choso slowly sat down, trying to make sense of it all.
"She..." His voice caught in his throat. "She was saying goodbye."
The family picture. You were not making conversation. You were saying goodbye.
"No..." Yuji whispered, shaking his head. "No... she wouldn't just leave."
He immediately looked towards Sukuna. "You called her back, right?"
Sukuna nodded. "She won't answer."
"Text her."
"I did."
"Call her again then!"
"I HAVE!"
The words echoed through the room before Sukuna immediately looked away, dragging a trembling hand over his face. His voice had become hoarse.
"I don't know where she is."
That sentence hit the two brothers harder than anything else. After everything, he didn't even know where you were. This hadn't been some impulsive decision after another fight.
You had packed. Found another place to live. Taken everything that truly belonged to you. You hadn't left because of one argument. You had been leaving for months. He had simply been too blind to notice.
For years, he had convinced himself that everything he was doing was for you. Ever since college, the only thing on his mind had been becoming someone worthy of standing beside you. You came from a family that could give you almost anything, while he came from nothing. Somewhere along the way, he had convinced himself that if he just worked hard enough, earned enough, became successful enough, then one day he would finally be able to give you the life you deserved.
So he worked. And worked. And worked.
He tolerated investors he couldn't stand, business dinners he hated, and people he would've gladly thrown out if his company wasn't still growing. Every fake smile, every forced conversation, every handshake was another step towards the future he wanted to build with you.
He never as much as thought about anyone else, forget cheating. The women never mattered. Not one of them. They couldn't even compare to you.
To him, they were nothing more than another inconvenience that came with success. He had simply become better at hiding his irritation because losing his temper every time someone flirted with him wasn't an option anymore. The company was still growing. Investors watched everything. One wrong move, one public scene, and years of work could disappear overnight. So instead of barking back the way he used to, he learned to hide it behind subtle gestures, cold stares, short replies, and ending conversations as quickly as possible.
He thought he was protecting your future. Instead he had forgotten to protect your present. He had forgotten to cherish the person he was trying so desperately to build that future for.
The room remained silent.
However Sukuna hadn't been the only one who had changed.
As his company grew, so did the attention around Yuji and Choso. Former classmates who barely acknowledged them when they struggled suddenly wanted to be friends. Some wanted favors. Others simply wanted to be associated with Sukuna's name. There were arguments, fights, and people trying to use them because of who their brother had become. Sukuna quietly handled most of it before it ever reached you.
The brothers stopped coming to you with every little problem. Not because they stopped thinking of you as family. Because they did not want to bother you even more..
Years ago, they remember overhearing your parents arguing with you, telling you that you spent too much of your life taking care of three boys who weren't even your responsibility. Those words made them realise how much they owed to you.
And without meaning to, they started carrying things on their own. They stopped asking for help. Spent more time outside. Tried to solve their own problems. Tried to become someone you could be proud of instead of another responsibility you had to look after.
Neither of them realized that every small step they took towards becoming independent looked, from where you were standing, like another step away from you. And by the time any of them understood what had happened...
You were already gone.
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I've been busy with this story for a while now. This one might have 1 or 2 more parts. Let me know your thoughts!
How many of you want to see Sukuna yearn for her so badly that he completely loses his mind after realizing what he's lost?
𓂃🪶 Good things fall from the sky everyday on the ground. Most of the time it all shatters on impact. So Enjin wasn't really sure what the procedure was when the sky handed him a Sphereite lady who was everything he's ever wanted.
18+ Smut. MDNI. Hard core She Fell First, He Falls Harder. Yearning is strong here. SlowBurn. Opposites Attract. Apparently I am a cheeseball. Dynamic similiar to Han & Leia, Sinbad & Marina, Ariel from Footloose.
Sphereite!Reader is very Perfectionist, Overachiever, Go-Getter coded. Not Beta'd. First time writing smut. Chubby Reader. POC Reader no descriptors used. Reader is implied to be in her Late 20s. I discovered a lot about myself, the first being Holy Yap, Batman! Anime Spoilers. Manga Spoilers-ish (Nothing described from the manga at length but definite headnods to certain details. And more importantly the suit he's been wearing recently is doing things to me.) TW: Passing mentions of fatphobia & EDs (On the Sphere) None actively described or ‘seen’ on screen, reader is not insecure just unused to attention. Passing allusions to child neglect. Not described in full detail but head nods to character’s backstory
Praying Mantis Position, Cumplay (Facial f. receiving), Creampie, Manhandling (ragdolls your ass), Dumbification, Spanking, Panty Gagging (f. receiving), Car Sex, Improper Use of Seatbelt, Degradation & Praise (balanced as all things should be)
A/N: Credit where credit is due. This whole thing had three big inspirations. First is Leia and Han's iconic deleted scene kiss. Shameless, gratuitous references to the dialogue in here. Second is a fanfic written by @blkkizzat that I highly recommend. Reader's backstory in this fic was inspired by their fic and none of this would exist without them. Third is this viral tiktok you might have seen a few years back of porcelain envying plastic. There is also a line referencing it directly.
Word Count: 30K (I am so sorry) Genuinely meant for this to be maybe 8-12k and then I just kept yapping. This actually hit the 1000 block limit here on tumblr, so I had to move around some paragraphs. Common sense would be to break this up into parts but IDK, I'm dumb. I think its my ever living hatred for part 2 videos on tiktok, instagram, etc. that made me stubbornly refuse and determined to do it all in one.
The One Who Connects Others was starting to get a little too good at his job. It was beginning to veer on mythic proportions. First, a raider child that appeared from the ether, begging to get adopted. Of which, the jury was still out on that one. Enjin had been literally sitting and minding his own damn business too when Fuu entered stage left.
Now, he didn’t even need to be present!
His kids were given a simple routine sweep mission to wet their feet running errands solo. So could some tell him how they came back to the rendezvous point of the Polluted Zone with another stray? Rudo’s big, wet eyes begging to keep her were the cherry on top! A stray mind you, that bit and snipped and snapped at specifically just Enjin. No one else. Just him.
He pinched the bridge of his nose when he first saw you. Shivering and tear streaked face half hidden behind an ill-fitting breathing mask. Your arm was slung over Zanka’s shoulder, without him supporting you, you would have been hobbling on a nasty looking ankle. Rudo, Riyo and Zanka, but mostly Rudo, gave Enjin the whole elevator pitch.
“We found her thrown out with the trash! What were we supposed to do? Just leave her there? Imagine if you hadn’t been the first person to find me? I had to do the same for her? And she’s injured! She couldn’t run right now if she needed to! And she’s from the Sphere like me!”
They still hadn’t even finished their assignment. This was going to be Enjin’s whole day, wasn’t it?
While the trio, really Rudo, were pleading your case, Enjin glanced over and finally gave you a proper up and down. He was struck mute by your eyes, Rudo’s rambling fading off to background noise. You were quiet the entire time the teenagers advocated for you. Enjin saw eyes welled with the silent terror of someone realizing their fate was entirely dependent on three children convincing a strange man you were worth saving. “She’s all alone like we were!”
With a grumble under his breath, he acquiesced. Cause fuck if the kid wasn’t right? He needed to teach them more irresponsibility honestly. He was never going to hear the end of it from Semiu, he just knew it.
“Finish your sweep and the faster we can start heading back. Come on people, it's a long way back from here.”
And it was. You were silent almost the entire trip. It wasn’t until Enjin prodded you for some of your belongings to sell that you finally spoke. He explained they would need the money but that it was also a safety precaution for you. It was best to not be injured and dripping in high value items. Only one struggle was allowed.
You refused to part with your earrings, lovely, delicate, dangly little things.
“Shame, those earbobs would have made a killing too.”
There was a considerable silence and a pensive look on your face. You were many things but ungrateful or unreasonable were not any of them. Anyone could have found you and done anything with you. Your ankle was swollen and clearly a new unwanted complication to this landscape. They didn’t have to help. It would have made their own trip back home to safety easier. The least you could do was help where you could.
“Not my earrings but… here.” You unlooped your arm from the young teen boy that helped you hobble along.
Team Akuta watched you pull a beautiful ring off your left hand. Enjin studied you for a moment when you presented it to him. He cut through the tension with a jest.
“Ya sure, lady? This looks like some nice family heirloom or something?”
“It isn’t. I won’t be needing it anymore anyhow.”
You were weary of everything, the entire trip back and your whole first week on the ground. Dilated pupils and hitched breath with every new face that approached you.
You warmed up to the kids first, then Semiu, then Eisha and August. But it wasn't until the boss, himself, came to speak with you a few days later in the infirmary that you finally seemed to settle.
Arkha Corvus took his time, calmly and patiently, explained everything to you about the Cleaners and what they did. You had what felt like an endless stream of follow up questions.
Color Enjin fucking surprised when at the very end of you lengthy conversation with Corvus, you asked to sign up.
Corvus tried to comfort you with the possibility of returning home. He told you about some people’s pursuit of finding a way back to the Sphere and offered a likeness to bond over with Rudo.
Enjin’s jaw damn near dropped when you politely refused that avenue.
“I would like to sign up… but I do not want to go back.”
While you were not shy to voice your discomfort, one complaint you made sure to keep to yourself, was living on the Sphere. By no means did you ever want to come across like life was so much worse up there. Finally seeing first hand all the hardships on the ground, you knew you had it better. On the ground there was constant danger, from trash beasts, the landscape, the falling debris, even the air itself was poisonous.
On the Sphere, you never went hungry or thirsty. You always had the medicine you needed if you got sick, a roof over your head. But the Sphere…
People hated the Sphere for the way it treated everyone beneath it. How it tossed aside everything in excess, anything deemed unworthy. How a single tarnishment or undesirable quality was grounds to be culled and discarded. That philosophy didn’t stop with just things.
Perfection was mandatory. Perfection was survival. Everything was a competition. Every little thing you said, did, wore, ate, etc. was measured for weakness. The Sphere was like a pit of vipers. Constantly looking for a flaw to exploit, a misstep to crucify you with. Everyday was constant vigilance, a game of wits, a social gauntlet.
To be a social pariah for any reason on the Sphere was death or ruin. Even then, you could do everything correctly and still lose if you weren’t sharp enough.
You were a scholar, a life long academic with your sights set on bureaucracy. A list of initiatives and causes a mile long but none of them truly mattered at the end of the day. An ambitious fire tempered by the shallowness of the world around, while you had dreams most of them would leave you an outcast. Everything bored you about the Sphere. You were a driven soul stir crazy for purpose.
Poised and perfect, head of your class, leader of your organizations and committees. In layman’s terms, an overachiever. With a hungry mind and restless heart you wanted to do something worthwhile. All the paths laid for you left you unsatisfied, you set your eyes on lofty goals. What if we could salvage the world? Instead of this comfortable stagnation that you proposed would be unsustainable.
Everything on the Sphere was dull. Dating on the Sphere was a bore. You’d had your fair share of boyfriends. Eventually you met what your parents selected for you as the one.
An arrangement between your families, decided and planned on both your behalfs. He was actually kind of good looking, you attended school together, met again through work and had hit it off. Your parents decided during the first week you two would marry after the proper courting ritual.
You remembered being thrilled. You had gotten along well, great even. The best boyfriend you had ever had. So you two continued on behind closed doors. All the proper and appropriate courting in public but you were together in private. He said he liked your boldness. He liked your brilliance and working together with you. You partnered together on every campaign, project, initiative, movement, research study, so on and so forth.
You thought everything was going to go well. Until you made the mistake of forgetting where you were.
The night you confided in him about deciding to pivot your goals in your career and pursue change was the night you saw you were also just an accessory. Your boldness was palatable as long as it suited his palate.
He revealed the expectation that you were to retire after marriage. Everything on the Sphere was picture perfect. A wife and children were perfect additions to one’s image in society. Assets to bolster his candidacy for his pursuits. People liked propriety, constancy, and safety. You were a lifelong social climbing tactic of promising security, certitude, and above all, the status quo.
“This talk of the finiteness of our peace will scare people. Disrupt orderliness, incite terror.”
We should be afraid.
“But I am not archaic. I would not deny us both your brilliance. You are more than welcome to continue providing your facilitations and counsel to our pursuits in private. To refrain from utilizing your adroit efficacy would be foolish. Though you, of course, would need to cease your penchant for your… midnight proclivities.”
He spoke like he was negotiating a contract and not the rest of your life. You forgot, people were merely business partners, investments, competition. Silly you.
The cards were dealt and this was the role you were to conform to. Give up your convictions and spend the rest of your life working towards the antithesis of your beliefs while he reaped all the rewards and renown. Was he still talking?
“No.”
“... then, of course, I would presen–excuse you?”
It all quickly fell apart from there after. It was an offer you couldn’t refuse. Don’t make him look bad by stirring the pot. The engagement couldn’t be ended, you were already public. Breaking it would cause a stain to his reputation.
You didn’t comply. You wouldn’t be his accessory and you could not keep quiet so you couldn’t be his wife anymore. But he couldn't dissolve your betrothal without tarnishment which led to the only acceptable manner to disburden himself of you.
No one could fault a widower. Would he even technically be a widower if you hadn’t married yet? It didn't matter. It was how you ended up here. Corvus accepted your offer to sign up on the spot.
If you had told Enjin that a cute little thing like you ended up here because of having a hit out on you, Enjin would've believed it. However, he thought at the very least you would have been framed for something like Rudo. But your Fiancee just straight up tried to ice you in the dead of night. The Sphere just sounded worse and worse the more he learned about it.
Enjin honestly expected you to struggle. To have squeaked and squawked at everything that displeased you. To throw yourself into despair at the first sign of trouble but you weirdly enough, acclimated. Dare he say, thrived?
Your pack was probably alphabetized. Whenever he needed to stop in or pass by your room in HQ, everything was orderly, neat and color coded. Despite your complaining you requested to attend every job you could. You asked countless questions and asked everyone to show you how to do things yourself. Honestly you were much better suited for office work with the bigwigs but you wanted to be on the field.
With your social skills, brains, quick wit and sharp tongue you quickly became the go-to for recon, spy and intel assignments. But since you also signed up for every assignment under the sun that meant you and Enjin spent copious amounts of time together.
An undeniable born and bred Sphereite but unlike Rudo, from high society.
The truest blue blood he’d ever seen. You were a classy lady and a total smokeshow. How you managed to look elegant in the same uniforms and materials as all the rest of them, Enjin had no idea. You possessed an ample figure and perfect posture, courtesy of your ritzy Sphererite upbringing, highlighted by your uniform. Seriously, how did you do that?
There was never a moment you didn’t look like royalty. Your uniform was somehow always void of stains or any kind of wrinkles. Your casual wear on off days was put together and classy. While you moaned daily about the loss of your boudoir you took meticulous care with what you had.
Always done up like a fancy woman. Pretty lipstick fixed into a permanent disapproving pout whenever Enjin was around. Perfectly manicured and painted nails that never chipped that, at least once a day, pointed directly between his eyes during a lecture. Your pair of dangly earrings you refused to part with, bobbed delicately when you spoke. It became a habit whenever he was tuning you out to catch himself looking at them instead. They naturally drew the eye down to the column of your neck.
A delicate smile usually hidden behind your pretty painted nails. Elegant features highlighted by your stern expressions that made you downright unapproachable.
He caught between blinks, quiet moments, and imperceptible sighs, the interest to connect and make friends but were not sure how to. Maybe scared people didn’t like you. Or that they assumed you wouldn’t like them.
He began instigating just to get a reaction out of you. You always rose to the occasion. It just so happened to help people see that you were human too. And besides, he found bothering you was fun.
When he flicked your earrings, you swatted away his hand. Whenever you bent over and he got to check out the high slit in your skirt or a peek of your thigh high boots he whistled. To which you promptly told him to go to hell.
“Hold up, hold everything,” Enjin teased you whenever you touched up your makeup on the field. “Better now, milady?”
Using whatever reflective surface that was handy you checked for any smudges, or repositioned the clasp of your necklace to the back of your neck. One time you used the metal blades on Umbreaker as a mirror.
“Yes, actually. Proceed.” You smacked and popped your lips at yourself. You looked over the blades to the wielder, unamused at his sarcasm.
Enjin almost never referred to you with your actual name. Evidently, he much preferred an endless stream of mocking titles and superlatives. Kindled further when you always retorted with snobby, smarty pants comebacks as he liked to put it.
“Snob.”
“Lowbrow.”
“Bookworm.”
“Franion.”
“Prude.”
“Reprobate.”
“Blue blood.”
“Recidivist.”
“Now you’re just making up words!”
“I’m really not, that’s the sad part.”
“Your Highness,” Enjin grinned in anticipation, dimples flashing. Your Highness was his particular favorite on the roster. Entirely because you always lanced back with his favorite response.
“Scoundrel,” You sneered. There it was. That no nonsense bite in your voice came smoothly out, that barked haughty orders, instructions, decrees. The way you managed to look down your nose at a grown man taller than you. Pretty eyes that glared daggers at him whenever he provoked you.
Enjin’s traitorous ass kids all took a liking to you. For all your intimidating, high class demeanor, you were great with kids and teens. Being a professor refined your skills on bonding with the young. “Children teach you just as much as you teach them.”
First was, inevitably, Rudo. Enjin had to pretend to not be hurt by that. It's always the youngest ones that break your heart. Rudo followed you around like a duckling.
You were kind and worse still, inquisitive. Practically designed for Rudo to get attached. You asked him about all his projects with such nerdy, sincere interest and worst of all, the killer finishing move, you had follow up questions. OH FUCK OFF!
Two peas in a pod, two trueblooded What If-ers, your eyes lit up with curiosity the same way too. You went to Rudo to teach you all about Vital Instruments and how anima worked. Rudo made it his personal mission to help you find yours.
Riyo and Zanka, while not as completely fervent as Rudo, also grew some fondness for you.
You asked Riyo about cultural ground life questions the most. She helped you acclimate to how all the little daily things worked in this new life. But what really got the ball rolling between you was style. You talked about hair and clothes. It was so much more expressive down here. On the Sphere, while lovely, all the clothing and haircuts were uniform-like. A world surrounded by fuck ass bobs tugged at Riyo’s heart strings like you were the truest sufferer.
Zanka was the most unexpected conundrum. While most alike in demeanor, you could barely understand him at first. It was very clear slang was not much of a thing for you but you could figure most of it out with body language and context clues. Zanka’s incredibly informal manner of speaking and rhythm sounded like another language.
You were glued to him, determined to learn. Once you had gotten adjusted to his accent you asked Zanka what any slang you didn’t understand meant. Zanka, charmed and flattered, that someone so bright needed tutelage and went to him instantly caused him to warm up.
“‘Murc’ means kill as in to-kill or get-killed, but ‘Slay’ is a compliment of something you are doing well?”
“Yes!”
“Calling someone ‘Unc’ and saying ‘Grown Man By The Way’ are both slight jabs at someone’s age but ‘Old Lady’ can be affectionate? It sounds mean.”
“Correct! ‘Old Lady’ can be mean if you’re just calling her that but if you’re calling her someone’s old lady, then that’s affectionate. Cause you're not really talkin’ about her age.”
“Hold on, let me write this down.”
Pfft, nerd. For all his jabs at you being pretentious just when Enjin thought he understood you another contradiction revealed itself.
You had a hidden curious and adventurous streak. Competitive and driven, you wanted to learn how to do things yourself. You would squeak, sometimes even wave your hands in fear, or shudder in disgust. However it was only ever a moment. Without fail, after a second of collecting yourself, you followed through. It was as if you were… eager to get your hands dirty.
Maybe overwhelmed initially, when faced with the reality before you, but then you committed. There was that same spark of determination that drove you through academia. While so many things made you gasp, so many other things excited you.
“Show me how to drive,”
You had asked Gris to teach you after the first time you rode in a motor vehicle. This is where Enjin saw first hand being a life long academic demonstrating itself. You quietly observed and then replicated. You analyzed and logged with meticulous study. You repeated everything until you were satisfied with your own results. Gris gave you his blessing and the clearance to drive on missions shortly after.
On your very next outing without Gris, you turned to Enjin. “Now show me how to drive like you.”
He quirked a brow, stupid smirk on his face. “Word?”
You simply nodded. A hint of mischief hidden behind stern eyes.
“Bet.”
You learned how to do things properly, you completed tasks properly. But once everything was accounted for and secured, once all the twenty steps on your imaginary clipboard were followed and you spotted an opening, you acted out.
Now on the ground you could explore. You experimented every impulsive thought you buried deep down on the Sphere. When you first heard grounder music, it intrigued you. Enjin expected you to turn your nose but you stared in–was that fascination? Excitement? You gawked at the clothes people wore to go out, he expected you to blush and turn a prude eye. But you watched and admired all the colors women wore.
You had asked Semiu to show you grounder nightlife except only that wasn’t what you called it at first. “Can you take me to a grounder cotillion?”
“Co-what now?
“Um, a gathering to listen to music and dance?”
“You want to go dancing? I mean, sure, but it's not going to be like any of those fancy galas you know.”
“Do you promise?”
The next time Semiu and Tomme had a night on the town you joined. What you saw titillated you. Pounding music that made your heart race. Informality abound that was raw and wild. Even though the place was dirty and dingy, everything was so much more vibrant. Electric. Alive.
Flashing lights, scantily clad grinding bodies and crackling speakers blaring heavy bass that resonated in your bones. This was everything you wished the after festivities behind closed doors back home were. Above all what ensnared you most was how animalistic the dancing was.
Promiscuity hung thick in the air, amplified by an endless variety of alcohol. So much stronger than the wines you had on the Sphere. It burned the back of your throat and caused you to cough the first time around. Semiu and Tomme encouraged and helped pace you. You knew well how to take a shot but the liquor, if you could even consider it that now, on the Sphere was water compared to this. Your nerves tingled, you giggled and hiccuped, it was like nothing you’d ever experienced before.
The truth was you were pristine with a sterling reputation, at least, in public. You mastered concealing what you got up to behind closed doors and the cover of midnight. All because you wanted everything.
Organized and thorough even down to your rebelling. You took pride in your work, passions as well as impulsive desires and dedicated as much precision to them. You attended all the hidden socials, drank contraband spirits, read sultry novels and fornicated.
It was maddening how stale everything was. How shameful it was to want to feel excitement. So you didn’t let them stop you. You searched for it every night off you could. Otherwise be driven to cabin fever by the doldrums and ennui of societal life. Except the cabin was a floating rock for which there was no escape save death.
You slept with men and were disappointed. Eager to learn and experience everything you read about and kept hidden in your thoughts. In your younger years, you believed yourself the issue. As the years passed and you got older, you saw that you could enjoy your raunchy novels fine and had made yourself orgasm plenty of times. Inevitably you shedded that view. Unsatisfied, you kept having boyfriends and sex. You kept searching.
You searched for pleasure. You searched for thrills. You searched for purpose. You searched for more fulfilling goals. You searched for substance. You searched for life. Any sign of it. And now you danced. You danced and danced and danced for hours.
Imagine Enjin’s surprise when he saw you out that night. He did not approach at first and watched from a distance.
Elegant going out attire that was no doubt your definition of scandalous. A low neckline and the most leg you’d ever been permitted to show in your entire life. Your clothes hugged your figure and revealed your curves. Your midriff was exposed, soft belly pouch and love handles spilling through the opening between your cropped top and skirt. And those sexy ass earrings that drew his eyes downward now to find generous cleavage.
Well I’ll be damned.
You were shy at the start of the evening but then quickly took part. You drank and turned down men left and right like you were that girl. Which you kind of were tonight. You laughed and danced. He wondered if this must be what watching a flower bloom might feel like.
You crossed paths with others from HQ but he let you be for the most part. Only stepping in when some guys couldn’t take a hint. Hours passed before inevitably the crowd spilled into the street and began splitting up.
Some chose to head home and others chose to go bar hopping. It was clear you were done, Semiu and Tomme telling you to take it easy for your first night out. Clearly they wanted to keep going but were being good friends. Enjin offered to take you back. He was done for the night himself.
“You sure, man?”
“Yeah, I was going to head back anyway. I’ll make sure she gets back to HQ in one piece.”
You thanked them for letting you join them tonight and parted ways. You clung to Enjin’s arm to avoid stumbling in the street.
You walked in relative silence but it was amusing being your designated walker. You were weirdly responsible, even whilst inebriated. Having reached flat out drunk earlier in the evening, you made sure to drink water and eat. Ever mindful, you had nursed yourself back to tipsy. Tipsy, for you, meant a giggly, smiling, pretty little thing that couldn’t walk in a straight line if your life depended on it.
A quick rain burst sent you squealing underneath an awning even though Enjin clearly had Umbreaker in his hand. He followed, it looked like you needed a minute to sit anyway. He crouched down beside you on the stoop and lit a cigarette.
“Didn’t peg you for the club type, Your Highness.”
“I di-d,” You hiccuped.
“I thought you’d miss your fancy soirees or whatever the fuck you guys got going on up there? Not exactly diamond hors d'oeuvres and harps.”
“Hm, I know,” You cheesed.
“So what gives? Why did you hound Semiu about this all week?”
You hummed, pleasantly buzzed and bit your glossed lip. “... We didn’t have this on the Sphere.”
“What, clubs? Like you guys don't got music, booze or dancing up there? Probably a thousand times better than us groundfolk. No need to act like you don’t miss it I’m sure.”
You shook your head at him, sending your earrings flying. He cocked an eyebrow curiously, watched how they smacked your cheeks. “I miss a lot of things,”
“But somehow you don’t want to go back?”
“No, I don’t.” Your head swayed. “But I miss the things I had. I miss the food, and the clean water, and the buildings with no leaks. I miss my bed and I miss my perfumes and oils…”
“But?”
“But not this… not music. There’s nothing to miss. Tonight was the best music I’ve ever heard. You, here on the ground, have real music.”
Enjin smiled, scratched the corner of his smirk with his thumb and decided to correct your grammar. “We.”
You smiled. “We, here on the ground, have real music.”
You never gave details about the Sphere or why you didn’t want to go back so he never pried. None of them at HQ did. This was the first peek you gave.
“Music on the Sphere is so sterile. I’ve never heard anything like this. I didn’t know music can make you feel… so alive.”
“Well, glad to have your approval, milady.” He paused and considered. “You know, there’s a music festival coming up that might be right up your alley.”
“Is it like the music from tonight?”
“Nah, tonight was all club beats. This is more grounder rock.”
“Like the stuff Riyo listens to?” You chirped excitedly.
Damn it, you were actually pretty fucking cute. Tipsy or sober, your eyes practically glittered with giddiness when something interested you. He had to admit as far as initial impressions went, he had you all wrong.
“Yeah, it's a bunch of different bands and acts that all group up and have concerts all in the same place. It's called the Trash Talk Tour,” Enjin reached into his pocket and pulled out a creased, old flyer he had pulled off a board the other day and handed it to you. “People get dressed up in costumes and there’s usually a fireworks show too.”
You took it gleefully and struggled to read it over. You opted instead for merely admiring the picture and the long list of performers. You turned back and had your lip caught between your teeth, like a little kid debating whether or not to tell a secret.
“You know I told myself I’d never tell you this cause I’m sure you’d never let me live it down,” You giggled and then hiccuped.
A brow rose, intrigued. He watched your head sway and your earrings followed.
“But on the Sphere… I was the bad girl.”
Enjin grinned like the cat that caught the canary. Shut. Up.
He leaned in slyly. “Go on.”
And you did. You went on at length of your clandestine search for vices. Partying behind closed doors and obscured beneath responsibly completed daily schedules. Oh you were completely right.
He absolutely, positively was never going to let you live this down. He would be insufferable. Never about any of your cravings or lust for life though. This was the most human you had ever felt. But he’d bet his last smoke, if you remembered this conversation in the morning, that you’d hate that you opened up to Enjin about it. When you finished he put out his cigarette.
“C’mon… rain stopped.”
You immediately started whining. “Hmmm, I caaan’t! I can’t take another step. My feet are killing me! And I can’t walk barefoot in the street like a ruffian.”
“Yeah, that tends to happen when you dance wearing shoes like that for hours.” He tried not to roll his eyes. Ruffian? At this rate you two would never get back to HQ. “Come here.”
“Wha–ah!” You let out a small shriek of panic as gravity abruptly shifted beneath you. Enjin draped your arms around his shoulders and piggy backed you up off the ground. “You don’t ha–”
“It's fine. Let’s go, already! Your noble steed would like to go to fucking bed some time tonight.”
You didn’t protest anymore. Tightening your arms around his shoulders, you buried your face into his shirt, chasing that lingering cologne. Softly, you mumbled. “Thank you, Enjin.”
That was the first time you thanked him for anything. It was strange, after that night you still went at it like cats and dogs. He still may or may not have enjoyed ruffling your feathers and pulling on your proverbial pigtails. But he started paying attention to that bold side a little more.
You groaned the next morning. Not from any hangover, honestly that might have been preferable, but from Enjin’s incessant jabbering about your vulnerability the night before. Worst of all you hated how you caught yourself with flushed cheeks remembering last night.
How he walked you back home, which was sort of gentlemanly you supposed. Okay, maybe not gentlemanly but at the very least a decent man. Surprised to discover how solid his arm was underneath those long sleeves. How your heart raced when he bundled you up effortlessly and carried you home. While he complained about it, he went out of his way so you didn’t take another step on aching feet. His scent of tobacco and fading spiced cologne lingered still.
He noticed when you were having trouble trying to talk and get to know people. Despite never saying anything, despite being trained to hide behind a stoneface your whole life, Enjin noticed. You knew what he was doing, getting under your skin all day, and appreciated it. You gave credit where it was due, he was a good team leader.
Loathed to admit it, feelings had begun to sow in you. You lashed out twice as much now in hope Enjin would not notice. But Enjin did catch it, long before you did. He never brought it up. He might be a prick but he tried not to be an asshole as much as he could help it. He thought it cute, though predictable. Waved it off as nothing serious.
Just an uptown girl face to face with something new and exciting. Something he would normally entertain. However you were a fish out of water down here, fresh from a tragic engagement and way in over your head. Once the novelty wore off, you’d move on. And he wasn’t going to capitalize on your ignorance or romanticizations.
So he played with you. He fought with you. Once in a blue moon he sprinkled in an insinuating comeback just to watch you get flustered. You’d tell him to go to hell.
It wouldn’t last forever. Eventually you would get your bearings. You would acclimate and see the reality of your new world. When you did, a knockout like you, could have anyone of your choosing down here. An ambitious, sophisticated lady probably knew exactly what she would be into and what she was looking for. And it wouldn’t be Enjin.
Stubborn beyond belief. It was like pulling teeth to offer any help. It was clear whatever your life was back on the Sphere, it drilled this insatiable need to be perfect. A complete teacher’s pet that studied and wrote notes about everything. Enjin would be lying if he claimed he didn’t find you impressive though.
You always had a back up plan for the back up plans, just in case. There was no T left uncrossed and no I left undotted on your watch. Methodical, militant, all your P’s and Q’s were minded.
Little Miss Perfect through and through. Of course his first natural assumption was you to have been a goody two shoes that never misbehaved a day in your life. The kind that would have sooner broken a bone before breaking a rule. Until your drunken confession showed him otherwise.
It was fun getting under your skin and watching Your High-And-Mightiness reveal your manicured claws. It didn’t matter what smart ass comment Enjin made, your parry was always at the ready. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t find it sexy as hell. You could take just as well as you could dish.
“See, what I tell ya?”
An almost cinematic explosion of hunting hound-like trash beasts erupted from the carcass of a giant slayed trash beast. Poured out of cracks, the open jaws and weak points in the structure, the swarm flooded the roads. Once regrouped, what looked like a leader spotted you both. The leader wrenched back its head and let out a haunting howl. In the distance you could hear the faint reply of distant swarms answering the call.
“Ahaha…”
You, somehow, glared daggers at him through your full face. Well, at least your arms were akimbo instead of crossed. So there was that.
“Oh look, the bridge you said we’d cross! Now that we got here, oh fearless leader, by all means enlighten me?”
“You know girl, your negativity is a real character flaw of yours.”
“Heeeeey, gorgeous!” Enjin sweet-talked you over the communications collars constantly. Always initiated by purposely lowering his voice to whisper in your ear.
“... No.”
“Damn, I didn’t even say anything yet!”
“You didn’t have to.”
“What do you mean it's gone?”
You were glaring at him but this time it was the serious-issue he definitely did fuck up this time type of glare. He patted down his pockets, his coat, his hidden compartments within. This delivery mission’s doohicky was nowhere on him.
“Well you see–”
“When was the last time you had it?”
He rested his chin in his hand and tried to retrace his steps. The last time he felt its weight against his hand, buried in his coat was… Shit. He opened his eyes and your arms were crossed, foot tapping expectantly.
“Well?”
“Aha, that would be when I tried to shoot my shot with those bar ladies…”
“Unbelieva–”
“Hey, hey, hey ya know, I’m sure if we retraced our steps the fucking whatchamacallit–”
“Do you not even know what it's called?”
“Of course!” He brought a dramatic hand to his chest and feigned being appalled.
“What’s it called?”
“I am wounded! It's called… the… the… Woof, Zanka help me out here?” Unable to keep up the bit Enjin lowered his voice to a clearly still audible stage whisper and turned to Zanka.
“Tra–”
“Zanka, don’t help him!”
“Damn, your majesty, fine! It's called the trans… amabob-inator?”
You began spluttering. Why did you have to get paired with the most asinine ignoramus? What did you do in a past life to deserve this?
“You–y–you,” Your hands were hooked into claws, clearly trying not to throttle him.
“Me, me, me, me.”
“Don’t! You–you you l-l-l,”
Enjin didn’t have anything smart to say because he was the one holding onto the thingamajig. The fact that he couldn’t even remember the macguffin’s name might have been the straw that caused you to short circuit. Normally so quick-witted with a smart girl clapback, here you were struggling not to kill him.
Oh damn, he really was in trouble if you were so angry you couldn’t even get the words out.
“Lllllll-oser? No, that’s not it? Lazy! No? L-ost? L-ow iron?” Enjin tried to help you sound out whatever you were trying to call him but couldn’t think of many mean things to say that started with L. You started pounding on his chest, trying your best not to smile, even more frustrated with his assistance in your roasting of his character. “L-eft handed? It better not be lanky?”
“Uggggh!”
Already offended, he grabbed you by the wrists, restricted your swats and began arguing back about the hypothetical jab at his physique. He was grinning while he bickered, seeing you clearly trying not to laugh. The sheer ridiculousness of the moment finally broke you from your spell.
“Yooooou le-l-l… you lecherous mooncalf!” You shouted in the middle of the street. People were already stopping to stare but now it was amusing.
“Huuuuuh? What did you just call me?”
“Did I stutter?”
“Yeah, actually ya did!”
“Good! Then that means you heard me twice!”
“All in a day’s work. I made that ambush my bitch, right milady?" Enjin grinned, winking at you. He held up Umbreaker and what looked like a muffler that was also wielded in the vanquishing of foes. Grinning at you through the side of his face, Umbreaker and the Counter-Ambush-Muffler rested against his shoulders.
“I’m not going to call you a good boy, Enjin. You almost let Rudo get snatched by organ movers.”
“You’re so mean, doll!”
“Diva.”
“Louse.”
“Crybaby.”
“Vulgarian.”
“Actually, I’m a leo.” He winked. You must have lost your mind because you let out a faint snort. “Did you just laugh?”
“No!”
“You did!”
“As if!
“I should call the boss!” He mimed activating his collar while you snipped at him. Now when you jabbed at each other there was a tinge of, dare Enjin say it, friendliness. Two people that got along because they were both assholes.
He did not fail to notice the tinge of a blush on your cheeks when you bickered or when he stood too close. Damn, he must be funny if someone smart like you had a crush on him.
Secret daredevil and moonlight wildchild you may have been, you were still a high class Sphereite. A detail that anyone could, and everyone did, clock a mile away. You were constantly getting threatened.
Attempted kidnappers and human traffickers that wanted to sell you for parts. Bandits and scavengers that wanted to rob you blind. Rudo attached to your hip any time you were on a mission together made it practically two for the price of one!
While beyond clueless about ground living or customs, which got yourself into trouble countless times, you seemed to have a knack for getting out of it too. You could bluff like a fucking champ. Spouting ancient nerdy knowledge that normally Enjin would tune out if anybody else recited to him.
Once in the car, all possible routes blocked and the crew on their last fumes, you told everyone to look bored. Turning up the radio to full volume, you scrambled onto the roof of the car.
“What the shit is that gonna do, girl?”
“I wasn’t fucking asking. I am telling you! Look bored, you squawking buzzard!”
“Noooo, mom and dad are fighting. Please not in front of the kids.” Riyo deadpanned from the backseat. Enjin whirled on her, spluttering, while you laughed already climbing out your window.
“Excuse you?”
“Just listen to her, we’re going to die anyway, so might as well.”
When the enemies had reached you, they found a parked car playing music. Sphereite woman perched prettily out in the open, filing her nails, unbothered. You looked up at the opposing force and waved. The real kicker was when you pretended to check the time.
“Boss… that’s a fucking trap.”
“Now that I think about it, don’t cleaners usually have whole teams? I'm only seeing a guy, the Sphereite bitch and a bunch of kids.”
You huffed impatiently, making a show of looking like you were ready to wrap this up. You started lazily counting men with your nail file and kicking your little feet that dangled over the side.
Enjin could not believe it. You were not pulling a life or death bluff, were you? He was so angry. He was so proud. He was so going to teach you how to play poker if they managed to make it back to HQ alive. If he called dibs on you as a partner now–
“Yeah, let’s regroup with the rest before heading in. Would’ve worked too if that lady wasn’t such a bad liar.”
Holy fuck. In a few minutes the roads were cleared and Enjin had them shrinking in the rearview. The kids clapped on you from the backseat. When Enjin asked what the fuck that was you cited some smart girl bullshit about classic literature from the ancient world.
In the novel, a general had blundered and had his soldiers sent away somewhere else. The city was left completely defenseless. While the soldiers were all gone, the opposing army started marching in on them. The general had opened the gates wide, sat atop his open walls and started playing music. The opposing army bought his gammon of making the attack on the city look too easy. Believing it was a trap they retreated.
“Like Riyo said, we didn’t stand a chance of winning so I thought, might as well.”
“You know what, Miss Thing, hell yeah! Classic literature slaps!”
You used long words that sounded like poetry coming out your mouth. You read thick books that looked sexy in your hands. You analyzed maps and consulted strategies. You played chess and shit. You were killer at poker. Years of etiquette training, honing your prudence and decorum made you a natural.
Introducing you to Alice had made Enjin’s entire day. He worshipped the woman himself and knew you would too. Alice instantaneously became your new favorite person and you had practically inhaled her research. You were the newest member to the Alice fan club and vice president now. Bowing only to Enjin’s seniority in the position.
“You’re new to this, I’m true to this life.” As he had put it. You laughed.
As a professional Miss Busybody, there was never not a project going on. Either always in the middle of learning a new skill or heralding a new theory. Somewhere along the way you had volunteered to the big man about accumulating all the discoveries from the field and conducting research towards the cause. Even talked the brass into letting you man the new initiative of setting up and running a library at HQ.
You and Tomme had hit it off with flying colors. As the other resident nerd that recorded everything she practically lit up like a firework when you pitched to her the project. Thick as thieves from that point onward.
Sometimes Enjin would walk by or stop in to check on your progress with the passion project. You looked so in place. Like this was your natural habitat. Smooth hands dotted with callous, the permanent writer’s bump on some fingers. Evidence of years in libraries and lecture halls.
There was quite a bit of formal training and study that involved joining the Cleaners organization. The physiology of trash beasts, the study of anima, actual physics to better master their techniques, so on and so forth. Not to mention plenty of members that were children still in need of the basic courses.
Naturally, Miss Thing, you finished in record timing. Though you tried your best to shade and hide your excitement. Enjin may or may not have been the only one to catch how your eyes glimmered if anyone asked for help on an assignment or question.
Enjin may or may not have mentioned your having been a professor or some kind of fancy teacher whatever-the-fuck back on the Sphere around the boss. How you connected with the youth on his team so naturally. He made damn sure to wander into the library when Corvus approached with his offer.
It was adorable the way you lit up, tried so hard not to tear up, when asked to be a teacher again for the Cleaners. How you tried not to jump at accepting and play it cool. When Corvus left it was just you and Enjin in the room.
“Thank you.” Your voice was thick and didn’t trust yourself to say much else.
“Who, me? What makes you think I had anything to do with this? Besides, it only makes sense to set you up with that gig.”
“Hm, of course you’re right. Apologies for my accusations.” You smiled, possibly the softest he’s ever seen you smile too.
“Have fun though, Teach.”
They lined the wall behind your desk with a salvaged chalkboard. You plotted out a course plan within a week. Between assignments you taught classes in your library several times a week. You taught everything; reading, science, mathematics and history. The classes were small and very hands-on.
Enjin watched you teach a few times. He saw firsthand how animated you were standing at your blackboard, an open book in one hand and chalk in the other. How you made sure everyone felt comfortable enough to ask for help and raise their hand when they needed it.
The lessons were pretty open and flexible, considering your classes consisted of a wide range of different ages, levels and needs. A few of the adults sat in during subjects they might have missed out on growing up once in a while. You made sure to make them feel welcome.
There were a few evenings when your girls nights were hosted in your library. It wasn’t often but it was hard to miss. It was actually kind of funny how you and your friends struggled to keep your voices down. You made sure it was always late into the evening and you called the shots in the library anyway.
This corner of the base began to feel like your domain. The same way the front desk belonged to Semiu. There were times Enjin would find his feet taking him there on autopilot before he realized what he was doing. You could be found hard at work researching well into the late hours of the evening.
He had discovered you asleep at your desk a few times. You’d wake up the morning after with his coat around your shoulders. He never moved you or woke you up. You looked happy. Regaining such a familiar part of your life that you clearly had missed more than you let on.
Falling asleep doing research was part of your fun, a mark of your craft. In a similar vein to athletes when drenched in sweat. Or artists covered in paint. For you, sleep lines on your cheek in the shapes of books and hands covered in chalk or ink. Dork.
Whenever he did stop in, you would tell him to be useful. Enjin was often ordered to either lift something heavy or handle high shelves for you. He pretended to avoid you like the plague, playing up the act of dodging work but he always managed to check in regularly. He always managed to let himself be caught by you. He listened when you bossed him around and had to hide how much he enjoyed watching you in your element.
More than once when Enjin relieved himself at night, images of dangly earrings accentuating a kissbitten neck, craned over some records flashed through his head. Snippets of you critiquing him played back in the dark. Clips of soft hands scribbling away at chalkboards became some of his favorite reruns past midnight.
He started more often leaning toward nerdy fantasies. Involving nerdy librarians, scholarly professors or desk papers swept off the surface in a frenzy. He waved it off as it was only natural. He was a healthy young guy and you were a stunner. There was nothing to feel weird about. It was nothing, he was certain.
You were smiling. Those small smiles people got when they were talking to someone they enjoyed talking to. You were nodding, lost in conversation, clearly agreeing with Corvus. Whatever it is you were talking about it seemed you two were eye to eye on the subject.
Enjin caught himself getting irritated when you spoke to Corvus about books. When he spotted you together walking down the halls, his chest got tight. He’d butt into those conversations when he could. Only then, most times, needing to mask how it peeved him that he couldn’t contribute or understand much of the conversation.
He picked up a perfectly good dictionary that was still in one piece the next time he went out. ‘It’s nothing.’ He insisted.
It fit perfectly in his pocket and it would help him keep up with your rapport. It would only become weird if he made it weird. Besides it would make for a good bit or a run on gag. He could whip it out the next time you said something professorly. It was just for a joke, just to make you laugh.
It had been some time now since meeting you. You had gotten your feet under you and you were pretty well settled into this new life in this new world. Nowhere near as impressionable as when you first started. You still found him funny and he liked to make you laugh.
At some point the bickering felt more like bantering. At some point the arguing became competitive. The constant back and forth, sometimes teasing and other times genuine, felt like a daily game of poker he got to enjoy. Eventually it reached the point where you two started tagteaming people you didn’t like together.
It was obvious to others. That his smirks and wisecracks were not just playful. Were not just for fun alone or entirely meaningless. Others saw the smirks and teasing, yes, but they also saw everything unbeknownst to either one of you.
Semiu watched you two argue down the street. Bro caught the rain that slowly began to dot the pavement, announcing itself before openly pouring. Gris spied how mid-rebuttal, without stopping to pause his argument, Enjin held his hand up at the first drop of rain and opened Umbreaker. They noticed how he leaned Umbreaker closer to your side. How he shielded you more than himself.
Look, man. Don’t even get him started. Enjin tried so hard, and failed, to be respectful. He really, only sort of kind of, did.
Full hips and a plump ass that filled out your nerdy skirts. Kneadable plush spilling from underneath your going-out tops. A lifelong fan of rounder and curvier ladies, he thanked the powers that be for his giant oven mitts so that he could, in fact, handle all that. Not that he was going to or anything.
Weeks rolled by and what started as occasionally cameoing in his late night fantasies evolved to star of the show every time. Humble beginnings as a guest star in his shower thoughts, now you were the leading lady. Enjin knew he was down pretty bad when he started losing interest in attention or propositions from anybody else. He had to come clean, at least to himself, that he took a liking to you. You were pretty as fuck, smarter than him and he was a weak man.
You might be covered up a lot of the time, but he could still enjoy and see everything without seeing anything. Silhouettes, imprints and ghosts of your shape pressed into your clothes. The impression of your belly button when you wore those slip skirts. The ravine that straps created on your shoulders.
Soft, heaving tits that rose and fell when you got worked up. He shamelessly enjoyed watching your chubby thighs expand when you sat down.
He managed to always find a way every assignment together to snake an arm around your waist and fly you out of harm’s way on Umbreaker. Or whenever you found yourselves in tight spaces, Enjin always passed behind you with a hand on your waist to guide your body when he needed to scooch by.
Pliant, doughy love handles rested underneath his palm. More than once Enjin had to practise self restraint to keep himself from squeezing. Practically rolled his eyes to the back of his head and groaned at himself for how fucking pathetic he was when you sat side by side and he could feel your body heat radiating onto his side.
He imagined warming his hands on you. Your thighs keeping his ears from getting cold. His hands gripping your hips from behind while his thumbs gave you your own matching pair of dimples on the curve of your ass.
He kept his little infatuation to himself, insisting that’s all it was. The last thing you needed was another hound-dog barking up your tree. Besides, a classy lady like you, wouldn’t give him the time of day.
Nevermind anymore that you were once Sphereite elite. If he was being honest with himself it really had nothing to do with that. It was more a self inflicted curse really. That’s the problem with his type, you were always too good for him. You always deserved better and you always knew it too. If you didn’t, well, you were smart so you’d always figure it out eventually.
He could be a passing fancy. A dashing, dimpled dalliance. A guilty pleasure and a curiosity. Happy to serve as a shot of excitement; to provide a taste for the rough and tumble and humble. A tall tattooed temptation but that was where the buck stopped.
He may not have been the most scholarly or cerebral of guys, but he was sharp enough to learn the hard way, as was how he learned everything. After some time around the block and his fair share of heart breaks he had to come to terms with the undeniable truth. He wasn’t his type’s cup of tea.
So he adapted. He learned to savor the chapter of teasing, flirting, and furtive glances. To bask in the moment of being the something-sweet you crave after well balanced meals. To sate himself with transient affection.
Cause that’s all it ever was. A chapter, but never the book. A moment, but never a life. A dessert, but you can’t live on sweets alone. Enjin was a fling, something casual, a sneaky link, no strings attached. He was the favorite eater on the roster. He was for rebounds. He was for making exes jealous. Enjin was for fun. He wasn’t anything serious.
He was a young man, and let’s call a spade a spade, a womanizer. His reputation was fairly earned. He'd be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy his role most of the time as an active participant in hook up culture.
However, truth be told, there were a few instances in his life when he didn’t. Only a small handful really. Particularly nowadays as he got older.
He usually minimized it to get through it. Told himself it was a bummer and kept it pushing cause, in the end, that’s all anyone really can do about it. He was not much for wallowing in sorrow or self pity. Not much for the woes-me routine either, himself. Enjin’s heartbreaks were reserved for closer friends or sharper eyes.
He’d have drinks with someone. Nothing sloppy or self destructive or loud. It was more quiet dive pubs and sitting in silence with a friend he didn’t need to say anything to because they already knew. He never denied or tried to bury it; he always let himself feel it. Enjin bled quietly.
So yeah… There were only a few, specifically with beautiful, smart, curvy women, that it really fucking sucked. But like with everything else on the ground, he made the most out of scraps.
Plump was a rarer, though not impossible, body type to find on the ground. It stood within reason that he constantly had to fight off creeps and losers. The worst part was how clueless you were to that kind of attention. For someone so fucking smart how could you be that oblivious. While you were by no means shy, it didn’t seem to compute when dudes tried flirting or shooting their shot with you.
He finally brought it up after one night at the club ended with Enjin in a pretty nasty fist fight. Sat beside him on the sidewalk, you nursed the shiner bubbling on his face with the ice from his drink.
The chill pressed against his face helped soothe the sting. The warmth pressed against his side however had the opposite of a cooling effect on him. Enjin’s entire body was alight and very aware of your side against him. The supple give of your form and how it yielded to the hard lines of his own. Where you were pressed against one another you molded to him. He was no better than a man…
“How do you not notice the way dudes drool every time we party, dollface?”
“I guess I’m not used to that kind of attention so out in the open.”
“Huuuh? Be so fucking for real.”
You explained that while you may have ran with all the cool kids (pfft, sure) and thrill seekers it ended within the confines of that circle. You had your fair share of secret boytoys for being one of the covert ‘fast’ girls that put out but that was about it. Empathy tugged at his heartstrings. You were a clandestine rollick under the shroud of night but in the light of day…
“On the Sphere, svelteness and being trim is desirable in women.”
That might have set him off as much as the panting, pawing piece of shit he had to lay out flat earlier. What did you mean by the Sphere? Like the entire damn thing? Another cultural clash revealed itself.
Enjin really struggled to wrap his head around the concept of an entire population having a hivemind mentality on what’s pretty. That was such a personal, individual thing. The ground had no such discriminations for either side of the spectrum in a lady. They didn’t have a collective consensus of ‘requirements’ to begin with when it came to attraction. They all had actual problems to worry about down here. Why the fuck would they waste time inventing new, imaginary ones?
The grounder mentality was everybody was somebody’s cup of tea.
Down here people were starving, meanwhile up there people were purposefully driving young women to skimp meals. Maybe it was just the pangs of bad memories from his own upbringing, but the idea of little girls in houses full of food being scolded for looking at it made him fume.
You told him about all the other beauty requirements and he could feel his blood pressure rise. Hairlessness, no stretchmarks whatsoever, women should be shorter, which how the fuck do you control height? He couldn’t even understand what the fuck cellulite was no matter how many times you explained it.
“Full offense when I say this, but dudes on the Sphere sound like little bitches that wanna fuck plucked chickens.”
You snorted and echoed him, “Plucked chickens, I can’t!”
In your giggle fit you tried to list a few more but Enjin stopped you from sharing any other details with a raised hand. “Seriously, don’t piss me off.”
You collapsed onto his shoulder. Encouraged by making you double over, his sarcastic antics continued. You devolved into side splitting laughter. A laugh that sounded like crystals jingling, rare and earned. He smiled watching you.
Enjin knew you knew he knew. Having become thick as thieves after a while. Possibly going as far to start saying best friends at this point. You tried as hard as you could to hide those feelings but just like how he was the only one who noticed your want to get to know people, he caught this too.
He was a sweetheart about it and you appreciated how much grace he showed you. He was a decent guy–okay, a good guy. Who understood that all the more aggressive snipping in the beginning was out of fear.
You were a grown woman, with a fully developed frontal lobe and multiple degrees. So you understood that in high stress situations, after fight or flight, there were also the less spoken about reactions, freeze and fawn. Fawn was dangerous.
Enjin became your leader when your whole life was turned inside out, not to mention he and his crew saved your life. Hardly the foundation for anything healthy. You were clear enough of mind to understand that you were at your most vulnerable and if the wrong person entered your life with ill intentions, they would be able to do some serious damage.
So you chose to fight to give yourself space and tried your hardest to grow past those feelings. Time went on and then with clarity and objectivity acquired you knew with concrete certainty. You did fall first but that you had been in no way the right place to do anything about it.
Over time you righted yourself up again. Sowed yourself into this new world and took root. Got to know others in the landscape. And yet... Over time, it didn’t go away, only strengthened. Over time you got to know him, you grew closer, you bonded, you trusted him. You learned and saw for yourself, Enjin was someone worth falling for.
Weeks had gone by and he let himself indulge. Slowly he let the bantering evolve by adding in some open teasing regularly now. Some platonic flirting wouldn’t hurt, right?
Eventually the flirting became just as second place as the arguing. What began as abrasive, two forces at odds, settled into familiarity and playfulness. You drove each other insane regularly but somewhere along the way comfort took root. Two forces that found a sort of kinship in one another. Someone that did not balk away but embraced and delighted in the rapport and verbal sparring.
You could be bold with him. Then you saw you could be loud and mean and snarky. There were moments when you were scared that you had taken it too far. That was too snippy, too bitchy, too nasty.
Your eyes went wide, apology at the ready, prepared to spiral for weeks and kick yourself for letting yourself slip like that.
Enjin would grin and exhale his cigarette smoke through his nose. An evil, playful glint in his golden eyes harbingered the promise of oncoming rascality. He looked entirely too much like a dragon tantalized by the morsel before him.
“Oh yeah, Your Highness?” He’d croon.
The lump in your throat went down. Nerves melted away only to ignite into electric charge. You were in danger, and you really, really liked it. More than once you caught yourself, eyes lingering, a pleasant feeling blossoming when he was near. Enjoyed in silence, enjoyed in loudness, it was nice to be known. No one knew you like he did.
Call him crazy but he could catch the interest was still present. Although now it would be more along the lines of reciprocated chemistry. Half lidded, siren eyes that watched him move.
You stood together, deep in conversation, having drifted well within each other's personal space. Almost ritualistic nowadays, drawn in by the other’s gravitational pull without realizing until you had already been hovering in the other’s orbit.
You were smiling. Those small smiles people got when they’re talking to someone they enjoyed talking with.
Mid-conversation he pulled out a smoke and held it between his lips, speaking from the corner of his mouth. The tension of the act naturally hollowed out his dimples and brought them out in full view. His large hands dug into his pockets before patting down his person, hunting for his lighter. You hung on his every word, transfixed on his wandering hands that came up empty.
Enjin stopped talking when you pulled out the spare lighter you apparently started carrying around. You held it there lit between you.
He grinned. “Thanks, mama.”
He could have just plucked the cigarette from his mouth and held it to the flame but where would the fun in that be?
He slid his hand over yours so you both held the lighter together steady. His hand engulfed yours, cupping and shielding the flame from the breeze. Tilting his head down some, he brought your hand up to his mouth and lit his cigarette. Eyes on you, he winked. When smoke curled from his nose, he closed your hand and snapped your lighter shut.
Your throat bobbed. Cute.
He’d noticed for a minute now the way your eyes followed his hands when he smoked. He tried his best to smoke at least one cigarette around you now constantly. He’d noticed the way your breath hitched when he started sprinkling more intimate pet names. The kind that guys on the ground used with their significant others. They were now seamlessly added to his roster of superlatives for you.
His smile was annoying. Smug and charming might just be the most insufferable combination in the world. He easily had the biggest hands you had ever seen, accentuated by tattooed rings and painted nails. His pierced ears, tattoos, undercut and, hell, even the buttons he decorated his coat with made him look rugged and wild. You may have been the bad girl back home, but standing next to Enjin revealed that you hadn’t even scratched the surface of punk or cool. But it was more than that, you liked how much pride he took in his appearance, how expressive it all was. The worst of his transgressions though were easily those damn dimples.
He listened intently when you spoke but when he caught you staring while he smoked, he’d smile wolfishly. His dimples, emerging between blinks, then dotted his face and caused you to stumble over your words more than once.
When he wasn’t talking, a rarity, you could nab a glimpse of them. They caught you off guard when you first noticed them. Little soft divots, served as punctuation marks, framing his smiles and expressions. They added a boyish charm back to him.
On hot days or when he was working out, he began the habit of wiping sweat off his face with the bottom of his shirt. He leaned against doorframes when you two talked at HQ. When he stretched around you he’d let his shirt ride up so you could catch a glimpse of the waistband of his boxers or his happy trail.
Enjin was such… a man. Guys on the Sphere were never… like this. As a matter of fact, Enjin made all your Sphererite exes feel like boys. It was a daily occurrence to be captivated by his broad shoulders and dark tattoos, taunting you from underneath his clothes. When he caught you angling to see more of his ink, he began wearing shorter sleeves or rolled up his longer ones casually midconversation to tease you.
‘Is this what female birds feel like?’ You caught yourself thinking once.
It had slammed him like a truck when he saw it wasn’t just creeps and losers barking up your tree. A few of the friends you made signed up as volunteer assistants every once in a while to help with shelving and cataloging. They also loved their share of gossip.
It wiped the smirk off his face when your friends were not so subtly giggling, gossiping and eavesdropping about a scene in the stacks. He approached ready to make a lame joke about working hard or hardly working when they shushed him. Warned him not to disrupt or get them caught, completely oblivious that everyone could hear them. When he peeked around to see what they were on about, his stomach dropped.
Enjin saw pleasant, smiling, friendly conversation between yourself and Gris. You were talking through a gap in the shelf. Having moved some heavy books aside while shelving and there was Gris browsing on the other side. You had been chatting like that for twenty minutes according to your friends.
Gris wasn’t a creep or a loser. He was a good guy. Clean, responsible, handsome and in the same age range as you and Enjin. Enjin’s jaw ticked. It was hard to explain, it wasn’t jealousy or anger that filled him. More of a sourness or bitterness that made him turn away, tired of that story they were whispering about. Gris was a good man, the kind that was always something serious.
Soon after, farewells were finally exchanged between you. You returned to work and slid down the aisle. Spotted your nosy friends and shooed them to get back to work. They scattered. He watched you, unnoticed yet through the shelf. How you mumbled categories to yourself, leaning on your rolling ladder.
Until you abruptly slid some books aside right by Enjin’s head. You were startled for half a second before smiling at him through the gap.
“Hello, Enjin.”
“Milady, come here often?” He winked.
“Pfft,” You rolled your eyes.
Enjin laid on the charm thick as you talked. You didn’t blush or get nervous anymore when he flirted or teased you. The grown woman's self confidence had returned to you. Now you rolled your eyes, played hard to get and were flippant with him. It all sounded suspiciously like saying, ‘eat your heart out.’ Now you smirked when he flirted with you platonically, that sounded suspiciously like, ‘do something about it.’
You stayed like that, talking through the opening between the shelves, for an hour.
After some time of this long, elaborate mating dance he let himself indulge in a few more hypotheticals. He wondered if maybe down the hall at night you thought about him too. Maybe at the same time he thought of you?
When he took himself in his hand and worked himself up, did you hitch your breath while you flipped the page of your book. Any one of those smutty stories you had on your shelves; alphabetized, annotated and highlighted to hell and back. Fuck, you were cute.
Would it be possible that maybe the dorky rakes wearing poet shirts from your books began having blonde hair and tattoos? Did you always have a thing for troublemakers and badboys? Did your books begin starring rogues with large, rough hands and dimples?
Did your own hand disappear beneath your blanket? Did you think of fingers with tattooed rings in their place that disappeared inside you? Did you have to bite your lip to keep quiet like he did?
You confided in him once. One quiet evening spent in, while he taught you how to cheat at poker. Told him how none of your boytoys satisfied you like you did. What a complete waste that was.
Music up there was so bland until you came to the ground. Did those rakes maybe start to feel boring once you saw real troublemakers? When you finally let yourself stop being shy in the privacy of your own room, did you let yourself indulge like him?
Let yourself think of tall blondes that could finally rail you like you always wanted. Like you deserved. Blushed at fantasizing about being squeezed, bruised and tossed around. Let yourself entertain the notion of finally meeting a man that could make you cum like all the heroines in your stories seemed to always be able to find. Maybe even let yourself ask what if you finally already met him? Let yourself picture Enjin being that man for you.
Enjin could be that for you. He could be the lead in your story that treated you right. He could be the man whose name you cried out. That pounded you into the mattress and caressed you afterwards. That would never let you go unsatisfied again.
Enjin let himself hope. He could be your man and that, maybe, you hoped for that too. Fuck!
He spilled in his hand. Enjin laid there panting and stared at his ceiling.
In the following days he realized two things. The first one caused the blood in his veins to freeze. If what always happened before happened this time…
When his charm and novelty wore off. When beautiful, intelligent, curvy, naughty women moved on. Those were always the times when not being anything serious really sucked.
The picture of you moving on though… This would be the worst one of them all. This one would be gut-wrenching.
The second one caused the blood in his veins to boil. How many times were you just a bit of fun or a quick fuck too? How many times did you find a new boyfriend and hoped it would be different? Only to be left disappointed over and over again. How many times did spoiled, Sphereite little pricks get handed a good woman and tossed you aside in the morning?
Were you excited when you were engaged? Did you think: finally, the search was over? Someone who wanted you, at least enough to keep you around. Did your heart break when you opened up and saw that that ungrateful, chicken-fucking Asshole didn’t want any of what made you you.
The stark difference between how you were when you and Enjin first met versus now was striking. In the beginning you glared daggers at him but kept quiet. Little by little you became more vocal. He witnessed, in real time, you come out of your shell and trust him with everything hidden beneath.
When you told him about what it was like on the Sphere, he imagined you stoic and filtered. Having spent your entire life up until that point minimizing and concealing. How you needed to bite your tongue. Purge, process and purify your words. Sanitize your personality. Rectify your desires. Censor your thoughts.
The mere idea of you dimming your spark enraged him.
These were the only kinds of words he could dig up when he thought of you like that. They all hit the nail right on the head, but none of them were the exact one he was trying to get out of his mouth. He flipped through his dictionary when he couldn’t find the word himself.
Then the one time you tried to unmask and reveal yourself–
… Erase… That son of a bitch tried to erase you.
That spoiled prick was given a work of art and treated you like a stain. Swept you under the rug because you didn’t fit in his tiny, boring frame above the mantle. But here you were, the loudest you had ever been.
He could be that man for you. Enjin had had his fair share of fuck ups and failures. He was knuckle headed and learned things the hard way. He was the furthest thing from perfect. He was broken and duck taped back together. Several of his breakups he definitely deserved and had coming. But it was like he told Rudo, he recognized his faults and saw where he needed to change.
If he had met you ten or five years ago, he would’ve fucked this up royally. But you didn’t meet ten or five years ago. You met now, after all the growing pains. Enjin was a grounder at the end of the day. When he broke something, he fixed it. He could be that man you wanted, that you should have been had at this point honestly.
And when he fucked up, he would fix it. He would do right by you. If you gave him the same chance. It’s why he always said he liked the forgiving type. He lived in a harsh world with downright cruel circumstances. Failures on the ground had unfairly heavier costs. And the reality was everyone in this world was only human at the end of the day, those ladened costs were inevitable.
You trusted your bitch-ass Fiancee with your true self, your vulnerability, your fiery passion, your spark. And he left you shivering in the pouring rain.
But Enjin wouldn’t. He’d cherish whatever pieces you gave him. When he stumbled, he’d make it right. If you left it up to him, he’d get it done. If you trusted him with your spark, your secrets, your heart, he’d keep them.
Dry under his umbrella. Warm inside his coat. Safe in his hands.
And you did. He saw it in all the little things. You forgave him and trusted him with your secrets over and over.
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Course,”
“I technically wasn’t ‘thrown out’ with the trash…” He watched you chew your lip. Nervous energy permeated off of you, big doe eyes afraid. “I jumped.”
“Isn’t that basically suicide though? From what you’ve told me you guys don’t know anything about the ground, it's called the pit, it could’ve been a bottomless pit for all you knew.” Enjin’s eyes were glued to you, hyperobservant as always.
“Correct… My betrothed hired people to make me disappear and I ran until I was cornered. It was a simple calculation. I wasn’t strong… at the time. I didn’t have a chance of winning. Out of pure dumb luck, it happened to be the day for soft materials and household garbage to be thrown, clothes, bedding, food waste, you name it. They were going to throw me out with the garbage when they killed me anyway, if I stayed I would hit the ground dead. If I jumped, the odds were infinity to one…”
“Infinity to one what?”
“For the infinity, death. For the one, anything… While I would most likely die, there was that one slim chance that could be anything.”
“What do you think now that you’ve seen what that anything ended up being?”
There were bad people everywhere but it wasn’t until you fell from grace and landed in hell that you found friends. There raiders and robbers and scavengers and human traffickers on the ground. But there was also Semiu, Tomme, all the children and Enjin. Weary of each other at first you may have been, this was the first time in your life you had people.
Enjin, for all his brashness, took care of those kids. For all his cheek and smart mouth, looked out for people. Despite all your instincts screaming at you. Despite there being plenty of snakes on the ground. This was also the first time you met people you could trust. So even though he was an arrogant, annoying, crude, manwhore; Enjin always watched your back.
Anyone could have found you. The organ movers, the slavers, the raiders. Zodyl, no doubt, would have killed to be Enjin when either Rudo or you hit the ground. But when you opened your eyes, three young pairs looked back. For all the righteously placed anger they could have held, you saw only caution mixed with concern.
“I think I might just be the luckiest person alive.”
“Ye of little faith, mama.” He grinned once when a mission was completed. It had started well, went quickly sideways but he had steered it back–in a right answer with the wrong formula sort of way but you got there in the end.
You shook your head incredulously at him and rolled your eyes but you were smiling. “I always trust you.”
Despite all your nagging and criticisms–actually… He reconsidered himself. Because of the nagging and criticisms. He didn’t see it at first, but all the lectures, reprimands, critiques and chastises were not for the sake of complaining and disapproving every little thing about him.
Loathe he had been to admit it way back when during your training, a messy pack in an emergency could cost life saving seconds. Reckless guessing could double the risks of discovery. You may have chided him for his attitude or tactics but you always did give him the keys back, referred to him on missions, and in all his mastermind-hair brained schemes you always believed it would work.
“Yeah, I know I sound crazy and dumb. We can’t all be eggheads.” He had said once.
“You’re not dumb, Enjin.” You had told him once. “Just because you’re not the same kind of intelligence doesn’t mean you aren’t smart. You have almost unnaturally accurate intuition, that’s not something you can teach. You always know what people need to hear, you’re a good leader. And anyhow you're actually pretty good at any math or science that’s relevant to you and your technique.”
He studied you as you added extra rations to his inventory, restocked his first aid kits, the way you angled yourself beside him the moment before a fight because you knew he had you covered. Your chastising was you caring. You called him out when he deserved it but you always trusted that he’d handle things in the end. When he noticed that was when he finally started noticing other things.
The little smile you kept tucked away when you barked at him and he played with you back. During days off you always accepted whatever time he proposed to spend together. You always sat next to him during poker. You read your books in his space, absentmindedly traced the swirls of his tattoos. He was the first person you went to with gossip. When you cooked or baked, while you played with him and acted annoyed with his messing around in the kitchen you always gave him the spoon and he washed the dishes.
You only let yourself get drunk around certain people and he was one of them. How you clung to his arm and knew you’d wake up home. You didn’t have to worry about creeps and losers when he was around. You always held ice to his face when he got rid of them.
How many times had the both of you, heart broken and chipped, been used and forgotten? It genuinely pissed him off now. At first it stung, were times when it hurt. He remembered being angry about it at first. Then he learned to live with it cause there was no other option. He had lived making peace with it for years. Now he circled right back to anger.
He was so tired of this shit. Fuck it, he’d do it his damn self. He tried to imagine what it looked like if you gave him a shot. If you trusted him with your body, he’d be so damn good to you.
The smooth skin of your unblemished throat, blemished. What would your mascara look like teary eyed? Lipgloss smudged? Soft sides bruised? Clothes disheveled? He caught himself envying all your Sphereite exes and boytoys that had the privilege of witnessing it. Lucky bastards. But now, hopefully, he could be the lucky bastard.
Everything that was precious was hard to come by down here. Food, clean water, shelter, clothes. But it wasn’t just the landscape that was brutal. Good people were just as difficult to come by. Safety, medicine, trust, friends, allies were all hard earned.
Dating on the ground was a hazard. Best case scenarios were nasty breakups, worst case scenarios were betrayal. Like he said before, everything had a heavier cost on the ground. Down here betrayal can get you sold, dead, or wishing you were dead.
If you lucked out and found people, ones that looked out for you and cared, you took care of them. When he was a younger guy, he was a punk ass that just wanted fun. He didn’t think long term. Now as a grown ass man while he still had casual fun, honestly, he was just looking for his old lady.
You trusted him with your safety and wellbeing. With little pieces of you. Each one he accepted, he was rewarded with another. He liked hot women who were smarter than him. Which is why he also liked a forgiving woman.
‘I’m sorry that I’m a fucking idiot.’
‘That it takes me forever to figure things out.’
‘I’ll always fix it.’
Enjin just thought he wouldn’t need to demonstrate it almost immediately to you though. But as was the way of the Abyss, disaster always had superb timing.
“That music festival is coming up, you excited?”
“Oh yes! I borrowed some of Riyo’s albums to check out some artists ahead of time,”
“What do you think about grounder rock?”
“It's so loud, it made my heart pound. It felt really angry, I didn’t know music could make you feel, I don’t know. Seen? Like… you’re not alone. I really liked them.”
His brow furrowed. Fucking hell, he began wondering if the Sphere had anything at all.
“You got some repressed anger issues there, sweetheart?”
“Apparently, yes.”
“Nice, which stages did you want to go to?”
“Well thank you for asking, actually I really want to see all the ones Riyo didn’t have. I want to hear as many as possible but I can’t decide which ones.” You pulled out a newer flyer that had the venue and performance layout on the back. It was already highlighted and color coded because of course it was.
“I know a couple of those groups,”
“You do?” Your eyes lit up, ready to begin annotating your margins.
You were shoulder to shoulder.
“Yeah…” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I could show you a few of them. Would you be interested in wanting to go together?”
You looked up. He was already looking at you.
Years of working under pressure had steeled his resolve. He looked calm but his heart was drumming against his ribs. He waited for your response with bated breath. He had that cheeky smile on, annoyingly charming.
“You’re being mean.” Your voice was small and raw. No multi-syllable shields or pride as armor. Just a sweet girl that didn’t know how not to care so much about everything. Tired of being shamed or mocked for all the feelings you were tired of hiding.
He cursed at himself and everything else when he saw those big, doe eyes vulnerable and hurting. That was fair. You weren’t used to being taken seriously either. His resolve from before cemented into place. Fuck those noble lordly bitch-boys. Fuck your Fiancee and the Sphere he came riding on. He followed after you and spoke at the same time as you.
“I’m not, I promise–”
“This is mean. You can joke and make fun about a lot of things–”
“I’m not joking–I aint making fun–”
“I know that I look like some silly, gullible–”
“You’re not silly–”
“Infatuated ingenue–”
“What does that even mean–” he started smiling again just watching you be you.
“Or some schoolgirl crush–”
“How do you spell ingenue–” He pulled out his dictionary and started flipping through the O section.
“Struck with frivolous calf-love–”
“Calf-love? Is that like moon-calf?” He smiled flipping through the pages. Before finally, voice firm, “Hey!”
You finally stopped. Slowly, you turned to look at him again. Eyes misty.
He wasn’t frustrated. He got it. You were scared, for the exact same reason he was. If this, if you, ended up just being for some fun with him…
This would be your gut-wrenching one that really fucking sucked too. You had your own cracks cutting into your heart and any hands that tried to pick up pieces. You thought you had already finished this before. He saw what it was really about. What if you did believe him? You believed it last time too.
You had opened up about it once. Your Fiancee and you had hit it off. He was your closest friend. You did all your nerd stuff together and you found someone to share your secret defiant side with. Someone who joined you and stayed for longer than a night. You thought you weren’t alone anymore.
“I didn’t know music could make you feel, I don’t know. Seen? Like… you’re not alone.”
How lonely did you feel in the heavenly rafters? Surrounded by people, crowds even, but no one within reach. If they hadn't found you… there were some pretty vile folk down here too.
It bites. It sucks. It’s downright dangerous being a decent person that gives a fuck in a world that couldn’t care less. So he didn’t take any offense to your reaction nor was he dissuaded by it.
Because Enjin understood. You did believe him and that’s what scared you. The last time you believed it, your best friend, the best boyfriend you had ever had, the guy you were going to marry, tried to murder you.
You searched and searched and searched. A fiery heart driven stir crazy. Yearned to find and feel all the things that were only human. You weren’t perfect like you were supposed to be. You tried to embrace that and it almost killed you.
Enjin wasn’t the one who broke this, but he would help you mend it anyway. On the ground, if you were lucky enough to find something thrown out that was still so good, you patched it up and you kept it. He’d be the extra set of hands you need.
When you needed someone to hold something in place while you applied glue. The finger to press down on the string while you tied the bow.
“I’m not kidding. I’m not joking. I aint messing around. I don’t play about you, your majesty. I am down so fucking bad for you its not even funny. I want to take you out and, fingers crossed if you’d be down, I wanna make you my old lady. I don’t want anything casual about you. So what do you say, ma? Let’s give this a shot. Wanna give me the time of day and let me take you out?”
He didn’t spout any poetry or sonnets. He didn’t plead you for a grand gesture he needed to do. He just stood there, boots firmly planted. He spoke, his voice warm and raspy, and he told you plain as day. Because he knew you already believed it. The only question now was did you still want to look for love and romance.
His opinion may be completely biased but he was rooting for you right now. At first he didn’t think much of your ‘boldness.’ Your definition of bad and rulebreaking was pretty dorky in his book. But he’s since realized he was being unfair.
All those things were illegal and you still took the chance. You spoke up, maybe not for the ground at the time, but to make things better. Gave up certainty, stuck your neck out and took a chance.
Back against the ledge, literally, you saw a shot in the dark. A slim sliver of a pinhole. A hypothetical really. Between a rock and a hard place, between death and the unknown with death still a most likely outcome. Between oblivion and the Abyss. You jumped.
That was metal as fuck. Sometimes you did it with confidence, sometimes shivering and afraid but you took your shot, every time. Don’t let them take that from you.
Enjin, just like he did with everyone he helped, took a step back, gave you space and let you breathe. Because that’s what he did. He reminded people they can do anything. He planted his boots firmly, told you the truth and then he let you defeat what was left of the Sphere still inside you.
Your heart was pounding. Phantom sensations of wind whipping against you. Memories of falling flashed through your head. His voice cut through all the noise and brought you back. Grounded you.
“I can promise that it’ll be a bitching–what did you call it… It’ll be a bitching cotillion.”
You breathed. Okay, now think.
You began reciting facts and logic. This was a trauma response. The fear that what happened before would happen again. The phantom sensations, the blood pumping in your ears, etc.
Two options laid before you. Their outcomes were a simple calculation. The odds were one to infinity.
One: Enjin betrayed you one day and could leave you for dead.
Another shock, another heartbreak. Everyone everywhere would always be a risk. You would never be immune to betrayal, that's why it’s a betrayal. No one sees it coming. It will always be shocking.
You survived this far therefore the evidence dictates beyond a shadow of a doubt, while it would really fucking suck, you could handle it. You are stronger than you have given yourself credit for.
Resilience is not to be bulletproof, but the capacity to withstand and recover. Nobody wants needing to be resilient, you just have to try when it's called for. That’s all anyone can do. Every connection will always technically be a leap of faith.
Infinity: Anything. Everything.
The endless possibilities of the cosmos were and always shall be across the ravine known as fear.
You got to know Enjin plus you discovered he was wonderful. That ended up equaling for you that Enjin was clearly someone absolutely worth falling for.
Which left now a simple choice:
Was he someone you would leap for?
“... What’s that?” You nodded to the dog eared book he was holding. His hand blocked out the whole cover.
“Oh, it’s a dictionary.” Enjin held up and gestured with his copy.
“Why do you keep a dictionary with you?”
“Cause you use a lotta fancy words that I’ve never even fuckin’ heard of, missy.” He flipped through the pages quickly with his thumb like he did when he shuffled cards during poker. “And I like talking to you.”
Your heart skipped. You allowed yourself to indulge and you hoped. You hoped that–what if, maybe, this could might possibly, oh fuck please let it be, different this time.
The choice: Was he someone worth leaping for? Yes, and you’ve realized, you are too.
Some people cannot afford the risk of infinity. And that’s okay. Some people do not want or are not interested in the infinity. And that’s okay. Neither infinity nor one was wrong.
Against the odds you’ve searched all this time for the things you wanted to have one day. You were not someone that has elected the infinity too unsafe to pursue. You definitely were not the latter, not in this story at least. Maybe in another life, another world. You were not someone uninterested in the infinity here though.
Despite the pursuit of the infinity almost killing you, you fought tooth and nail to find it. For whatever reason, this dumb bitch still wanted it.
So, who were you to stand in your way?
“... I’d really like that.”
“Yeah?” He grinned.
“Yes,” you swallowed, “I’d love to go to a concert with you and all those other things you said too.”
“Fuck yeah,” Which sounded suspiciously a lot like ‘I knew you could do it.’
A warm, buzziness had settled over you both like a blanket but you were still on a mission and needed to carry on. The two of you were a dynamic duo afterall; a package deal one could even say. One that built a reputation from an endless stream of successful missions and assignments completed side by side. Everything was going good for once. Until Enjin made the mistake of forgetting where he was.
“How sweet.” A mocking voice sliced through that warmth.
It ripped open the air itself. Whirling colors appeared that sucked all the warm tones from the scene opened behind you. Backlit, giving your edges a halo but casted a shadow across your face. Raiders.
Enjin made his first mistake, he blinked. He hesitated, not out of fear or doubt or lack of courage. Just the completely human response of not understanding what was going on for a split second.
His name shredded its way out of your throat in the most haunting shriek, hand outstretched. You called out. You hadn’t looked at him with that same genuine terror in your eyes since he first met you.
Ripped backwards into the swirling colors of the portal, you jolted Enjin awake and he launched forward. But he was a split second behind to catch your hand. You slipped right through his fingers. The portal sealed. Enjin fell to the ground where it once was.
A single moment of carelessness that cost everything.
He’s a man of practicality. It didn’t matter how many tasks you completed together, it didn’t matter if it was a mistake. It didn’t matter that it was only human. There was no point in guilt because it didn’t matter if he let it eat him alive. All that mattered was that he was caught off guard and you were taken now.
He didn’t beat himself up about it. Feeling bad doesn’t do anything. The universe really said time to test that resolve he had reached earlier. Nut up or shut up.
He stood up from the ground and started fixing it.
All the events that had passed seem to fall into place. Things he initially thought completely unrelated all came together. The countless ambushes from different unsavory groups trying to kidnap you. The doohickey that had been taken off his person, apparently, a prototype internal piece for a one way long range transmitter that could pierce anything, even the border. Zodyl’s interest in you.
The Cleaners and other factions were looking to reach the Sphere. You offered to help conduct research and incriminated yourself to share the same interest of returning. You, a bride, spoke of learning about the ground and wanting to change the world. He, your Fiancee, who preached of maintaining the status quo. Who wanted to utilize your intelligence and research for its continuation. Who feared your voice and your mind enough to kill you.
Above all, you were not technically thrown out. You leaped. There was nothing to show for those men to prove they finished the job. Meaning, unfortunately, the chicken-fucking Asshole looked at the most brilliant woman ever and saw a loose thread, a liability. Last but not least, unfortunately, he was a fucking nerd like you that dotted all the I’s and crossed all the T’s.
Fuu, while not told about this elaborate scheme, knew Zodyl and how he worked. He took one look at all the pieces and provided the clarity they had all missed. There were clearly Sphereites that went back and forth.
It wasn’t exactly beyond him to use the Sphereites' own against them as their downfall. Fuu mentioned Zodyl probably loving how poetic it would be, actually. They sent messages telling them you were alive, probably wanting rescue or to return home. You were bait for someone that either loved you enough or wanted you dead enough to answer.
“The turtle stretches its neck outside of the shell and…” Fuu trailed off, letting the insinuation hang in the air. “But I’m not sure when or where the meet up would take place.”
“I can venture a guess.” Rudo spoke up. All eyes on him now. “If I know anything about the rich on the Sphere and Zodyl, what’s the absolute worst, most heartless choice? Her Fiancee went to all this trouble to hide and not wanting to be seen or discovered. There’s a perfect distraction coming up now.”
Semiu pinched the bridge of her nose. “The fucking Trash Talk Tour. Now I’m just pissed I didn’t see this shit coming along my damn self. Alright people, let’s go. Time to get to work.”
Enjin’s fingers traced your color coded flyer on the counter.
“Enjin, a word…”
The days passed and it felt like an eternity but the evening was finally here. The plan they elected was to approach posed as fans attending any of the concerts and to not tip off the venue until a bit later into the evening. The panic or cancellation would no doubt scare off the Tool with the stiff upper lip and who knows when he would resurface again.
Enjin adjusted his tie, nodded back to his team before they split into the crowd and everything fell in motion. Then everything quickly went to hell in a hand basket.
The venue was in chaos. Attendees, employees, volunteers and performers alike running everywhere in a mass panic. Crowds illuminated with bursts of colors by the fireworks overhead. Team Akuta was painted in a kaleidoscope of colors across various levels of the mayhem.
Zanka pushed against the flow of the escaping techies in some rafters. The last few finally moved past him. His hand shot out and snatched a wandering wrist the same moment the catwalk was submerged in blue.
“Damn, nothing gets past you it seems,” A blonde employee that didn’t look frightened enough amongst her panicked compatriots purred. Zanka recognized her, the buxom bar worker and her previously established skill for sticky fingers.
With one of his hands occupied, his only response was swifter than the eye could blink. A cry of pain rose beside them. With his other hand he snapped the Lovely Assistaff and stunned her colleague, slinking in shadows beside them.
“Not a damn thing.”
The equipment behind the deconstructable main stage was dyed in a myriad of verdant hues. Riyo, surrounded on all sides by the very same human traffickers you had fooled once before, smiled.
Not paying a single one of them any mind or their threats of her being outnumbered. Riyo was too busy looking under some cabling and amps tucked away to the side, amused.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah whatever guy,” she rotated the volume knob on a small side speaker hooked up for employees. The same song that played on the radio that day reprised itself on the speaker now. “Talk about irony, amirite?”
The winding open air stairwell was aglow in crimson. Hanging cables and scaffolding added a tangled canopy to the landscape. Enjin sprinted up the spiral stairs, desperate to reach the highest point when he caught a glimpse of you. Your captor, the last of that cadre of organ movers, whipped around once he recognized he couldn’t outrun who was at his heels.
“Don’t move!” He held you at knife point, the cool metal chilled your skin. Shivers ran down your spine and mirrored the dried tearstreaks that ran down your cheeks.
“No need for anything drastic,” Enjin’s smooth, smarmy voice oozed out of his smile.
“Aht-aht! Hands up!”
Enjin halted mid-step. He lifted up his hands, Umbreaker hooked onto his wrist and dangled there. There was that beautiful, familiar, angry look on your face.
“We’re going to keep going up these stairs and you are going to stay right there, got it pal?”
“Got it, I won’t go another step higher.” He watched your glare shift from the man threatening your life to Enjin. Already tired of whatever game he was starting to play.
The last of the Organ Movers tried moving up the steps without turning his back but was stopped when Enjin spoke again.
“What about my friend though?”
“She’s obviously coming with me, you dumb fuck.”
“So no instructions, got it. I wasn’t talking about her.” Enjin let out a loud whistle. “All yours, Kid!”
There were thunderous crashing noises coming from what felt like all around. Rudo erupted from below through the open center of the spiral stairway wielding, who the fuck actually knows, honestly! Almost as if in slow motion the scum was face to face with the reigning crown prince of Doodads and Thingamabobs. A loud scream escaped your captor’s mouth before Rudo pushed him over the railing and they were both airborne.
“Enjin!” That same haunting shriek from days before echoed itself and a cold sweat broke out down the back of Enjin’s neck. Enjin reached for you and this time he didn’t hesitate.
Listed over the side at a life flashing angle, Enjin’s arm caught you around the waist. He brought you securely back to the center of the steps but he couldn’t enjoy the sight for long before Rudo’s previous crashing compromised the integrity of your current location.
“Look out!” You yanked Enjin by the tie and dragged his colossal ass several levels lower. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
Once on a secured landing, in the span of a skipped heartbeat the world was gilded. You both immediately began examining one another and looked for injuries.
Warm and flushed against his hands, here you were. No cuts or wounds, no bruises, no lumps and no bumps. There didn’t seem to be anything broken, swelling or sore.
You continued fretting as he cupped your cheek, not paying attention. They had you dressed like an attendee and out of all the costumes they could have chosen, they had you draped in satiny white. He wiped away the streaks with his thumb, the only disturbances in your always pristine make up. He fiddled and admired your earrings with his index finger.
“Hey, angel…”
Finally satisfied that he wasn’t injured, you stood still and breathed. Your chest heaved. You pouted.
“Y-you– you… Y-yoou y-o-ou,” Fists pelted his chest. You shoved him as you stuttered. The rainfall of smacks, shoves and fists were uneven, punctuating the inbetweens of your repeatings. “You… you… You…”
Really? Almost instantly his own temper ignited to mirror you, a perfect match. “You have got to be kidding me, your high-and-mighty-ness! What? What?”
“You! You! You!”
“Me, me, me, me! What?” He wrestled with your wrists but didn’t completely restrain you. Your pummeling weakened now but still a continuous onslaught so you started kicking. You were infuriating, atta girl! “What? What’s a matter? Run out of buzzwords finally, Miss Ma’am!”
“...You! …Yo-u!” A hiccup. Small but clear, you sniffled. Tears welled your eyes. Whatever was caught in your throat, was brimming your entire soul. Punches weakened and weakened, until your hands clung to his shirt, wrists still encased in his own hands. Eventually you slumped against him. Clutched him, scared he might disappear.
Enjin’s tone lost its bite, his eyes softened. He bowed his head and whispered against the top of your crown. “... What?”
“... you… you came?” A sob, shoulders trembled beneath him.
Enjin rubbed your wrists. He slid one of his hands up. He covered and pressed a clinging fist to his chest. With his other palm, he snaked his arm around you and cradled the back of your head.
“... you called.”
Enjin let you shiver against him for a moment and he couldn’t help but lighten the tension once more before disaster struck.
“Your Highness,” he could feel a weak smile against his chest.
“Scoundrel,” you tilted your head up and graced him with your smile.
“Scoundrel? Scoundrel?” Enjin echoed in feigned offense. His voice low, he let himself taste the word on his tongue. He rasped it and let you feel it rumble in his chest. “I think I like the sound of that.”
You scoffed and rolled your eyes at his teasing. “Of course you would.”
“I think you like the sound of it too.” He brought your fist up and kissed the back of your hand. “Otherwise you wouldn’t say it so much. I think you like scoundrels, Your Highness.”
“Why would I–” You were cut off by those fucking dimples.
“I think you do. I think you like all kinds of–what were some of those other things? I think you just might be into ruffians and mooncalves, recidivists and vulgarians.” Alluring, mischievous golden eyes that melted seamlessly with the world all around you. He crooned, low and husky despite all the wildness and danger that still surrounded you.
“But I think you like scoundrels most of all, Your Highness. I don’t believe there were nearly enough of them in your life.”
“I happen to like good and respectable men, thank you.”
“Scoundrels can be pretty decent and respectable.” He tilted closer, the air between you quickly shrinking.
“You’re not respectable,” You breathed against his mouth. Completely overlooking the part where you failed to deny that you thought him a good man but Enjin didn’t.
“You’re right about that, mama…” The words danced out of his mouth like his cigarette smoke. He sealed the path to any more conversation, letting you and your words sink into his embrace.
You hummed. Enjin left no room for air, let alone arguments. Ever the scholar, you took note of your new self-discoveries. First, you liked the color gold very much actually. Second, you liked good men, not gentlemen. Third and final, good men knew when not to be gentle.
He cleared the path to speak and parted from you. He smirked, watching you follow his smile like you were lassoed to it. “Adventure’s not over yet. We gotta go, Your Highness.”
Sense returned and so did your pout. “I knew that, you're the one who was being such a tease, you scoundrel.”
A beat passed and he took off down the stairs, helping you down them with your hand in his.
“Awe, that was so sweet.” A voice intruded and the world twisted upside down. Your laugh morphed into a shriek, the golden air swirled with blue from a foreign source.
A churning portal opened below your feet just as you had stepped and swallowed your dive. Enjin’s grip ironclad, he did not hesitate and pitched forward to follow. You emerged, spat out the other end, the wind howled all around. Exposed to the elements and the light of the fireworks above.
Enjin, not initially invited for this little trip, had a rougher landing and his head spun. When everything finally became rightside-up again for his center of gravity he leapt to his feet and scanned his surroundings.
The world burst into a kaleidoscope of colors. His suit coat whipped around him from the unobstructed wind. Open air, open sky, open stretches between the precarious beams that were the only walkways and footholds, all the way up here at the top of the infrastructure. Where the summits of all the stages' arching frames spiderwebbed together.
At that same moment several of his allies and friends had made it up here. Follo, Bro and Tomme entered the scene. Each from a differing cardinal direction.
Mammoth chunks of debris launched by. The teleporting raider girl stood beside Zodyl, lying in wait for his command. Zodyl stood face to face with what he hunted, eyes void of expression. He calmly watched the prey take the bait.
At the top of this metal canopy was a stand off. Enjin looked into the eyes of a soulless, ungrateful Prick. At the top of the grounder world stood a Sphereite man. His method of arrival, unknown and coveted by all down here in the Abyss.
“Now, now, haven’t you caused enough of a fiasco.” A Man in Finery, the slimiest person Enjin has ever seen, scolded and tutted at you. It was almost like the trash storm spilling from the passing Sphere in the distance was at his beck and call.
You had been grappled in Zodyl’s arms, resisted and kicked the whole way, before he had finally released you halfway up the gangway. Left you stuck like a tightrope walker over open air between himself and your Fiancee.
Forced to spend all your attention and energy on fighting against the wind that threatened to send you plummeting. You were vulnerable to any advances. The Sphereite Man leaned forward from his secured landing and when your arms spun and waved to regain the balance that teetered he snatched you by the arm.
“Enjin!”
“Hush! That’s enough now!” All your screaming was quieted once again by the chill of cool metal that pressed against you. Before was a blade, now a pistol hovered over your shoulder.
The world roiled in chaos but all who stood up here froze in anticipation. Enemies lied in wait for a moment to strike. Allies in fear of causing the trigger to be pulled.
“I thank you for her safe return. Now, here’s what will transpire. All of you will return down below where you belong, first. Once done we can make our quiet exit.” He snarled the word quiet against your temple. “Am I understood?”
“Of course,” There was a smile on Zodyl’s face as he beckoned his raider. “We will be right out of your hair.”
They stepped through the portal and vanished. Everyone but your Fiancee knew damn well he wasn’t truly gone and that he would strike.
“While unreasonable to expect all of you to have sense I do recommend following in the footsteps of your friend there.”
All the members of his team had their hands raised. Enjin spoke and opened the negotiations. Hearts pounded wildly in chests and adrenaline coursed through everyone's veins.
“Why don’t we talk about this? You alright, mama?” Enjin checked in on you, mid-hostage situation, unabashedly.
“Fresh, I see. A bit intimate don’t you think, my dear?” Your Fiancee hissed in your ear.
“What does it matter to you? I was gone!” Rage seethed to your surface from deep below.
“You know I was not always so irascible of a man until you.” Your Fiancee growled and then snapped his head to Enjin again. “It is only predictable that she would garner degenerates for associates. However, to sully yourself with so roguish a rake is repugnant. Have you truly no shame for your endless debauchery?”
“Only she’s allowed to call me fancy mean names.” Enjin spoke first to your Betrothed and then shifted to address you next. “It's weird when your Cuck tries to join in our dirty talk.”
Gun to your head, a trash storm roiled all around and open air beneath, Enjin found a way to break any sense of worry and made you laugh. Your Fiancee spluttered and blushed. He snarled, frustrated, at your giggling at his expense.
“My word! You see where your concupiscence–”
“Con-what now? What the fuck does that mean?” Follo didn’t even let him finish the rest of his pretentious sentence.
“Ugh!” Your Fiancee ever the professor stopped to educate but the thing was, he was never a good teacher. Too absorbed with his own preening. “It means… how else to say it? Licentiousness.”
You could not help but roll your eyes to the back of your head. How else to say it? Really? He had to be kidding. There were so many other ways to say it! What a tool. Follo, Bro and Tomme rotated in their bullying.
“Do you mean like licorice? That sounds nice right about now actually!”
“No, it's not candy. Concupiscence as in lasciviousness, for example.”
“He’s gotta be fucking with us at this point!”
“That’s what I’m saying! He’s just making things up now so he can yank our chain.”
“Ugh, how else can I explain it! Stop laughing! Concupiscence like nymphomania or–or salaciousness!”
Your shoulders began trembling only now it was not in fear. You tried your absolute hardest and were failing to contain your laughter. You couldn’t help it, it was all too funny. Both the man holding you at gunpoint along with the absurdity and sheer cheekiness of the worst danger you had ever been in.
“Dude, this is actually starting to get sad.”
“You almost married this guy?”
“Oh damn, is it some kinky shit? Why is he blushing about it?”
After another moment of laughing at his expense you finally pulled yourself somewhat together again. “Horniness! Promiscuity! Lust! He’s saying this whole mess is my fault because I'm a slut!”
“Ohhhh! Why didn’t he just say that? Rude, by the way!”
“You see it's not as cool when he does it.”
“Yeah, when you do it, you sound so elegant and well spoken.”
“When he does it, he sounds like such a try-hard.”
“Excuse me! What is that supposed to mean?”
The cherry on top was the reversal of now your Fiancee needing a translation. You laughed in his face. “They’re critiquing your vernacular as sesquipedalian and you as verbose for it.”
“Excuse me!”
“Now you see, that’s more like it!”
“That’s what I'm talking about! Now what did you say? What does that mean?”
“I told him, ‘you wordy, you the thesaurus.’”
Another fit of cackles.
He had to keep himself from chuckling. Enjin knew somewhere out here in the night, Zanka was so damn proud of you.
Enjin raised a hand to his collar, waiting. Follo, Bro and Tomme took the center stage of this stand off, taking all attention off of him. Enjin practically faded from sight, but leonine eyes stood watch, prowling from the shadows.
“Enjin,” the voice of his friend radioed in. “The venue is clear. Everyone is evacuated.”
“Thanks, Gris.”
“Enjin,” one of his team piped in, “we’re here.”
“Alright, team, it's show time.” He lowered his hand and re-entered the stage. “Hey, Fuck-Face!”
“Well, that was vulgar.” Your Fiancee whipped around. Enjin and you tagteamed him with the same joke.
“Actually, he’s a leo.”
“Actually, I’m a leo.”
Frustrated and at his wit's end your Cuck lifted the firearm and aimed at Enjin. “I have had enough of this impudence! What is it?”
“Made you look,” You and Enjin purred in unison.
Everything happened all at once. Glowing light permeated off of you but it wasn’t you exactly. Your vital instrument activated. Coming to life, your earrings grew and snaked around the arm wielding the gun, you wrenched it skyward. You definitely broke his elbow.
Children taught you, just as much as you taught them.
Rudo made it his personal mission to help you awaken it. It wasn’t much as of yet. Still only training to master it, but you could use it. It took a lot of energy and almost all your focus for even this but with practise and training stamina would come along the way. Besides right now, you just needed a moment.
The shot went wide and missed hitting anyone. Your Fiancee cried out in pain. Now vulnerable and left wide open, churning color returned beside you and Zodyl’s hand reached out.
Fingers outstretched, desperate to grab and zip away with the Sphereite that knew how to return to the heavens. Those grasping hands were left empty, Rudo launched from below and bit. Zanka and Riyo flew in to catch and keep him from being dragged through when Zodyl instinctively jerked his hand back.
There was a split second when Enjin was face to face with your pansy ass, piece of shit, over his dead body would he let him be, Almost-Husband. Enjin opened Umbreaker, the shing of the blades sung high notes into the air.
“Enjin, a word…”
“Yeah, boss? Whatcha need” Enjin lingered behind in the office at Corvus’ request.
“While the focus of this mission is a rescue for us, it will not be for the Raiders. You cannot allow them to get their hands on her Betrothed nor can you allow him to escape.”
“Are you giving me the go ahead for…” Enjin trailed off with a growing grin.
“I need you to kill him. While we are all hunting for a way up to the Sphere, we cannot let Zodyl and his faction have him. Zodyl has shown himself to be crafty and resourceful. As such, with an entire music festival and one of our own on the line, I have no doubt he will have plenty of ammunition and endless opportunities to catch a moment of weakness. We can dodge Zodyl that night a thousand times, but his plans of capture need only succeed once to spirit him away.”
“Understood, bossman.” Enjin nodded.
“You have my approval and my expressed instruction to kill this man.” It was then Enjin decided he would make it a point to never remember the Chicken-Fucker’s name. Neither one of you would need to use it again.
A split second was all it took. Enjin flew forward the same instant your Spiteful Ex shoved you over the edge. You fell over first. Blood splattered across Umbreaker and then his head fell over second.
“Enjin!” Rudo screamed.
“I got it!” Enjin dove after you. “Keep to your tasks!”
You free-fell through the air. A hauntingly familiar sensation in the worst way possible.
This time, however, there were no still perfectly good pillows or food scraps to cushion the landing. Below you now was only the cold, hard concrete of the amphitheatre.
The first time you fell from the sky, you survived through pure, dumb luck. Your life had the odds that were infinity to one. The second time you fell through the sky, the odds were–
Zero! Zero! Zero! Zero! Zero! Zero! Zero! Zero!
However, that was a miscalculation.
Enjin was never going to let you live this down. He racked his brain for something cool to say and came up blank. He was so pissed he couldn’t think of anything cause this was priceless!
Enjin dove through the air. A familiar and almost second nature sensation for him. He bobbed and weaved expertly through the debris.
Focus.
The acceleration of gravity caused any object’s downward velocity to increase by 9.81 magnitude per time interval which meant he and you would accelerate at exactly the same rate. You, unfortunately, had a headstart on him therefore you would hit the ground before he could reach you.
The force of gravity is stronger on heavier objects than lighter ones. Enjin’s colossal ass, as you so graciously put it, was heavier. He would fall faster if you two had been in a vacuum but thanks to your now dead Chicken-Cucking Ex and the trash storm he brought along with him you were not in a vacuum.
Okay, so he couldn’t use that! Seriously, fuck that guy. He wished he could kill him twice. Enjin was taller than you. Mass has no effect on acceleration though, so him being taller wouldn’t do much in this kind of scenario.
Oh!
However, there was this fun little thing called air resistance. The force that worked against an object’s motion as it moved through the air. By changing the shape of an object as it fell through the air you could differ how the air resistance affected it. Objects with wider surface areas had more drag and he was… taller. Fuck!
You swandived because of fucking course you did, princess. So the next thing he could have possibly tried out was to–oh fuck, you swandived! He could work with that! Enjin tilted.
If he changed his angle of attack, the angle that was between the reference line on a body (Him) , the vector (Straight downward fall because gravity) and the fluid (The open fucking sky) that he moved through, he could control his body’s relation to the oncoming flow.
In other words, using angles he could ‘change’ the shape of his mass to have less surface area for the air resistance to work against. By alleviating the friction of resistance on himself alone while you didn’t, then the force of gravity would do her motherfucking thing and take care of the rest.
Enjin nosedived, his hand outstretched. He took off like a shot, the distance shrinking between you. He aimed Umbreaker directly downward as he did. Eyes aglow with anima, the blade at the tip of his instrument almost visibly pierced through the wind, helping himself cut through the air resistance beyond normal means.
In layman’s terms:
It didn’t matter that you fell first. Because Enjin fell harder.
And that’s on aerodynamics, bitches!
“Hey, Your Highness!”
The most obnoxious, aggravating, wonderful voice cut through all the noise, like it always did, from above you. It took all your strength but you turned to fall with your back to the earth so you could face skywards. Below was the sight of slate gray concrete. Above was a whole world of color. It felt like falling through stained glass.
Enjin was grinning as he shot after you, his hand outstretched. You reached back. When he was only a few feet away, the little tears you shed floated upwards, popping across his cheeks. He clasped your hand.
“You know, we really should stop meeting like this.”
You were smiling and laughed at his dumb joke. Lips wobbled, like a little kid trying so hard not to cry and failed. He pulled you in.
“I got you, ma.” His heavy, sturdy hand fanned your waist. His grip was secure. When Enjin held you, he had you. “See what I tell ya? Works every time.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “Okay, fine. You’re right, your counter-ambush idea does make ambushes your bitch.”
“Damn straight and don’t you forget it.”
He was never going to let you live this down. Zero was a miscalculation because you forgot in all your panic, which was fair, you were not alone this time. All your friends in the Cleaners and Enjin were now a variable in your life.
He opened Umbreaker, the sudden swell and shift was jarring but now the descent was no longer a free-fall. Hand around your waist he flew you out of harm to the ground.
The trash storm was almost upon you. The second your feet touched the ground you and Enjin ran to whatever vehicle was closest. Everyone had split into different directions, escaping through whichever route was possible for them. Some in groups, some solo but all of them checked in via collars.
Enjin drove the absolute worst he had ever driven. He also did make it to a cavern to safely wait out the storm so all things considered he was doing pretty well. It had started well, went quickly sideways but he had steered it back–in a right answer with the wrong formula sort of way but you got there in the end.
You burst into a fit of hysterical giggles. Tears welled in the corners of your eyes, a face splitting grin to match. Anytime you opened your mouth to say anything, giggling sobs bubbled up to the surface instead. The sort of near-death hysteria of coming out the other side from staring down the barrel of a gun.
He took off his seatbelt and unclicked yours. Leaning over the center console he held your face in his hands.
“Talk to me, mama.”
There was the nail. Your whole life when you were upset, angry, frustrated, heart broken, hurt, anything that caused a scene, you heard the words, ‘don’t make such a fuss,’ or ‘keep your voice down.’ Scared you were sentenced to an eternity of ‘this is a bit much,’ and ‘people are looking,’ and ‘don’t start.’
You openly started sobbing into his hands. Through the shakes you felt a tender kiss placed on the top of your head. With his mouth still pressed against your crown, he mumbled and wrapped his arms around you.
“Come here,” he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you to him. Strong arms lifted you over the center console and sat you in his lap. Enjin held you tight and let you cry.
You trembled in his arms for what felt like an age and a half. He didn’t release you, he didn’t say anything. The world faded away. The trash storm softened to a distant hum. The edges of reality became the walls of that car. Like you were the only people left. After some immeasurable time, all the overwhelming emotions were released, the shaking subsided and you regained your voice.
At last with no panic or imminent danger or threats, you both now possessed the space to breathe uninterrupted that night. You raised your face and caught eyes with one another. There was silence. Nothing said, everything said. No insanity or humor to distract. He looked at you with such open, unfiltered eyes you were convinced this is what it must feel like to swim in candlelight.
The truth of your feelings simmered between you. Almost dying demonstrated and spotlighted what you both already knew together. A voiceless conversation, a silent understanding of the souls. You looked at each other and agreed. Life was too damn short.
The air shifted, charged, the same charge before a pounce. Enjin smiled, shattering that silence first. Motion returned to you both. The serious things that needed to be understood were understood. Humor returned and now you could just be.
Enjin brought you in and kissed you like you were the only air left in this world. You might have melted. A rugged hand slid up and cradled the back of your head, pressing you into him. Like any amount of space keeping you from him was absurd, offensive, unacceptable. He swallowed any questions, any doubts left between you. He drew your breath from you along with uncertainties or fears.
He almost lost you. He was sorry. Enjin was not wasting any more time. He began his work making it right for keeping you waiting for so long.
You hummed into him and he tilted his head in the opposite direction, like shifting into a different gear. Enjin kissed you stupid. Purged you of any remnant unrequited longings. Bled you clean of any pining. The kiss was anything but chaste. Intimate, churning, thorough. He made you damn near lose your mind when he started sucking on your tongue. You sighed into him and he deepened his work.
The pressure between you two caused him to dip you but due to the cramped space instead pinned you between him and the interior of the car door. The cool glass of the window somewhat grounded you. Reminded you this was real. Not the books you read or the fantasies you had alone. You clung, scared this would slip away. You were ravenous.
He caressed and stroked your waist, your body heat warming his side. Pliant, doughy love handles rested beneath his palm and Enjin clamped with an iron grip and helped himself to a generous fistful. He was going to devour you.
He smiled against you and you realized he was fucking evil. Enjin with one more, slow sensual work of his mouth tried to pull away, tried to say something. When he managed to unlatch, you whimpered after him. Like a puppy that thought he disappeared when he left the room, the kind that made him want to apologize for tormenting you like that.
You sat up and resealed your mouth to his, causing him to slide back against the driver’s seat.
‘Damn, I’m sorry.’ He went right back to kissing you. How selfish of him.
When he really could not stand having this coat, or clothes for that matter, on any further he showed some momentary tough love. You’ll be happier, he promised.
He sat up. His hand slid from the back of your head and parked itself along your jaw and the underside of your chin, your head cradled in his elbow. He took hold of you, practically had to tear you off. He held you there whining. 'Please come back, please.'
Enjin chuckled and it sounded like whiskey. He shushed your cries. You finally opened your eyes to pout but then got hypnotized by the string of saliva keeping you connected. You licked your bottom lip, trying to taste it. Fuck.
And because Enjin was a scoundrel he leaned in just to be a tease. He watched you gulp at the air trying to reach him, and he spoke just out of reach. You could feel his breath against your skin. “Get in the back.”
You didn’t understand at first. “Huh?”
His hand nursing the underside of your jaw squeezed. Forced you to listen. “Go to the back seat, woman.”
All at once everything came back to focus. Enjin watched your pupils dilate, registering what he said.
It was real. It was all real. Excitement, passion, good-good kissing, taut hands. He stopped squeezing and his fingers caressed, dancing across the skin. You smiled and launched yourself over the center console.
Enjin ripped off his coat, kicked off his dress shoes and smacked your ass as it disappeared between the seats. He could get so used to that squeal. He twisted around and because he wasn’t a fucking animal, he threw his giant coat back before lumbering after you.
You barely gave his lofty headed ass any space, kissing him as soon as his head reappeared in the back between the front seats. For fuck’s sake, girl.
“There’s–kiss–not enou–smooch-room, I nee–” He groaned. Enjin placed a firm hand around your throat and ripped you off his face. With the sternest whisper, “Sit. Back. I need to get back there first, lay my coat down so we don’t ruin this car and I can finally, finally, finally fuck you.”
There’s something about the way he said fuck that slipped into your wiring. 'Oh so he ran a strict program around here?'
“Okay.” You slid as far back into your seat in the corner as you could, took your shoes off as you waited.
Enjin finished clambering back there, laid out his coat and patted your thigh when he needed you to lift yourself. It covered the entire length of the backseat and hung off draping the floor. When he sat down in the center, he started loosening his tie. “C’mere baby,”
There was something about the words he used that scratched an itch and made your brain burr. Woman… I can fuck you… Baby… Old Lady…
It was so familiar. The Sphere liked familiarity but it was never this kind. The Sphere was familiar. Routine, expected, predictable, orderly, formal. Enjin felt familiar. Informal, intimate, close, personal. Yours, his, affectionate.
Nothing prim, or polite. Nothing ornamental or fashionable to show off over smalltalk. Nothing ceremonious or mannerly. It was raw, private, genuine. It felt warm, naked, real. He spoke to you like you were his friend, his lover, and not like a salesman or a business partner.
You slid over and straddled him. Nothing was fast enough. Stark hands palmed and kneaded your hips, your sides and he groaned into your mouth. Your palms, rubbing his chest, felt the rumble below. Like thunder announcing a storm.
You took off his tie and started kissing his neck at the same time he started sliding the straps down on your dress.
“You clean up really well,” The suit was criminal, actually. Lethal even, you could have died. Then what would he have done?
“I was hoping you would say something. I wanted to show off for you.”
“Awe, you wanted to get all pretty for me?”
“Shut up,” He gave you a sudden, hefty warning spank. You yelped and started undoing his buttons faster.
“I like it, I really like it,” you pushed his waistcoat back. Enjin helped you with his dress shirt.
“Buuuut?”
“Why do you have so many layers on?”
Finally you reached your goal. He shrugged off his waistcoat and dress shirt, leaving him in a plain black undershirt. Rugged tattoo sleeves blended with his black t-shirt. You admired him. Traced the swirls of his tattoos. “There we go that feels more like you.”
“Alright, babygirl, I’m here.” He purred darkly, returning his hands to your waist and buried his face into your cleavage.
“I like when you call me that,” You sighed and it sharpened into a gasp. He sank his teeth into you.
“I’ve called you a lot of things tonight, which one?”
“All of them,” You mused dreamily into his ear.
He let out a pained laugh. How he managed to maneuver such a delicate little back zipper and your bra clasps so deftly with such massive paws you had no idea. That was a lie. Yes, you did. He’s a whore.
He pinched down hard on your nipple, using the rough callous of his fingers to give you a nice burn. He sucked up the other in a violent, loud, pornagraphic slurp to coax her out.
“C’mon girls, I know you aint shy.” He spoke by keeping the second one between his teeth.
Enjin was right too. Almost like they were done playing coy and bashful, the teasing little things sprouted into his touch, like little gems surfacing from below the earth. “Welcome to the party, ladies. Glad you could make it.”
He gave them both a parting flick. You laughed and grinded down on him.
“Aha, about that actually.” He gripped your hips. He straightened against the seat and pulled you flush to his chest with him. “We need to talk about that, doll.”
“Hm?” You tried to undo his belt but he confiscated both of your hands with only one of his. Oh that was criminal.
“Don’t worry, mama, we are definitely going to get to that.” He pulled your dress over your head, leaving you in nothing but your panties and earrings. “For your first time, you’re going to get the Enjin Special.”
“But I’m not a vir–” You were struck silent. He held your face in his hand, so you could understand the sheer scope of them for yourself. They were bigger than your face.
“Your first time cumming is gonna be right in the palm of my hand.” He palmed your pussy. His hand covered more than your panties did. Just resting in his palm made you purr, seeing the promise of something twice the length of your cunt against it. He could feel the heartbeat of your core on him.
You ground down experimentally, soft, clothed pussy lips rubbed against hard callous. You swooned. Long, thick fingers. Tattooed rings marking depths. Solid, sturdy knuckles. Rough, coarse skin.
“You ready for me to break you in, ma?”
On the Sphere, everything was new, stiff, uncomfortable. It wasn’t until you hit the ground that you got to experience shoes that didn’t pinch, homey clothes, belts that were supple. Creased paperbacks that didn’t scream when you opened them, belongings that remembered you. It was this moment when you’re heart trilled and you realize how truly touch starved you were.
Like porcelain that stared longingly outside of the glass cabinet, envious of the plastic on the dinner table.
Your eyes followed up his arms. Dark tattoos stood in contrast against your skin. Cotton tshirt, not silk or chiffon or anything delicate. His Adam's apple bobbed. And that unfairly handsome, wicked, cocky, Apollonian face. You never stood a chance. You released a shaky sigh.
“Oh god, please.” You whined into the hand that cradled your face, dipping your mouth to kiss the curve created between his thumb and forefinger.
He didn’t even have anything smart to say. Time to nut up or shut up. “I got you,”
He slid the insignificant scrap of fabric to the side, a pathetic barrier, and carded through your folds. He handled you expertly, like the decks he shuffled at poker and just like poker, he was a shameless cheat. Generous fingers threaded along your dewy core, blunt fingertips tapped and teased your entrance. He coated his finger in your sap before sliding in the first digit. You sang in his palm.
“There we go, hun. Open up for me.” He encouraged as he worked his finger up and up, deeper and deeper until he reached his first tattooed ring. “That’s a good girl.”
He leaned in and swallowed your cute little pout into a kiss. You fussed when he nipped. Enjin grinned and pulled back, keeping your bottom lip between his teeth. He tugged and watched you follow.
He bathed in and scraped your gooey heat, appreciated the feel of soft tender flesh caressing his own rough and harshened skin. He was almost to his base knuckle now.
“Ya gotta ease your way in and…” He dug down to his knuckle. “Voila!”
He made sure to give a few testing pumps and once he got a good slide going he ground the bottom of his palm against your clit. You mewled.
“Its a fucking crime,” he began introducing the next finger, “this poor little lady not been stretched out good enough, gorgeous?”
You clutched at his wrists pathetically. A weak attempt of keeping his hands on you.
“Heh,” He smirked, re-angled his wrist and… Squelch! Squelch! Squelch!
“There you go!”
Seriously, though, if he didn’t watch himself right now it would piss him off. This gorgeous, pillowy, chubby pussy was top shelf and they weren’t even loving her right? He scissored his fingers inside you, stretching you for the next one. You mewled in his other palm.
“Now that I think about it, warm these up for me too, beautiful.” He tapped your lips with two of his fingers.
You smiled like he just gave you a gift and kissed the fingers against your lips before opening. You slid your mouth onto them, hollowing out your cheeks. You moaned and showed some extra love to the spots that had been toughened by life. You suckled around the callous. Swirled your tongue as you bobbed. You clung weakly to both wrists.
Enjin groaned watching you worship his hands. He could feel the vibrations of your moans in your mouth and the pulse of your heartbeat in your cunt. How you used his fingers to ease open your throat for him. Kissed his fingertips a few times when you bobbed out.
Drool started dribbling out the corners of your lips. Loud, shameless suction sounds rang out from you, a byproduct from your eagerness.
He saw desperate longing in those eyes. Enjin was right. Sick of propriety and sick of what was considered saucy from your old life. Underneath the lady that blushed when picturing cads ravishing her was a hungry, starving, aching beautiful woman.
One who’s breath hitched when he repositioned his hand to hold you, possessively, by the jaw with his remaining fingers. One that has never had a decent partner who made her cum during sex in her life. One that has never been railed like she deserved.
He kissed along your jaw and with an evil grin started whispering filth in your ear. Biting on your earlobe. He playfully caught your earrings between his teeth and tugged. You were beyond owed everything you wanted. It wasn’t right. Enjin would fix that.
“You had to take care of this all by yourself, didn’t you?” He kept your pathetic little face in place and pressed his forehead against yours. Breathed the same air.
“Mhm,” You nodded and clutched at his wrist as tightly as you could.
“You couldn’t reach this deep yourself though, could you?” He mimicked your little whine, mocking you. Enjin smiled satisfied when he was down to his bottom rings on three fingers. Your pussy greedily slurped him in. You let out a beggarly moan before letting out a sound of protest. He had purposefully stuttered his rhythm momentarily in warning. “I asked a question.”
“No-oh!”
“Look at me when you talk.”
Your heart stuttered. You had to force your eyes back open. He was unrelenting with his ministrations. You spoke with your mouth full. “Noh, I couwdn’t.”
“All this time waiting, mama?” He removed himself from your mouth against your wishes. Sat there for a second and admired the long string of saliva that followed his fingers before inevitably popping. Enjin wound his arm around you, scooping you to readjust your legs a bit. “I’ve got you now, daddy’s here.”
With a guided grip on your hip he instructed you to start rocking into his rhythm. “Ride my hand, gorgeous.”
You wrapped your arms around his broad shoulders and rolled your hips with him. Once you built up and had a nice–it was so fucking nice–cadence going, Enjin gave you a hearty, congratulatory spank. It was sharp, loud and honestly startling. You gasped in both fear and excitement, completely caught off guard.
Needing to anchor yourself, you nestled into the crook of his neck. “P-please do-o that again.”
“What?” He tested you by landing another. Smack! “This?”
“Ye-es!”
“Have you never been spanked before, baby?”
You shook your head. You were sucking on his neck and Enjin’s eyes rolled back. You could feel a dark, ambered chuckle rise up his throat beneath your lips.
He looked down, watched you bounce and enthusiastically ride his hand. The noises coming from your lonely cunt were obscene. Sap trickled down, pooled into his palm before spilling down his wrist. He groaned into your crown.
He could feel your sweet nipples pressing against him through his shirt. They brushed north and south as you bounced. As he fucked you with his fingers. As you fucked yourself on his hand.
“There you go, take as much as you need, pretty girl.” He brought down another loud, heavy spank that made you hiss and fisted the jiggles. The beginnings of his handprint started to bloom on your ass.
“Look at you.” He slid his hand up and returned it to your neck. Forced your focus back to him. What he said made you melt, what you saw made you quiver.
“No more waiting, no more hiding. No more prim and proper. Your Highness just wants to get railed, right? Like the desperate, pretty little whore you are? I am going to wreck this sweet, starving, slutty pussy.”
Draconic eyes that swore draconian treatment. Your breath was pitchy, your core was tightening. You clung to him. You pleaded. “But most of all, I am going to make you cum again and again. But not just for tonight, for the rest of your days, Your Highness.”
You keened and the wire inside you snapped.
“Atta girl, don’t get lost, eyes on me.”
“En-jin!” You shivered, fisting the back of his shirt, desperate to find purchase.
Enjin knew you would lose your faculties, this was your first orgasm with a partner and would be overwhelmed. He kept you upright in his grip around your neck through his motions, riding out your waves with you. He unsheathed his hand from your depths and was met with an immediate whine for his troubles. Already mourning the loss of him inside.
“You’re clinging, baby. I aint going anywhere.” He bundled you up in his arms and put you where he wanted. Enjin laid you out between the seats, splayed across the center console.
You let out a yip at the sudden movement. When you looked down, Enjin hooked your thighs over his shoulders. You were about to speak but the sight of his mighty paws fanned across your thighs, which were not the smallest, took any voice from you. Knelt between your legs he trailed his hands up and down, appreciating the soft give of your plush.
What was it about men’s hands? The way the knuckles were more prominent, their shape boxier, the blunt fingers or the veins along the backs.
Enjin had every reason to be proud. The way he embellished and decorated them enhanced all those little details. Black swirls at his wrists, decorative dots at his borders. Rings marking altering depths accentuated his long fingers. Painted nails that brought it all together and gave him a wild look. Stylized attention to features.
All those captivating details coming to a head this moment as they spread out across the expanse of your own sizable thighs, bringing back up the reality of their scope. He made you feel just right for him. He trailed sloppy, bitey kisses down your belly to your mound.
He caught the shy look on your face when you registered the implication through your hazed mind.
“You don’t ha–”
“You never been eaten out, gorgeous?”
“O-o-once, not for long. He said his jaw got tired.”
He let out a deep sigh. “Yeah, well on the ground we finish the plate and lick it clean.”
He didn’t even give you time to laugh. With two fingers, he spread you open and admired you. No corner of your succulent, weeping pussy was hidden from him. He watched her clench around nothing, in search of a phantom hand. Exposed and vulnerable. Swollen clit that twitched when he circled his fat, painted thumb. She already missed him.
He swirled his tongue in his mouth and pursed his lips. Enjin made sure to make eye contact with you. He made sure you watched him as he wickedly and fiendishly spat on your pussy.
When you gasped at the disrespectful gesture, he grinned. Enjin buried his mouth into your core. This poor, sloppy shivering pussy was weeping with so much love to give and eager to share. Enjin gave you loud, vulgar slurps that hollowed his cheeks and dug out his dimples. When he felt you, overwhelmed by all the newness, try to wiggle he locked his arms around your lower half and pinned you in place.
Wet muscle swiped inside and Enjin made out with your cunt. He could not get enough of you in his mouth. His face sunk into the softness of your lips and his nose pressed against the clit. He gulped her shivers, swallowed her tears and ravaged her halls.
His eyes were hazed while he ate you like a man possessed. Before he finally brought himself back to reality remembering what he set out to do. He came off you with a pop but only for a moment before diving back in, like a swimmer that breached the surface for air alone.
He sucked on the tender clit before kissing and tracing his tongue all along the archway framing your entrance. His arm still locked in place, he slid his hand to teasingly tap on your keystone above your entryway before returning his mouth to its rightful place. He slid two fingers into you and explored. He watched how your cunt sucked his fingers inside as he scouted out your fathoms.
Squelch! Slurp! Squelch! Slurp! Squelch! Slurp!
He groaned.
“Shit, this pussy is fall off the bone!” He began with a dry laugh.
“Straight tenderism!” You finished the joke in unison and giggled childishly together.
Enjin dragged thick fingers in and out of you. Savoring the feel of rich, gooey inner linings until he found the prize. A spongy little spot that made you sing, cutting off your laughter. Enjin smiled with a clit between his teeth.
“Bingo.” He returned his lips to resume slurping and chuckled into you. The vibrations traveling through your mound. Your fingers laced through his hair and he grinned like a villain.
He groaned into a laugh when you gave a particularly firm and sturdy pull on his hair. Your fingernails scratched and admired the soft buzz of his undercut. Traced and admired the scar on this side of his face. He was latched on so firmly, he hit depths so expertly, it was like he was a part of you now. You had sealed your thighs around his head on instinct to lock him in place.
Despite you fisting and tugging on his hair, you pressed down to bury him deeper into you. You never wanted this to end. Until a strange feeling began.
Enjin could feel desperate little clutches trying to communicate. Weak, broken whimpers that couldn’t say anything.
“Enjin, something–ahh! Enjin, I think I'm going to–mmmph!”
“What baby, what are you gonna mmmm,” He hummed into you like when you taste something delicious. Warm, tender, protruding, sloppy clit supple in his mouth.
“Enjin, I’m sca-a-red, it feels like I'm going to–nggh! I think I need t-to pee.”
He pursed his lips harder and gave a hard pull with his tongue, suctioning up your clit before releasing with a pop and smirked. “It's okay, I promise. Don’t hide from it, don’t run, just let it happen.”
“A-are you sure?”
“Trust me,” He slid his free hand into his hair and returned it to rest on your belly only now with your fingers laced into his. He compressed his grip leading your joined hands into a fist, reassuring that it would be okay. The pressure and power of his grip made you swoon.
You were nervous but you trusted him. Once on the other side, you were glad you did. It all came to a summit. Rough, brutalized fingers filled and scraped and massaged you. Fat tips stroking a sensitive, pulpy spot just so and that devilish, sinful mouth that was relentless on your poor, abused clit.
“Enjin!”
Slurp! Squelch! Slurp! Squelch! Slurp! Squelch!
Like the small fountain in your favorite corridor back at university, sweet nectar released onto him and you almost cried. Fear, panic, pleasure all fused into a beautiful concoction through you. Your shameless body sang so sweetly and primally for him; your cunt marked him like he was territory.
You tried to buck, uselessly, but Enjin’s arms had you firmly pinned. He buried his head and dug his fingers into you like he struck oil. You splashed onto him and sobbed.
“That’s my girl,” He rode out this new high before finally releasing you. With your essence still dribbling down his chin and down his wrist, he rested his head on your belly.
“Open up and help me clean.” He tapped your cheek with a soaked fingertip.
You listened. Enjin watched you suckle on his fingers, tears welling. He could see a trace of that curious inquisitive nature asking with your eyes. Nerd. A mocking, caring voice soothed you. He caressed your cheek with his thumb while you sucked on his fingers and licked down his palm.
“It's called squirting, Your Highness. And I’m so sorry you’ve never heard of it.” You cooed against his hand. Once cleaned to his liking, he playfully took a bite into your plush and shed you of your panties.
“C’mere, sit up.” He helped you back to a right angle. Face to face again he kissed you. “Clean the rest.”
You nodded. He held your face to his and let you lick his chin clean. Dutifully, you finished the plate and licked him clean. He sighed against your soft kitten licks and smiled when you smooched his dimples. He rewarded the adoration with your hand over his groin and kept it there, letting you feel him grow harder and harder as you worked. Once done you waited for your next instruction. You didn’t have to wait long.
“Take off my belt.” His voice was a low purr that made you shiver. It sounded golden, like the rest of him, but toasted. Whiskey, amber, stained wood, tiger’s eye.
You bit your lip, embarrassed, by the smile that grew on your face in response to that order. The hands of a scholar unbuckled his belt. Enjin pulled his black shirt off and tossed it aside. You could finally see his tattoos on full display. Uninterrupted canvas covered in swirling ink. He wrapped arms, coiled with black and red, around you and grinned.
“Like what you see?”
You nodded, spellbound, a mouse and a trap. Your hands never stopped working and he was freed from his trousers. He was easily the largest man you had ever been with and that went for everything. Wandering hands traced all along him. Solid muscle corded his arms. The full breadth of his exposed shoulders, a living work of art.
His cock bobbed in the space between you. Tanner than the rest of him and the same bold veins that streamed the back of his hands. Head round and dripping. A honey blonde happy trail tapered between the valley of his V-line up to the circular tattoo at his belly. You drank of his comeliness.
While you admired him he shimmied the rest of his clothes off. Enjin scooped you like you were nothing, returned to his seat and brought you with him onto his lap.
“Here’s what's gonna happen. You’re going to hop on, show me how much you can handle. When I see what we’re working with I’m going to take care of all the rest. Understood?”
You nodded.
“Use your words.” He gave you an instructive, firm tap across the face, not to strike but the sternness of it caught you off guard. “Look at me, don’t look away. Understood?”
“Understood.” You smiled at the manhandling.
“Should be nice and open now, sweetheart. Take as much as you like.”
You grasped him, he was weighty in your palm. Little streamlets of pre dribbled from his tip. You gave a few steadying pumps, thumb gliding over the split of his head. You traced his weeping tip up and down your folds, painting yourself with him before finally positioning him.
You sunk down in slow, testing increments. Soft little gasps and sighs filled the air. There was a slow expansion at your entry that made you even more eager for the rest. Once his tip was secured past that initial ring of resistance, you took a second to relish. Even with all that preparation nothing could warn you how nice the stretch would be.
He watched you gyrate your hips to encourage your walls to accommodate him. Enjin knew what you were trying to go for. His little overachiever and he knew for sure you could do it. He sat and watched your face as you felt Enjin’s cock fill you for the first time. Your tipsy smile appeared and your eyes glittered at the idea that this was your new standard.
Dark and mesmerized, his firelight eyes watched chubby lips gulp him down. He rubbed smooth, encouraging circles on your hips. Your pliant, silken cunt swallowed him up. Just like you she was hungry, ambitious, wouldn’t let anything stop her or keep him from her. Until at last, you were fully seated.
You let out the most unladylike, depraved moan. Your insides shifted around him. Gummy walls, while pliant, at such depths were unused to protrusion. Your body had almost settled in what it thought would be permanent placement.
He dragged so beautifully and his curve hit that spongy spot from before along the way. You pulsed around him. You felt full and complete like he was the sweetest, snuggest puzzle piece. The one you had been missing your whole life.
Once you finally got a good slide built up, you did a few test bounces on him. Slow, heavy, loud and lewd slaps of skin from your descents rang through the air. You were smiling like you had just gotten a gold star.
“All the way… like this, please.” There wasn’t a thought behind those eyes. You had merely bottomed out and already cockdrunk.
“You sure, gorgeous?” He teased.
“Please…” You couldn’t find the words. “Please… dont… be gentle.”
You leaned into him and had this desperate look in your eyes. You wanted to say something but for the first time you couldn’t find the words. Heartbreaking little pout, head swimming, your eyes trembled at not being able to say it.
Enjin knew what you wanted and had a million ways to say it in his world. You, however, from on high couldn’t find the words to tell him because it didn’t exist in your dialect. Don’t be gentle was all you could come up with. So he gave you the words.
“Your greed sickens me.” He crooned low in your ear. “I know what you want. Little Miss Perfect just wants me to fuck you like my filthy little slut.”
He felt you shiver.
“Yes, please.”
“Bend over.” He didn’t even give you time to do it yourself. He just manhandled and tossed you onto the seat. With stern hands he guided you on all fours, to arch your back, to stay put and take it. Enjin tormented you, he slapped his cockhead against your entrance and listened to you whimper.
“Enjin, please!”
“That’s not very ladylike,”
“You’re so mean!” You bobbed back, hoping to catch him.
“Yeah, I am. Please what?”
“P-please…”
“C’mon, I wanna hear you say it. I want you to hear you say it.”
“Please… I wan–I need…” You hiccuped.
“You’re almost there. Say it and it's all yours. What do you want me to do?”
“P-please–mph…” You looked over your shoulder at him. “Please… ruin me!”
Enjin plunged deep. From behind he had a much easier give in this angle. Buried himself till his hips were flush against yours. There was only a split second before he began obliging his lovely lady and ruined you.
He started off with firm thrusts, letting you see for yourself first before revving up. Enjin snapped his hips and it was like you lost all sense. You needed to cling to something. Your hands flew everywhere and you wiggled, overcome with so much good and your body didn’t know what to do with it.
“I need you to hold still, baby.”
But you couldn’t. You were a thrashing mess, overwhelmed. How he slammed, his bruising grip on your hips, it was all too good. You couldn’t–or more accurately didn’t know how yet, to have it now that it was here.
“Hold. Still.”
“I’m tryinnng.”
He gave a warning spank but he was by no means upset or frustrated. As a matter of fact he was grinning. “I need you to stay put.”
“I-I I don’t–I don’t kno–ow how yet.”
“Say less.” He moaned in excitement and began grappling. You squealed.
Enjin used his towering frame to pin you in place and leaned over you. He wrestled your hands together in one hand. With his other he reached over you and stretched out the seatbelt of the car. Enjin quickly and roughly tangled the lengths of strap around your wrists. Once your hands were bound and secured, he abruptly yanked down on the seatbelt till taut and released. The seatbelt’s automatic locking retractors kicked in and snapped back. Your fastened hands were seized, the spring forcing them to follow. This resulted in dragging your lassoed hands across the seat and your arms to be stretched out in front of you, now locked in place.
Just to be absolutely disrespectful, Enjin balled up your discarded, soaked panties.
“Open up.” He squeezed your cheeks and your lips naturally puckered. You dropped your jaw with eager obedience. Enjin gagged you with your own wet panties.
He raised your hips and started up again. He slid a hand down the length of your spine leading your back to curve instinctively. Back deeply arched and hands restrained you were now forced to lean your weight and center of gravity forward onto your elbows, anchoring you to be ass up-face down. Greedy, leaking cunt fully spread and exposed. He gripped your hips, sultry nectar seeped from your core.
“Hold still and take it.”
He slammed into you and you buried your face into his coat. Enjin chased the ripples he created. He narrated every little thing your body did. Hypnotized, he admired the recoil as his V-line impacted your plump cheeks. He landed a punishing, loud spank onto the globes of your ass and squeezed the jiggle. Nails dug and left behind little crescents. “Fuck, look at this ass,”
Now fully anchored you could enjoy and just take it. Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap!
Eyes rolled to the back of your head. Face buried in his coat below. The window of the car door had fogged. Pheromones perfumed the air. Hot humid pants between you. Two souls desperate for one another. Souls that waited so long and thought they would never find this.
Images of you half dressed and left unsatisfied flashed through his mind. Left frustrated and disappointed. Who in their right mind could see this and not be addicted?
His jaw fixed itself. Flashes of you having to finish yourself, alone in the dark. Redressing yourself and no one to hold you. Now with all your glory in his hands Enjin settled the thought that those ungrateful chicken fuckers could not, in fact, handle all this.
He groaned and swiveled his hips into you. He worshipped how your ass wobbled when he did. The way you crashed back onto his happy trail. He savored the feel of soft plush against all his hard lines. Smooth skin against his brutal and scarred flesh.
Gagged whimpers danced in the air around him. The doe-eyed look on your face as he fucked you simple. He could catch glimpses when he hung over you. Nothing else behind those eyes other than just wanting to be good for him. So on top of everything your whole life. One of the smartest people he knew. Constantly needing your guard up everywhere you went.
You were wound tighter than a screw. He bullied your poor cunt and jostled all the rest of you for it. He fucked out your stress, worries, the crick in your neck. Leaving him with a pliant, puddle of a person. Enjin drilled into your divine cunt. Molten heat that molded around him. That sucked him back in greedily upon entries, and constricted stubbornly at his exits. “It's like she never wants to let me go!”
Soft cushion everywhere he squeezed that absorbed his force and withstood his bruising pace. Just to prove his own point he rained down harsh, bruising spanks in quick succession. The slaps of skin earned another song. You moaned like a whore, muffled by the soiled panties in your mouth.
Where he gripped delicate skin spilled between the gaps of his fingers. He grabbed fistfuls wherever he could just to admire the way your body quilted under his grasp.
“Shit, look at you, babygirl.” Downright disgraceful strings of your syrup practically drizzled out and slickened everything. His balls, his thighs, your thighs, his coat below.
You looked depraved. There was no one around for miles but if someone did look through the fogged windows you would not have cared. You were at this point shameless. Split wide open on the best cock you have ever had, mewling like a tramp, bruised up and blushing about it. Soiled panties gagging your mouth. Hazed eyes that admired the seatbelt restraining your wrists. Covered in cum, both yours and his.
“Elegant lady in front of everyone, innocent looking bookworm, nerdy professor… with the sluttiest, greediest cunt hidden under all those layers.” Enjin got so absolutely lost in your sauce he ended up drilling you through your orgasm and did not let up through his. Your connection to each other slathered with a mixture of your creams. So put together all the time but now you looked so damn sloppy.
Debauched slaps of skin on skin echoed. Demeaning state of undress, completely exposed. Defiled skin, stung from bruising handprints. Degrading scent of sex, tobacco and him wafted through the air, threaded throughout the splayed coat. Depraved taste of your own arousal gagged on your tongue.
He smirked and tsk’d. “Now, now, this is most unbecoming of a lady.”
Some cross between a sweet moan and laughing was insulated by your gag. “What would–fuck, your great aunt Petunia, ah–or whoever say if she saw you like this?”
Jingling laughter shook you, he could see it in your shoulders that trembled. It caused you to unconsciously clench around him in little stuttered pulses. Enjin softly massaged the bruised skin, reverently. You shivered and fluttered around him. SMACK!
“I bet you pictured me ripping off all those layers?” His voice lowered. Enticing, predatory and vicious. Nevermind the wadded up undergarments in your mouth. Between your face buried in his coat and being fucked plain dumb you couldn’t reply even if you wanted to. So straitlaced and top buttoned.
“I bet whenever we fight if I reached beneath those panties, she’s crying for me isn’t she?” He gave a deep and dirty grind. “You can have as much as you want–whenever you want. When my pussy needs to get dicked down, you let me know.”
Commanding grip squeezed into your pillowed hips as he pulled you back onto him. Enjin smiled hypnotized as his thumbs dug into the fat of your cheeks and gave you your own matching pair of dimples.
“All you have to do is look me in the eye and tell me. Tell me my lady needs me.”
Enjin leaned over, sliding a hand up the length of you, and gripped your face. He pulled your head back, forcing you to look up at him and he could see your sorry state. Drool dribbled down your chin. You panted like a bitch in heat. You smiled when you saw his face towering over you. He was sort of upside down or parallel to you now. He was getting lower. He started rubbing his nose against yours, a mockingly sweet nuzzle.
“Tell me, Your Highness, when you want to be my pretty, little whore.” Enjin stopped abruptly when an idea struck him. “You know what I just realized?”
“Hm?” You hummed.
“Fair’s only fair. You marked your territory, would you like me to mark mine?” His voice was rasped and dangerous.
“Mhm.” You nodded, nuzzling your nose against his in the process. Doting and docile.
“Such a polite girl,” Enjin kissed you upside down, gagged with your own panties. You melted into him. Enjin withdrew from your kiss and, like a magician, he pulled your wet panties out in a long stream between his teeth. “Ta-da,”
He released your giggling face and unsheathed himself from your cunt. The world twirled as he flipped you flat on your back, your hands remained secured and stretched out. Enjin cradled your head in his hands as he straddled your shoulders. Rested atop your face was his cock. Monstrous and ambrosial, you felt his pulse on your skin. You smooched and suckled while he spoke.
“I’m going to tag you like a mural, baby.” He glided his tip over your lips before tapping. A person should always knock first before entering. You dropped your jaw instinctively.
His cock slid in. Enjin, attentive and caring, let you adjust, mindful not to gag you. His fingers earlier cleared and prepared the passage ahead. You eagerly hollowed your cheeks. Once he felt you weakly trying to bob against his grip, he went to Canvas Town.
Enjin, fully holstered down your throat, fucked your mouth like you were a toy. Mascara darkened tears trickled down your cheeks. Sweet, pouted lips wrapped around his instrument. Big, wet, doe eyes magnetized to your own drenched knickers dangling from Enjin’s teeth, framed cheekily between his dimples. He winked down at you.
You moaned as he dug into your mouth and the vibrations resonated into him. Enjin’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he groaned into a pained laugh.
You wanted to be ruined and he’d deliver. He had been right, you were bored of the cads in your novels now. Just like how the ground's liquor made the alcohol on the Sphere feel like water. Enjin made those dull rakes that ravished ladies, who ‘were not like other girls’, and all their heaving bosoms feel so tame.
He cradled your head, holding you in place, with hands so firm but safe. All while his snapping hips brutalized your throat.
Schlick! Schlick! Schlick! Schlick!
Your hot, loving, swirling, breathtaking mouth made him lose his damn mind. He had to relinquish the hold one of his hands had on you. With Enjin being as tall as he was, the car’s ceiling being shorter than him and this position’s angle, he had to steady himself grabbing the ‘Oh Shit’ handle above the door to support his weight. It also just really fucking helped that it gave him something to crush right now too.
Enjin knew what you wanted, to cut loose and do everything that would have made you clutch your pearls the first day you two had met. Because you know what? The world didn’t end when you got drunk and listened to loud music. You didn’t magically stop being smart, nice, or worthy of respect just because you wanted to get piledrived into the mattress. You didn’t have to be put together, dignified and on your guard even when trying to make love. You didn’t have to be perfect.
When he felt himself about to burst, it took all his will to pull out. He took himself in his hand and worked his wrist furiously. After a few desperate, panting, moaning–he moaned so prettily. Why don’t men vocalize like this all the time? Number one perk of falling for the world’s most annoying, incessant yapper.
“Eyes closed, hon.” He whispered. “Mouth ope–ah ah!”
Enjin spilled in his hand and painted you. He thought there would be less considering this not being his first orgasm of the night but he was happily surprised. He breathed heavy, watched the ropes paint your face, leaving a taste on your tongue. He slapped his heavy length across that pretty mouth and smeared his cum.
You sighed. He could see years of pent up tension release. He rested back on his haunches and you both panted together. He looked down and caught you gulping whatever cum had landed in your mouth. Your pretty tongue came out and licked around your lips. Swiped up and savored the taste of what you could reach. You were going to be the death of him.
“You havin’ fun, ma?” He wiped a teary rivulet on your cheek with his thumb.
“Yes, please don’t stop.” Your voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. Only natural after the workout he had put your throat through. You were beaming, such a joyful and sweet expression contrasting to such a vulgar and lewd visual.
“As you wish, milady.” Such a tender exchange in regards to such disgraceful behavior.
He repositioned himself back at your hips, widened his stance and turned you on your side, your wrists still bound and arms still out stretched in front of you. Lifting your leg, Enjin draped your ankle over his shoulder. He turned his head, planted a tender kiss against your ankle beside his ear before hanging your panties off it. Enjin bottomed out at a delicious new angle. Seeing the confused and curious daze in your eyes, he knew you already had questions you couldn’t vocalize.
“It's called the praying mantis position, sweet girl.” A tattooed arm wrapped around your leg, his hand squeezed your thigh. He held onto you and began snapping his hips again. “And it's really nice for…”
He trailed off. Deeply penetrative, you began keening as the angle allowed him to hit that sweet spot inside from earlier purposefully.
“En-jhin!”
“There she is!” You were his now. His beautiful nag, his sexy genius, his permanent poker partner. His best friend, his better half, his old lady. He was entranced, watching you move.
You just wanted passion, love, drive. What was so wrong about wanting friends, a home, a dream? A lover that liked all of you, fucked you how you liked. His eyes trailed down to your weak fist. The hand that used to wear a ring. Desperate, small and punctured pants escaped you as Enjin unconsciously did quick consecutive hammers. His mind, broken, could only think in short bursts and half thoughts.
You’re alive. You jumped. You jumped right into his arms. He caught you. He’ll always catch you. Endless praise and compliments poured from Enjin’s mouth like a stream.
“Shit, right there,”
“So… fuckin’... pretty!”
“Take it, you can do another. This slutty pussy deserves another.”
“One more–you deserve one more…”
“Fuck, Your Highness… I… I…”
A vulgar, creamy ring had formed around his base. A cocktail of your syrup and his cum drooled through the edges of your opening from overflow. Splashed and popped against his blonde happy trail.
The only thing that could possibly break him from this spell was the look in your eye. You turned your head, a weak attempt to look up at him over your shoulder. Eyes filled with adoration as you watched him take care of you like you always wanted. Enjin could practically see little hearts in your eyes and his own chest stuttered.
“Fuuuck, those eyes baby.” He let out a pained laugh.
It was the conundrum of his dreams. Having a girl whose body was built for backshots but her face was made for missionary. His cup truly runneth over. Whatever shall he do? He gave a final, hearty slam before finding the will to pause. You whimpered and unsuccessfully tried to wiggle against him.
“I know, I know, shush.” He hushed, his mouth murmured into your leg that he was loving on, before leaning in closer.
He unwrapped the binding around your wrists. Gracelessly, he just let go as soon as you were unbound, letting the seatbelt fully retract against the door. It clattered loudly above your head but he didn’t pay any mind. Enjin rubbed the indent marks left on your skin. Free now, he patted you on the hip and turned you over. You were boneless in his arms, fully on your back. He whispered everything he said, raspy and rumbling, into your ear.
“Lift your hips for me, Your Highness.” You complied with all his instructions. Inclined more towards hums and coos than actual words, fucked plain simple. There was nothing behind those eyes but him. You eagerly wrapped your legs around his waist.
“Let me see those eyes, pretty girl.” Enjin purposefully braced his forearms on either side of your head. Boxed in by solid, flexed inked. You cooed and threw your arms around him.
There was so much of him. All around you was just so much him. He kissed you and started sinking his hips into you again with deep rolls. In your past life you used to be so bored of lying on your back like this. But now, it was so nice because he was so handsome and so good.
It was usually so annoying how good he was but your inhibitions and pride were long gone. You drank him in. Strong jaw and high cheekbones. Sunrise eyes. His hairgel had disintegrated by this point, golden hair draped across his forehead. Did he get a haircut? His undercut was fresh and clean. Pierced ears that made him look so fine.
His broad, painted shoulders flexed, muscles visibly shifted below the surface. Giant hands resting on either side of your head. Massive body that blanketed you. Shoulder blades that looked and felt like they deserved wings. The deep rumble you felt beneath them when he groaned low in your ear. Tobacco and distant, faded cologne that comforted and soothed.
His smile. His smile. His smile. His smile. Dimples. Dimples. Dimples. Dimples.
He was so handsome. Foreheads pressed together. “Don’t stop looking at me, pretty girl.”
You drowned in molten sunlight. Nodding, you clawed down his back and along his corded arms. If he hadn’t told you to focus most likely you would have started mindlessly sucking on his shoulder, absorbed by his tattoos. Everything was so intimate in this position. All you could do was babble his name.
Enjin learned something then and there that he couldn’t have learned with anyone else in the world. Missionary raw after almost dying and in love slapped so much harder. He caught the word in his head as he rolled his hips. Searched your adoring eyes and knew.
He lifted his hands and unwound yours from around his body. Enjin laced his fingers through your own and held your hands pinned above your head as he rocked rhythmically into you. He watched your earrings tremble with each slam.
Makeup melted completely off, watery mascara and cum smeared all over, drool dribbling down your chin from kissbitten lips. Neck already blooming in hickeys, bitemarks littered everywhere. You looked like a wreck. You looked like a wild mess. You looked like… like…
A swell of calm washed over him and his eyes softened to reflect that. You looked like so many things. You looked like a grounder, the love of his life, his person. You looked beautiful.
Above all, you looked like yourself.
By this point your walls fused around him and you would be easily convinced that you had melted together. Honestly you were already pretty sure you had. Your body was exhausted but so over the moon. All these sensations that had started to feel like myth after a certain point were now overflowing and you didn’t want to stop. Your mind half gone and sense completely checked out.
“C’mon baby, last one I promise.” You lost count of how many last ones you were up to but he said he promised. Mind you, he promised all those other times as well, but you nodded anyway. Believing him anyhow.
‘I don’t argue with men that have dimples. Whatever you say, handsome.’
The rich, raspy bourbon laugh rumbled in your ear. Completely unaware that you said that last part outloud. Nerves alight and singing, another swell started rising. The ghosts of tremors from previous crashes hadn’t even finished fading yet. He could feel them in his strokes.
If you looked thoroughly fucked out, then your cunt was in shambles. Flooded with cum, both yours and his. If he swiveled his hips he could feel it stir inside. Thighs bathed in cream. Despite all that, your walls eagerly milked him. Bullied, brutalized and plowed, your cunt still cried for him. Sucked him into you, loud slurping and clapping sounds shamelessly rang out like the heavy bass from the club speakers.
Open and eager for him. Such a sloppy, shivering, good girl. Pussy completely surrendered. Finally having been treated right and taken care of. This sweet, chubby, ripe cunt was split wide open and begging, pleading, praying to be devoured, exploited, worshipped. You spasmed around him, reaching your peak and it broke Enjin. He held your hands tighter through it. Felt your orgasm rack through your body, system overloaded.
You gave one more cry of his name and he was a weak man. Heat surged, thrumming from deep within, and he kissed you. Enjin spilled over the edge and drowned you in the last ropes of his cum which you greedily accepted. Rivulets streamed out the sides and ran down both of one another’s thighs.
He thrummed even after there was nothing left spilling out. You rode your highs and tremors out, basked in the afterglow, still kissing. Eventually you two collapsed, muscles loosening. Without removing himself just yet, he rolled over to not crush you and pulled you with him. Locked in his embrace, surrounded by black and red clouds. Your pretty face rose and fell on his chest and Enjin held you tight. You stayed like that, allowing your heartbeats to settle and your breathing to even out. Like being held by the eye of a storm.
The trash storm was long gone, the roiling long over but neither of you had noticed. You laid there grounding one another, reality cementing in. You were both alive and right here.
Eventually, Enjin got up first and fished out a canteen from the back to share. He helped you drink water and made sure you ate some ration he had from his pack. Nowhere near as out of it as before but still a bit giggly, he took care of you.
You were quiet together in this little world you had carved out. Sturdy, stalwart hands rubbed and soothed where it stung. His mean mouth now kissed where he left bruises and bites. He watched you, he couldn’t not watch you. He smiled softly to himself in the dark. The first time he looked into your eyes they looked at him with raw terror. Now they looked at him like he was a bastion of safety.
At some point, he wadded up his ruined coat and helped you clean up as best he could, ruining his tie in the process of doing so. Exhaustion claimed you first. He caught your spare lighter on the floor amongst the clothes. Brushed his fingers over your temple, heart strings tugged in his chest as he picked it up.
He opened the window, cool night air entered. Enjin had the best cigarette of his life, a cool breeze across his face, your head rested in his lap as you slept.
Headquarters was very lively the following days after your return. Immediately you and Enjin were swamped with paperwork and reports. You tried to be as dignified as possible but the giant elephant of any room you entered were all the lovemarks and evidence of your night together splattered across your skin.
The same animated energy between you returned and Enjin was insufferable about it. You tried so hard to be professional but there wasn’t a single thing you could say till it all faded. Over your dead body would you give him the satisfaction in front of everyone either.
Despite acting like you hated it he knew better. He was proven right a few nights later when he walked by your library. Hush, loud conversation pouring through the cracked open door from girl’s night inside. The joyful, tipsy voices of you, Tomme and Semiu asking all about your business.
“He did whaaat with the seatbelt?”
“And what were you like during all this?”
“Lemme tell you, my hands were tied but my pearls were clutched!”
“And after that was when he–”
“Girl, that boy had us there and we might as well had been boxing with my fucking uvula!”
After years of enduring Naoya's cruelty in your marriage, one desperate push at the top of the stairs changes everything.
He falls, but he doesn’t die. He wakes with no memory of who he was, or what he did to you.
With his family desperate to hide the truth and preserve his inheritance, you become his caretaker… and his only anchor. The man who once made you flinch at the sound of his footsteps, now follows you around like a lost ghost, soft-eyed and uncertain.
You could tell him the truth. You could walk away, but guilt keeps you here, and love, eventually, makes it hard to leave.
‧₊˚✧ Warnings ✧˚₊‧
18+ MDNI, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic descriptions of domestic abuse, Physical & emotional violence, Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy angst, Slow burn romance, Non-con elements, Eventual smut.
TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!
TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!
The moment you stepped through the front door, Naoya disappeared.
He went up the stairs without a word, without a single glance over his shoulder, without the small, human gestures you had begun to expect from him. You stood at the bottom of the staircase, listening to the muted sound of his bedroom door closing above you.
You understood, of course you understood. He had spent the entire day playing a character he did not know, all whist being watched by those almost salivating at the thought of his failure. He needed the cool sealed quiet of his own room the way you imagine a wounded animal needs the dark. You couldn't begrudge him that.
But you stood there longer than you meant to, hand resting on the banister, the silence of the house pressing in on you from every direction at once, and felt a thin lash of sadness moved through your chest that you could not entirely reason with.
He had retreated from you. That was the truth of it, however carefully you wanted to dress it up for your own sake. After everything in his office, after feeling his arms around you and his face buried against your throat, he had walked into this house, gone upstairs alone, and you had not been invited.
You wondered, with a small, quiet shame, when you had started wanting to be invited.
You moved through the house aimlessly, trying to find something to do with your hands. There was nothing to clean, every surface gleamed with a sterility that you had spent four years failing to make a home of. You drifted from one room to another like something washed loose, opened a cupboard and closed it again.
You bit down on your thumbnail, worried its edge until it tore as your thoughts churned.
He had done well. You kept coming back to that, kept holding onto it to cover the noise in your head, but the worry burned through it. He had done well, but he had not been perfect. People had seen him, had seen the wrong things.
Everyone who had ever observed the two of you together knew exactly the way the two of you worked, knew the distance you kept, the way you arranged your body never to be in the same space as him, knew the stiffening of your shoulders, the fear in your eyes.
But today, they had seen his little finger curled around yours. They had seen him lift you from your chair, the way he had stood between you and Nobuaki and pitched his voice across the room in your defence. They’d then watched as he marched you out of the cafeteria with the protectiveness of a man who could not bear to leave you in the same air as someone who had spoken to you sideways.
They would have noticed, how could they not? You had handed it to them on a plate. You had let him take your hand. You had let him defend you. You had even, in the private hush of his office afterwards, let yourself stand inside the cage of his arms and enjoy it.
The truth of it made you flinch from yourself.
Careless. Stupid, irrational, careless.
You knew better than this, you had spent years knowing better than this. You built your entire survival on the foundation of knowing better than this. But here you were, a couple weeks of him learning how to be tender had been enough to make you forget the rules that governed your life.
You heard the front door open behind you.
Ranta stepped into the foyer, not even bothering to look surprised at the sight of you adrift in the centre of the room, and crossed to the foot of the stairs and arranged himself there, back against the bannister, eyes lifted to the upper landing, hands folded loosely in front of him.
You watched him for a long moment. You wondered, as you sometimes did, what he had seen, what version of Naoya he was grieving and what version he was waiting for. Whether he was waiting at all.
"I'm going outside…” you murmured. "If — if he comes down, will you tell him where I am?” Your voice came out thin.
You bit down on the side of your thumb again, worrying the torn edge of the nail until a small, bright pain bloomed, just enough to focus your thoughts. Ranta nodded without turning his head from the upper landing, eyes still fixed on the location of the door. He didn't need to look at you. He knew, as well as you did, what the were both of you were carrying, knew what you stood to lose if any of this came apart.
Because that was the thing.
You would lose. You would lose the chance at this fragile impossible thing that had been forming in this broken house, this possibly-doomed almost-life that the two of you had been building. You would lose the small relief of waking up in the morning and not having to count which version of him would come down the stairs. You would lose this fragile peace.
You would also lose in any divorce that did come. The Zenin family would not let one come quickly, or quietly, and even then, they would decide every single thing you were permitted to leave with. You would lose anyone you cared about, and probably your future too. They would reach into your life and disfigure it in unimaginable ways.
And Ranta.
Ranta would lose his standing. His name, the position his family had spent generations climbing to occupy, the work which had elevated his branch from the lower ranks to where he now stood now, close enough to power to be useful, close enough to ruin to be punished.
If this came apart it would not just be him, it would be the whole structure he had been raised inside, expected to uphold. The thought of what would happen to him if the truth came out made your hands begin to shake.
You had done this too soon. The words tore through your thoughts, clean, cold and undeniable. You had been reckless. You should have waited longer, kept Naoya inside for another month, two months, three, until he was steadier, until he could walk through a corridor without his eyes giving him away, until he could meet a hostile face across a table without reaching for your hand. You had been a fool. You had been a stupid, sentimental, hopeful fool, and now—
You pushed through the back door into the garden, the cold air hit you, but your lungs would not open.
You took two steps onto the gravel and felt the iron band that had been tightening around your ribs all afternoon close completely, and your chest would not rise, and your breath would not deepen, and the breaths that were coming out of you were thin, and shrill, bringing in no air at all.
You folded. Your hands caught your knees, and you stayed there, bent double on the gravel path, and registered, in some distant, faraway place, that you were making a noise. Some strangled wet hiccupping sound, like the noise of an animal that had been kicked and could not yet decide whether it were still breathing.
Your ears were packed with cotton, the sound of your own heart drowned out everything else, beating up against the inside of your skull, and your vision tunnelled inward, the edges of the garden going grey and dark. Your knees were going to give, you could feel them beginning to. You were going to crumple on the gravel. You could not, you absolutely could not, get a single breath all the way down—
A hand settled on your back.
"In for three—"
The voice was Ranta’s, pitched low against your shoulder, his hand making slow steady passes against your spine, the other one coming up under your elbow to brace you so that the give in your knees did not put you on the ground.
"In for three, out for three. You're all right, in for three—"
You blinked up at him, your eyes blurred, and the careful composed planes of his face came in and out of focus through the wet of tears. You watched him take a slow exaggerated breath in front of you, as if to show you how, and you tried, you really tried, but the air kept catching at the top and refusing to go further down.
"I messed up." You weren't sure you'd meant to say it. "Oh god, Ranta, I messed up, I — they're going to know, they're going to find out, I shouldn't have — I let him, in front of everyone, I let him — they're going to take him —" your voice cracked as it climbed "—they're going to take him and they're going to make him back into the thing he was, and it'll be my fault, oh god, what have I done, what have I—"
"In for three" Ranta said again, perfectly calm, perfectly level "Slow now, just breathe"
"What do I do?" The words came up out of the very bottom of your chest, raw and ugly, and your free hand came up and seized a fistful of your own hair at the temple and pulled, hard, the small pain of it the only thing keeping you tethered. "What do I do, what do I do, Ranta—"
"We do our best.” He said it gently, the way you might say to a child you knew you could not save from the truth. "That's all we can do, Mrs Zenin. That's all anyone can do."
You let out a sob, one so fully outside your control that it broke up out of your throat. You clapped your hand over your eyes because you couldn't bear to be seen any longer, but the tears came hot through the gaps in your fingers, and your shoulders shook in a way you had not let them do in years.
"Y/N."
You whipped upright so fast your vision swam for a moment.
Naoya's voice, the soft uncertain one, was behind you in the garden. The sound of it cut through the cotton in your ears with a clarity that punched the breath out of you a second time.
You turned away from him, dragging the back of your hand across your eyes, snuffling hard, trying with a frantic clumsiness, to put your face back together before he could see it. He could not see you like this, not now, not when he had spent the day clinging to your steadiness.
“Y/N…what's wrong?"
"Nothing." It came out a single, wet broken syllable, less a word than a wound. You tried again. "Nothing, I’m… I'm fine, I'm—"
You didn't hear him cross the gravel.
You only felt it, the sudden warmth of him at your back, the careful slide of his hand across your shoulders, his arm coming around the front of you and gathering you in toward his chest with a gentleness that did not ask. Your body went stiff inside the bracket of him.
Every part of you knew that this was the moment to push him away, that this was when you ran. And you should have run weeks ago, from the very first morning, the moment he opened his eyes in that hospital bed and asked you who you were. You should have walked out of that room and never come back, you should have taken the small precious window of confusion and used it to vanish.
Instead you had stayed, you had let him learn your name again, you had let him learn the shape of your heart, and now here you stood, weeping in a sterile garden in a sterile house, with his arms around you and the crevasse in your armour cracking open from temple to heel.
You did not push him away.
You stood there inside his arms and the careful warmth of his chest as the crack in your chest opened wider.
"Y/N?" His voice had gone tentative, almost frightened. He tightened his arms as though if he held you carefully enough he could hold you together by force alone. "Did I… did I mess up? Did I do something wrong? Was it the cafeteria? I — I shouldn't have shouted, I knew I shouldn't have, I'm sorry, I—"
"No."
The word tore up out of you with more force than you'd meant. You pressed your face into the front of his shirt, shaking your head against the soft cotton so hard tears smeared across your cheeks. "No. No, it's not you. You didn’t… you didn't do anything wrong, it's not — it's not you, Naoya, none of it is you—"
But it was.
You couldn't say it. You couldn't make the words come up out of your throat, you didn't have the cruelty in you to put them in this moment.
But it was him. Every inch of the panic you were drowning in was a product of the misery he had made you live in, every fear you carried was a fear he had taught your body to expect,. And the unbearable thing, the worst thing, was that the man holding you now was not the man who had done it.
The man holding you now did not even remember doing it. He was standing in a garden he could not remember planning, holding a wife he could not remember marrying, asking you whether he had been the cause of your distress. And the only answer was yes, yes, yes, for four years, yes, and you would have to look him in the face one day soon and tell him.
The thought of his face when you finally did was a thought you could not survive looking at directly.
You cried harder.
You cried into him and could not stop, your fists gathering up the fabric of his shirt, your forehead pressing against his sternum, his hand moving in slow uncertain circles between your shoulder blades, and Ranta, the dignified ghost of him, had quietly withdrawn into the house and left you both there.
And Naoya held you in the cold sterility of the garden and murmured into your hair, all the small useless soothing nonsense of a man who would have done anything to fix a thing he could not understand.
"Tell me…” he whispered. "Tell me, please. Whatever it is. I'll fix it. Whatever it is, I'll—"
"No."
It came out of you small, tired and breathy, this single word the only thing you could give him "No, Naoya. I'll fix it."
You felt him still against you. Felt the small confused tilt of his head where it rested above yours, the breath he drew to ask another question, but chose not to spend.
He gathered you a little closer instead, chin settling against the crown of your hair, and held you. He did not ask again, he did not, as the old Naoya would have done, demand an answer, and even that was its own small unbearable kindness.
Your shoulders went on shaking and his hand went on moving in slow careful circles between them, until slowly, slowly, the tremors began to settle. The sniffles thinned, the fierce knot of your fingers in his shirt loosened by inches until your palms lay flat against his chest and the breath you were taking in finally went all the way down.
"This garden…” he murmured absently, cheek resting against the top of your head, his words shifting your hair faintly as he spoke. "Is really boring."
A laugh slipped out of you before you knew it was coming, husked through with the salt of the crying. The old Naoya would not have said that. The old Naoya had chosen every plant, every paving stone, every piece of expensive understated landscaping in this garden, and the mere suggestion that any of it might be boring would have been a personal affront to him so total that whoever had said it would be banished.
His hands stilled against your back. He leaned back from you a fraction, just enough to look at your face, and there was something soft and curious in the way his eyes searched yours.
"Did you… did you just laugh?"
His face had tilted, head canted at that angle that made him look particularly feline, the corners of his eyes lifting into something close to wonder. You sniffled, scrubbed the back of your hand across your cheeks to catch the last stray wet of the tears, and nodded.
"Did I make you laugh?" he asked, slowly, as though he were trying out the sentence to see if it could possibly be true, as though he were not entirely sure such a thing were within his powers.
"Yes" you said, voice rough. "Yes, you did."
He beamed, it was the only word for it.
It wasn’t a smile, it was a beam, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his teeth showing and a flush of pleased colour rising to the very tops of his cheekbones, and the sight of it on his face stopped you completely.
You stood there and stared up at him, because that face, the face of which you had known for four years, had not been built for that expression. That face had been built for disdain, for contempt, for the small private smirk of a man pleased at someone else's failure. You had spent your marriage watching a thousand variations of those expressions cross that face and you had never, not once, seen it do this.
You had lifted your hand, watched yourself do it as though watching someone else, your palm cupping against the curve of his warm cheek. You touched him to check, to verify that the man beaming down at you was not a trick of the light, not some fever-dream you had constructed out of loneliness, but was actually here, right in front of you.
His eyes flickered down to your hand on his cheek.
And then, as easily and as automatic as if he’d done it his whole life, he tilted his face into your palm.
He met your hand halfway, pressed his cheek into the curve of it, his eyes fluttering closed, lashes dark against the high colour on his face, and a small contented sound escaped him.
You couldn't breathe.
The grief that moved through you in that moment was so total, so wide that there was no room in it for tears. It went past tears, it went past words.
It was the grief of every night you had lain in the dark and made yourself small, the grief of every morning you practised your face in the mirror before going downstairs, the grief of standing in this garden, in this house, beside this man, and watching him lean into your touch and knowing that this version of him had been denied to you by no one but himself. By the cruelty he had cultivated, by the deliberate training into the man his family had built him to be.
And now, in some strange terrible mercy, the lock had been broken open by a hospital bed and a head injury, and the man under your hand was leaning into your palm like a kitten and you could not, for the life of you, decide whether the universe was being kind or unspeakably cruel.
"Let's plant some flowers…” he murmured. He didn't open his eyes as he spoke. "Like the ones in your greenhouse“
Your breath caught, catching on memories you’d rather forget.
"You want to do that?" you whispered. He opened his eyes a fraction at the sound of your voice, just the smallest soft slit of brown, the sunlight catching them and turning them into the colour of honey. You realised in that moment that you would never again be able to think of his eyes as anything else. You had spent the last four years calling them cold, dark and flat. The truth was they had been waiting all this time to be the colour they were now, and you had simply never been allowed to see.
"I would" he hummed. The corners of his mouth lifted. "I'd like to."
You nodded.
You nodded, you did not trust your voice anymore, and slipped your hand, very gently, from his cheek. He made the smallest sound of complaint at the loss of it, a small bereft little noise that he himself looked surprised to have produced, and you almost laughed again.
He reached out and caught your hand before you had fully withdrawn it, turned it over in his and pressed his lips to the centre of your palm.
He didn't seem to know he had done it. He looked, when he raised his eyes again, slightly startled at himself, but he didn't say anything about it, and neither did you.
The kiss stayed warm against the centre of your palm long after he had let your hand fall.
…
You would never have dreamt up a moment like this.
The only explanation, if you had, would have been that something inside your head had finally given way, that the long unbearable pain of the last four years had collapsed on you at last and left you wandering through some merciful hallucination of your own design, because no part of your actual life had ever offered you the materials for a scene such as this one.
You and Naoya, hands crusted with soil, shoulder to shoulder. His once pristine sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smear of dark earth across the high curve of his cheekbone, and the late day sun slanting across the garden.
You worked side by side, crouched on the grass by the bed you'd chosen, your arms occasionally crossing as you reached for the same tulip pot, the rough fabric of his shirt brushing the back of your wrist, the warm low murmur of him talking to himself as he tried to coax the roots of a stubborn bulb free of its plastic container without snapping anything off in the process.
"Oh — no, no, no, please, please don't break, please—"
You laughed for the third time today, your shoulders shaking a little where they pressed against his.
"Why is it like this?" he murmured, brow furrowed in such severe concentration that it nearly tipped you over. "Why is it so…it’s like the roots don't want to come out. Are they meant to fight me? Am I killing it?"
"You're not killing it."
"It feels like I'm killing it." His voice had gone genuinely worried, the small line between his brows deepening. "Look at this bit, see this bit here, where it's all white… am I, should it look like that?"
"That's just the root."
"Are you sure."
"Naoya."
You leaned across him, took the pot gently from his hands, and showed him how to ease the pads of his fingers down the inside of the plastic, loosening the soil from the edges before trying to lift the plant out.
The old Naoya would not have asked, would not have crouched in damp earth in a button-down shirt with mud working its way into the cuffs. The old Naoya would not have cared whether the tulip lived or died, would not have cared, more pointedly, whether you did. So the version of him beside you now, fretting about a flower he had asked to plant, was such a complete inversion of the man you had known that you had to stop for a moment and just breathe.
"It's okay" you said, your voice softer than you'd meant. You parted the earth between you with your hand, scooping out a neat little hollow in the dark soil for the bulb to sit in. "All right, be brave."
You teased with a smile, the small piece of nonsense slipping out of you before you'd registered the tone, the particular gentle sing-song lilt that you had not used in years.
"Behave" he whispered back, his forehead bumping gently against the side of your head as he said it, and you laughed again, properly this time, and something inside you loosened another half-inch.
It was so strange.
You felt, for a moment, the small disorienting suspicion that perhaps you were the one who had fallen down the stairs that day. Perhaps you had hit your head somewhere along the line, perhaps years ago, and that this whole improbable life you were currently living was simply a long delicate elaborate hallucination your mind had constructed. Because the mind, when pushed past a certain point, will sometimes refuse the truth and offer the brain a kinder thing in its place.
The thought struck you. If it was a hallucination… you didn't want to wake up.
Not yet. Not yet, please.
Please let you let you stay in this lie a little longer, please let you stay here in this empty garden with the last sun warming the small of your back and Naoya's shoulder pressed against yours and his voice, low and worried in your ear. Let you stay in the moment where his nearness did not register as warning, where his hand reaching for yours did not send you up onto your haunches. Where you no longer measured your mornings by how much the bruises had faded, where you no longer angled yourself in the bathroom mirror to inspect, the place along your jaw that the concealer didn't quite cover.
Let you stay in the version of your life where none of that had ever been true. Let you stay here. Let you stay with him.
The bulb came free of the pot.
“Oh…oh, look, look, I did it.” he breathed, with such genuine bright delight that it made you smile. You took his hands in yours, soil-crusted, both of them, broader than you remembered, warmer, and guided them down into the hollow you'd opened in the bed.
"Like this" you murmured. “There, now tuck the dirt back in around it, pat it in. There, we did it."
He sat back on his heels and looked at it, the tulip bulb in its small earthy pocket, the slim green stalk of the early shoot just visible above the line of the earth. Naoya looked at the small planted thing as if it were the most remarkable object he had ever been responsible for. His mouth had fallen slightly open, the smear of dark soil still sat unnoticed across the high curve of his cheek.
"It's in" he said quietly.
"It's in."
He looked at you. The expression on his face, the simple uncomplicated delight of it, the soft proud disbelief, the way the corners of his eyes had crinkled the way they do now, was almost too much to look at directly. You had to glance down at the soil between you for a moment to gather yourself before you could meet him again.
"Thank you" he murmured.
You shook your head. "It's just a tulip, Naoya."
"It's not just a tulip."
He said it so simply, the way a person says a thing they know to be true at the bone. Then he reached for another pot.
You worked your way along the bed as the light continued to slant. Red, white, and yellow bulbs, spaced evenly, alternating colour. Naoya kept up his low conversation with the flowers, he even named one of them, announcing solemnly that this one would be called Edward because it had a face. You laughed so hard, for the fourth time, that you had to sit down properly on the ground for a moment.
When the tulips were in, you brought out the wildflower bombs from the small paper sack you'd had Ranta fetch from the greenhouse, the kind you tossed into a bed and forgot about and then watched, in spring, as the whole thing exploded into a controlled riot of poppy and ox-eye daisy and whatever else is hiding inside.
You held one out to him in the palm of your hand.
"What's this?"
"You throw it."
He frowned at you. "Throw it?”
“Just pick a spot you want and throw it. Wherever it lands, that's where flowers will grow."
He looked at the small earthy ball in his palm, then at you. He looked, with new and dawning interest, at the spread of bare earth at the edge of the bed.
"Anywhere?"
"Anywhere."
His face changed.
You watched it happen, the mischievousness behind his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting into something that was very close to the smirk of the old Naoya, and yet was not the old Naoya's smirk at all, because the old Naoya's smirk had always been at the expense of someone, where as this was the lit small delight of a man being told he was allowed to throw things in his own garden.
He stood up, took two steps back, weighing the seed bomb in his palm with the seriousness of a man preparing to throw a discus at the Olympic Games, and then he lobbed it with a small grunt of effort. It landed with a soft satisfying thud in the bare earth fifteen feet away.
"Oh" he breathed, he turned to you, eyes were shining. “Y/N, give me another one."
You laughed and quickly handed him another. He threw it and you handed him another. He threw that one too, into the bed, then into a planter he definitely wasn't supposed to be aiming for, but you didn't stop him, you simply stood at his elbow and handed him the seed bombs one after another until the small paper sack was empty.
The garden, that boring sterile clipped expensive garden, now sat speckled all over with small lumps of dirt and seed.
"It's going to look mad" he said quietly, slightly delirious.
"It's going to look beautiful."
"Mad and beautiful" he amended, and turned his head and looked at you, and the last gold of the day caught the side of his face.
He stepped toward you, the same way he had been stepping toward you all day, careful, hesitant, the movements of a man who had learned that closeness with you was a thing to be requested and not assumed. He lifted his hand and brushed the back of his knuckles, very lightly, down the side of your face.
There was soil on his hand, you felt the grit of it on your cheek. You didn't mind.
His eyes hadn't left your face. His hand turned and curved against the side of your jaw, his thumb stroked slowly across the rise of your cheekbone.
You leaned into his palm, the way he had done earlier, and you let your eyes slip shut and rested your weight, for one stolen second, into the warm bracket of his hand. The wind moved through the trees behind you, the last of the gold sunlight sliding behind the wall, leaving the garden in a thin lilac dusk that made everything look slightly softer than it was.
His thumb stopped moving.
You opened your eyes a fraction to find him looking at your mouth.
Not in the way people sometimes did, but in the way a man does when fighting some small invisible war inside himself. His brows had drawn faintly together, the high colour had risen again to the tops of his cheeks, deeper than before, and his lower lip had caught between his teeth for half a second before he released it.
You watched him work through the silent math of whether he was allowed to do this, whether asking would ruin it, whether not asking would be worse. He didn't know. You could see he didn't know.
So you decided for both of you.
“Naoya…” you whispered. The word felt like something you were stealing, something you would not be allowed if you waited even one more breath to take it. “Naoya, kiss me."
He did not need to be asked twice.
The arm that wasn't already at your face slipped around the small of your back with a surety that surprised you both, drawing you in and slightly up, lifting you onto your toes without effort. The hand at your jaw steered you, gently, the angle of your face tilting up into his. His head dipped, his lashes lowered, and his mouth pressed against yours with such soft careful warmth that, for one disoriented second, you didn't believe it was happening.
It was nothing like any kiss before.
You couldn't remember, suddenly, why you'd thought every kiss before had been a kiss at all.
The kiss on your wedding day, the brisk dry official pressure of his mouth, the small impatient turn of his head toward the photographer, had been the closing of a contract.
This was something else entirely. This was him. The man whose hands trembled, the man who cried, the man who had defended you in a cafeteria full of watching faces and chosen you, over and over and over again across this impossible day.
Your heart felt like a water balloon stretched to bursting. The pressure of it inside your chest was so great, so total, that you weren't sure your ribs were going to hold.
Some great soft thing had swelled up inside you and was pressing against the cage of your bones from the inside, and you felt , for one absurd untethered moment, that the gravity of the garden no longer applied to you, that your feet had left the gravel entirely, that the only thing keeping you on the earth was the warm circle of his arm at your back and his mouth careful on yours.
He kissed you once.
He drew back the smallest distance, breathing softly, the tip of his nose still brushing the side of yours, and you felt the warmth of him hesitate as if checking, was that all right, can I have another, please tell me I can have another.
You didn't have a word in you to say yes but your body answered for you, your face tilting back up into his, and he made a small low sound at the back of his throat that you'd never heard from him before and kissed you again.
Longer this time, slower.
His lips moved against yours with the care of someone who had been allowed to taste something and wanted to be careful not to waste a single second of it.
You felt his other hand come up to cradle the side of your jaw, fingers spreading gently into the hair at the back of your ear, the calluses of his thumb shifting against the angle of your cheekbone, and his mouth deepened against yours by the smallest fraction, and you tasted the warmth of him, the faintest trace of the espresso you had brought up from the absurd man at the café this afternoon, and somewhere very far below your sternum the last small disbelieving guard of you laid down its weapons.
Your hands slipped around the back of him.
You felt his heart through the cotton of his shirt, felt it hammering against the heel of your palm, as though it had not, in all his years on the earth, been called upon for a job quite like this one before. The discovery of this, the evidence of his nerves, almost broke you.
He was nervous. He had wanted this and he was nervous. The man whose hand you had spent four years bracing for was kissing you in the late dusk of a garden he had asked to plant flowers in, and his heart was hammering against your hand like a small frightened bird, and you had spent your entire adult life not knowing it could be like this.
That was the most unbearable thing.
You had been twenty-two when you had first been kissed by your husband at an altar in front of two hundred witnesses, and now here you were, four-year laters, having the first kiss of your adult life.
The first kiss that had not been required of you, the first one not given out of obligation or duty, the first one not survived through quiet dissociation, not endured, not waited out. The first one chosen, the first one returned, the first one where both hearts had stopped what they were doing and turned, briefly, in the same direction.
You kissed him back.
You kissed him with everything in you that was not on fire with grief. You kissed him with your hands curling into the back of his shirt and your head tilting and your eyes shut so tight that colours bloomed behind your lids.
He made another small soft sound against your mouth, and you felt the give of him, the small unmistakable surrender of his whole body, and you tightened your arms around him and let him fold in toward you, and you understood that whatever you were going to lose to the rest of this life, this kiss was now permanently yours.
They could not take it. They could come and take everything else, but they could never take this.
rOH MY GOD, Guys. I'm so soooorry. I've been absolutely swamped with uni work 😱. Honestly, all my time went poof! LOVE YOU GUYS FOR ALL THE MESSAGES, I will get to them!
DO NOT FEED INTO AI, OR REPOST WITHOUT CREDIT, OR ELSE I WILL CURSE YOU WITH FOOD POISONING AND MAKE YOU JACKSON POLLOCK YOUR BATHROOM!
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Chap 8 - The One With the Wedding Video─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·
⁺˚⋆｡°✩ Summary ✩°｡⋆˚⁺
After years of enduring Naoya's cruelty in your marriage, one desperate push at the top of the stairs changes everything.
He falls, but he doesn’t die. He wakes with no memory of who he was, or what he did to you.
With his family desperate to hide the truth and preserve his inheritance, you become his caretaker… and his only anchor. The man who once made you flinch at the sound of his footsteps, now follows you around like a lost ghost, soft-eyed and uncertain.
You could tell him the truth. You could walk away, but guilt keeps you here, and love, eventually, makes it hard to leave.
‧₊˚✧ Warnings ✧˚₊‧
18+ MDNI, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Graphic descriptions of domestic abuse, Physical & emotional violence, Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, Heavy angst, Slow burn romance, Non-con elements, Eventual smut.
TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!
TRIGGER WARNING - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED! - TRIGGER WARNING!
The Zenin headquarters towered over everything around it, designed to be seen, and impossible to ignore.
Forty-six floors of glass and angular steel, a brainchild of architects who had been given too much money and not enough restraint. The whole structure was faceted, catching the light and throwing it back at the city in great, blinding sheets.
You could see it from blocks away. That was entirely the point. Everything about it announced itself before you'd had the chance to decide whether you wanted to look at it or not, jutting up into the sky with the overbearing confidence of something that never considered it might be an unwelcome sight.
You hated it.
You’d hated it the moment you saw it. This…garish monument to everything the Zenin family believed about themselves. A tacky declaration of wealth so total and so deliberate it had ceased to function as a building.
You thought of the old cities you loved, Rome and Venice, the Gothic cathedrals, the Renaissance chateau’s, buildings that had survived plagues and floods and the slow erosion of time and still stood proud. There was nothing of endurance here. Only exhibition. Only the Zenin family, pointing a very expensive middle finger at no one and everyone all at once.
The car eased to a stop before the front entrance.
A red carpet had been rolled out, running from the kerb to the revolving doors. The sight of made you slightly nauseous, because it meant they'd planned for this. They’d arranged themselves and their watching eyes before you'd even arrived.
You scanned the crowd gathered on either side and began the necessary task of sorting them into categories. The sheep were easy, lower staff, assistants, people who'd come because they'd been told to, and who would scatter at the first sharp look or bitten out word.
But the others. The ones stood at the edges, watching the car with an expression that was careful in its blankness. They were the jackals. They weren't here to welcome anyone back, they were here to take inventory, to catalogue every inconsistency, to carry whatever they found back to whoever had sent them.
Emiko had told you she'd managed the story, something about emergency surgery, his appendix, an extended recovery that had kept him home longer than expected.
It was a reasonable lie, reasonable enough for the sheep at least. But as you looked at Naoya sitting beside you in the back seat, hands wrung together in his lap, eyes moving too quickly over everything and everyone present, you felt the doubt settle in your bones.
He didn't look like the same person. That was the problem.
The Naoya who had walked these corridors before had not looked at things the way he looks at them now, constantly, compulsively, tracking every movement for potential threat.
He had always looked ahead, at whatever he'd already decided mattered, as if glancing around was beneath him. He had moved through spaces as though they existed to accommodate him, as though the people in them were beneath the investment of his attention.
That quality, that absolute, almost insulting self-confidence was what the jackals would be looking for. And it was exactly what was missing.
"Just don't speak much" you said, it was approximately the hundredth time you'd said it. "If you have to speak, keep it short. Don't explain yourself."
Ranta had already come around to Naoya's door. He stood with one hand resting on the handle, patiently waiting for your signal.
"You need to look… angry" you added.
Naoya turned to you. "Angry?" Something shifted behind his eyes, but it wasn’t anger, just genuine confusion. "Why angry?"
"Because angry men don't get asked questions." You looked back out the window, at the faces arranged along the carpet. "The less you say, the less they have to work with. Anger fills the silence, it's easier to believe."
His hands tightened in his lap. You felt your nerves beginning to fail, the sudden, almost overwhelming impulse to rap on the glass and tell Ranta to simply drive away almost compelling you to move. But there was no going back, not now, not with everyone watching with their questions and their suspicions.
"Naoya." He turned. "Look at me."
He shifted in his seat to face you properly, the building looming behind his head, and you held his gaze steady. "You are confident. You are in control. You are the head of this company and of this family, and every single person standing on that carpet knows it." You kept your voice level, each word chosen carefully. "Don't shift your weight. Don't stutter. Don't wring your hands, don't blink too much, don't flush, and whatever you do—" you looked at him, and tried to make it mean something "—don't cry."
His mouth opened, something in his throat worked. He looked, briefly, like someone who had just been asked to perform the impossible.
You reached over without thinking and smoothed the hair back from his face, you'd spent longer than you would admit getting it right that morning, pressing it into place. You moved to his tie, straightening it against his collar, adjusting the knot until it sat perfectly.
He began, almost immediately, to tug it loose.
"Don't" you straightened it once more.
He stopped. An endearingly sheepish expression moved across his face, and in another life, you might have smiled at it.
"We'll be okay" you said instead, and knocked twice on the glass.
Ranta opened the door and stepped back, and the world outside came rushing in, the ambient noise of the district, the particular charged atmosphere of a waiting crowd. Almost every face along the carpet tilted toward the car at once, craning their necks to peer inside.
Naoya went absolutely still.
You felt it, the shift in his breathing, the minute seizing of his posture, and leaned slightly toward him. "We need to get out."
"Who are they?" His voice was barely a whisper as he turned to look at you.
"They don't matter." You held his gaze for one more second. "Only you do."
Then you put your hand against his back and pushed. He swallowed and swung his legs out.
He looked at Ranta, who nodded once, the particular nod of someone who has always been steady in a crisis. Then Naoya looked back at the car, checking that you were indeed following.
You stepped out beside him onto the carpet and arranged your expression into something that you hoped gave nothing away, despite the fact that your heart was going at twice its natural pace and you were fairly certain you'd left your capacity for calm somewhere on the back seat.
"Confidence" you said, low enough that only he could hear.
Something happened then.
It crossed his face first, a flicker of something, a minute recalibration. And then his whole demeanour seemed to shift, a slow, deliberate roll of his shoulders, settling the jacket back into place, his chin tilting up by a fraction.
His hands moved to his cuffs, checking them with an idle gesture that communicated, without a single word, that he had all the time in the world, that the crowd waiting to receive him was welcome to keep waiting, as their time was worth a whole lot less than his.
You stared at him.
It was so entirely, recognisably him, or rather, the him that had existed before that you almost laughed. The sight of it made something ache in your chest though, leaving you wondering how much was performance, and how much was instinct?.
But at least the jackals, if only for a moment, were very still.
…
Without Ranta, you weren't sure you’d have gotten Naoya halfway through the revolving doors before he was caught out.
He was extraordinary, that was the only word that fit. He rattled off figures and updates and names of projects Naoya had absolutely no knowledge of, doing it in a way that required nothing further than a simple nod, yet still created the impression of a conversation so involved that it would be rude to interrupt
And Naoya, to his credit, and to your absolute relief, nodded on time, his expression perfectly arranged. He said nothing that couldn't be said with the set of his jaw or the slight lift of his chin.
When someone got too close, Ranta moved. Not so obviously that it could be read as deflection, just a smooth, unhurried repositioning, a hand half-raised to indicate a direction, a murmured word that made it sound as though Naoya's time was simply too precious for whatever this person had come to ask.
They all left looking vaguely apologetic. You watched it happen three times and still couldn't entirely explain how he did it.
He made sure to walk a half-step ahead too, just enough to lead without appearing to, calling the elevator before Naoya arrived, holding door before Naoya's even hand reached for it, so that the whole progression through the building looked like authority rather than a man being quietly lead through somewhere he no longer recognised. It was seamless, almost beautifully so.
But Naoya was coming apart at the edges.
You could see him cracking under the pressure with every floor you climbed, every office you passed, every head that swivelled and every pair of eyes that tracked him across the room. None of them were foolish enough to stare outright, but the quality of their stillness when he passed gave it away.
By the time Ranta opened the office door on the top floor, Naoya looked defeated.
You'd thought him having a top floor office was obnoxious the first time you'd seen it. The whole arrangement of it, the elevation above everyone else, the throne-room logic of it all. It had seemed then like the most Zenin thing imaginable.
But now, standing in the muted hush of it with the blinds drawn and no one who could walk in uninvited, you felt something close to gratitude.
"So many people" Naoya breathed, almost a gasp.
He'd gone to the far corner of the room, the furthest point from the door, and pressed himself back into it.
"You did well" you said, and meant it more than he would probably believe. "We can stay here now, all right? No one's coming in." You looked around the room, at the muted, barely there decor, and tried to keep your voice steady. "We can pretend we're home. Just you and me, okay?”
The line between his brows eased a little. His eyes closed, head falling back to rest against the wall, and for a moment the performance dropped away entirely.
"I want to go home" he said, he wasn’t pleading, just giving you the flattest possible report of his feelings. "Can't we just... can't we forget this?"
The thought had rose in you before, the same one that kept surfacing no matter how many times you pressed it back down.
"No" you said. "We can't run from it."
He nodded slowly, the way people did when they were forced to accept something they didn’t like, and pushed himself off the wall and crossed to the desk.
It was enormous, a dark colossus of cold metal and glass, the kind of desk that communicated power and wealth. But it was bare, almost unsettlingly bare. No stacked documents, no personal clutter, no evidence that anyone had ever sat here.
His nameplate caught the light, a glossy rectangle of metal with his name pressed into it. Naoya stood before it and ran the tips of his fingers across it slowly, as if trying to commit it to memory.
"There are no pictures" he said, quietly enough that it might have been directed at himself rather than you. His eyes moved over the desk's empty surface, the bare edges, the absence of anything that would have identified its owner. "Why aren't there any pictures?"
You looked. He was right, not a single photograph anywhere in the office, not on the desk, not on the shelves, not on the walls behind it. Nothing of you or him. Nothing of the family that had built this building and put his name on the door.
"I don't know" you said with a gentle sigh. “But we have to get to work now, Naoya”.
You weren't entirely well-versed in what he actually did here.
You'd never been part of that side of his life, but fortunately, you'd been present for enough of its overflow over the years to have absorbed a working idea of it.
You knew that the company had dealings in real estate and finance, and a handful of more discreet interests that were spoken of only in whispers. What you didn't know, Ranta would fill in. He always had.
You crossed to the chair on the visitor's side of the desk and dragged it round, planting it next to his, and noted that the visitor's chair sat noticeably lower than the executive's.
Not so much that you'd register it upon walking in, but enough that whoever sat in it would find themselves looking up, by some small but persistent angle, at whoever sat behind the desk. Enough to put them on the back foot before a single word had been exchanged.
You imagined every meeting that had ever taken place in this room, every man or woman who had lowered themselves into that chair suddenly finding themselves smaller, while Naoya looked down his nose at them with that expression of mild boredom he wore so well.
It was deliberate. All of it.
Naoya lowered himself reluctantly into the desk chair, and you settled yourself right beside him.
"Right" you said. "Let's start somewhere easy."
You leant towards the laptop that sat open on the desk. The login screen was already filled in, Ranta's doing, and clicked through to the directories without comment.
You'd thought about this on the drive over. About what to start with, what would be safest.
Anything from the last year was out, too recent, too liable to brush against memories you didn't want to risk surfacing here, not with people waiting on the other side of the door.
Deeper, older material was safer. Quarterly reports from three or four years back, when the company had been navigating a restructure he'd led. The contents would be remote enough to feel like learning rather than remembering, and the patterns of how the company moved would be clearer there than in anything more current.
You opened a folder. Selected a presentation file, an internal one, all clean graphics and bullet points. Functional and dry. The opposite of anything that might pull at the seams of him.
"This is from a few years ago" you said, keeping your tone light. "It's an overview, what the company does, who the main players are, the structure of the thing. Boring, mostly. But it'll give you somewhere to start."
He leaned in beside you. You felt the warmth of his shoulder against yours through the fabric of his jacket, you didn't shift way, though every instinct told you too.
You walked him through it slowly. The company sat at the centre, branching outward into its various holdings, property here, finance there, a logistics arm, a smaller division dealing in security that you skimmed over.
He nodded along, the way he had been doing all morning. There was something almost painful about how easily he was taking it all. The Naoya who had run this company would have demanded specifics, would have wanted numbers. This one simply absorbed what you offered him and moved on when you did.
You moved to a video next, a recording internal meeting from before he'd taken the top role, when his uncle had been the acting CEO for a period. You wanted him to hear the cadence, the way his uncle spoke, formality of these gatherings. Naoya needed to know how the room sounded before he had to stand in front of one.
He watched it with his chin in his hand, eyes narrowed, and you watched him watching it, looking for any flicker of recognition.
There was none, he was studying it the way you might study a documentary.
"That's your uncle, Ogi" you said quietly, when his uncle came on-screen. "You'll meet him eventually."
Naoya's brow drew together. "Are we…close?"
You took a breath before you answered, the Zenin’s didn’t know the concept of ‘close’, they knew ‘valuable’ and ‘worthless’. That was it, that was their language.
"You're family" you said simply, choosing the words carefully. "That's what matters. He'll expect certain things from you."
He nodded, but again, he did not press.
You moved on, through another short video, a clip of him from a panel he'd sat on at some industry function, brief enough to give him a glimpse of his own register, how he'd spoken in public, the particular arrogant expression he'd worn.
You felt him stiffen slightly beside you when his own face appeared on the screen, the sharp intake of breath, the way his hand on the desk closed and then uncurled.
"That's me" he said.
"That's you."
He watched himself say something, watched the way he give a short, dismissive smile to a question he clearly considered beneath him.
The version of him on the screen looked nothing like the man sitting beside you. The set of the jaw, the angle of the shoulders, the coldness in the eyes, it was all there and intact, the behaviour of someone who had never once doubted their place in the world.
Naoya stared at himself for a long moment.
"I don't like him" he said quietly, as if he were some separate entity.
You didn't know what to do with that. You paused the video and sat with it for a moment, trying to find the right thing to say in response to something so abstract.
"You don't have to be him" you said. "You just have to look like him for a while."
He turned his head and looked at you, the light in the office was low through the drawn blinds, gold seeping in around the edges where the slats hadn't fully closed, bathing his softened features in tones of honeyed gold.
"And what if I can’t?"
You didn't answer. You couldn’t. Because the only honest one was the one you had been pushing down all morning, all week, since the moment Emiko's had hissed down the phone. You didn’t want him to change, you couldn’t bear to watch him harden back into that cruel version of himself.
So you reached over instead and pressed play again, and you sat shoulder to shoulder with the man beside you and watched the ghost of who he used to be perform itself, and the silence between you held the answer you couldn't bear to say.
…
"All right. One more time."
You said it as gently as you could, conscious of how thin his patience had worn over the last hour, but it landed flat against the wall he'd built somewhere in his head.
The family tree was where he kept floundering. You couldn't, for the life of you, understand why. He had retained the broad structure of the company without much trouble, had understood the division names and revenue streams and the rough hierarchy of who reported to whom.
But the moment the conversation turned to the family itself, something behind his eyes simply… closed off. He remembered his mother and his father. He understood that Ranta was a cousin, somewhere on the periphery, attached to the main line by a thread he could trace if pressed to. Beyond that, it all dissolved.
And you needed it not to.
It would not be long now before he was made to sit at a dinner table with these people. Before someone he was supposed to have known his entire life would lean across a glass of wine and ask him a casual but pointed question, and the moment he hesitated, the moment he glanced sideways for help, they would have what they had come for.
You couldn't afford for him to confuse an uncle with a cousin. You couldn't afford for him to forget which of the women in the room had been a Zenin by birth and which had married in. The tree was simple, a handful of branches connected by marriages and births.
He should have been able to hold it in his head, but he wasn't.
"I don't want to" he said.
He folded his arms onto the desk and dropped his forehead against them, hiding his face entirely, a posture so unguardedly childish that something in your chest clenched at the sight of it. You reached over and nudged his shoulder. He didn't move.
"Naoya. We don't have time for this."
Nothing. Just the slow rise and fall of his back, a quiet, obstinate refusal.
"I want to stop" he said, and his voice came out muffled, slightly thick, the words pushed through the fabric of his sleeve.
"Naoya—"
"No more!"
The shout came up out of him like a bomb detonating.
He stood up so fast the chair rocked backwards beneath him, and his voice cracked the air apart with such suddenness that for half a second your entire body simply... stopped, every system in you cutting out at once.
Your shoulders drew in, your spine went rigid against the back of the chair, and your eyes dropped immediately to the dark glass surface of the desk because not looking was safer, a lesson your body had spent years learning. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands went still in your lap.
Some part of you was already bracing for what came next, for the weight of the impact, for the angle of it, for which part it was likeliest to land on.
It didn't come.
The office door burst open, Ranta was there, one hand still braced against the frame, his eyes moving rapidly between you and Naoya and back again. He didn't speak immediately. He simply registered the room, registered your posture, the look on Naoya's face, and made a quick calculation.
"Oh — oh god."
Naoya's voice was completely different now. Stripped, suddenly, of whatever had risen up through him a moment ago, now hollow and horrified in the same breath.
His hand came down on your shoulder before you had fully come back to yourself, and your body did the thing it always did, and you flinched, eyes screwing shut, every muscle in you cringing inward.
"I'm sorry." His voice was urgent now, frantic at the edges. "I'm sorry, I — I shouldn't have, I didn't mean to...Y/N —"
"You need to take a break."
Ranta's voice came from much closer than you'd expected. You opened your eyes, and he was already standing beside your chair, somehow, his arm extended in the direction of the door in a gesture that managed to be both invitation and instruction at once.
His face was perfectly calm. That was something you'd been noticing all morning, this calmness was not an absence of feeling, but discipline, something maintained at a specific cost and deployed exactly when needed. "Step out for a minute. I'll take over here."
"I don't want her to go."
Naoya said it quietly, and when you looked at him, his eyes were on you and only you. They were wet, glassed over with something he was still in the process of understanding, guilt, you wondered, or shock at himself, or the slow, sickened recognition of what had happened to your body in response to his voice.
But your heart was still going too fast to breathe properly. Your hands were trembling in your lap, fine, helpless tremors you could not will away immediately.
Adrenaline had flooded you so completely that there was nothing of you yet that could be reasoned with, no part of your nervous system that had got the message that the threat had not, in fact, materialised. Your body did not know that. Your body knew only what it had spent four years memorising, dreading and healing from.
"Naoya." Ranta moved.
It was a small movement, just a shift of his weight, but it placed him neatly between the two of you, a shield between Naoya's reach and yours.
Something shifted in Naoya's face when he noticed it. You saw it. You’d learned to read his face, to catch the expressions that meant you should ready yourself for pain. The flicker behind the eyes, the narrowing. The hot, bright thing that sparked in him whenever he was crossed, whenever something or someone got between him and what he wanted.
Anger. Fury. Hatred.
It moved across his face for less than a second, but it was there nonetheless. Whatever softness had begun to grow in the gaps of his memory, the old Naoya was still in him, still capable of surfacing the moment he didn't get his way.
Your stomach churned at the thought.
"I'll go get us a coffee." Your own voice surprised you, it was steady, almost normal, only a hairline thread of a tremor running through the centre. You arranged a smile across your face, one designed to communicate that nothing was wrong, that you weren't running, that you'd be back. “Just… give me a minute. I'll come right back."
Ranta did not move from where he stood between you.
Naoya's eyes stayed on yours, but the anger had gone, or had been buried again, in its place sat something pleading, something afraid, and you stood up before he could speak, because if he asked you to stay one more time you weren't sure your body would let you leave.
…
"Here you go."
You nudged the small paper cup across desk toward him, the espresso steaming faintly through the lid, and tried very hard to keep the gesture casual, to make your re-entry into the room feel as ordinary as possible "Double espresso. The barista said it's their best blend, though I think he says that about everything they serve."
The barista, who you now knew was called Fumihiko. A piece of information that had been pressed upon you over the course of three terrible jokes, an extended unsolicited monologue on the merits of high-altitude Ethiopian beans, and one fairly heroic effort on your part to escape with the order before he could work up to a fourth punchline.
You'd left feeling vaguely as though you'd been mugged by his enthusiasm. The cappuccino in your own hand was excellent, you had to admit. He had not lied about the beans.
You turned to Ranta.
He was sitting, perfectly composed, in the chair he'd pulled up to the side of the desk, hands folded in his lap, watching Naoya with the expression of a man whose job was not to be noticed. He looked up when he registered your attention, and you held the second small cup out toward him.
"I got you one as well. I wasn't sure…”
He stood abruptly, his chair almost toppling, taking the cup from you with both hands and a small, deferential bow of his shoulders, his eyes briefly wide.
"Thank you, Mrs Zenin."
The flinch was small, involuntary. It was still a name that had only ever been said to you by people who wanted something from you, or wanted to remind you of something.
You arranged your face into a smile. "I wasn't sure if you'd want sugar, they've got some at the cart by the elevator if—"
"Double espresso is good" he said quickly, mercifully releasing you from the obligation of small talk. "Thank you."
You sat down beside Naoya.
You sipped your cappuccino slowly, letting the warmth of the cup steady the tremor that hadn't fully gone from your hands, and watched him over the rim of it.
He was leaning into the laptop screen in a way that he hadn't been when you'd left, his face, that face which all morning had been soft and uncertain and openly out of its depth, had gone curiously hard, jaw set, the way it used to be set when he was concentrating on something that mattered to him.
He didn't notice the espresso you'd placed at his elbow, he didn't really notice you sitting down. Whatever he was looking at had hold of him completely.
You leaned a little closer to see what it was.
You almost dropped your cup.
He was watching your wedding video.
Of all the videos, of all the files, of every safely abstract piece of footage stored on the company servers, this was what he had found his way to in the few minutes you'd been away.
The screen showed a wide pan across a vaulted hall, white and gold, flowers arrangements that had cost more than most people's cars adorned the aisle, and a younger version of you in a dress you had not chosen and a hairstyle that wasn't yours, standing in front of a man you barely knew, while several hundred people you had never met before that day watched from the pews.
Even now, you could see how thoroughly out of your element you had been. Wide-eyed, frozen, head turning incrementally as you tried to take it all in, the marble columns, the music, the crowd of unfamiliar faces, your hand resting on the arm of a stranger to you, both then and now.
And the Naoya, the Naoya you had married, stood beside you with the stoic, blank-faced expression of a man performing a function. You'd thought that he was nervous, that the rigidity in his face was just a man trying to hold himself steady through something significant.
You'd held onto that thought for a time, longer than was sensible. You knew now it had actually been boredom. To him it was just a formality being endured, a box on a list being checked.
He was speaking on the screen now. Saying his vows, delivering a series of declarations about loyalty and partnership and the unending devotion of his heart, and you knew, with a sickening certainty, that he had not written a single word of them.
He hadn't been the kind of man capable of those sentiments, even thinking them. Someone had been paid to compose those vows for him, a writer briefed on the brand of ‘love’ he was supposed to project.
The Naoya beside you on that screen had stood before the assembled witnesses and recited a love he did not feel for a wife he was not interested in, and the room had applauded. The memory made you nauseous.
"Why are you watching this?"
The question came out sharper than you intended. You'd meant it for Naoya, but somehow your eyes went past him and landed on Ranta, who returned the look with the faintest lift of the shoulders that read ‘he asked for it, I didn't know how to refuse’.
"I wanted to remember." Naoya didn't look up from the screen, he simply leaned in further, his face nearly close enough to the screen to obscure his reflection, eyes tracking you in your wedding dress with a focus that made your stomach turn over. "I wanted to remember what you looked like on our wedding day."
His voice was small, bereft in a way you weren't ready for.
"And I can’t…” he said. "I can't remember any of it. Not a thing."
You set the coffee cup down on the desk carefully. You didn't trust your hand with it any longer.
"Naoya" you said.
You could see it building in him, anger giving way to panic, and under it all, the deep, helpless sorrow of not remembering your own past. His hands had gone tight on the desk, knuckles pale, his jaw had set, and his shoulders had begun the slight, almost imperceptible draw inward of a body preparing to fight, or flee what it could not.
"It's all right…” you said. "You don't have to remember it. I told you before, our marriage wasn’t…” you searched for a word that was true and not damaging”...You married out of obligation, not love, this here…” You placed your hand over the image of you both. “This was just a performance, it’s not worth remembering”.
His head turned, his eyes, when they found yours, were glassy, the bright, wet shine of a man who had been holding something just beneath the surface had now run out of space to keep it there.
"But I don’t feel like that now."
His words left you breathless. You withdrew your hand from the screen and ran it through your hair, trying to still the faint tremor.
"I want to remember you. I want to remember… all of it, the good and the bad. I want to remember our memories, the things we did, the things we said, I—" He broke off and swallowed hard. "I want to know who we were."
You sat very still.
Something inside your chest had bottomed out, you were suspended in the moment with no clear sense of where the ground was.
He didn't know what he was asking for. He didn’t… He was sitting there with his glassy, earnest eyes asking for the return of the very thing that had hollowed you out, the very thing that you had spent these past weeks beginning to set down.
He was asking for the memory of his hand striking your face.
He was asking for the memory of the night you had locked yourself in the bathroom and waited for the sun to come up, counting tiles on the floor to keep your mind from turning over.
He was asking for the return of countless tears, of constant fear of-of- terror, sadness and…
He thought he was asking for a wedding.
Instead he was asking for every blow, every vile word, every chosen silence afterward. He was asking for every wound he had ever given you.
And the worst part was, he was asking for it with such gentleness. That was somehow the part that hurt the most. Because there was no version of this, in which you got to keep the version of him that you had now, without him remembering what you had been before.
You’d lose him the moment he found out. You’d run the moment he returned.
…
"Is this wise?"
It struck you as somewhat late for Ranta to be asking this, particularly given that he was the one who'd told you Naoya took his lunch in the cafeteria. Visually, it was the same lunch as everyone else, however it was ordered separately and prepared in a different kitchen. All consumed at one of the small corner tables where the rest of the staff could see him.
'He likes to survey his kingdom', was how Ranta had put it.
Apparently the appearance of accessibility had mattered to Naoya in the way most things had mattered to him, as a calibrated instrument of impression, deployed with intention, never the same as the thing it imitated.
"Well, this is what he usually does, isn't it?" you hissed back, keeping your voice low. “We’re trying to keep this as normal as possible”.
The cafeteria was packed. You could feel the room's attention even without looking up. You met more eyes than you could count, you were a fish, and the cafeteria was the bowl, and the rest of the building had simply come down to watch.
"Yes" Ranta said, leaning slightly closer, lowering his own voice further. "But he's still... altered."
His eyes flickered toward Naoya as he said it, you both knew that Naoya could hear every word of this. He was beside you with his elbow on the table and his chin angled toward the window, gaze fixed on the city laid out forty-six floors below.
He didn't turn his head, he didn't object. He simply looked out at the skyline he had once apparently enjoyed and let the conversation pass over him.
"He's doing well…” you said quietly, and watched the small twitch in his shoulders from the periphery of your vision, the slight downward tilt of his chin that told you he was listening more closely than he was letting on. "It must be… hard for him. But he's trying. He's trying very hard."
Naoya's hand, resting flat on the surface of the cafeteria table, drifted closer, his little finger finding yours. He didn't look at you, he kept his eyes on the window, as if the rest of him had nothing to do with the hand that had moved.
Ranta watched it happen.
You felt his gaze, felt the brief, careful judgement he made of your hands resting against each other, his finger curled around yours, and you felt, without needing to look up, exactly what passed across his face. Confusion morphing into pity. And underneath it, the resignation of a man watching something happen that he could not stop and was no longer sure he should try to.
The urge rise to pull your hand back, to break the contact, to spare yourself whatever conclusions he was drawing was immediate. Poor woman, poor stupid woman, going back, going back to him after everything...
Your face heated, and your throat closed, but you did not move. Naoya's finger tightened around yours.
"I just want to go home." Naoya's voice was low, pitched so only you could hear. He still hadn't turned from the window, but his eyes had dropped from the skyline to the place where your hands met, and his fingers shifted, claiming more, sliding his fingers between yours. "I hate it here."
Your chest pulled tight at the simplicity of it, at the notion that this man was sitting beside you saying the word home as though it were a place where everything was safe. You didn't know what to do with your grief, the grief of how late it was, the grief of how much time you had spent learning to live with the version of him that hated you so.
But at least he was still the warm, gentle Naoya for now. The thing you had been afraid of all morning, the slow seepage of the old Naoya back into the shape of him, hadn't happened. The flash you'd seen earlier in the office had not won.
There would be no cold drive home, there would be no slammed doors. There would be, when this day finally ended, only your home, and the film you'd left paused on the absurdly large television, and his hand finding yours in the dark.
You did not let yourself think about how long it might last.
"Okay" you said. "Let's eat. Then we'll go home."
"Mrs Zenin."
Ranta's voice had gone quiet, full of warning at the edges.
"Yes?" You turned your head toward him slowly, kept your face entirely composed. "He wants to leave, so we're leaving."
"But—"
"Stop."
The word came out level, almost gentle. You held his eyes long enough for the rest of whatever he had been about to say to die in his throat, and you watched him register that this was not something you were willing to negotiate over.
He held your gaze for another second, then his shoulders dropped a fraction, and he leaned back into his chair with the specific bad grace of a man who has been overruled by someone he had not previously credited with the authority to do so.
When you turned back to Naoya, he was smiling.
It was a small, private thing, a smile made for one person to see, and that person was you. Most of it was tucked away behind the tilt of his head, the angle he held his face at, but his eyes lifted to yours and the brown caught the cafeteria light like ambergris.
"Thank you, Mrs Zenin" he murmured, and this time you didn’t flinch.
…
You were almost finished eating when it happened.
You'd just set down your chopsticks and were reaching for your water when you heard the chair to your left scrape back a fraction, and a man you had never wanted to see again lowered himself into the empty seat beside you.
"Naoya."
He said it with the warmth of greeting and the sharpness of a knife.
You knew him. Of course you knew him. Nobuaki, whose face had been a fixture at every Zenin gathering you had endured and whose attention had cost you too much already. He was smiling, that ugly, slick smile that made your skin crawl.
"You haven't called" he said, the way everyone in this family spoke when they were testing a wound to see if you’ll flinch. “We’ve been worried.”
Lies.
Naoya looked at him, you felt him go still. You worried Nobuaki’s face had triggered memories you’d rather he not recall. He set his chopsticks down with a movement that took longer than it should have.
"I've been recovering" Naoya said, it came out clipped, exactly the way he would have spoken before. You felt a thread of relief loosen somewhere in you at the sound of it, and then immediately tighten again, because the man at the table was not going to leave it there.
He hummed softly as he turned his head slowly toward you. His gaze travelled across your face with that same old appraising lecherousness, and then dropped to where your hand still sat beneath Naoya's on the surface of the table. "I have to say, I'm surprised to see you here, though."
"Are you?” You matched his cadence, not giving him an inch to work with.
“Mm…” Again, that small considering sound, like he was tasting something. "Last I'd heard, you didn't really…” his smile widened by a fraction, almost delighted by what he was going to say next "mean all that much to—"
"Don't."
The single word landed with a confidence that shocked you. His smile didn't fall so much as frozen in place, and you stared at him, hard, every inch of your face conveying one specific instruction. Do not finish that sentence.
A moment passed, he had opened his mouth to test it anyway, the breath drawn in for a sentence he had decided he was going to deliver because the sting of being silenced by you in public was a cost he could absorb if it meant landing the blow.
But beside you, something in Naoya had shifted, he leant forward.
Not far, but the lean of it placed him fully into the Nobuaki’s space, looming forward, his weight tipping over the table.
Naoya did not look angry yet, but he had gone very, very still, the way a snake might before they strike, and his hand had withdrawn from yours and come to rest flat against the table between you and Nobuaki.
“What…” Naoya said, voice like warping steel "did you just say to my wife?"
Nobuaki tried to recover, suddenly registering the situation "I was only—"
"What did you say to her?"
It cracked through the din of the cafeteria. The voice that came out of him was the same one that had buckled your spine and sent your hands into your lap, but pointed outward this time, pointed in the specific direction of a man who deserved it, and the room around you reacted as one.
Three tables over, a woman flinched and looked down at her tray. The man at the salad bar with the long pretence stopped pretending and stared. The whole room went silent.
Nobuaki himself recoiled, his shoulders going up around his ears for a half-second before he caught himself, his face going pale.
You did not flinch.
The voice landed and your body registered it and it did not, this time, send you folding inward. Maybe because it wasn't aimed at you. Maybe because some part of you understood that for once, his voice was a shield and you were standing safely behind it.
Naoya stood.
He stood without taking his eyes from Nobuaki face, the chair scraping back across the cafeteria floor, and the silence that had spread out from your table to the corners of the room held. Not a single person moved, not a single conversation resumed. His hand came down and closed around yours and lifted it from the surface of the table.
“I suggest you don’t speak about her like that…” he hissed, each word slipping down your spine like ice as he loomed over the man, his eyes lit with a cold fury you knew all too well.“Ever. again”.
With that, he turned and walked, the whole of the cafeteria parting around you both like water.
You were almost running by the time you reached the doors, his stride too long for yours, his grip on your hand tight enough that your fingers ached. But you didn't speak, didn't try to slow him, didn't look back at Ranta who would, as usual, deal with whatever was left behind.
The doors swung shut behind you, the elevator already waiting to take you back up.
The two of you stepped into it and finally, you were alone.
He didn't speak in the elevator, even as the doors opened up onto the top floor. He didn't speak as he walked you the length of the corridor to his office, his hand still wrapped around yours, his pace finally slowing and the tension in his fingers loosening by the smallest degree.
But finally, when the office door closed behind you both and the world reduced itself again to this single quiet room, he let go of you.
He took two steps to the desk and then stopped, as though the energy that had carried him out of the cafeteria had simply run dry. He leaned back against the edge of the desk with his palms braced on either side of him and his chin dropped to his chest, and for a long moment he did make a sound.
"Naoya" you tested the air softly.
He looked up.
The anger that had carried him through had drained out of him entirely and what remained was something rawer and much softer.
"Come here…” he said quietly, hands lifting nervously towards you "Please."
You crossed the room. You weren't sure what part of you made that decision, but your body chose to move closer. You stopped in front of him, close enough that he could reach for you, which he did, his hands curling gently around the small of your back and drawing you in against him.
He did not crush, he did not grip, he simply gathered you, carefully, as though he were handling something as fragile as spun glass. His face dropped to the side of your throat, and he pressed there, and you felt the long, shuddering breath he let out against your skin.
You stood there, in the hold of him, and you felt your shoulders, very slowly, lower from where they'd been up somewhere near your ears.
Your hands, which had come up between you, settle against his chest and felt the warmth of him through the cotton of his shirt, the rise and fall of his chest, the slight tremor in his arms where they wrapped you in.
And for the first time in any of the careful, frightened, half-permitted moments of contact between you over these past weeks, your body simply give up its vigilance. You stopped scanning, stopped bracing, stopped holding your breath as you waited for the inevitable.
Your forehead came to rest against the line of his jaw. Your hands flattened against the front of his shirt and stayed there, fingertips pressing into the muscle of his chest. You closed your eyes and simply…existed.
He was murmuring something, you didn't catch it at first, they were spoken directly into the curve of your neck, but when you tilted your head a fraction you heard the rest of it.
"—let anyone speak to you like that. Not ever. Not while I'm here."
You felt his hand slide up the length of your spine and splay open between your shoulder blades. The other was still wrapped around your waist. He didn't move beyond that, he just held you, his face buried in the soft place beneath your ear.
You stood in the warmth of him and let yourself be.
And for one full, suspended minute, with the building pressing in on every side and the cafeteria still silent forty-six floors below, nothing else existed but the both of you.
I'm so sorry, I overwrote this a little 😭. I promise I'll reign it in next chapter.
DO NOT FEED INTO AI, OR REPOST WITHOUT CREDIT, OR ELSE I WILL CURSE YOU WITH FOOD POISONING AND MAKE YOU JACKSON POLLOCK YOUR BATHROOM!
Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+.
Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!Reader
Masterlist
Despair of a Doe Masterlist
General Synopsis: Lyonel is horrified to discover what conditions his new wife comes from, and you are just as horrified to learn that things are not practiced in the world as they are within your father's House. A good wife is obedient, by correcting hands if need be. That is the philosophy you have been raised on since birth. A lady obeys. A lady agrees. A lady endures. Lyonel does not want you to endure, but some habits are so much harder break. (slow burn)
Word Count: 11k idk what I'm even doing anymore
Content Warnings: lady doe is **touchstarved**. emotional repression. sexual repression. mentions of sex. emotional abuse (parental), child abuse (punishment), psychological conditioning, trauma responses, arranged marriage, anxiety, mention of first time intercourse, slow burn, angst, mention of restricted eating (as means of control, not an ed).
AN: you guyyyyyyyys! thank you so much for showing this love! let's create a posse to beat the shit out of lady doe's family. who's in? I've also done so much editing and rewriting of this chapter that my eyes are crossing, so if something is amiss-no it isn't. Also, next chapter we're gonna have a lil fun with it.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
The afternoon light pours through the high, narrow windows of the hall, pale and gray beneath a sky that threatens storm. It casts long shadows across the stone floor, stretching toward the raised dais where Lyonel sits.
You sit beside him.
Not behind.
Not hidden.
Beside.
The distinction has not settled comfortably yet. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers laced, posture straight—perfect. Composed. Every inch of you arranged as you were taught to be seen. But your mind—your mind is far less still.
The hall is full, not with lords or ladies, but with smallfolk—men and women who stand before the dais one by one, their voices roughened by work, their clothes worn, their presence…unpolished.
Uncontrolled.
It unsettles you.
And yet—
You cannot look away.
Lyonel sits at ease in a way that seems almost at odds with the weight of the space. One leg is slightly forward, his arm draped over the armrest of the carved chair, fingers tapping idly against the wood as he listens.
The antlered crown rests upon his head. It suits him, you’ve decided—not because it elevates him—but because it does not change him. He wears it like he wears everything else, naturally, as though it always belonged there.
“…and the boundary markers were moved in the night, my lord,” the petitioner says, wringing his cap between rough hands. “Three lengths into my field, they were. I’ve tilled that land since my father’s time, and his before him—”
“And your neighbor?” Lyonel asks, not unkindly, but without softness either.
“He claims it was always his,” the man says, voice tightening, with a shake of his head. “But it weren’t.” Lyonel hums quietly, leaning forward just slightly.
“Call the neighbor in,” he says to one of the guards. “We’ll hear both sides before I decide anything.” The man bows quickly—too quickly—and is ushered aside.
You watch it all, not just the words, but the way they are given. The way they are received.
The ease of it unsettles you more than the disputes themselves.
There is order here. You can see it. It moves beneath everything like an unseen framework—each petitioner called in turn, each voice heard, each matter considered before anything is decided—and yet it is not rigid.
No one is silenced before they finish speaking. No one is corrected for tone, for misstep, for speaking too plainly. There is no raised voice from the dais, no immediate punishment handed down to assert control.
It feels… loose, but not chaotic—that is what you cannot reconcile.
Your fingers tighten faintly in your lap as you try to place it—this balance you have never been allowed to witness before.
Another petitioner steps forward, a woman. That alone draws your attention.
Her dress is plain, work-worn, her hands roughened from labor, but her shoulders are squared in a way that surprises you. Not defiant—but not diminished either. She does not shrink beneath the weight of the hall, though the tremor in her hands betrays her. She dips into a bow.
“My lord,” she begins, giving something that’s a mix of a bow and a curtsey, then just as quickly, her gaze flickers to you. “My lady.” It is brief—respectful, unrehearsed—and it stills something in you.
You are accustomed to being acknowledged by servants—by those within the household who have been instructed to do so—who know their place beneath you. But this is different.
There is no instruction here. No expectation that she must, and yet she does. Not out of fear. Not out of rigid propriety, but because you are there. Because you are seen.
The feeling settles quietly in your chest, unfamiliar and strangely weighty, before the moment passes and her attention returns to Lyonel.
“My lord,” she continues, voice steady at first, though it wavers at the edges, “my son was taken for work on the docks. Three days past now, and no word. I was told—” she collects her words, clearing her throat.
“You were told what?” Lyonel asks. There is a shift in his tone—not directed at her, but at what she is saying. Sharper. Focused.
She swallows. “That he would be returned by nightfall,” she says. “He’s ten, my lord. He’s never been gone so long.” You feel the hall quiet as she speaks.
Ten.
The word settles heavier than the rest. Lyonel leans forward slightly, his earlier ease gone, replaced with something more intent.
“Who took him?” he asks.
She names a man—one of the dock foremen, from the sound of it. A name that seems to carry recognition, if not weight, among the men at Lyonel’s side.
“He came with two others,” she continues, voice tightening now that she has begun. “Said they needed hands. Promised coin. Promised he’d be returned before the tide turned. I would not have let him go otherwise.”
“And you’ve had no word since?” Lyonel asks.
She shakes her head quickly. “I went to the docks myself yesterday. They would not let me past the lower steps. Said women were not permitted, but I just wanted my boy.” Her voice catches slightly then, but she presses on. “I have no husband to go in my stead. It is just me and him.”
That lands, not loudly, but you feel it beside you.
Lyonel’s jaw tightens. You notice it now—the small shifts you are beginning to recognize. The way his fingers still against the arm of his chair. The way his posture changes not in size, but in weight.
Deliberation.
Restraint.
“Did he agree to the work?” Lyonel asks. The question seems almost misplaced at first, but you understand it a moment later.
Consent.
She hesitates. “He said he would go if it meant coin for the week,” she admits. “But he did not understand what was being asked of him. He is a child.”
“Aye,” Lyonel says quietly. “That he is.” Silence settles briefly as he thinks, then he turns his head slightly toward one of his councilors. “You know the man she named?”
“Aye, my lord,” the man replies. “Oversees loading at the eastern docks. Known to take on extra hands when ships come in heavy.”
“Known to keep them past their due?” Lyonel asks.
The councilor hesitates and that hesitation is answer enough, even in your eyes. Your fingers press tighter together because now you see it forming—the shape of the matter. Not just a missing boy, but something larger.
Something allowed.
Something overlooked.
“Have him brought here,” Lyonel says.The command is immediate, not raised or shouted, but absolute. “Now.”
The guard does not hesitate. He moves at once, armor shifting as he turns, the sound of his boots echoing briefly against the stone before the doors close behind him. Lyonel does not look away from the woman.
“Sit,” he tells her, gesturing faintly to a bench along the side of the hall. She blinks—once, twice—as if unsure she heard him correctly.
“My lord?”
“You’ve been standing long enough,” he says. “Sit. We’ll have answers.”
She obeys, slowly, as though the permission itself is unfamiliar and gives another half curtsey.
And you—
You sit beside him, your hands still folded, your posture still perfect. Every inch of you arranged in the way you were shaped to be seen. Composed. Controlled. Untouchable.
But something has shifted.
Not in the room.
In you.
Because this—
This is not punishment.
Not yet.
There has been no raised voice, no sharp correction delivered before all present to assert control. No immediate verdict meant to remind everyone—especially you—where authority lies.
This is not dismissal.
Not indifference.
It is something else entirely.
Something that gathers.
Something that builds before the decision is made, like the storm that so often presses against the walls of Storm’s End—felt before it is seen, understood before it breaks.
You feel it settle into your chest, quiet but persistent. It rests there beside that earlier flicker when the woman called you my lady—not as a rehearsed courtesy, but as something genuine. Something given, not demanded.
It is unfamiliar.
And yet it is real.
Not discomfort, not quite.
It’s something else—something you do not yet have a name for.
The petitions continue.
One after another, they come forward.
Land disputes argued over with stubborn pride. Broken agreements recounted in careful, defensive tones. Stolen goods, misplaced blame, grievances both petty and profound.
Small things.
Large things.
Lives laid bare in a way you have never witnessed before.
You watch them speak—freely, openly, without being cut short. You watch Lyonel listen—not just hear, but listen. Not rushing, not dismissing, not deciding before the full shape of the matter is placed before him.
Back home, matters like this were handled…differently. You would not have been present. You would not have been permitted to sit beside your father as he passed judgment. You would not have heard the arguments, the pleas, the explanations. You would have known only the outcome, and even that—only if it was deemed necessary for you to know.
Justice, as you understood it then, was something delivered. Final. Unquestioned. Not something examined, turned over, weighed in full view of those it affected.
Here…you are expected to see it, to hear it, to understand it. The expectation perturbs you more than exclusion ever did because this requires something of you.
Not obedience.
Not silence.
Thought.
Lyonel glances at you. It is quick enough that no one else would notice, but you do. Your spine stiffens slightly, instinct tightening through you like a pulled thread. There it is again, that silent question in his dark eyes—What do you think? Your gaze drops immediately, seeking safety in the familiar because you do not know how to answer that.
Your thoughts feel…unformed. Not incorrect—not yet, but unfinished. And there is no correction waiting to shape them for you. No guiding hand to place them neatly where they belong.
There is only the question and you do not yet know how to exist within it.
Your mind drifts, unbidden, back to your father’s hall. You can see it clearly. The rigid lines of it. The way voices were measured, careful not to overstep. The way men spoke was not to be heard, but to avoid offense. The way decisions were made quickly—decisively—without the need for prolonged discussion.
There had been order. There had been structure. There had also been fear.
You had never questioned it because it worked. It was effective. It was all you knew.
In this hall, there is something different, not the absence of order, but the presence of something else alongside it.
Lyonel does not rule through fear and still he is obeyed, not reluctantly, but willfully. You see it in the way they stand before him. In the way they speak. In the way they listen when he speaks in return.
There is no chaos here, no disorder. Only a different kind of control and it was one you do not yet understand.
Your gaze lifts to watch him again, almost without your permission. The antlered crown rests upon his head, but it does not define him. It does not make him larger than he already is. If anything, it seems to settle into place as though it belongs to him, not the other way around.
He leans forward slightly as another petitioner speaks, his attention fixed, his presence steady. There is nothing careless in him, despite the ease he carries. Nothing soft in the way you were taught softness looks.
This is not softness. It is fairness—measured, deliberate. He sees reason where others might not care to look for it. He allows space where others would fill it with command. He listens where others would decide. You realize, slowly, that this is not weakness.
It is something far more difficult to bear. It is something that requires restraint and understanding.
Choice.
You begin to see him differently, not just as your lord. Not just as the man who holds authority over this hall, this keep, this life you have stepped into.
Something else.
Someone else.
He is your husband–the one who waits, the one who asks—the one who looks at you as though your thoughts matter, even when you do not yet know what they are.
It rattles you because you do not understand where it comes from, what shaped it. What shaped him.
Your mind begins to wander in such a way you haven’t allowed yourself to think since you were a child. What had Lyonel’s upbringing been like? The thought comes quietly, but it lingers because something build this man beside you into who he was at this current moment in time.
Had he been allowed to speak freely as a boy? To question? To think? Had he been listened to? Guided, rather than corrected?
The idea feels almost bitingly foreign—almost impossible—and yet it must be true because this man did not come from the same place you did.
Not in spirit.
Not in shaping.
Not in any way that matters.
Your gaze drifts to him again, though you are careful not to let it linger too long, and yet your mind does. It moves where your eyes do not dare to remain, circling him in a way that feels…new. Not observant in the way you were taught to assess, to measure, to remain proper—but curious.
You try—tentatively, uncertainly—to imagine him as something other than what he is now. Not the lord seated beside you. Not the man with a crown made of wide stag antlers resting easily upon his head, but as a boy.
The image comes slowly, as though your mind does not quite know how to construct it at first. You begin with the curls. They are easier—wild, untamed, less disciplined than they are now. Dark and unruly, falling into wide, bright eyes that have not yet learned restraint. You can almost see them catching sunlight rather than hearthlight, wind-tossed rather than carefully smoothed, a boy who did not yet feel the need to contain himself—who couldn’t sit still.
Was he bright? The thought comes with a quiet certainty. Not just in wit—but in spirit. A boy who laughed easily. Who moved without hesitation. Who did not measure every step before taking it.
You imagine him running along the cliffs of Storm’s End, the wind whipping at his clothes, the sea crashing below—not something to fear, but something to meet. Something to challenge.
A boy who shouted into the storm just to hear it answer back.
He was mischievous, perhaps. You can almost see it—the glint in his eye, the kind of boy who tested boundaries not out of defiance, but out of curiosity. The kind of boy who pushed simply to see what would happen, to understand rather than to rebel.
Was he like the boys in your stories? The ones who went seeking adventure where others were scared to look? Was he one of the boys who climbed where they should not, who spoke when they were told to be silent, who laughed too loudly and lived too freely?
Was he a boy who was never punished for it in the way you had been? Your chest tightens at the thought because you can see it too easily.
No—you think to yourself—you do not think he was careless. There is too much thought in him now for that to have been absent then. Perhaps he was both. Bright and bold, but also observant. A boy who listened—not because he had to, but because he wanted to understand. Who was allowed to question without being struck down for it. Who was corrected, yes—but not broken by it.
Guided.
The word settles differently now.
Not as something forced, but as something given. Something that shaped without stripping away.
The thought shifts unexpectedly—you imagine children. Not in the distant, abstract way you once did when Lyonel first spoke of heirs—something expected, something to be fulfilled, something that was inevitably there—but now as something more tangible. More real.
You imagine a boy with his curls. Dark and unruly, and falling into big, brown eyes that carry that same spark of life you see in Lyonel now. You imagine smaller hands, reaching, grabbing, exploring the world without hesitation. A voice too loud, too curious, asking questions you would not know how to answer—not because you are incapable, but because you were never allowed to ask them yourself.
You imagine his temperament—that steadiness and warmth—that unrestrained presence that does not demand fear to command respect. Something in your chest tightens.
You cannot imagine raising such a child the way you were raised—not anymore. You cannot imagine those curls stilled. That laughter quieted. That curiosity beaten into silence. That light leaving those beautiful eyes as it left yours.
The thought—it feels wrong. Not improper. Not indulgent.
Wrong.
You feel as if a door had been left just slightly ajar—a door that had been locked shut your entire life—because you were now questioning your very way of life just by being in this man’s presence. You were questioning all that you were taught, everything that you knew. Your fingers pinched subconsciously, not as a punishment, but as a means of bringing you back to the present and still—your mind wandered as if a chained animal had been let loose to run free in the hills.
Once, the thought of allowing a child freedom—even measured, even guided—would have seemed reckless. Disorderly. A failure of control.
Now you look upon Lyonel—at the man he is, the way he listens, the way he waits, the way he chooses—and you imagine him as that boy again.
Small.
Bright.
Untamed.
You imagine that same boy in your father’s hall. Under your father’s rule. Under your father’s hand. You imagine the wild curls cut short, the laughter stifled, the questions unanswered—or worse, punished. You imagine that light in him dimmed. Contained. Shaped into something harder.
Colder.
Smaller.
It makes something inside you recoil like you’ve been struck from within.
He would not be this man, you realize. He would not be Lyonel. Not as he is. And you wonder—who would you have been in another life had you been permitted to flourish instead of fester? Your fingers loosen slightly in your lap, the tension easing without your notice because the realization settles slowly, but firmly.
What shaped him—it mattered.
How he was raised—it mattered.
And what once seemed preposterous—the idea of raising children with guidance rather than force, with patience rather than fear—it no longer feels impossible. It begins to make sense, not as weakness, not as indulgence.
It is something that creates…this.
Him.
Your gaze drifts to him again, carefully, but you do not look away as quickly.
You are not just seeing your lord now—not just the man you were given to. You are beginning to see the person beneath it, layer by layer, and it seems endless. Each piece reveals the next. Each moment reshaping what you thought you understood. And you know with quiet certainty that something is shifting within you.
It doesn’t show all at once, not enough to name, but enough that you can feel it. Enough that you cannot ignore it anymore.
Lyonel glances at you again briefly and you do not look away immediately. Not as quickly, not as completely, but enough to wonder what it might feel like to answer him genuinely when he asks your opinion.
Another case is brought forward, though this one does not arrive with the same hesitant deference as the others.
It comes in loud.
Two men are ushered forward at once, their argument already spilling into the hall before they’ve even reached the center. Their voices overlap, sharp and heated, each trying to speak over the other as if volume alone will win the matter.
“She’s mine by right!” the first insists, stepping forward without waiting to be acknowledged. His clothes mark him as a tradesman of some means—well-kept, if worn, his posture rigid with certainty. “Her father gave his word. There was an agreement made, witnessed and sworn. Coin to follow at harvest.”
“She chose me!” the second cuts in, younger, broader, his voice rough but steady. “Your ‘agreement’ was talk over ale. No contract. No coin. No claim but your own say.”
“Silence.” Lyonel does not raise his voice. He does not need to. The word lands clean and final, and both men fall quiet at once, though the anger still simmers just beneath the surface. He leans back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along its carved edge, gaze moving between them with measured patience.
“You’ll speak one at a time,” he says. “Or I’ll decide this without another word from either of you, and I promise you won’t like the outcome.” The first man swallows, stepping forward again, more carefully now.
“My lord,” he begins, forcing steadiness into his voice, “I had a proper agreement with her father. Witnessed. Spoken before men of standing. She was to be wed to me come harvest. I’ve already begun preparations—set aside coin, made room in my household. I’ve acted in good faith.” Lyonel’s gaze sharpens slightly.
“Witnessed, you say,” he replies. “Do you have those witnesses present? Men of substance, not drinking companions who’ll say whatever suits you?” The man hesitates—just for a fraction of a moment.
“Aye,” he says, more quickly than is convincing. “They can be called.”
“That wasn’t the question,” Lyonel says, voice quieter now, more dangerous for it. “Are they here?”
A beat.
“…No, my lord.”
Lyonel exhales softly through his nose. “And the coin?”
“Promised for harvest.”
“Promised is not paid.” The man’s jaw tightens, but he presses on. “But there is still some weight to the claim.” Lyonel’s attention shifts to the second man. “And you?”
The younger man steps forward. “She never agreed to it, my lord. Not once. Her father tried to bind her to him without her word. She came to me of her own will. I’ve not hidden her, nor forced her. She’s stayed openly with my family.” A murmur stirs faintly through the hall. Lyonel’s fingers tap once against the arm of his chair in thought.
“No contract. No coin. No witnesses present to support the claim,” he says, more to himself than to them, though both hear it. “Only a spoken agreement with a father who is not standing here to answer for it.”
Your fingers tighten slightly in your lap because that sounds incomplete, unstable. And yet, it is being weighed and not entirely dismissed.
“Bring her forward,” Lyonel says. The young woman is escorted in, walking on her own, shoulders tense but unbowed. Your gaze fixes on her immediately.
She looks determined, sure of herself, and Lyonel studies her for a moment.
“You’ve heard what’s been said?”
“Yes, my lord.” She says, bowing her head.
“And what say you?” There is no hesitation.
“He wouldn’t be the first man my father promised me to, my lord. It’s a nasty habit of his,” she says, “My father spoke with him, yes, but he did so well into his cups. I gave no word, no promise.”
The first man bristles. “Your father’s word binds you—”
“Fathers do have ownership over their daughters, you are correct in that,” Lyonel cuts in evenly. “But drunken words without anything to bind them do not.” The first man falters.
Lyonel continues, voice steady but firm. “You’ve no coin exchanged, no written contract, and no present witnesses here to support your claim—nor do you have her father present. Had you any number of those things, we would be having a different discussion. You have an agreement made in absence, with well wishes as a follow through.” The words settle. He turns his gaze back to the woman. Silence follows, heavier this time because this is no longer simple. Because there was an agreement—however weak. Because precedent matters. Because order matters.
You feel it then—the weight of it—how this could’ve gone either way. How it should go one way, how it might go another. Lyonel leans back slightly, studying all three of them. When he speaks again, it is slower, fully deliberate.
“There was an understanding,” he says, glancing briefly at the first man. “I won’t pretend there wasn’t. And I won’t ignore it entirely, because that’s how disputes turn into feuds.” Your breath stills. This is the part you understand. Structure. Consequence.
“—And yet,” he continues, his gaze flits to the woman, then back to the first man, “you brought no proof strong enough to bind her to it. No coin exchanged, no contract signed, no witnesses of standing to uphold your claim here and now.” The man stiffens, but does not interrupt. “You gambled on a promise and expected it to hold without securing it,” Lyonel says plainly. “That is your failing, not hers.”
A heavy pause silenced the hall.
“The agreement does not hold. That is my verdict.” The finality lands heavily, decisively.
The first man steps forward, anger flaring again. “Then what of the agreement, my lord? What of the insult? You’d let such a slight stand?”
“I will tell you this now—my word is final,” Lyonel replies, sharper now. “I’m settling it.” He gestures faintly toward the steward. “You’ll bring your accounts of what you’ve spent preparing for this match. If they’re fair, you’ll be compensated fairly. That’s the extent of what you’re owed and all that my patience will extend to it.”
“And her, my lord?” the man demands. Lyonel’s gaze hardens.
“She is no longer your concern.” Silence. “Your matter is settled.” The man’s jaw tightens, but this time—he bows knowing he’s pushed too far.
The tension drains slowly from the hall as the woman is dismissed and the second man follows after her. And you—you sit very still because that was not chaos. That was not softness. That was not indulgence.
It was a decision—a difficult one—and your gaze drifts once more to Lyonel. He is already watching you when your eyes find him.
Not questioning.
Not prompting.
Just…aware.
As if he knows exactly what that moment has done to you and he’s waiting to see what you make of it.
The hall begins to thin as the afternoon stretches on.
Voices that once filled the space begin to taper into quieter murmurs, petitioners dismissed to wait along the edges of the great room. The steady rhythm of cases slows, not in urgency, but in weight. What remains feels heavier. More deliberate.
Outside, the sky has darkened further. What little light filters through the narrow windows is dulled by thickening clouds, casting everything in a muted gray. The air shifts—dense, expectant. A storm is coming. You can feel it in your bones now, just as you had earlier.
Another petitioner is dismissed.
The echo of their footsteps fades.
And in the quiet that follows—
Lyonel exhales through his nose and leans back slightly in his chair. He turns to you fully this time—not a passing glance or a fleeting check.
Intent.
Present.
“Well?” he asks. The question is simple. You blink, your spine straightening instinctively beneath the attention.
“My lord?” His brow lifts faintly, not in impatience—but in expectation.
“What do you think?” he clarifies. Your breath catches because there it is again.
A question not born of obedience or recitation, but of thought. Of opinion.
Your fingers tighten slightly in your lap, the fabric of your skirts pressing into your palms as your mind begins its familiar search—for structure, for correctness, for something already shaped and ready to be given.
It finds nothing, only fragments—Images—feelings that do not yet have names. You hesitate longer than you should, long enough that you are aware of it. Long enough that he is too.
“They are…varied,” you say at last, the words careful, measured—safe. It is not untrue, but it is not all. Lyonel’s mouth twitches faintly, something caught between amusement and patience.
“Astute,” he murmurs as heat creeps under your skin. You lower your gaze at once, the reaction automatic, familiar—your body correcting before your mind can follow.
“I have not seen such proceedings before,” you add, quieter now. “Not…in this way.”
There is a pause.
“I gathered as much,” he says. There is no mockery in it—only observation. That, more than anything, steadies you. “That is why I requested you to sit in on this session. A fresh perspective is good to have once in a while.” You glance at him briefly, then back to the smaller crowd of people who mosied around the hall.
“It is…different,” you continue, the word feeling insufficient even as you say it.
“How so?” The question comes easily from him. He liked to pry, you learned, but only to learn—to push you further than your short answers. He is not asking for the right answer, only your answer. You hesitate again because the truth feels dangerous. Because it does not align cleanly with what you were taught. Because it is still forming, still shifting beneath the surface of your understanding.
“They are allowed to speak freely,” you say slowly, choosing each word with care. “Without…fear of immediate correction.” Your voice lowers slightly on the last word, as though it carries more weight than you intend. Lyonel leans back a fraction, considering.
“Aye,” he says. “Hard to get the truth out of someone who’s too afraid to give it.” Your chest tightens because what he’s saying makes sense—more sense than it should. More sense than what you were taught. Your fingers loosen, just slightly.
“And you ask for their perspectives,” you add, quieter now, your gaze drifting—not to him, but to the space where the woman had stood earlier. “Even when it…contradicts expectation.”
Lyonel’s brow lifts faintly as he huffs softly, a breath of something almost amused—but not dismissive.
“Especially then.” The words settle into you with a certain weight and you fall quiet once more because contradiction was always met with correction.
Always.
Your gaze drops to your hands, though they are no longer as tightly wound as they had been before.
“And what do you think of that?” he asks.
The question comes softer this time—less like something to be answered and more like something to be considered. You feel it shift inside you, your thoughts pressing against one another, not in conflict, but in confusion.
Structure.
Order.
What you were taught.
What you are seeing.
The two do not align and yet they both clearly exist.
“It feels…” You falter. Your voice catches because there are too many words and none of them fit cleanly into your thoughts.
Wrong.
Free.
Uncertain.
Necessary.
You swallow. “…confusing,” you settle on at last. It is the closest thing to truth you can manage without unraveling further. Lyonel nods once.
“Good.” Your head lifts slightly, caught off guard.
“Good?” you echo, quieter now, more confusion coloring your tone.
“Aye,” he says, watching you—not closely enough to corner, but enough to notice. “Means you’re paying attention, you’re adjusting, you’re learning.” You do not know what to do with that because confusion has never been good.
You hold the thought within you carefully, turning it over in your mind the way he turns over the words of those who stand before him. Your gaze flickers back to him, briefly curious, and there is something different in it now. You’re less guarded, less…braced. You do not realize it, but Lyonel does.
You offer him nothing more. No further explanation. No elaboration of the thoughts that had taken root in you—the image of him as a boy, the realization of what possibly shaped him, the quiet shift in how you begin to understand him now—you keep that to yourself.
Held close.
Uncertain.
Yours.
And Lyonel does not press you. He does not ask again, but something in his expression shifts, subtle and fleeting.
As the next petitioner is called forward, the storm finally begins to break beyond the walls of the keep.
That night, the storm does not arrive gently.
It builds the way you felt it earlier—thick in the air, pressing down until it becomes unbearable to ignore—and then it breaks. Wind slams against the walls of Storm’s End with a force that feels almost alive, rattling the glass of the windows, howling through every narrow slit in the stone. The sound settles deep in your bones, constant and unrelenting, as though the sea itself is clawing its way into the keep.
You sit near the hearth, its low fire casting shifting light across the chamber. Your hands are folded tightly in your lap, fingers laced so firmly they ache.
Waiting.
You told yourself you would not. There is no instruction that says you must. No rule that binds you to this place at this hour. And yet, there is nowhere else to go. The servants have long since withdrawn, the corridors have fallen quiet, and this—this is where a wife belongs.
So you sit.
Still. Proper. Silent.
The door opens with a push, the shuffling of feet entering the room before the click of the latch sounds once more. You straighten instantly, your body responding before thought can catch it—spine aligned, breath quieted, hands set just so.
There is something to Lyonel’s movement—sharp, restrained. His hair is damp, curls darkened by the mist, his tunic unlaced at the throat. There is no stagger to his steps tonight.
No drink.
No haze.
Only him.
But there is tension that clings to him, subtle but present, like the storm outside has followed him in. His gaze finds you immediately—and he pauses.
“You’re still awake.”
“Yes—” You catch yourself. “Lyonel.” The name comes more smoothly now, though not without effort. You remain seated, though the instinct to stand presses hard against your ribs. Your fingers dig faintly into your palms to keep yourself still.
He exhales, dragging a hand over the back of his neck as he moves further into the room. “You don’t have to sit up waiting for me like that. You could’ve gone to bed.”
“I was not quite ready for bed,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend, though steadier than it might have been before. Your hands remain folded neatly before you, fingers laced together as though they might otherwise betray you. “And I did not have anything else to attend to.” You hesitate, just briefly. “So I waited.”
The words settle between you.
Simple.
Unadorned.
Not rehearsed.
Lyonel stills. It is subtle—barely a shift in posture, a pause in the way he had been moving—but it is there. His gaze turns to you fully now, searching your face in a way that feels different from before. As though he is expecting something else to follow.
Something practiced.
Something safe.
Something about expectation.
But nothing comes because you have already said it and it is…yours. He studies you for a moment longer than usual, something unreadable flickering across his expression before it softens into something quieter. Something almost curious.
“Not because you thought you had to?” he asks. There is no accusation in it. Only a quiet testing of the ground between you. You shake your head faintly.
“No.” The answer feels strange in your mouth, but not wrong. His brow lifts slightly at that, the faintest hint of surprise there before it fades. He exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.
“Hm.” It is not a dismissal. Not quite approval either, but something in between. His gaze lingers a moment longer before he looks away again, but not in the same way as before. Not withdrawing—just considering. “And here I thought you’d tell me it was expected of you,” he mutters, almost to himself. There is no edge to it now. You lower your gaze out of habit, but it does not feel the same.
You had not given him what was expected and he had noticed—just as he notices everything and something in you recognizes that too.
Quietly.
Carefully.
A shift.
“Relax.” The word lands gently, too gently. You shake your head, a small, almost imperceptible motion.
“I cannot,” you admit. It is not said in defiance. It is not said as refusal. It is said as truth.
That gives him pause—a real one. You see it in the way his expression stills, in the way his attention sharpens—not in frustration, but in something more intent.
“Why?” he asks. The question lingers. You open your mouth with the answer you have always given. There is always something to be done. But the words do not come as easily now. Because that is not all of it.
“There is always something to be done,” you begin anyway, the words familiar, well-worn—but they falter before they can settle into place. You swallow, your gaze dropping briefly before lifting again, uncertain. “And when there is not…I do not know what I am meant to do with that time.” Your fingers tighten faintly together. “I was not…permitted to be idle,” you continue, quieter now. “Idleness invites scrutiny. Correction.” You hesitate, then add, more carefully, “Not from you. But…in general.” Your voice lowers further. “It is when one is not occupied that one is…noticed.”
The weight of that sits between you because being noticed had never been a good thing. Not in that way. You shift slightly where you stand, the movement small, contained.
“Sitting as I was,” you add, “it is not…relaxing, as you mean it.” Your brows draw faintly, searching for words that feel insufficient the moment they form. “But it is…quieter. There is no one to observe. No one to correct.” You pause. “It allows me to think.”
That feels closer to the truth. Not comfort or ease, but absence of pressure. “That is…the closest I know to rest.”
The admission is soft and uncertain, but very real. Lyonel watches you as you speak, something in his expression shifting—not sharply, not visibly, but enough that you feel it.
He lets the words settle before following up. “What do you think about?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now. The question tightens something in your chest. You do not know how to answer it without stepping into something uncomfortable and so you hesitate just long enough that he notices. Your gaze drifts—not quite away, but not fully to him either.
“I…” You falter, your fingers pressing faintly into one another again. “I was thinking about…what I should be doing.” His brow furrows slightly. “As your wife,” you clarify, the words coming more quietly now. “What is expected of me.”
Familiar.
Structured.
Safe.
But it does not feel the same as it once did. Now there are questions where there were once only answers. Your throat tightens.
“And…?” he prompts gently. You hesitate again. This is where it becomes difficult, where what you were taught does not align with what you have seen—what you are beginning to understand.
“The marriage bed,” you say at last, the words careful, controlled, though they sit heavier than you expect. “It has not…been as it should.” The admission feels like stepping onto uncertain ground. Your words are not said in accusation or complaint, just awareness. Your gaze drops as your courage tries to flee from you.
“I know it is a duty,” you continue, quieter still. “One I have not fulfilled, as I ought to.” The words feel wrong even as you say them, but they are what you know. What you have always understood.
Lyonel exhales slowly.
“That night,” he says after a moment, his gaze drifting toward the hearth, voice lower now, “shouldn’t have gone the way it did.” Your heart stutters. “I was too far gone,” he continues. “And you…you looked like you were enduring it.” Heat rises to your face.
“I fulfilled my duty,” you say quietly. “If it was lacking, that is my failing.”
His head turns sharply. “Lacking?” You blink, startled by the weight of it.
“I don’t understand why you think that’s all it’s meant to be,” he says, quieter now—but heavier. “Something to get through.”
“It is what I was taught.”
“By your mother.”
“And my septas.”
He exhales again, slower this time.
“Because I have not reached for you in a drunken stupor,” he says, more bluntly now, that earlier edge surfacing again, “you think something is lacking?” The words land heavy and unyielding.
“I did not mean—”
“I know what you meant,” he says, softer now. Silence stretches between you, but it is not empty. It holds something, something that is shifting.
“Listen to me,” he says, his voice lower now, more deliberate. “There are men who do not care what their wives feel. Men who see the marriage bed as nothing more than a duty to be done and forgotten. Of that, your bloody septas are correct.” His jaw tightens faintly. “I am not one of them.”
The words strike something deep and your breath stills.
“That night—” he exhales, shaking his head slightly, “—that was an outlier. A poor one. And I would sooner you forget it entirely than believe that is what it is meant to be.” Forget it—the idea feels impossible. “I’d hope in time you’d replace it with something better,” he adds, watching you now. “Something you are not bracing through. Something you actually want to be part of.”
Want.
The word makes your thoughts falter.
Tilt.
“You should want it,” he continues, not harsh—but firm. “Not because it’s expected. Not because it’s your duty. But because it’s shared. Because it belongs to both of us.”
Your mind struggles to follow and the words do not settle the way they should. They do not fit.
“I do not understand how that could be,” you admit quietly, your voice smaller now, though no less honest. You hesitate only a moment before adding, because it is what you know—what you have always known. “It is not supposed to be enjoyed…not by me.”
The moment the words leave you Lyonel stills. Not subtly. Not in the quiet, controlled way he often does. It is immediate and jarring.
His expression shifts in a way you have never seen before—his brows pulling together, his mouth parting slightly as though he has misheard you. As though he is waiting for you to correct yourself.
But you do not because there is nothing to correct.
“That…” He exhales, a short, disbelieving breath, his gaze fixed on you as if trying to understand something that does not make sense. “What?” You falter slightly under it—not because you think you are wrong, but because his reaction is so far from what you expected.
“It is for a husband’s pleasure,” you say, quieter now, though the words remain steady. “Not his wife.” The silence that follows is heavy. “I am there to…receive.”
Lyonel leans back a fraction, his hand coming up to drag across his jaw, then over his mouth, as though he is steadying himself. His eyes do not leave you, but something in them has shifted—something sharper, something unsettled.
There is anger there—not for you, never for you—but for what you have been told.
“What in the seven hells—” he mutters under his breath, cutting himself off before the words can fully form. His jaw tightens, his gaze dropping for a moment as he exhales again, slower this time. When he looks back at you, the sharpness has not entirely faded, but it has been tempered for your sake.
“I know,” he says, though the words are quieter now, more controlled. “Because no one ever told you it could be.” Your throat tightens.
“They spoke of duty,” you say, your voice softer now, though the structure of it remains. “Of heirs. Of satisfying my husband.”
“Aye,” he says, but there is something strained in it. “And they left out the rest.”
“The rest?” you echo faintly. He hesitates and you see the care in it. The way he chooses his words—not for himself, not for ease—but for you. For what you might be able to understand without recoiling from it entirely.
“That it can be…good,” he says finally, slower now. “That it can be something you look forward to instead of something you prepare yourself to survive.” The words settle into you messily. They do not slide into place the way your teachings always have.
They resist.
They press.
They linger.
“I have read of it,” you say faintly, your voice catching slightly. “Once—not of the full act and not in great detail, of course.” You hurry the addition, the instinct for propriety immediate, ingrained.
“And you thought it was false.” Lyonel observed.
“I thought it was…embellished.” He watches you for a long moment.
“It’s not,” he says quietly. You forget to breathe as you look up on your husband. No one has ever confirmed something so obscure for you. No one has ever spoken of it as something that could belong to you. The act was not endured nor given for with nothing received in return.
It was meant to be felt.
Wanted.
Shared.
Your head feels light with it, much too full and too empty all at the same time. The words press against everything you have known, and nothing shifts cleanly—but something continues to move as it had earlier in the day.
“I do not know what that means,” you whisper, scared to hope for something better.
“I don’t expect you to,” he says, softer now. “Not yet. Come here,” he says, the motion of his hand unhurried, easy—an invitation more than anything else.
You go not because you must, not in the automatic way you once would have, but because you choose to. The difference is small, quiet—but it is there.
Your steps are still measured, still careful, but there is less tension in them now. Less of that rigid awareness that something might happen if you misstep. You are aware of him, yes—but not in the same way. Not as something to anticipate, but something to approach.
You stop before him, closer than you would have before while still leaving a breath of space between you.
His gaze flicks briefly to the distance you’ve left, then back to your face, something thoughtful settling there rather than immediate correction.
“You hover,” he says, not unkindly. The word surprises you.
“I do not mean to,” you reply, softer than before, because this time it feels less like defense and more like truth.
“I know.” His mouth shifts faintly, not quite a smile. “I don’t think you mean to do most things you do.” There is no accusation in it, only observation. You glance down briefly, then back up—not fully meeting his eyes, but closer than you might have managed days ago.
“I am…still learning,” you say, the words careful, but not empty.
“I can see that.” Something in your chest loosens at that. A small acknowledgement. Still, you do not move closer. And after a moment, he exhales softly—not frustrated, not sharp—just… accepting it.
“What is it?” he asks, quieter now. You hesitate, searching for something that does not sound like failure, something that does not sound like refusal.
“I do not know how close I am meant to be,” you admit. His brow furrows slightly, though not in confusion—more in consideration.
“Meant to be,” he repeats, almost to himself. You nod faintly.
“Back home,” you add, after a moment, “there was always…distance. Even where there should not have been, as I am now discovering.” Your fingers tighten slightly at your sides. “It is difficult to know what replaces it.”
Lyonel studies you, the weight of your words settling between you. “Nothing replaces it,” he says. “You just…don’t keep it.” That feels too simple. It must show on your face, because he huffs softly—not in amusement, but in quiet understanding.
“Not all at once,” he adds. “I’m not asking you to forget everything you were taught the moment it inconveniences me.” Your eyes flicker up at that. There’s no irritation in his face now, just steadiness.
Patience.
“I would not wish to inconvenience you,” you say automatically.
“I know,” he replies, a touch wry. “That’s part of the problem.” You blink, now more uncertain than you just were.
Lyonel doesn’t press it.
Instead, he shifts slightly—closer, but not enough to close the space entirely. Just enough that you feel the change. The warmth of him, the presence of him—without being overwhelmed by it.
“You don’t have to stand like you’re waiting for instruction,” he says.
“I am not—”
“You do,” he interrupts gently, not cutting, just redirecting. “Not in the way you think. You’re careful. Like there’s a right place to put yourself and you haven’t been told where it is yet.” That feels closer to the truth.
You draw a slow breath. “Yes,” you admit. Silence settles again. It isn’t strained or heavy, it's just there. Present.
Lyonel’s hand lifts slightly—then pauses, not because he is uncertain, but because he is giving you time to notice. To choose.
You do notice.
Your gaze drops to it, then back to him. There is no urgency in him. No expectation pressing in on you.
Only space.
“I will not guess for you,” he says quietly. “Where you stand. When you’re ready to be closer. That has to be yours.” Your chest tightens—not in fear, but in something that feels dangerously close to relief.
“And if I do not know?” you ask.
“Then you take your time figuring it out.”
You swallow.
The words settle differently than you expect—not as a dismissal, not as something to retreat behind, but as something that opens space instead of closing it.
Your hand shifts at your side.
Small.
Uncertain.
But this time—it does not still.
You are aware of the distance between you. Of how little it would take to close it entirely. Of how much that still feels like—too much, too soon, too undefined.
But not all of it feels impossible.
Not anymore.
Your fingers lift slowly, as though testing something unseen.
Not reaching for all of him.
Not closing the space he left for you to choose.
Just—
Enough.
“I am trying,” you say, quieter now, but steadier for it.
“I know.”
And he does.
You hear it in the way he says it—not placating, not indulgent, but certain. As though your effort is not something fragile, but something he trusts. You hesitate only a moment longer, then your hand moves forward.
Careful.
Measured.
Not toward his chest, not toward the space that still feels too close—but toward his hand.
It feels…manageable. Understandable. Something you have done before. Something you can do again.
You do not take it immediately.
Your fingers hover near his, close enough to feel the warmth of him without yet touching. Close enough that you could pull back if you needed to.
You don’t and Lyonel does not move an inch. He does not close the distance for you. He does not reach first. He simply lets his hand remain where it is, open, steady—waiting, not asking.
You draw a slow breath…and then you touch him. It is only a ghosting of your fingers brushing against his before settling, tentative but intentional, into his hand.
It is not firm, not practiced, but it is yours. The contact sends something quiet through you—not sharp, not overwhelming. Just present.
Real.
His fingers shift around yours after a moment—not to take, not to claim, but to meet you where you are. Gentle. Certain. Careful of the space you still need.
You feel it—the difference. It is not something taken. It is not something expected. It is something shared.
Your breath steadies and for the first time the space between you does not feel like something you are failing to cross.
Only something you are beginning, slowly, to understand. His thumb shifts slightly against your hand and you nearly collapse.
Gentle and steady, two words that described Lyonel. Two words that repeated as you felt his skin touch yours. It does not feel like something being taken, only something being offered.
You stand there, caught in that space between what you know and what you are beginning—slowly, uncertainly—to understand. Lyonel sees it.
The hesitation.
The restraint.
The way your breath still hasn’t quite settled.
He exhales quietly, something in his posture easing—not in defeat, not in frustration, but in acceptance. His eyes hold yours a moment longer, searching—not for a response, but for understanding.
Then softly, “Get some sleep,” he says. It is not a dismissal. It is not a command. But he lets go of your hand gently.
It is patience in its purest form—a patience you were never afforded and a patience you hold closely.
Your fingers curl faintly at your sides, the ghost of that earlier moment still lingering beneath your skin. You nod, small and quiet, because there is nothing else to give him. Not yet.
He steps back, giving you space—not taking it. Always offering.
You move around him carefully, the awareness of him sharper now, not something to avoid—but something you cannot quite face for too long. You prepare for bed in silence, the familiar motions grounding, though they do not quiet your thoughts as they usually would.
He joins you not long after and no further words pass between you. There is no need for them. The air holds enough already.
The chamber is dim when you finally retire. Candles have been snuffed and the hearth is low, keeping the room at a comfortable warmth.
The storm has not yet broken from its tirade, but it lingers just beyond the walls, wind pressing low and steady against the stone as rain pelted the windows fiercely. The sound of it was soothing, lulling. The hearth burned down to embers, their glow soft and flickering, casting long shadows that shift lazily across the ceiling.
You lie in bed beside Lyonel as you’ve done every night since you came to Storm’s End. There is space between you, an understanding, that does not get crossed. There is always space.
It is familiar now—the careful distance, the unspoken boundary neither of you has crossed without intention. The sheets are warm, the air quiet save for the distant hum of wind and the slow, even rhythm of his breathing as he begins to settle.
You stare at the ceiling.
Sleep does not come. You think of the woman and her missing boy. Your thoughts circle, restless and unyielding.
Beside you, Lyonel shifts slightly, settling deeper into the mattress. You can feel the heat of him even from where you lie, a steady presence at your side even at a distance.
You shift in the bed before you can stop yourself. It is not something you plan. It simply happens. You roll onto your side, facing him.
The movement is small—but it is enough to break the quiet and certainly enough for him to notice.
His eyes open.
There is a flicker of surprise there, brief but unmistakable, before it softens into something more familiar.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice roughened by the edge of sleep. The question hangs between you.
You are used to it. Used to deflecting it. Used to giving him nothing, but tonight feels different. You hold his gaze for a moment, longer than you usually allow yourself to.
“I have not stopped thinking of the boy,” you say. The words come quietly, but they are real.
Lyonel’s expression shifts—not in surprise, but in attention. Fully awake now, though he does not move closer.
“The one from the docks,” you add, though he does not need the clarification. “The woman who came before us.” He nods once, his head still resting against the pillow.
“Aye.” You swallow, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of the sheet between you.
“I cannot picture it,” you admit. “The docks. The work. I have never seen such a place.” Your brows draw faintly together. “But I know a boy of ten should not be there.”
“Duty,” Lyonel says after letting your words sit between you. The word settles differently here, in the quiet of the dark, than it ever has before. “You are well acquainted with it.”
You nod faintly. “Yes.”
“But it looks different depending on where you stand,” he continues, his voice low, thoughtful rather than firm. “For people like us…duty is structure. Something you’re shaped into from the moment you can walk. You perform it well, and you’re rewarded for it. You climb because of it.” You hear his hands rib against the Fudd under his palm as he speaks.
“For the smallfolk,” he goes on, “duty isn’t about climbing. It’s about survival. You do what you must to keep food in your belly and a roof over your head. And if that means sending your son to work before he’s ready…” He exhales quietly. “Then that’s what’s done.”
Your chest tightens because you understand duty. You have always understood duty, but not like this.
Your gaze drifts briefly to the space between you before returning to him.
“They spoke of coin,” you say. “Of needing it.”
“Aye.”
“And she let him go.”
“She didn’t have much choice,” Lyonel replies. That unsettles you. You look at him again, searching.
“Do you think he will return?” The question slips out, softer than you intend. Hopeful. Lyonel studies you for a moment before answering.
“I think we’ll find him,” he says. Not certain. Not dismissive. Something in between. “Whether he returns as he left…that depends on what we find.” Your breath falters slightly because that is not comfort—not entirely—but it is the truth.
Silence settles between you again, but you do not turn away this time.
“I have not stopped thinking of her,” you say after a moment. “The mother.” His brow furrows faintly.
“No?” You shake your head against the pillow.
“She spoke of him as though…” You hesitate, searching. “As though he mattered more than anything else.” Your voice softens. “She came before you without fear of herself and only fear for him.” The realization presses into you. “I do not remember my mother ever…” You stop. The words are difficult. “…speaking of me that way.” The admission is quiet, but it fills the space between you more than anything else has.
Lyonel does not interrupt. He does not soften it with something hollow. He simply listens. Your eyes drop, though you are already lying down, your voice grows quieter.
“I do not think she would have come looking for me,” you say. “Not like that.” The truth settles. “My heart hurts for that woman.”
Heavy, but not sharp in the way it once would have been. Now you have something to compare it to and that difference lingers.
Lyonel exhales slowly, his hand shifting slightly where it rests on the mattress, though he still does not reach for you.
“That woman came because she had no one else,” he says. “No one to speak for her. So she did it herself.” You nod faintly.
“I know.” But that is not all of it. You both know that. “It is…different,” you say. “The way she spoke. The way she looked at you.” You pause. “There was no restraint.”
“No,” he agrees.
“There was only…care.” The word feels fragile but right. You look at him again. “And you listened.”
Something crosses his expression in the darkness.
“I’m meant to,” he says. “It is my duty as lord of Storm’s End.” But it is more than that. You saw it. Your fingers loosen slightly in the sheet.
“She called me my lady,” you add quietly. Your gaze flickers, uncertain. “I did not expect it.”
Lyonel’s mouth twitches faintly. “They’ll do that.”
“Not like that,” you say softly. He studies you for a moment, then nods in understanding.
The room falls quiet again and you do not turn away from it. You remain facing him and the space between you does not feel like something to endure.
It feels like something you are learning how to exist within—together.
You hesitate to break the peace that’s settled between you, but there are still words unspoken.
They sit at the edge of your tongue, unfamiliar in the way they press forward—unpracticed, unscripted. You feel them there, heavy with something you do not quite know how to shape.
Your fingers tighten faintly in the blanket between you.
“I…” You falter, your voice quieter than before. “I was proud to sit beside you today.” The admission feels…exposed. Your eyes meet his and Lyonel stills.
You see it.
You feel it.
The shift in his attention—not sharp, not startled—but present. Focused. You press on, because if you stop now, you will not say it at all.
“I am learning,” you continue, slower now, choosing each word as though it might slip from your grasp if you are not careful. “That you are a just man.”
The word settles.
“Kind,” you add, more quietly still, as though it might not belong—but you say it anyway. “Where kindness is not owed.”
His brow shifts, just slightly. You do not look away this time.
“And I am…grateful,” you say, your voice soft but steady, “that you allowed me to be there.” The truth of it settles into the space between you. Because he did allow it and he did not have to.
“I saw how they looked at you,” you continue, your thoughts unfolding now, not cleanly—but honestly. “How they spoke to you. There was no fear in it.” Your fingers play with the edge of the blanket. “Only respect.”
Your attention flickers briefly, then returns to him.
“You did not raise your voice once,” you say, quieter now. “And still—they listened.” The realization still lingers in you.
Unsettling.
Impressive.
Different.
You swallow.
“In my father’s hall…” you begin, then falter, the rest of the thought dissolving before it can fully take shape.
You do not need to finish it.
He understands.
You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself against the weight of what you are about to say. “Expectations were much different,” you admit, your voice quieter now, but no less certain. “There was no care for those that relied on him.” Inside the household and out.
There is a pause.
You feel it—your own hesitation, the instinct to pull the words back, to correct them into something safer, more neutral.
But you don’t.
“…But I see it now.” The words feel fragile as they leave you.
Unpracticed.
Yours.
Lyonel does not interrupt. He does not shift or fill the silence. He simply listens, just as he had in the hall, and something in you steadies because of it—because there is no interruption waiting, no correction poised to follow.
Only space.
“I know I do not…” You hesitate, your fingers curling faintly against the coverlet. “I do not speak often. I do not express myself.”
An understatement.
You both know it.
“And when I do…” You exhale softly, your gaze lowering for a moment before lifting again. “It is not easy.”
There is no shame in it.
Only truth.
“But you let me sit there,” you continue. “You let me see. You asked what I thought.” Your eyes meet his more fully now, holding there in a way they have not before. “And you listened.”
That part lingers. It settles somewhere deeper than the rest.
Your voice had never been met like that—not without something waiting behind it. Not without expectation or correction or consequence.
Just…heard.
You shift slightly beneath the covers, the movement small but deliberate.
“It is difficult,” you admit, softer now. “To change what I know.”
A lifetime.
Pressed into you.
Shaped into you.
It does not loosen easily.
“But I am fighting for it,” you say, and there is something steadier in it now, something that does not waver. “I am trying to understand… the way you do things.”
The way he is.
The way he leads.
The way he waits.
“Even if it is not what I expected to find.”
A pause follows.
Then, quieter still—
“Or what I ever thought I would be allowed to learn.” The room settles into stillness around you, the low crackle of the hearth and the distant hum of the storm the only sounds that remain.
Slowly, almost without thinking, your hand moves from where it rests at your side.
You place it between you.
Palm up.
An offering.
Not demanded.
Not explained.
Just…there.
You look away as soon as you do it, your breath catching faintly as though the act itself has exposed something more than you intended.
For a moment nothing happens, and then you hear the quiet shift of him beside you.
You glance back, just in time to see his hand move—not quickly, not decisively, but with that same careful certainty he has shown you time and time again.
Lyonel does not take your hand—not at first. His fingers brush yours, a light, deliberate touch—giving you time to pull away if you wish.
You don’t.
So he lets his hand settle into yours, his fingers curling slowly, naturally, as though he is meeting you exactly where you’ve chosen to be.
The warmth of him spreads immediately—familiar now, but no less affecting. Your eyes close briefly, not from overwhelm, but from the quiet weight of it. The steadiness.
The choice.
His thumb shifts faintly against your hand—not a claim, not a hold meant to keep you there.
Just his presence.
“I heard you,” he says after a moment, his voice low, meant only for you. You open your eyes again. He is watching you—not as a lord measuring, not as someone waiting for the right answer.
Just as a man.
“And you’re right,” he continues, quieter still. “It is different. What I ask of you.”
A small pause.
“I don’t expect you to change overnight,” he adds. “Or to understand it all at once.”
His fingers tighten just slightly around yours—not to restrain, but to ground.
“But I do see that you’re trying.” The words settle into you, deeper than you expect.
“I won’t rush you,” he says. “Not into speaking. Not into this. Not into anything you’re not ready for.” Your hand shifts faintly in his, not pulling away—just… settling more fully.
“You being there today,” he adds after a moment, “that mattered.”
Another pause.
“And this—” his thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, “—this matters too.”
The storm murmurs against the walls, the fire crackles softly, and the space between you—once something rigid, something endured—feels different now.
Not gone, but changed.
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Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+.
Lyonel Baratheon x Wife!Reader
Masterlist
General Synopsis: Lyonel is horrified to discover what conditions his new wife comes from, and you are just as horrified to learn that things are not practiced in the world as they are within your father's House. A good wife is obedient, by correcting hands if need be. That is the philosophy you have been raised on since birth. A lady obeys. A lady agrees. A lady endures. Lyonel does not want you to endure, but some habits are so much harder break. (slow burn)
Content Warnings: emotional abuse (parental), child abuse (punishment), psychological conditioning, trauma responses, arranged marriage, anxiety, mention of first time intercourse, slow burn, angst.
AN: This fic won the vote! I promise that this is not all doom and gloom, but the reader has a rough go of it at the beginning. Lyonel has my entire heart in this.
pairing. nerdjo x nerd!reader [fanart by @/smokeigheh on x!!]
synopsis. A PARALLEL UNIVERSE PERHAPS COULD BE THE PERFECT SCENE . . . you’ve always worked hard. satoru gojo, meanwhile, breezes through everything. he has photographic memory, a charm everyone sees that you don’t, and a swarm of girls who love a tall man in glasses that can quote literature. when a major publishing company announces a national writing competition—you’re determined to prove yourself. until gojo decides he’s entering too. (wc ~10k?)
warnings/tags. enemies/rivals to hesitant friends to lovers, lots of banter, forced proximity (they realize they have to work together?), they’re humanities majors heheh (self indulgent bc i always see gojo as a physics/stem major and i HATE physics. SO SORRY STEM queens…), both reader and gojo have glasses (another thing that’s self indulgent!!), jealousy, nanami as a wingman, angst, childhood trauma, anxiety, emotional abuse/neglect by parents, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, praise kink, fingering, piv, switch!gojo . . . 18+ content mdni.
꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ i got tew excited so i’m sharing this preview now even though i’m nowhere near to finishing writing!! (SATORU IS SO HOT IN THE FANART ABOVE BTW OMLL)
pompous. presumptuous. performative.
the three p’s that perfectly describe satoru gojo.
he’s loud in lectures, louder in discussions, and somehow always the center of attention even when he’s doing absolutely nothing.
he’s the kind of person who leans back in his chair with those stupid long legs stretched into the aisle, pushing his glasses up his nose in that stereotypical nerdy way—like he already knows he’s right.
he quotes entire passages from literature as if he read something once three years ago and never forgot them.
which, unfortunately, is probably the case.
but it’s only thanks to his photographic memory. because of course he fucking has that too on top of all his ‘natural abilities.’
none of which he’s worked hard for.
gojo doesn’t study. he doesn’t edit papers at two in the morning or reread articles until the words blur together on the page. he just skims something once, shows up to class somehow always energetic, and remembers every quote, theory, and line.
everyone adores him for it. loves him.
everyone except you.
professors laugh at his comments when he’s not arguing with them. the entire class hangs onto every word he says. girls practically drool for him—because a tall man with glasses who can quote literature off the top of his head is irresistible—even though he’s annoying as fuck.
and then there’s his friends. suguru geto whose always calm and collected—and well, also really, really attractive. he also has shoko ieiri whose sharp and confident and equally as hot and untouchable as geto.
it’s really not fair.
how on earth does someone like gojo—so loud, obnoxious, performative, and so obviously uncool in a thousand different ways—have friends like them? people who actually have depth? people you can imagine having serious, meaningful conversations?
it makes absolutely no sense.
now, you, on the other hand—you’re not perfect either.
but not as imperfect as him.
you only had one issue. just one red flag, let’s say.
you disliked anyone who was smarter than you.
not because you weren’t intelligent (because you really are). your proof of that was always been top five in all your classes, maybe even in all your schools if you’re being honest.
and unlike gojo, you worked for it. really hard.
you’ve worked hard to be this smart and you’ve worked so hard to stay at the top.
you’d always been praised for your writing—from elementary, middle school, to high school, and now university. teachers always loved your essays and arguments and the way you could take an idea and polish it until it shined.
except now, you had competition.
and he didn’t even seem to care.
you really wouldn’t hate him as much if he’d been pulling all nighters like you were.
instead, a day never goes by without him obnoxiously bragging about how easy a research paper was or how quickly he’d finished it like it was nothing.
that’s the thing about people like gojo—they made everything look effortless. because everything was effortless for him.
he didn’t just have brains—he had the charm, confidence, and a crowd of people who hung onto his every word. he had that all without breaking a sweat.
gojo finishes research papers in more than half the time it takes you. and you know he never stays up all night editing.
yet somehow, he still gets more praise for his brilliance.
you hate it.
not the fact he’s effortlessly smart—but that the fact it makes your hard work feel invisible.
and you’ve always fucking felt invisible.
participating in class discussions was always hard for you, even when you knew the material by heart. you’d rehearse your points over and over in your head, but when it came time to speak, the words just wouldn’t come or you didn’t have the courage to interject and say them.
the things you knew and the ideas you had rarely got noticed.
that was kind of your fault back then. but it isn’t now because you’ve tired so hard to change.
another thing that wasn’t your fault was how louder and more confident people always got the attention, even when they weren’t as smart.
why could you get at least half the praise?
making friends was just as difficult as speaking up. most people didn’t stick around when you weren’t loud and entertaining.
the few acquaintances you did have weren’t exactly close.
so when you got to college, you forced yourself to change. just in classes. you pushed yourself to speak up, to raise your hand, to make your ideas heard even when your throat felt tight and your heart was racing. it wasn’t natural or easy. but slowly, your professors started to notice.
it didn’t make you popular or give you a flood of friends, but at least in class, people could recognize your smarts for what they were.
and here satoru gojo went, making it all look easy.
Synopsis: After the defeat of Arlong the five of you promised yourselves and each other to achieve your dreams on your way to the Grand Line, helping Luffy search for the One Piece. It seems simple enough, except for the minor detail that you died. Coming back from the brink of death, Zoro and the others have noticed you haven’t been the same. You aren’t sure if it’s Death himself chasing or just Baroque Works after you but facing your inner demons won’t be the only fight you’ll have to worry about when family comes calling.
Pairing: Roronoa Zoro x Reader
Genre: established relationship, idiots to lovers, angst, mentions of smut, (will add stuff later) it’s an adventure, y’all!
Words: 8.6+
A/N: Hello, my darlings! It is I! Your resident clown! S2 finally came!! Like the first season, CITB: Wanted will be following the S2 storyline, while having my original plan of giving a backstory for Doc. Hopefully, I can integrate it well, and it all comes together like fine wine and chains to give someone a good time. There is a Roronoa Zoro line I used from Mr. Oda himself, and it’s outlined in bold. This chapter is going to deal with mentions of PTSD, because who wouldn’t have a little, ya know? As always, thank you all for being so lovely and so sweet. For being one of the best fandoms I’ve had the privilege of being a part of. I love y’all. Ok. No more rambling. I hope you guys love this. Much Love, Jenn
p.s. shout out to @deadneverlander for always being my clown bestie and the bestest editor-in-chief
Warnings: mentions of ptsd and trauma (list could grow idk man)
Chaos In Their Bones Masterlist
Previous
The soft scratching of Nami’s pencil etching coordinates on the map above was just the sort of calm you needed. The sound of precise tapping gently resonated down to find you in the safety of your favorite spot on the ship.
The small alcove was perfectly placed between the stern castle deck Nami maintained and the end of the Merry, featuring Nami’s trees, allowing for the illusion of privacy you were after. Plus, it was the only space on the Merry that you could sit as close as possible to the water without the hefty weight of judgment - and worry - that buried between your shoulder blades from your crew.
You’d been hiding - no, no, wait. No, not hiding. Hiding felt like you did something wrong. Technically, you were regrouping yourself, which sounded much better in said favorite spot. The branches of Nami’s growing tangerine trees gave ample coverage from anyone’s line of sight, if they just so happened to want to look, but never obstructed yours from the endless reflected hues of sapphire and teal of the water below.
It wasn’t just the minute sound of the water lapping against the Merry that gave you peace. It was all the details around the ship. The maddening scratching of Nami’s pencil on paper and the scrubbing of her eraser held purpose. One that kept Nami centered; her curiosity about the next step of the journey kept her eyes on the horizon with whatever big adventure lay waiting for her to claim.
And the possibility of treasure didn’t hurt either.
It’s what turned her drawing and writing into something reminiscent of a madman. Her pencil beat, woodpecker sharp, against the small wooden table Luffy bought her.
“The perfect size for our navigator and her notes,” he’d declared, beaming pure sunshine that you could’ve sworn could cure the criminally grumpy. If he’d beamed any harder, waiting for his praise, he’d set the very sun alight.
It was this methodical, maddening, and sure writing you found comforting. The same way you found comfort listening to Sanji move around the kitchen, whisk scraping rhythmically against the sides of a mixing bowl, or blade slicing through ingredients. A comfort in Luffy and Usopp’s good-natured yapping, or the sound of weights threatening to burst through the boards of the ships as Zoro trained.
It was all these small, insignificant sounds that held the most significance to you. Each one reminded you of something important.
You were alive. You were home.
And your consciousness - or whatever lay cracking beneath your ribs - screamed for chaos like a dying man.
Every moment you were awake, it hummed its demands against bone. A sickening song that grew and grew until you felt the vibration hum the tune in your teeth; gluttonous to destroy. You heard it. Felt it claw at the sinews and nerves every time you denied it. The way it pounded so loudly against the cage of your skull it made your teeth ache.
Every day you woke up aboard a ship with a family you loved. Who loved you back. Who’d proven that love with the same intensity to protect you, as you did for them. A family built on hardcore trauma bonding, sure, but a fierce love gripped you. Every single one of you chose the other - saw the good and capabilities of one another - and decided to call each other a crew in the end.
So, why did you feel hollow and aching, as if something was missing?
No. Not missing. Taken. That word felt more accurate than most. Every day you woke up grateful and hollow, a strange combination.
You knew it wasn’t just Zoro who noticed the change in you. Everyone tiptoed around you, careful with their words and gestures. Luffy, in particular, was careful in not flinging his arms wide in excitement; no unexpected movements that might leave you flinching. At dinner, no one let their utensils clatter on the table or scrape on plates after the first night Usopp’s fork dropped on the table and sent your soul practically vacating your body.
You tried to make light of the moments your pain forced them to walk on eggshells. A joke that forced fake laughter or dismissed the cracks that only grew larger behind your eyes.
You’d spent so long pretending everything was fine that you weren’t sure if you believed it yourself anymore. You were pretty sure, like 99% sure, that you’d unsuccessfully convinced everyone else that you were fine. Good as new. Hence, the distance that grew between you and the growing looks of concern at your continued refusal to talk. The sleepless nights; nights you’d sleepwalk to any corner of the boat, hands braced to throw you over, with Zoro undoubtedly following behind to protect you.
Always keeping watch.
But you were fine. Perfectly normal.
You knew this morning when Zoro left your now shared room, he was tired of the verbal run around. The way you closed yourself off because the right words seemed to fail you to describe what it was that crawled inside.
How could you tell him - any of them - that it felt like you’d been given someone else’s skin. That any time your thoughts weren’t occupying your own head, something else did. Plagued it with…no. You wouldn’t think it - wouldn’t say it out loud - in case it made it more real.
No. You didn’t have anything you could share that would make the situation any better. The best thing to do? Continue pretending like everything was absolutely normal. Nothing to see here.
So, no, you were not hiding.
You were simply hanging out in your favorite spot that just happened to be conveniently hidden.
The port of Loguetown peaked over the horizon. A calling card that you were soon reaching your next destination, and that meant one glorious thing: land. No more would you have to worry about your breakfast, second breakfast, lunch, snacks, and dinner thrown about your stomach like a merry-go-round.
You’d been on the Merry for months now, and still your stomach had you questioning whether it had truly been a wise decision with each new storm that rolled through the hull. Sanji told you that, eventually, it would get better. Easier. That your sea legs would come to you sooner than you think.
You were still waiting on the easier part.
The best thing about port meant a new town that featured new markets to explore for ingredients and plants to test out salves and brews. The last town you’d been able to stop at, much to Zoro’s ire, Sanji had gone with you to haunt the market stalls. The names of ingredients and plants you’d both been searching for were written down, while Sanji named off ingredients at your back like an excited child in a toy store.
“Do you know how hard this is to find?” Or your personal favorite, “You’re going to fall in love with me after tasting this with dinner tonight, Doc. Just you wait.” Earning him a death glare from Zoro, which only made Sanji’s devilish grin grow.
New taverns with new smells of foods also meant they were full of Zoro’s second favorite thing - booze. You still owed him a new case for losing your last sparring match. You really needed to stop accepting bets with him before you ran out of money. But maybe, just maybe, you could bribe him with a top-tier case of booze. One that might be so damn good, it was enough to make Zoro forget for just a few more days that he wanted to talk.
Your eyes scanned over the ocean's glittering surface, where the edges of the town came closer into view. The desire to place your feet on solid ground, to check the endless rows of possible market stalls and open shops with Nami. It was becoming a favorite pastime of yours to spend the day watching her haggle deals for items. She was truly a wordsmith and always seemed to walk away with what she wanted.
It also meant there was a very real possibility that a looming Zoro-shaped shadow wouldn’t be too far behind. Fingers pressed against your lower back, moving you gently like a breeze away from people, stores, or whatever he didn’t care for. Which seemed to always be a lot of things. Never a bar, though.
What you could personally look forward to was one of your favorite pastimes: locating pastry shops. The aroma of yeasted bread freshly risen in a tin, slathered in confectionery sugars or honey, filled with custards and topped with intricate designs of fruits was something you’d loved since you were a girl. Naan couldn’t always afford to give you those treats outside of special occasions, but you were old enough now to afford them yourself. And maybe you’d be able to enjoy them this time if Luffy and the boys didn’t get into their usual trouble.
No matter where you found yourselves, one of the boys seemed to locate trouble the way Luffy located meat. Which whittled down to being incredibly easy and far too often. You’d heard the argument earlier between Usopp and the rest of the crew: Loguetown was essentially the worst port any pirate vessel could pick. But between here and the Grand Line, it was the best viable option for supplies.
And possible death.
The thud of the weights reverberating down as an earthquake across the Merry’s hull brought you back to the present. Each release and lift was a silent threat that Zoro was dangerously close to splintering the ship in two.
You should’ve been focused on all the prospects a new town offered. Yet, here you were sitting in this particular spot, on this particular container, for the past two hours. A pear you’d snatched earlier that morning from the counter in Sanji’s kitchen, resting uneaten in your lap.
And, no, you were most definitely not pouting. Nope. No pouting or hiding here.
Your imagination was dangerously close to running away again when a ring-clad hand burst past your peripherals. A steaming cup of what smelled like coffee wiggling softly side-to-side in welcome. You didn’t have to look up to know the hand belonged to a handsomely flirtatious cook.
“I got worried when I didn’t see my favorite girl at breakfast this morning.”
You prayed he couldn’t physically hear your eyes roll as you took the coffee from his waiting hand.
“I thought Nami was your favorite girl?” You quipped, hiding your smirk against the mug's rim.
“It’s a revolving system,” he clarified warmly.
“Mhmm.”
“And, technically, you both have special reserved seating in my life.”
Playfully, you peeked over the rising steam from the cup. Your lips retracting from the rim for another sip, a mischievous question lingered on your tongue.
“So, Monsieur Vinsmoke,” you could practically see Sanji preening at your use of French. If you were able to tell him the ingredients inside a chouquette or find him what he asked for in his kitchen, the man combusted. “Who currently has the better reserved seating at the moment?”
You had to give it to him. When Sanji smiled, it was every ounce of the term ‘devilishly handsome’. Extra emphasis on the handsome.
“Currently, it would be you.”
“But only cause it’s simple ol’ me,” you quipped.
“Nah. I wouldn’t call you simple, Doc. You’re far from simple.”
“Careful, Sanji. If Zoro hears you, you’ll be dodging weights again.”
Your statement earned you a lethal combination of eye roll and scoff.
“Oh, please. You know, I’ll never quite understand what you see in that Moss Head. He isn’t even good with directions.”
God, was that statement painfully true. Zoro was infamous for being directionally impaired and yet…you hadn’t been ready for Sanji to voice it out loud.
The sharp huff that tinged his words in disbelief turned what could’ve been a hostile sentence into something that left your slurp of coffee ruthlessly sucked into your nose. Your would-be laughter dies in a painfully heated cough and watery eyes. Your fingers were pinching the bridge of your nose to try and quell the burning sensation, while you wondered, quite seriously, if it was possible to melt your nose from the inside out.
Sanji’s hand came to gently pat your back and continued to do so until you gestured that you were okay. You were, in fact, not dying from inhaled coffee consumption today.
“You alright?”
“Are you asking because I inhaled liquid coffee beans or just in general?”
“I would say it’s because you just inhaled half of my special French brew through your nose,” Sanji quipped, “because I feel like if I answer with, ‘in general’, you’re going to give me the silent treatment.”
If you were braver, you would’ve glanced back at Sanji. You would’ve greeted the warmth of his ocean blues with your own and fought the good fight for your eyes to finish telling the lie. The ability to shit-talk your way out of any situation was a trait you picked up from holding a lifelong friendship membership with Usopp and all of his…shenanigans.
Teasing Sanji should’ve come easy for you, especially whenever you used a certain green-haired archnemesis in playful comparisons. Instead, you felt the cracks begin to spread at the edges of your smile. The sounds of a humming hymn pounding in your veins and the caw of a raven you were beginning to swear relentlessly followed you, coming from overhead.
You weren’t sure when you started noticing their presence - these two ravens. Whether they were a figment of your imagination or real, their presence left an ominous foreboding deep in your chest.
It was just birds. Very large birds.
It’s been weeks since the first time you’d noticed the pair of them at the last village. The two of them hopped on the awning above a stall of dry herbs and tonics. Their cawing increased with each hop that led them closer to where you’d stood beside Zoro.
One of the large ravens appeared again a couple of nights later. This time outside your window. The gloss of its feathers blended oil thick between the midnight hues of night and ocean. It’d almost been impossible to see until it drew closer to your cabin window; the body perched seamlessly at the edge. The sensible part of your brain warned you that something was off with the raven. Your body reacted to the warning signal with a hand reaching out to wake Zoro, but at the very last minute, you froze at the sound. It sounded less like its usual caw. It was shadowed in something that sounded strikingly familiar to a word.
A sharp caw drew you from your thoughts and back to the present. Your gaze located the raven and watched it disappear behind a cloud. The warmth of Sanji’s presence beside you reminds you quickly that he was still there, still watching, and waiting for you to respond.
But your imagination ran wild with endless possibilities that their constant presence felt more than a simple coincidence. Your anxiety took hold with violent shapes and what-ifs, transforming small things into something larger, more triggering, to send your heart shattering to pieces with each rapid beat against your chest.
How long would it take for the smallest sound of scraping utensils against plates or the steel glint of knives to not make you flinch? The sight of fishmen, working diligently at markets, causes your vision to spot in black and white fireworks behind retinas with a hand digging into your sternum. The panic radiated into a pain that made it nearly impossible to breathe.
Finally, your gaze dropped to the warm mug of coffee he’d brought you. Your hands brought it to your lips to take a sip before you asked, “Did he send you?”
You didn’t need to glance over at Sanji to know his face contorted with a raised brow in disbelief that that specific question had ever left your mouth. It was still funny to see all the same.
"You're right. Dumb question."
You watched as he rubbed his palms gently down the length of his slacks. As if he was trying to completely rub the idea away that he would do anything friendly for the Moss Head.
"He's just worried about you, ya know. We all are."
Worry flashed like lightning in the blue of his eyes; quick and sudden as a storm. It was what you’d been struggling to avoid, and now, you couldn’t deny that his worry was real, that it carried weight, just like everyone else’s.
"I wish you would all stop worrying about me."
"Fat chance at that, Doc,” he replied, his shoulder gently nudging yours. An intrusive grunt of Zoro lifting his weights, allowing them to thunder back down on the hull, cut through the would-be tender moment, leaving Sanji fighting off a shiver of disgust. "This is probably the most uncomfortable spot you could've picked on this ship.”
“I would say uncomfortable for you maybe, but-,” you drew out the U in the word and ended it with an abrupt T when you nudged his shoulder. “-if you wanted to be really uncomfortable, it would be in our bedroom.”
“I could’ve gone a million lifetimes without ever hearing you say that to me. If I need therapy, Doc, I’m bringing you the bill.”
Laughter flooded in your chest and erupted, abrupt and harsh, at the horror that etched itself along Sanji’s features.
It must have been the sound of laughter that drew Zoro over to your position. You’d been relatively quiet, pensive, and lost in the trenches of your own thoughts. The sudden change was enough to spark his curiosity about what could have possibly lightened your mood. When his eyes landed on your spot, you now shared with Sanji, you watched the curiosity bleed into something dark. His jaw ticked as his teeth clenched together.
Zoro’s jealousy never stemmed from the superficial. It was housed in a deep-seated feeling that no matter how much of himself he gave - how much he tried - it would never be enough. It was there whenever Luffy found excitement with towns and their people or handed out compliments to his crew (particularly Sanji), and it was there now as he watched you brighten up for the first time in days besides your favorite cook.
Zoro stood before you (technically, he was standing over you, looking down at you over the railing), the extent of his earlier workout evident by the perspiration that soaked through strands of hair with droplets that ran down his chest and shoulders. His sun-kissed skin was haloed by the sun, and for one heartbreaking moment, you couldn’t fathom how he didn’t realize the hold he held on you.
Zoro was complicated. Unapologetically calloused with a veneer of humor dryer than sandpaper. He was stoic. Harsh. Moody. Endearingly helpful. Directionally impaired. Zoro was everything you imagined a man hellbent on becoming the greatest would be. But with you, he allowed himself to be something he usually never was.
Soft.
You knew the way his body leaned closer at your touch. The way his nose nestled into the crease of your neck as you slept or how his fingertips traveled the expanse of your body as if committing every part of you - all the scars and flaws you feared ruined you, turned you into someone you couldn’t recognize - to memory. He brightened when you shared new recipe ideas or medical facts, not just because he was interested in listening, but because it was you. He brightened because you believed in him, to know he was smart enough to be a part of the excitement and taught him when he was just a little lost.
You were both a little more broken than when you first met, although neither of you would be willing to admit it. Zoro took his moment of failure and molded the experience to be a part of his greatness. You? You were too chicken shit to ever tell him that you died and came back a little less whole; a little more wrong. Zoro, in his own way, was unable to admit that the cracks Kuina left fractured wider as he ran back to the village with you dying in his arms.
All this accumulated to communication not being either of your strong points, which was why when Zoro tilted his head for you to make your way over to him, you were equal parts annoyed and distracted. Painfully distracted.
It hardly seemed fair that seeing Zoro shirtless always left you flustered. You’d think after sharing a room the last few months with the man, you would be immune to the muscles, but you weren’t. If anything, it’d only gotten worse since Zoro had recently begun to work out more frequently with longer sessions and heavier weights, resulting in him getting…bigger.
You felt your body swing off its spot on the container, and while you passed by Sanji, your hand gently tapped his knee in thanks. You watched with amusement as Zoro’s eyes tracked the movement. A question pressed against his teeth, barely contained, until you were almost in front of him.
“What’s with the waiter?”
“I thought you’d sent him to come talk to me.”
As your reply registered in his brain, you watched as Zoro’s body grew still. A tick in his jaw was the only indication you had of his annoyance. His eyes flicked over your shoulder to where you’d left Sanji.
“Yeah. I wouldn’t do that.”
“Funny. He said the same thing,” you quipped, unable to keep the smile from spreading across your lips. “How was the workout?”
“It was fine. We’re going to be coming into Loguetown soon. Figured I’d come get you so we can get ready.”
The first time Zoro started this now infamous tradition between the two of you, it’d been at the first stop after the Conomi Islands. It was an unspoken anxiety. One you knew Zoro would vehemently deny if anyone ever brought it up.
It was the same anxiety that kept him glued to you the minute you stepped off the Merry. Anywhere that wasn’t the ship; anywhere that wasn’t the safety of your shared room or his body. It was why he’d spent the last months tirelessly training you in combat. You knew it was partially meant to make you feel strong - some semblance of control - but there was no denying that for Zoro, it chipped away at the ice-cold fear that lingered under the surface of having to let you go.
This system he came up with was a meticulous set of steps the two of you followed to the very letter. One that allowed him to tamp down the restlessness that threatened to swallow him whole. The uneasiness of the possibility that he’d let you go with the unknowns, and what could possibly happen if he didn't find out until Nami told him. Because if you weren’t with him, Zoro would bet a million berries the two of you would be off getting into some sort of trouble.
So, when he turned to head back towards your room, he didn’t have to take your hand to tug you along or listen to you grumble about being your own person.
Zoro needed this. And it was something simple for you to give.
So you quietly followed behind him down the hallway to your room. Your shoulder purposely grazed across his bare chest while you moved past him at the door. You were trying to rile him up. Just enough to ease the tension his thoughts were causing in his shoulders. You sat patiently on the bed and watched him pull out the thigh harness Zoro had crafted at the last town. It fit snug across your hips and thigh, but he’d made sure - in his thoughtful design - the placement of your nunchucks holster wouldn’t impede on the pockets of your cargo pants.
Zoro knew how much you loved the multipurpose utility options of your pockets.
Without thinking, you reached out to take the harness from him. The action earned you a raised brow in question and a defensive pull to keep it out of arm's reach.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“We’re almost to port, and you need a shower,” you replied, your tone flat and pointing out the obvious.
“And you figured this was a good reason to do your own harness?”
“I’m not five, Zoro,” you chided. More softly, you reminded him, “Plus, you’re all…sweaty.”
You were close to adding that you didn’t mind. His damp hair softened the sharpness of his jaw and the high rise of his cheeks. The freckles the sun kissed across them only aided in making the pout of his lips a mixture of sinful and boyish. It was his body, however, that made your throat feel like you’d tried swallowing past sand.
The hard work Zoro put in over the last few months was showcased by the width of his shoulders. His biceps were wide, and when crossed over his chest, the muscles flexed together in a war of who would be the largest. His forearms taut and laced with veins that stole your attention with each movement - even when he was simply pointing at Sanji’s chest. The scar from his encounter with Mihawke lightened itself down enough to where, if you weren’t looking for it, you’d almost not know it was there.
You knew it was there. You’d traced it enough times at night to be able to find it even in the dark.
The smirk that quirked Zoro’s lips should’ve been the first warning you were in trouble. Your brain registers too late the playful way his eyes darkened as he closed the remaining space between you. Deft hands that knew every inch of your body effortlessly moved the harness around your waist - pulling the leather tight and latching it into place. All with the heat of his gaze boring down on you with a salacious smirk that sent your heart pounding.
“You never complained before about me being so sweaty,” he teased, his voice caressing down your spine, smooth as velvet.
His words were a match that ignited a flush, warm and troublesome, along your skin. You were tempted to try and break eye contact, but by the way his smirk threatened to bloom into a full-blown smile, there would be no reason to attempt it. So, you went with option two and swatted him playfully on the shoulder.
The miniature attack broke Zoro’s face into sunshine with a smile. The warmth of his laughter filled your room, causing your own smile to spread across your lips against your will.
“That’s not playing fair.”
He dropped down to one knee. A skilled hand tapping his waiting thigh in silent instruction to place your foot where he’d asked. You made sure to drop it down with just a little extra attitude.
The mirth in Zoro’s eyes kept them bright - playful - and yet, the earlier desire left his pupils blown wide as he stared up at you. His eyes were solely focused on your face, watching as his hands traveled painstakingly slow up your leg. His fingers ghosted over your inner thigh as he tightened the strap into place.
“I never said I’d play a fair game when it comes to you, Snowdrop.” His gaze took you in from his place at your feet. His fingers danced dangerously between teasing and focused; intent mixed between preparing you when you docked and having you come undone at his hands. “Are you ever going to tell me what’s been going on these past couple of weeks?”
Zoro’s tone wasn’t angry. The question was delicate and whisper soft, like having to ask drew his worry out of the grave he’d tried to bury it in. You hated that for any ounce of a second, Zoro’s worry stole the joy from his chest.
He thought it was recent - your sleepless nights and sleepwalking. Only a few days here and there of staring blankly and dissociating into a space you couldn’t name, which accumulated to a couple of weeks. In reality, you’d become a master of covering up these parts of you that you didn’t want anyone else to see, since you’d opened your eyes back in that hut.
The thought collided unspoken behind your teeth. The words sour and forced your lips to purse into a look Zoro knew well. In real time, you watched his brightness dim down in ounces. His attention was back on securing the last notch of the harness into place before placing your foot back on the floor before he moved to stand.
“Zoro-“
His name held so much. An apology was the main one he was tired of hearing.
“I’m trying to be patient here.” His words cut you off, stopping whatever weak attempt at avoidance you might try this time. “You know it’s not the easiest for me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” you hummed. “You do a lot better than you think.”
It was meant to be a comfort. An honest statement that his presence alone did more for you than anything else ever could.
“If that were true, you would feel safer telling me what it is that’s haunting you, Snowdrop. You’d confide in me more. Trust that I only want to help you, not because it benefits me. I want you to stop letting your demons steal the life you have while you’re able to live it.”
His hand reached up to cup your cheek in his palm. A thumb traces the bottom of your lip before dipping down to your chin to caress underneath. If someone walked in the room, you knew they would just see the two of you, eyes locked on the other and sharing the same breath, waiting for the other to breathe.
He didn’t need to tell you he only wanted the best for you. While he was overprotective at times, it never came from a place of malice or ownership. His jealousy comes from a place of fear that he might not be good enough; that you could find better. There could never be anyone who loved you, cared for you, as fiercely as Zoro did. The heart of gold that protected his captain, his crew (yes, even the waiter), because that was the kind of man he was.
Staring into his eyes now, you hoped your own could convey on some level how much you appreciated him. Which is what made trying to explain that you felt like you were going crazy, that you believed something came back with you, riding under your skin, felt like trying to speak while being dragged deeper into quicksand.
“I don’t know…I don’t-“ you closed your eyes to try and break away from his gaze. Your mind focused on the thundering of your heart and the warmth his hand left behind after he’d removed it from your face. “I don’t know how to explain what’s going on. I can’t make sense of it, Zoro. All I know is I don’t feel like me anymore - like something crawled inside and is rearranging everything about me.”
You braced yourself to open your eyes; to maybe see in real time his perception of you change, expecting to see the beginning of what you feared. The first hint that someone agreed that you came back unholy.
The only thing you found waiting for you wasn’t fear, uncertainty, or anger. Zoro looked at you like you were his purpose - his entire center - and the reason the heavens painted the sunset the way they did. The reassurance of his presence was enough to send a gasp of air to lodge itself inside your chest. A weak attempt to fight back the tears that threatened to drown you.
“Only those who have suffered long can see the light within the shadows.” Without hesitation, Zoro pulled you close to his chest and wrapped his arms around you. His cheek pressed against your hair as he spoke. “You died, Doc. Something like that is going to change you, but only you get to decide how it’s going to shape you.”
Zoro’s words resonated along your skin. Each syllable sinks down into the marrow of your bones to take root. You wanted to ask if it was possible that hope, replacing the fearmongering of your own death, could grow in its place. Standing there wrapped in the warmth of Zoro’s arms, his body real, warm, and present, was enough to make you begin to believe it could.
A quick succession of pounding erupted on the door and sent you jumping against him, which earned a deep chuckle that Zoro pressed against the curve of your throat.
“It’s just Luffy.”
“How do you know?”
Your question was answered as Luffy called behind the door, “We’re getting ready to dock, guys! Meet on the deck in fifteen!”
You pulled back just enough from Zoro’s chest to be greeted by a smirk that said, “Told you so.” You pushed out an exaggerated huff to accompany an eye roll as you disentangled yourself from him. You became immediately aware that you were now lightly covered in dried Zoro sweat.
“Oh, great. Now I bet I stink,” you mumbled, lifting your tank top to your nose for added measure.
“I might be biased, but I think you smell great.”
If you rolled your eyes any harder, you were sure you’d lose brain cells.
“You think a brewery smells like a candy store. I’m taking that comment with the tiniest, thinnest possible grain of salt.”
“If it bothers you that much, you could come with me to shower.”
Damn him. Already, the need to do just that hit you something sharp and coiling achingly low.
“Luffy said to be on the dock in fifteen minutes,” you said to remind yourself more than him. “If we take too long, they’ll know we were…uhm…occupied.”
You were starting to think Zoro’s favorite pastime really was seeing just how many shades of red he could make you. A shit-eating grin erupted across his face, and you knew whatever he was about to say was going to send whatever shade you currently were to your ears.
“Snowdrop, by now, the whole crew knows what we get up to. Especially the waiter.”
For added unnecessary emphasis, Zoro made sure to throw his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the wall behind him. The wall that directly resided next to Sanji’s room.
“Oh my god, okay!” You practically shrieked. Your hand shot out to grab the steel of your nunchucks before sliding them home in their holster. Your fingers were clasping the strap over them as you continued, “I am leaving now. Yeah. I’m going to the deck. I’ll brave the pastry shops smelling musky.”
Without waiting for a response, you opened your bedroom door and stepped back out into the hall. Your feet carry you towards the stairs that lead to the deck where Luffy, Nami, Sanji, and Usopp would be waiting. The sounds of their boisterous chatter were enough to speed up your movements so you could be wrapped in the warmth of conversation.
They all greeted you with smiles, and Usopp with a brotherly embrace. One that the two of you have followed up with your secret handshake since childhood. It was one of the many things that joined your made-up hand signals, and bird calls that drove the entire crew nuts when you each took turns riding up in the crow’s nest.
You allowed yourself to be swallowed up in the laughter and squabbling - mainly taking place because Usopp still didn’t agree that stopping in Loguetown for any reason was a good reason. The way Nami motioned with head nods and wide eyes to step in with an agreement that a girl's day of shopping was indeed a reasonable reason. Beyond reasonable, actually.
This familiar back and forth made it easy to be present: the first step in taking Zoro’s advice. The shadows may be a part of you, but only you get to decide how they claim you. It was easier said than done, and yet looking at the faces of your crew - your family - you were willing to start moving forward.
Whatever that entailed, and yet the soft voice in the back of your mind sparked to life. Nothing vivid and disarming; its usual words harsh and violent like a lashing to open skin. It was methodical, hushed. The delicate toxicity of its words moves fluidly like inky black smoke, leaving a residue over the hope you dare thought you could have.
“They’re blind to the very wolf that lives among them.”
Violently, you shook your head to dislodge the thought before it left you dissociating into a vivid what if. Maybe in Loguetown there might be a shop or a stall that sells lovely tea or crystals or something to make whatever this part of you was chill. the. fuck. out.
Zoro came sauntering in freshly cleaned, with his chest practically threatening to bust through the seams of his Gi-style shirt. You waited until he situated himself beside you, forearm resting against the railing as his eyes took in the current argumentative debate Usopp and Sanji were having about personal space in the kitchen.
“We should look into updating your wardrobe while we’re there,” you whispered into his ear.
You couldn’t explain the sheer amount of joy you got at seeing Zoro’s skin flush with goosebumps and heat. His gaze moved to take you in, so close beside him he’d simply have to lean down, and your lips would connect. By the shift in his eyes, you could tell Zoro was thinking about doing just that.
“What’s wrong with the clothes I have on?”
“It’s tight.”
“It’s comfortable.”
“The fabric looks like it’s screaming for help.”
Zoro closed in what limited space had already been between you - close enough that when he smirked, the rise of his lip grazed over yours. There was no fighting off the shiver of anticipation that rolled through you - a part of you wishing you had when the smirk grew higher.
“If you want me to take it off, Snowdrop, all you had to do was ask.”
“Oh my god!” Nami’s annoyance separated you cleanly from one another by a few inches. You were still tucked into the crook of Zoro’s side when you looked her way. “Am I going to have to separate you two already?”
“I call Doc when you do,” Sanji cut in.
“Fat chance of that happening,” Zoro bristled.
His mild threat only made Sanji’s Cheshire Cat grin spread like wildfire across his face. If there was one thing Sanji loved more than cooking in his kitchen, it was living to ruffle Zoro’s metaphorical feathers as often as humanly possible.
You wondered if it was payback for being stuck next to the thin walls of your room. You could practically feel the heat creeping up your neck to burn blazing hot across your cheeks.
“While it would be truly riveting to watch you two idiots go back and forth,” Nami cut back in, “We really should get moving. We don’t want to stay in Loguetown too long and gain unwanted attention.”
“And to see where Gold Rodger died,” Luffy added.
“Yes,” Nami deadpanned. “Can’t forget that.”
“What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
“I just want to remind everyone that I did not, and still don’t, think this is a good idea,” Usopp interjected.
His hands were already worrying at the strap of his bag. You pushed off the railing and went to him. Your arm slides around his shoulders, using the crook of your elbow to pull him in closer. Using the small grip you had on him, you used it to get him to move forward to follow Luffy off the deck and down the ramp to shore.
“It’s been duly noted, Usopp,” you said. “Now, how about we just try and enjoy our possible last chance being on land.”
Eyes wide with terror greeted you seconds after the last word left your mouth. The whites of his eyes became more exposed with each step you took down to the cobbled road in front of you.
“Why do you gotta say it like that, Doc?” He questioned. Each word dripping with anxiety, you could practically feel on your skin. “This really could be our last time doing anything! Any-thing!”
“Usopp. You know I love you. You seriously need to relax.”
“How can you ask me to relax when we are walking into death? Death, Doc?!”
You gave him one last tight hug before you released him. Your body gave a brief shrug in response that somehow made his eyes widen impossibly bigger.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, Usopp, that maybe a little possibility of death is worth some fun, and we need the supplies, and that is one universal fact you can’t dispute with. Plus, the only one who had any run-in with death is me, and look how fine I am.”
“Not funny,” Zoro grumbled from behind you while Usopp said, “You are most definitely the farthest person from okay on this ship. I’m pretty sure you’re almost certifiable.”
“Wow, okay. Rude.”
You fell into step behind Luffy, who fearlessly moved through the crowds of people. His eyes filled with childlike merriment as they hungrily took in the scenery around him, and what a scenery it was to behold.
You’d never seen a city quite like Loguetown. Everything was industrial; a majority of shops appeared to be inside actual buildings, with only a few random small stalls of merchants placed at random outside. There were cars and trolleys, which were something you’d only seen in magazines Kaya received at the manor. Syrup village never had use for trolleys or giant, elegant cement buildings that towered over the horizon. Each one housed sweet shops, finery of jewels with fabrics that ranged from silks to wool, meats, and ceilings full of lights and pops of color from hanging umbrellas.
Loguetown made you feel every bit the small village girl as you stepped through the archway and into the main square.
You weren’t so enamored with everything around you that it made you oblivious to the heat of Zoro at your back. The way his finger grazed the waist of your pants to remind you that he was there or moving too far ahead of him.
The last couple of places Luffy had the Merry stop at for supplies were nothing compared to Loguetown. Besides the abundance of Marines you were already seeing, the number of people in general was beyond what you were all used to.
Zoro’s anxiety must have been going into overdrive.
“There are so many people,” Usopp mentioned in awe.
He was equally as stunned as you were at the sheer size of Loguetown. You wanted to ask him if he was thinking about Syrup village, too. All the differences Loguetown had in the first five seconds of entry compared to the island you’d both grown up on.
Your group walked to the column that stood in the center of the entrance. Nami read off the plaque's engraving of “The town of the beginning and the end.”
“Well, that sounds ominous,” you grumbled.
You refused to let some weird engraved words ruin this moment for you. There were so many new things for you to see, and you were in charge of getting first aid supplies. A spark of excitement at all the potential a place like this had in introducing you to new medicines - new herbs - was palpable.
They were lucky Zoro had his index hooked in the hoop of your pants, or you might have taken off on your own.
“This is where it all started. The hunt for the One Piece. History happened here!”
God, why didn’t you expect Luffy to start yelling like an excited lunatic? Your captain was so radioactive in his excitement, his body vibrated with it. It still didn’t mean yelling like a crazy person, arms thrown wide to grab hold of the universe in a thank you hug, made garnering any extra attention less sketchy.
Every single one of you took turns glancing in every direction just to make sure no one was looking at you all a little too long.
“It looks like they’re having some kind of festival,” Sanji pointed out.
“Ooo, do you think they’ll have a parade?” You asked him excitedly.
Sanji would be willing to feed into your excitement, while Zoro, being ever the pragmatist, quickly piped up with, “For Gold Rodger’s execution.”
“You just have to suck the fun out of a good time, don’t cha?”
You loved this man. You really did, but sometimes…
“What?” He responded. The crease between his forehead perfectly matched the question in his eyes. “It says it right there on the banners.”
“I saw that.”
“Then why ask for a parade?”
“Zoro, darling, if you have to ask, it does not matter anymore.”
“A festival’s not so good for laying low,” Usopp pointed out.
The town, the sights, and the setting were overwhelming. So overwhelming that you hadn’t noticed Luffy had started wandering off until you watched Sanji give chase. He easily caught up with him and turned him back around towards the group.
“Then we’ll just have to be smart. No attracting unnecessary attention.”
The minute Luffy stepped back into the circle, he did so with his arm raised, as if someone would call on him to ask his vote.
“I want to see the execution platform!”
“Morbid.”
“What, no.” Luffy’s smile halted for the smallest millisecond before it resumed its usual place. “It’s where everything began, Doc. The story of the One Piece.”
“I caught that.”
“Sanji,” Nami cut in. “What if you take Luffy with you for some food shopping?”
“Mmmm,” Sanji hummed in approval.
Everyone understood the unspoken assignment.
“Food first, then execution platform!”
Nami was already digging into the depths of her purse. Her hands scrapping up the berry she had sectioned off with the purpose for each amount jotted down in her head. You wouldn’t be surprised if she knew how much berry was in each individual stack just from the feel alone.
“Right. Food will keep him out of trouble.”
“I am headed to the fashion district. Zoro, you need new swords, right?”
Zoro had stopped paying attention after Luffy brought up the execution platform. Nami saying his name brought him back into the conversation, but not before a hint of unease sent his eyes shifting between Loguetown and your group.
“I need money too.”
“Okay, what do you want me to do about it? Why don’t you ask Doc for money? She is your girlfriend.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” you butt in, voice taking full offense. “This money is for first aid supplies, remember? This isn’t “cover -for- a -sword,” money.”
“The cook got money?” He interjected, looking between Nami and Sanji.
“I’m buying food for all of us.”
“Me having more swords is for all of us,” Zoro shot back.
The annoyance rippled off him in waves as he stared over at Sanji. Sanji, on the other hand, looked completely undisturbed. At least he made a step up from waiter to cook, so that felt like a positive.
Nami’s own flash of irritation came as her hand dipped back inside her bag. A wad of berry, noticeably smaller than Sanji’s, was held in her hand. Zoro stepped forward, his hand already reaching to take it when Nami pulled it back at the last second.
“You take this, you pay me back. With 300% interest.”
“Can take the con artist out of the East Blue, but you can’t take the con artist out of the girl.”
“Hey, if you have a problem with it you can give him some of your berry,” Nami replied.
“Shutting up.”
“What if I need more?”
“You haggle?” Nami replied. She seemed genuinely confused. As if she forgot she was dealing with Roronoa Zoro, pirate hunter extraordinaire, but completely clueless about most basic life skills. “There’s a price they want and a price they will take.”
With the short lesson ended, Nami handed over the money to Zoro, who looked to still be processing what she’d told him. He glanced over at you and immediately stood taller. His fingers pushed the berry inside the pocket of his pants.
“Haggle. Fine.”
Usopp quickly added that he was going to be staying with Nami, using the excuse that a big city and a lone woman were a bad combination. You were tempted to remind Usopp that Nami was perfectly capable of getting into life-threatening situations like the rest of the Straw Hats, but decided against it. Why ruin it for the guy?
It was decided that once everyone got what they needed, you’d all meet back up here. You were just beginning to head down what you assumed would lead to medicinal shops when a familiar hand clasped around your wrist, stopping you short.
“Where are you going?”
The question wasn’t a demand. It was genuinely curious where you were going if he wasn’t about to follow.
“To get my portion of the supplies. Why?”
“I just thought-I thought you were going with me to look for swords.”
“Isn’t it said that a sword chooses its owner? You don’t need me for that.”
“But what if I want you there?”
The grip he’d held on your wrist transformed as he released it. His fingers trailed down the soft skin of your wrist until they came to the palm of your hand. Not grabbing or trying to hold, but softly suspended there. That way if you wanted to reach for him, as you usually did, you could.
You looked at this man who so blatantly adored you and couldn’t find it in you to feel anything else but gratitude for him. A man who only wanted to be your protector in more ways than one.
“Zoro, I’ll be okay.” You tried to keep your voice as soothing as possible and hoped it was working. “When I finish up getting my supplies, I promise I’ll come and find you.”
“How will you know where I’ll be?”
“There can’t be that many swordsmiths in Loguetown,” you pointed out.
“Good point.” The smile was small. It barely raised the corners of his mouth while he diverted his eyes from you to your hands that were still intertwined, but not. When Zoro finally looked back at you, he asked, “Come back to me?”
Four simple words, and yet, they held the sharpest meaning. You weren’t sure when it became the thing he’d say to you whenever there was a reason for the two of you to be a part. It wasn’t just four words. It was one of the last things you heard from him while he clutched you, iron tight to his chest as he ran with you back to Coco Village. A reminder of time wasted, and the lifetime you both promised to spend making up for it.
“Always.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Sanji grumbled.
“Shut up, Cook.”
You took that moment to move up on tiptoe and place a soft kiss against Zoro’s cheek just as you disconnected your hand from his. You all had things you needed to do before the day was over, and you didn’t want to waste the majority of your time not enjoying it.
So, the six of you went your separate ways with your promise to meet back in the center. It felt doable. It felt like today was going to be a good, normal, trouble-free day, because really, how much trouble could you all possibly get into?
Tag list: @tombraiderjones2505 @bbning @lyladoesart
As always, thank you for reading. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
summary: baelor knows he has lost memories. but he cannot, try as he might, understand what everyone is working so hard to keep hidden from him.
pairing: baelor targaryen x wife reader
word count: 4.4k
based off of this! | part one | part two
the back of his head aches with an intensity like no pain he has ever felt before.
baelor has been making sense of information as it is revealed to him—whether it is from overhearing the maesters as he rests with his eyes closed or from his younger son accidentally slipping up. valarr shoots matarys a look, one baelor is very familiar with, telling his little brother to be quiet with only his eyes.
and then valarr looks at him, and he feels even more confused. what could it be, that everyone is trying so hard to conceal? a secret that requires such silence that even his talkative son has taken to speaking little, and only when needed.
the boys both carry baelor’s mismatched eyes. presently, they are red-rimmed, even though he has been awake for almost a full day. he knows they are afraid—and that despite all he says, nothing will ease their fears, not until he makes a full recovery.
and even then, they will not forget this. almost losing their father will haunt them forever, he is sure of it.
maekar has told him of the trial, though he can hardly believe it. for all of aerion’s hardheadness, he did not think that his nephew would stoop to such levels. it sounds like a made up story to baelor, he thinks, combing through the information when he is alone in the chambers, trying to make sure he does not forget any of it on the morrow.
an innocent puppeteer girl. a tall hedge knight who little aegon was secretly squiring for. aerion’s inability to see past his own ego and defending whatever he deems the great honor of their house to be.
true honor lies in one’s actions, baelor thinks grimly, not in breaking bones over harmless jests, over child’s play.
and then he thinks of maekar’s words. his mace to the back of valarr’s helmet. his own skull, likely broken in three places, if the maesters are to be completely believed. and then he thinks what was all of this, if not child’s play?
if he closes his eyes tightly and tries to think until his head hurts, he can recall a flash or two of an image. the meadow at ashford. valarr’s handsome armor. the tall knight kneeling before him. someone trying to convince him not to partake—fervently, greatly upset by his decision. the cries of a woman that he cannot recall.
they must belong to jena.
who else could it be? but maekar insists that jena is still in blackhaven with her family, that she had not travelled to ashford with them. his brother would not lie to him, not at a time such as this. his memories, whichever ones return as the gods hand them back, are fragile and precious.
if only he could remember. he knows the memory lies somewhere in his mind, buried under a pile of parchment, likely, but he cannot figure out what exactly he is supposed to remember.
valarr and matarys look older than he recalls. he almost did not believe his son when he mentions the fact that baelor fit into his armor. it cannot be, and yet, he remembers wearing it.
he sets it aside—boys grow quickly, and his own memories of his sons’ youth clouds whatever he is trying to make sense of, confusing him further.
the maesters do not leave him alone, even for a moment, as if they worry their prince will turn into dust on the sheets if they take their eyes away. he gets a moment’s reprieve when they switch out, malleon leaving and another whose name baelor cannot recall coming in.
baelor tries to sit himself up gently when the door opens. the maesters walk in and out as he notices beyond the door, in the corridor—his sons, and the young woman who he now knows is his daughter-by-law—kiera—talking quietly to another that he cannot make out.
kiera boasts a pretty smile and brightly colored hair. she stays by valarr, her arm wrapped with his, and she looks towards whomever they are speaking with, but her gaze flicks towards valarr every few moments, as though she is making sure he is alright. baelor smiles weakly.
even if he cannot remember her, or their wedding, or much of anything else, at least they are happy. happy in the way that newlyweds are, as he and jena were for many years.
he shall have to ask maekar for an update on his wife’s whereabouts. maekar claims he cannot find any letters in baelor’s study, and he is too weak still to go look himself, but it is odd.
he cannot recall if jena has ever left for her family’s home for such an extended time without sending correspondence.
and presently, he cannot decipher who his sons are speaking with. valarr and matarys enter the chambers, but kiera walks away with the other person. who was it?
all this thinking. for the first time in his life, thinking so hard makes his head hurt. he lies himself back down gently, resting his eyes as he waits for his sons to join him.
“quiet, matarys. father is sleeping,” valarr whispers.
“we cannot just do nothing, valarr,” the younger says, a certain anger behind his words that baelor cannot ever remember matarys embodying. “aerion-”
“aerion,” valarr begins in another whisper. “is off to lys. where he cannot hurt anyone further. that will have to suffice for now.”
“suffice? father has lost half his memories and we dally about as though-”
“there is nothing to be done for now,” valarr says, his tone particularly gentle. “brother, i-”
“uncle maekar is speaking of readying the carriages. she cannot take a journey in her condition. and what of her family? you know how she feels-”
“father,” valarr interrupts, shuffling towards the bedside. matarys follow in suit as baelor opens his eyes.
another piece of information he has learned by keeping quiet at the correct time. his nephew is off to lys, likely his brother’s arrangement, and matarys is concerned for a lady of the court.
perhaps it is the very same one that was in his chambers the day he woke up. she was young and pretty, he recalls, though very emotional for someone he can not recall ever meeting before.
he will have to ask jena, when she returns. perhaps a new lady in waiting or the wife of a recently married.
“my sons,” he begins, his voice rough. “any news of your mother?”
-
the gods have already cast their judgement over me, maekar thinks, standing outside the doors to your chamber. what is one more lie? one more lie to spare his life. a fair trade.
his hand hesitates on the handle.
you have done nothing to deserve this, and yet, he cannot stop the series of actions he has set in place. you must understand—he is sure that you will, that you do.
you have always been good and kind in that way—too sweet, too generous. you check on his children when you have no obligation to. you check on him when you have no reason to.
and even as he almost took baelor away from the world of men, away from you and your unborn babe, you still found it in you to comfort him at his lowest moments.
how has he repaid you? his head falls. he does not want to visit you.
he had thought, in the months since your wedding to baelor, that he was much too old to have a new sister. that perhaps, baelor had made a mistake by asking for your hand. too young and too separated from this life, not of royal lineage or even from a great house.
you had proven him wrong quickly. you had shown him what it meant to have a sister.
“your grace?” your voice comes from somewhere behind him. he turns, stiffening up and straightening his back. “do you need something?”
“i thought you were inside. where have you been?” maekar questions, and you shirk under his discerning gaze.
you were doing something you were not meant to be doing, he concludes, watching as you stare at your skirts, refusing to meet his eyes.
“i… i was-”
he opens the door, letting you enter first before closing it. these chambers were new to you, he knows, ones that the maids had gotten ready for you late last evening. in a different wing than the chambers you shared with baelor, and for good reason.
the last thing either of you needed, maekar thought, was baelor asking more questions about you.
he was already asking too many, questions to which there were no true answers.
when he anticipated jena would arrive. had he informed jena of his condition. where the correspondence from jena were.
all questions, all about jena.
you did not need to be subject to that.
you sit down in the settee by the window. there are blankets and a pelt there, disheveled and pushed aside as though you had slept there instead of the bed.
you do not face him. instead, you face the window, staring down at the view of the gardens and the courtyard. you bring your knees to your chest and hug them tightly, and in that moment, maekar does not see baelor’s wife or his sister by law.
he sees a sad, frightened young girl.
though you do not deserve this, he must say his piece regardless.
“it is not wise for you to walk near baelor’s chambers,” he says quietly, though he knows his tone indicates to you a manner of displeasure. “i thought we discussed this.”
"i know it is not wise,” you reply quietly, still gazing out the window.
the sky is blue and the sun looks warm. birds chirp and the lords and ladies of the court walk around below peacefully, completely undisturbed. being near the window is the closest you have been to the sunshine in days.
“i thought we agreed that-”
“i did agree,” you interrupt, your voice catches, breaking as you stop another heaving sob from taking over you. cry, cry, cry, all you have done is cry as of late. “i just wanted to see him, if only for a moment.”
you had been closely monitoring baelor’s health, even up until the hour he awoke. you would give the maesters updates of his breathing through the night, if you felt he was warmer or colder, if he shuffled in his slumber.
now you were parted from him, unsure of when you could return. grandmaester malleon is kind enough to visit you with any updates when they swap places with each other, but it feels entirely worse now that he is awake.
he is awake, you think to yourself, still not moving your eyes from the window. everything you had been praying for had been granted. baelor awake, the maesters confident that his wounds will heal with time. aerion gone, on a ship to lys that you believe has already departed.
oh. you had not considered how despondent maekar might feel, his second eldest leaving for across the world.
though it is not as if he ever considered your feelings before he lied to your husband. a lie of such grave proportions that you had almost lashed out again, your fist shaking with the desire to do something. to make someone feel as awful as you do, to make someone understand how deeply unfair all of this is.
but life is unfair. so you had rested your hand back by your side, and listened to maekar as he explained his plan to you.
he had said something about how the maesters believe baelor will get his memory back as each day passes. that in a matter of days and weeks he should remember more and more. that jena’s death and his new marriage and the tourney will be among the first things to return, as important as each was to him.
you are so very tired of praying.
you have spent each moment for the last fortnight doing so. your hands have calluses from where you clasp them together. the mother mocks you—answering your prayer for a healthy child in return for taking away the father.
yesterday, you had stared blankly at maekar as he told you what must be done in order to preserve baelor’s strength and healing. to make no mention of jena’s passing, to not go near his chambers so that he does not ask questions about you. for matarys and valarr to be careful with their words. for the maesters to—
“it is not smart to visit him,” maekar says, scolding you as though you are one of his children. “if he asks of your name and your position, what do you expect for the maesters to answer with? or his sons?”
they will lie, as you did.
“i did not go inside. i was merely speaking with kiera. he did not see me,” you say, pensive and wistful.
“if he does-” maekar stops himself, sucking in a deep breath. he releases it, before speaking more quietly. “have you given any thought to… where you might stay until baelor has finished healing?”
you finally tear your eyes away from the glass, this time meeting maekar’s eyes quickly. you feel hot anger begin to burn through your body, engulfing you completely.
“i cannot even stay here?” you ask, your voice cracking, though you desperately wish it did not. you were admitting weakness, admitting that you could not hold your emotions together.
maekar already knew you had gone to see him, another fault of yours. could you do anything right?
“you may be less tempted,” he says, sitting beside you on the settee. his violet eyes are incredibly sullen, matching your own. “if you are away from here. we shall send letters to keep you apprised of his condition. the moment he remembers, we will summon you-”
“where am i supposed to go?” your voice betrays you again.
scared and tired and all alone in this world with just your child. what if baelor does not remember you for months? what if he does not remember you at all?
your child would grow up alone, without a father. with a shell of a mother. a childhood similar to yours, something you had hoped to never give your own daughter.
“perhaps to your family’s home?” he suggests. you know he has, as he usually does, given it some thought, even if he tries to present it otherwise.
the very place you had wished to hard to escape from. it was your ancestral home, your family’s castle, though little of anyone there truly felt like a real family to you. you were an orphan, raised by your lord uncle and aunt, alongside their trueborn children, your cousins, though it had never felt like you were anything more than a burden to them.
your family, your true family, lives within the walls of the red keep. the doting husband you had imagined in your youth, the one who made childish dreams into reality, dreams you had always thought could never come true. his kind children, who never excluded you from any conversion, who sought you out when they needed a companion. even your new brother and his children. their bickering and laughter reminds you of the conversations you were never a part of growing up, overhearing from other rooms as your cousins talked and fought and laughed.
no, you think determinedly. you will not send me back to that place.
at least if you stayed here, you would have the company of baelor’s sons and gentle kiera and kind-hearted little aegon.
“i have no desire to go back there. nor, i am sure, do they wish to receive me. they prayed for the day i would leave from the moment my parents left this world.”
“my lady-”
“no,” you say again, harsher this time. “leave me in the maidenvault, if you must. i will not go back to that place.”
maekar stops for a moment, remembering something his brother had told him once. he thinks it was the day after baelor had first met you, a tourney and feast at your uncle’s castle. it was to celebrate the betrothal of one of your cousins—the heir—and to consider matches for the heir’s sister, your younger cousin.
he cannot even remember the girl’s name now, though he’s sure baelor would recall it in an instant.
baelor had been confused that day. he could not understand why the lord would host a grand event for his younger children when the elder was still unwed. it was not until after the tourney when he learned that you were not his daughter after all, but rather a niece.
maekar can recall perhaps bits and pieces of the story now. it seems as though it had been a lifetime ago.
watching you now, meeting his eye and refusing bravely, something out of your usual nature, he does not recognize the girl he met at that tourney, the one who had so captivated his elder brother.
“there is no need for that. i shall have summerhall prepared for your arrival. maester melaquin is already there, and i trust him to look after you until such a time that you may return.”
you turn away, dipping your head and making a fist of your gown again. today it was the blue cotton, another of your husband's favorites. from a time when he knew you well enough to have favorites.
when you glance back at maekar, whatever fire was within you seems to be burned out.
“i suppose i do not have much of a choice in the matter?”
“i believe this to be the best course of action for now.” you look up at maekar, and then turn your body away from him, bringing your knees closer to your chest and staring out the window again. your hands fiddling with a pendant on a chain around your neck. you can hear children squalling in the courtyard below.
“please close the door when you depart, your grace.”
maekar step away, turning only to spare you a final glance. there was much to do to prepare summerhall—letters to be sent, organizing the staff, speaking directly with the maester there of your delicate condition.
when he looks at you, all he can think is that everyone has lied. they say that fateful day at ashford meadow did not claim any lives. but maekar knows only the ghost of who you once were has returned to king’s landing with them.
-
baelor believes he has slept more in last two days than he has in years. after the visitors take their leave—valarr to attend to kiera, matarys for his training or studies with the maester, his brother to complete the duties he cannot—he feels his eyes slowly close.
sleep is restful, for a time, before he is plagued with more half-visions and dreams that feel as though they a part of a long lost reality, something out of a book, perhaps.
he is dreaming in memories, baelor thinks, opening his eyes and taking a look around. there is no one with him save for the maester, yet he feels as though there is another set of eyes on him from somewhere afar.
when he focuses his gaze to the chairs beside the bed’s canopy where his family sits, he notices it for the first time.
an armchair, pulled away from the bed, now stationed by the curtains. the velvet of the chair looks soft and dark, an imprint in the cushion as though someone had worn out the chair with use. tucked underneath the chair is a neatly folded blanket and a book of some sort, the etching in tiny script that he cannot make out.
who had sat in this chair, he finds himself wondering, creating yet another question for maekar that he would not get a clear answer for.
his brother is trying to protect him, in his own way, by shielding him. he gets no news of the kingdom and their father save for only the dullest of updates. no update yet on jena’s arrival.
he knew, usually much of his strength to try and recall the numbers, it was a journey of almost three weeks, perhaps even a full turn of the moon, depending on the conditions of the roads.
blackhaven was not too far from summerhall, and if he could, he would will himself there, so as to make the journey easier for jena. she did not much like traveling in the carriages with the royal escort, but needs must, especially with how oft she missed her family and dear siblings.
even the thinking makes his head hurt, a dull ache throbbing throughout, originating from the base of his skull. he rests his eyes, not opening them even when the door opens.
he has already seen everyone today, he thinks, with two visits from his sons and one from maekar. aegon and daeron stopped by as well, and aegon read to him from one of the histories until he had fallen back asleep.
this noise must belong to the maesters, he thinks, though he does not recognize malleon’s heavy footsteps or the uncertain ones of the young maester whose name escapes him.
these sound practiced. the floorboards do not creak with any sound. the air does not stir, though distantly, baelor thinks, he smells something of flowers and fruit.
frustration bears down its heavy hand yet again. the scent reminds him of something, he just does not know of what. (or perhaps who, he thinks, before shoving the thought aside.)
jena smells of clean, sea air and the shores of blackwater bay. when their children were little, she would take them by the docks to watch the ships. her hair has always reminded him of the scent of the water, though suddenly, he cannot remember it. how could that be?
this was decidedly not that scent, the one he cannot remember.
this was something else entirely, he decides, breathing it in deeply. there are flickers of an image, as though they are each parts of a whole that he cannot pull together in his mind.
a green gown. a gentle voice reading a book aloud. the dragon’s breaths and evening stars in the gardens of the red keep. if he tries to focus, perhaps he can make out what it is, a familiarity hanging in the air, but then—
when he opens his eyes, there’s no one there. the door is open, maester malleon on the other side, conversing with who baelor can only assume is his brother.
his eyes are still laden with sleep, and he wonders if he is in a waking dream instead—
you again. sad and pretty, looking as though you have been weeping. he cannot see much, just the side of your face and your hair down your back, before you depart. but then he blinks, and maekar is in the chambers with the grandmaester, speaking quietly by the fireplace.
perhaps a dream after all.
“the princess’s condition is unwell,” malleon whispers. at least, that is what baelor thinks he hears. they are too far away to be certain. the heat of the room feels suffocating.
the questions he has make his head hurt. who else was outside? had he imagined the girl again? what princess does he speak of?
“i have tried-” maekar starts, though he is interrupted.
“sire, you must take heed. such a state is most dangerous for the child. the maids say she hardly eats or sleeps. the guards say they hear her wailing all night.”
“i have began making arrangements. summerhall should be ready in two day's time.”
“is it wise, your grace, to-”
“brother,” baelor says, and the two cease their conversation at once. they both rush towards him, though he did not require any help. he merely wants to know of whom and what they speak.
he sits up carefully, as maekar takes a seat in the chair closest to him.
“how do you feel?” baelor cannot count the number of times he asked been asked that.
“no better and no worse.”
“and your memories-”
“the same as the last time you asked, maekar,” he sighs, before gazing towards the flickering fire. “of whom do you speak? is a lady of the court with child?”
maekar swallows, his face grim. his brother has never had much control over his expressions.
“it does not concern you at this time. do not think of it.”
“if it is someone in court, someone that needs assistance-”
“i am providing all the assistance they need. we were simply speaking of… options. gathering our options.”
“aye. and this would not have anything to do with the unnamed lady, would it? the one in the chambers the day i awoke?”
“no, brother. not her,” maekar says, his face solemn and serious.
baelor can tell he longer wishes to speak of her, and for a moment, his mind goes to another place.
perhaps it is a match for his brother, a lady he wishes to court or a young widow residing in the castle.
it’s not entirely uncommon for widows and widowers to seek each other’s company. they share a mutual understanding lost to many others. and his brother, despite everything else, deserves that happiness.
it’s been almost three years since lady dyanna’s passing. baelor can recall that easily, he thinks. how could he forget the worst day of his brother’s life thus far?
it had been terrible, incredibly difficult for all of them. the only thing that baelor could have been thankful for was that his brother had him to guide him through it.
after all, he knew better than anyone else what it felt like to lose a wife. it had only been a year or so since—
baelor winces, his head rushing.
no, he thinks desperately, let me be wrong. let this be another deceiving memory, an imagination, a whisper of a false dream.
he gingerly touches his wound, and then stares at up his brother. maekar speaks, though baelor cannot hear the words.
he has been trying to look out of the window with the aid of only a few holes in a curtains. and suddenly, the curtain rips, falling apart until all the light shines through.
You felt like you were just an obedient chess piece for Trafalgar Law, so after an almost failed mission, you decided it was best for you to put some distance between you and him.
tags: Heart Pirate! reader, angst angst angst, no fluff.
ave's corner of masterlist
The port was what the map promised: crooked docks, a cowl of fog over the water and the seagulls swearing at everything like it was personal. The crew fanned out in the pattern you had run until it was in your muscle memory. You all were in pairs and had to have the eyes up at all time.
Law's hand ghosted near your elbow as you stepped down. It wasn't touching, never, but your skin reacted like it knew a language you had forbidden it. You moved through the market, trading coin and a reputation for crates of gauze, sealed antibiotics and sutures.
"No questions", Law said to a vendor who looked like they wanted to question anything. The man swallowed his curiosity and counted out bundles with shaking fingers.
Suddenly you two sensed that the marine patrol rounded the far corner with the white and blue blooming like a bad tooth. Law moved you both away from them to an alley so you guys didn't have to meet any more troubles than needed.
"Keep moving", he said without looking at you and you moved. He had made you to keep in formation as you two split. This wasn't your first fight. This wasn't your first cry of "room" and it wasn't the first time your bones had to learn how obedient they could be.
You had seen him cold and kind and catastrophic. You had seen him make a man come apart in neat pieces and then put a crewman back together with a gentleness that made you wanted to lie down on the floor and weep like a child.
You knew all of this. And yet still, when the alley narrowed and two Marines got clever, they stumbled directly in front of Bepo. You being you did what you always did when the line between calculus and warm blood thinned... Breaking the formation.
"Don't-", Law said it was too late to tell you. You were already there and your shoulder was ramming into someone's ribs. You were pushing Bepo back with your foot while your hands went for the rifle.
The gun went off wildly once, twice. You kept it away from Bepo because that was the only prayer you offered. The third shot punched into the crate by your head and suddenly the world was needles and wood dust. You felt something sting along your cheekbone. Something hot and bright.
You didn't notice the fourth shot until later when you were counting up the holes in yourself like they were secrets you agreed to keep away from everyone. What you did notice was Law. You noticed the anger like a weather change.
"Room", and the alley was a clean white table for the Marines. "Scan", he said as the bullets hang mid-air and then they were tidy on the ground. He moved you without touching you and put you behind the cover you should have used. The cover he told you to use at the beginning.
"You disobeyed", he said. God he sounded calm that it gave you shivers. Even now, even with your blood busy baptizing your collar.
"You were busy", you said while tasting iron. "Bepo-"
"I had Bepo", he said. "I had everything". The fight collapsed into its own silence. The last Marine went down with a noise like a draw shutting. The crew regrouped as a quick ring of faces appeared and bruises blooming. Bepo hovered with hands fluttering in slight stress.
"I'm fine", you lied. "Help with the boxes".
Law stepped into your space and his eyes were the exact colour of the moment before a storm chose where to split. He tilted your chin with two fingers that never felt tentative. You hated him for being careful and precise. You hated him for not being what you wanted.
"Laceration", he said as he scanned you clinically. "Superficial, the shoulder...", his hand went to your upper arm and pressed on it. He found the wetness that meant you had another truth to learn. "Deeper. We need the ship", he muttered.
"We need the rest of the supplies", you said stupidly, because for you it felt safer than saying anything else.
"We need a crew that follows orders", he said back and released your chin like he never wanted it, "back to the ship".
You bit your tongue. It was better to bleed than to beg. The med bay was lit like a confession. Law scrubbed in without looking at you while you sat on the the table with your shirt off and your fear buttoned up. When he finally turned around, he was just the surgeon and nothing else to you at that moment.
"Lie back", he said and you did. "Don't move", and you didn't. His hands at your shoulders were steady and clinical. He sutured the area so it wouldn't give you another ruined outfit filled with blood again. You watched the way he refused to make the pain symbolic.
"You have seven stitches", he said when he was done. "You will keep them dry. You will not lift anything over ten kilograms for a week".
You sat up slowly. "You're going to make Penguin carry the heavy stuff", you said with thin humour. Like the kind you could hide under a fingernail.
He peeled off his gloves like he was undressing a thought. "I'm going to do what keeps this crew alive", he said and you swallowed as the room tilted left. "I know. I was trying to-"
"What you were trying to do", he said and now the rim of his control was sharp enough to shave with, "Was getting yourself shot".
You laughed slightly yet it hurt a bit. "Mission accomplished?" His eyes flicked to your face. For a silver of a second, there was something in them that made you want to tear the floor open and crawl into whatever clock kept him together. Then it disappeared. "This is not a joke. You disobeyed a direct order", he let out a sigh and rubbed his wrists in slight annoyance.
"You compromised the formation and created variables I didn't account for", he finished it with a stare.
"Bepo-"
"Bepo knows the plan", he cut you off, "Because Bepo trusts me. Apparently you don't".
The words landed with that specific quiet that meant they were true for him even if they didn't look like the truth to you. You reached for the edge of the table because the fall was closer now.
"I do", you said. "I do trust you, but I just... I saw him and...".
"And you decided you were more qualified than me to decide", he said. "You decided your impulse was smarter than my plan. You decided your fear was... useful".
You stared at him. He stared back at you like he was flipping a knife in his head and testing its balance.
"You need to stop thinking of yourself as special", he said and there it was. The cut you didn't see until the floor got all red. "You are not the variable that saves this crew. You are one of many moving parts, interchangeable if necessary. I don't need you to be brave. I just need you to be obedient". Ouch.
It hit the seam and ripped all the way down. Your mouth opened and closed around nothing as you tried to search for a place to put the humiliation. It had no pockets to put you there.
"I'm not asking", he added quietly. "I am telling you. Next time you break formation, I will remove you from the operation".
"Remove me?" you asked as anyone could hear how your voice was fragile now. "Like what, Law? Like a bullet?"
"Like a liability", he replied back as if his words didn't just cut through every part of you more. You had just been held together with seven stitches and somehow this was the thing that failed.
"A liability...", you repeated the word, making your heart more and more numb. "I'm a liability you say", you laughed quietly to yourself as if you didn't believe any words he just said.
"Today you were", he said. He didn't flinch, nor did he apologise. His eyes were the sea deciding what to keep. "You think your attachment is noble. It's not. It's sloppy and makes you slow. It makes me calculate around you and I don't even have the time to-", he swallowed once. You watched his throat move like a confession he refused to make. "I don't even have time for that", he said.
The med bay hummed as the ship breathed cruelly. Somewhere down the hall was Penguin singing off-key. Somewhere else was Shachi inventing a new way to stack boxes wrong. Bepo was probably wringing his hands until they were dry as paper.
But you? You were here under his hands and not under them. There was nowhere to put your heart where it won't be a noise.
"Dismissed", he said.
You didn't remember getting off the table, but you remembered the feeling of the cold floor through your boots. You remembered the way your shirt stuck as you pulled it back on. The way the fabric caught on the new line of your shoulder.
The corridor looked like the inside of his skull when you walked outside of the med bay. It felt like metal and hard choices. You made it to the bunks without breaking. You sat on your mattress and relearned how to breathe without feeling like you drowned every second.
Penguin knocked once, twice, then forgot to knock the third time and just stuck his head in. "You good?" he asked, trying so hard not to give you a pity look at the state you were in.
"Awesome", you said steadily enough to fool a child and a liar. "Couldn't be better".
The silence was brutal for you. Then Penguin spoke up. "Law's... Law", he tried helplessly to make the situation better. The worst part of what he said was true. He had always been like this. Precise to cruelty when cornered. He was economical with mercy even when he had it to spare. People were tools, tasks or occasionally ghosts.
He had saved your life three times, but he had never promised you anything.
You nodded until Penguin left. Then you lied down and practiced sleeping with your eyes open. The island came back to you two hours later. The port was now a smear of evening. Law called orders and the crew executed as you stood where he put you like a chess piece that had learned its square. Your throat was sand and hands were steady.
You could stay and swallow it as the word obedience could calcify into something like faith. You could decide that being one of many moving parts was still moving. You could.
But instead you caught Bepo by the arm while the others were loading the last of medical crates. "Hey", you said while trying not to sound like it belonged to someone who didn't just break. "The sutures are organised now. Would you... um, could you make sure they don't get rearranged?"
He blinked. "I can", he said. "I will".
"Thank you", you patted his fur like you won't get to again. He searched your face the way a child searched a sky for weather, then nodded and went on his way.
You found your bag in the bunk and filled it like your hands have never hesitated. You filled it with clothes, a knife, a coil of cord and a small jar of salve Law taught you to make. You took the Jolly Roger patch from your sleeve and weighed it until it became a coin you couldn't spend. You pinched its edge and left it on your pillow. The absence looked louder than it had any right to.
You wrote a note because you were, apparently, sentimental even when you weren't allowed to be. You kept it brief.
Taking a break. I'll find my way back when I can follow orders without bleeding. Don't look for me. Tell Penguin to stop hiding cookies in the gauze and tell Bepo I'll miss his hugs. Tell the others to take care and tell Law-
You stopped there. You just left it there.
The dock was a different creature in the dark. Lamplight turned water into a second sky. You walked down the ramp with your bag slung carefully so it didn't bite your stitches. You didn't look back because you were trying to be a person who didn't always bleed in the shape of the ship that taught you how to live.
"Going somewhere?"
It was Law.
The name didn't belong in your mouth anymore, so you didn't say it. You turned. He was a strip of night cut into the shape of a man while the hat shadowed his eyes. He wasn't out of breath, which meant he either expected this or he didn't need to breathe when he was the one doing the cutting.
"I left a note", you said with a slight bitter in your tone. If you didn't start with logistics, you'll start with the truth and you have had enough of that for one day.
"I read it", his voice was unreadable when he wanted it to be. Tonight he chose it to be. "You think you can just walk off my ship".
The my cut two ways and you flinched at the way he said it.
"I think", you said while tasting every word before you let it go. "That you told me what I am to this crew", you breathed it out. "An interchangeable part, a liability when I think I'm more than that. So I'm doing what you would do with a faulty part... Taking it out of the machine before it causes more damage", you said while watching him and his possible reaction out of it.
His jaw worked. You realised dully that you had never seen him look unsure before. Not like this where uncertainty wasn't a strategy but a crack.
"This is not... necessary", he said, picking each word like a scalpel.
"It is", you said. "For me it is".
Something in him tightened at that. "Your feelings", he said as if naming them would make them obedient. "They will pass".
"That's the point", you pointed it out for him as it didn't seem your words went through him fully. "They haven't. They make me stupid like you said so. You were right", you said with pain filling your heart the more you decided to talk.
He stepped closer, yet you didn't step back.
"You misunderstand me", he said.
"I don't", you said and you felt like your throat wanted to close. "You said I'm not special. You said you didn't need me. I heard you".
"I said the crew doesn't need your disobedience. I didn't say-", you cut him off.
"Don't", you said and the word scrapes were coming out. "Don't save me now, not like this", you said quietly.
There was silence that was heavier than sound. You broke it because that was apparently your role tonight. "I'm not leaving because you were cruel", you said with your voice low. "I'm leaving because you were honest and because I don't know how to be just a part around you. I know how to be all or gone, but I can't be all so I'll go", you explained.
The longer you had to tell him the real truth, it felt like all the stitches you have on your body physically and mentally were ripping one by one.
His mouth opened but then closed as if words were just stuck on his throat, not wanting to leave. His hand lifted a fraction, but the betrayal the body gave him as it dropped. He looked like he wanted to argue with physics but he didn't. He stood there like a man whose mercy was rationed and tonight wasn't its turn.
"How long...", he said almost sounding nothing, but it was the closest thing he came to pleading. How long was it until you recalibrated, downshifted and obeyed? How long until you came back and made him re-do every calculation he just spared himself.
"I don't know", you replied back. "Until I can do what you ask without flinching at what it makes me".
"And if you can't", he said.
"Then I won't come back", you said and only your body knew if you were lying or telling the truth. Or both. "I won't make you account for me anymore".
He stared at you like he was cataloging your organs. When he decided to speak, he picked the meanest option because that was how he knew where the edges were. "There will be no vacancy. Don't expect me to keep your bunk warm".
It landed the way he intended it to land and you hated him for it. You nodded as if you had been given a gift. "I don't", you say. "I won't".
The seagulls were complaining softly as the water slapped the pylons with the patience of a god that had seen worse lovers. You shouldered your bag.
"Don't die", he said suddenly and brutally.
"I'm trying not to".
"Good", he turned like he was cutting a suture. It should be clean but it wasn't. "I won't fetch you".
"I didn't ask you to", you said and walked away from the ship you once felt familiar with.
summary: raised in a village on the kingdom’s outskirts, you’ve always dreamed of seeing the annual lantern festival in the capital. when you unwittingly help a thief on the run—gojo satoru—he agrees to take you there as repayment. what starts off as a simple deal soon pulls you into a conspiracy that ties back to the crown—and to satoru’s past.
⇢ pairing: thief/flynn rider!gojo satoru x fem!reader
⇢ contains: romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, loss of virginity), slowburn, action, tangled au, debatable attempts at comedy, profanity, inaccurate depictions of horse-riding, mentions of poison and murder, violence that comes with daggers/swords/frying pans—please let me know if i’ve missed anything!
⇢ word count: 31k
⇢ playlist: “you broke my smolder”
⇢ art credit: _3aem | read on ao3 here.
It turns out that blackmailing a wanted criminal is much harder than it seems.
For one, he does not take you seriously. Not even a little.
“Oh no,” Satoru says, eyes wide with feigned horror. “You’re going to turn me in? Me? The helpless victim in all of this?” He clutches his chest, staggering back as if he’s been struck. “What a cruel, coldhearted thing to do to the man whose life you just heroically saved.”
“You’re only saying that because you know I have the upper hand,” you deadpan.
“Details, details,” he says, waving a hand. “But let’s be real here, sweetheart. If you were really going to call the guards—after you rescued me from the aforementioned guards—you’d have done it by now.”
You stiffen. He grins, slow and knowing. “Ah,” he says, tapping his temple. “See, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re bluffing.”
“I am not bluffing,” you insist, even as your grip tightens around your satchel.
Satoru’s grin only grows. He takes a step closer, like a cat toying with its prey. “Oh?”
You plant your feet firmly, refusing to back down. “Oh, indeed.”
Then—so fast you almost don’t register it—he lunges. With a startled yelp, you whirl away, narrowly dodging his grasp as he reaches for the satchel. Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Not bad,” he muses. “You’ve got quick reflexes.”
You clutch the satchel to your chest. “You’re just predictable.”
Satoru places a hand over his chest and gasps. “Predictable? Me?” He scoffs. “Sweetheart, I am many things—charming, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—but predictable is not one of them.”
“Fine.” You roll your eyes. “If you want the crown back so badly, then take it,” you say, and before he can react, you pivot on your heel and sprint.
“Whoa, hey—”
You dart through the trees, leaping over gnarly roots and weaving through the underbrush, legs burning as you push forward. The satchel bounces against your side. The village is close—if you can just make it past the ridge, maybe you can—
A hand catches your wrist. You’re being spun; the world tilts, and your back slams into something solid. Your breath is knocked out of your lungs with a sharp gasp.
Gojo Satoru—the most wanted man in the entire kingdom—looms over you. His palm is pressed flat against the trunk of the tree behind your head, trapping you in place. He’s not even out of breath. His hair is a mess of white strands, a few falling over his forehead, and his eyes—those ridiculous, celestial blue eyes—are twinkling with delight.
“Well,” he drawls, “that was fun.”
You glare up at him. “Let go.”
“Mm.” Satoru taps his chin, considering. “Nah.”
“Gojo.”
“Say please.”
You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. At all. He’s all lean muscle beneath his clothes, far sturdier than his lanky frame would suggest. You grit your teeth. “You are the worst.”
“And you,” he says, patting the tip of your nose, “are terrible at making threats.”
You open your mouth to retort, only to clamp it shut immediately after. Hoofbeats. Both of you freeze. They’re distant at first, then grow louder, thundering against the dirt path. Your stomach twists. The guards are back.
Satoru doesn’t hesitate. One second he’s in front of you; the next, he’s sweeping you into his arms like you weigh nothing and hauling you away from the side of the path, diving into the thick of the trees.
“What—? Put me—”
“Shhh.” He claps a hand over your mouth, pressing you against the trunk of an enormous oak, both of you half-hidden behind the tree. Your heart pounds. You can see the riders now, their armour glinting under the early morning sun. Their voices carry over the rustling of the leaves, and you hold your breath.
Satoru does too, though you doubt it’s out of fear. No, he looks entirely at ease, a smirk tugging on his lips as he watches the guards ride past, none the wiser. Just as quickly as they arrived, they’re gone. The silence stretches.
Finally, Satoru leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re welcome.”
You bite his hand.
“Yowza!” He jerks back, cradling his hand like you’ve just inflicted a mortal wound upon the limb. “Did you just—”
“Yes,” you say primly, straightening out your tunic. “And I’ll do it again if I must.”
Satoru gapes at you, then lets out a laugh, wild and unrestrained. “Oh,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Oh, I like you.”
“Great,” you say. “So you’ll take me to the capital?”
His laughter dies. You smile sweetly at him.
Satoru groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, mostly to himself. His head tips back against the tree, and for a moment, he just stands there with his eyes closed, as though he’s bargaining with the gods to give him the virtue of patience which he so clearly lacks. “I just saved your life.”
“I saved yours first.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”
“I—” Your cheeks burn despite yourself.
“Not that lucky, though,” he interrupts, dropping his hand and fixing you with an almost pitying look. “Because if you think I’m actually going to drag you with me all the way to the capital just because you swiped a little trinket from me, you’re out of your mind.”
Your momentary victory screeches to a halt. “What?”
“You heard me.” He straightens, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m not taking you anywhere.”
“But you just said—”
“I just humoured you. Big difference.”
Your mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. You ball your hands into fists at your sides. “You promised.”
“I lied.”
“Gojo!”
He grins, wholly unrepentant, and takes a step back. “C’mon, sweetheart. You didn’t actually think that was going to work, did you?” He tuts, shaking his head. “Cute and naïve. What a dangerous combination.”
Frustration coils in your chest. You take a deep breath. “Alright,” you say, almost calm. “Then I’ll just go to the guards right now, and—”
“No, you won’t,” Satoru says, raising a single finger.
Your nostrils flare. “And why won’t I?”
“Because I just saved your life,” he says, enunciating each word as though you’re a particularly slow barn animal. “Which means, at the very least, I deserve some gratitude.”
Your jaw drops. “Gratitude?”
“That’s right.”
“We’re even!” you sputter. “I saved you first!”
“Semantics. Point is, I was heroic, you were impressed, and now you can return my crown to me and we can go our separate ways.” He winks. “Sounds good?”
“That—” You stare at him, incredulous. “That is the exact opposite of good.”
“Hm. Sounds like a you problem.”
Your grip on the satchel tightens. “Fine,” you say through gritted teeth. “Then I’ll—”
Before you can finish, he’s already moving. Fast—too fast. You barely register the blur of motion before his hand is dipping into the satchel, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the crown. Panic flares. You react without thinking.
Your hands snap out, grabbing his wrist before he can pull away. He pauses, blinking down at you, startled—because somehow, despite his speed, despite the way he should’ve been able to snatch the crown before you noticed and vanish into the trees—he hadn’t accounted for you actually stopping him.
Both of you freeze. Then, in an utterly ridiculous, ungraceful tangle of limbs you both go crashing to the ground. The satchel slips from your grasp, tumbling into the dirt. The crown spills out, gleaming in the morning light. It’s a glittering band of gold inlaid with the sort of precious stones and gems you’ve only ever heard about. A string of words, written in a curling handwriting, are etched into the inside of the crown’s band. You blink against the glare. Satoru lands half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the earth.
Satoru is heavy. Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that you’re acutely aware of every point of contact; the solid warmth of his torso against yours, the way his arm is braced beside your head, keeping his weight from crushing you fully.
And, unfortunately, he seems just as aware. A slow, amused smile curls at the edges of his lips as he props himself up on his elbows, peering down at you with those ocean-bright eyes. “My, oh, my,” he muses, low and amused. “How terribly forward of you.”
Your face heats up. “Get. Off.”
He doesn’t. Instead, his gaze flickers to the crown lying in the dirt beside you, just out of reach. His smile widens. You see the moment he decides to go for it. Unfortunately for him, you’ve already decided first.
With a grunt, you knee him in the stomach. Satoru wheezes. You wriggle out from beneath him just as he recoils, scrambling for the crown. Your fingers barely skim against the metal—but before you can grab it, the thief lunges forward and tackles you again. There is no grace to it this time. You wrestle in the dirt like two absolute idiots, rolling, kicking, twisting in a desperate scramble for control. He’s stronger, but you’re determined, and maybe just a little feral at this point.
“Would you quit it?” Satoru grunts, narrowly dodging an elbow to the ribs.
“Not until you help me!”
“I told you—”
You shove your palm against his face. Satoru lets out an indignant noise, muffled by your hand. You take advantage of his momentary distraction and reach out—only for Satoru to grab your wrist and twist, sending you both tumbling again, until—
Somehow—somehow—he ends up pinned beneath you, and this time, you have the crown.
Your fingers tighten around it as you scramble off him and glare down at Satoru. He’s sprawled in the dirt, a mess of leaves clinging to his wind-ruffled hair, and a streak of dirt is smeared across his chin. You’re certain you’re in no better shape; you pull a stray twig out of your hair, and rub away the mud on your cheeks with the back of your hand. He props himself up on his elbows, surveying you.
“Tragic,” he sighs. “I almost had it.”
You twirl the crown between your fingers, letting the jewels catch the light, and let your lips turn upwards in a saccharine smile. “It’s called a hustle, sweetheart.”
The marketplace is settling into a quieter rhythm at this time of the day, the golden light of mid-afternoon casting long shadows upon the cobbled streets. Satoru trudges beside you, his usual confidence replaced with something closer to reluctant resignation.
He looks utterly put upon, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, lips set in a pout. Every few steps, he kicks at loose pebbles on the road, sending them skittering ahead of him. You’d almost feel bad for him—almost. But then, you remember that this is a man who stole a crown, got caught, and is now bitter because someone played him at his own game.
The smell of freshly baked bread drifts through the air, warm and inviting, mingling with the sharp scent of spices from a nearby stall. You stop in front of a small bakery, the wooden sign above it swaying slightly in the breeze. Through the open windows, trays of steaming loaves sit behind the counter, their crusts golden brown and crisp.
Satoru watches as you peer through the display, an unimpressed look on his face. “Wonderful,” he says. “I get blackmailed into helping you, and now we have to go grocery shopping. Truly, this is my lucky day.”
“We need supplies if we’re going to travel.” You glance at him, and roll your eyes. “Or do you plan on surviving on pure arrogance alone?”
He sighs dramatically, tossing his head back. “I’ve survived on worse. Once, I survived an entire week on nothing but stolen fruit and the will to be a menace to the commander of the Royal Guard.”
“That explains so much.” Ignoring his indignant huff, you step forward and exchange a few coins for a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. The baker, a kindly old woman, gives you a small smile as she wraps it in cloth. You thank her and tuck the bundle into your bag.
Satoru watches this process with the dismay of a man being forced to endure unimaginable hardship. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he straightens. “Speaking of which,” he says, tilting his head towards you, “where exactly is my crown?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
“Hidden,” you say, and flash him a too-sweet smile.
Satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re crazy. First, you rob me. Then, you blackmail me. And now, you’ve hidden my prized possession like some kind of—” He gestures vaguely at you, searching for the right words. “Some kind of tiny, feral leprechaun.”
You scoff, crossing your arms. “Think of it as collateral.”
“Oh, sure,” he mutters dryly. “Because trusting the person who stole from me is such a fantastic idea.”
“You stole it first.”
“So you’ve said. The point is, I need that crown.”
“Why?” you ask, raising a brow.
He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, before flashing you his usual grin—teasing and entirely insincere. “Because it’s mine?”
You snort. “Try again.”
Satoru leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing some grand secret. “What if I told you it holds great sentimental value?”
“I’d tell you to stop lying to my face.”
“Wow,” he says, and then says your name, dragging out the last syllable. “So distrustful.”
You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your satchel. “If you do what you promised, I’ll give it back.”
He studies you, gaze flickering briefly to your satchel, as if he’s considering whether he could swipe it and make a run for it. (Not that it would be of any use, anyway, since you’ve hidden it underneath your mattress in your tiny little cottage.) Instead, he sighs, slouching forward like the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders, and mutters, “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Not my fault you lost,” you sing-song.
“I almost had it,” he whines, but his lips twitch.
“But you didn’t.”
“What do you want to go to the capital for so badly, anyway?” He squints at you. “You’re dragging me halfway across the kingdom, blackmailing me with my own stolen goods, and for what? What could possibly be so important that you’d go through all this trouble?”
You hesitate. It’s not that you’re unwilling to tell him—it’s more that you know exactly how he’ll react. Still, you suppose there’s no avoiding it now. You clear your throat, keeping your gaze ahead as you walk. “I want to see the lantern festival.”
A beat, and then, Satoru stops dead in his tracks. “I’m sorry. What?”
“You heard me,” you grit out, already regretting having said anything.
The thief blinks at you, disbelieving, then throws his head back and laughs. It’s far too loud and obnoxious for your liking.
You whirl on him, scowling. “Stop that!”
“Oh, this is rich.” He wipes at his eye theatrically. “You mean to tell me that all this—” he gestures between the two of you— “was because you want to see some floating lights.”
“They’re not just floating lights,” you snap, folding your arms. “They’re magical.”
Satoru snickers. “Sure they are.”
“They do it in honour of the late queen. And not just anywhere—only in the capital. People travel from all over to see them.”
“Yes, and most people would travel from all over to avoid me, but here you are. Seriously, sweetheart, I thought you were on some grand, noble quest. Some life-or-death mission. But no. You just want to watch some fancy fireworks.”
“Forget it,” you huff, pushing past him. “I don’t need to justify myself to you.”
Satoru falls easily into step with you, still chortling to himself. “No, no, I think this is fantastic. Here I was, thinking you had some deep, tragic backstory—maybe an old lover waiting for you, a family secret, a kingdom to reclaim—but no. You just want to see a festival.”
“I happen to like beautiful things,” you tell him.
He hums. “So you do.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes your steps falter, but when you glance back at him, his expression is unreadable. You quickly recover, jabbing a finger into his chest. “And don’t act like this is entirely my fault. You’re the one who stole the crown. If you weren’t a criminal, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“That’s a very unfair accusation. I am an entrepreneur.”
“You’re a thief.”
“A businessman.”
“An annoyance.”
He grins. “A charming gentleman.”
You groan, picking up your pace. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”
“Oh, please.” He slings an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the way you stiffen. “We’re partners now, aren’t we? Off to see the lanterns, hand in hand, like something out of a fairy tale—”
You shrug him off and march forward, squaring your shoulders. Gojo Satoru is unbearable, but if he’s your only ticket out of this boring, provincial life, then you have no choice but to grit your teeth and stick it out. The cost will be worth the reward.
The road stretches long and unbroken before you, a dirt path winding between fields and sparse woodland. You’ve seen this road before—when traders arrived at the village, when hunters returned from the mountains—but you’ve never set foot beyond it.
Now, after years of watching others leave, you are the one walking away. You should feel relieved. Excited, even.
Instead, you feel like an imposter. Like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.
Even your clothes don’t feel like your own. You’re used to sturdy village garments—worn tunics and skirts, softened by years of washing, familiar and comfortable. But now, you’re dressed for travel, and it feels unfamiliar. A dark green cloak, belted at the waist, drapes over your shoulders, its hem brushing against your ankles. Beneath it, you’ve chosen a linen shirt and brown trousers instead of a skirt—more practical, but strange. The boots on your feet are a size too big, borrowed from the village blacksmith, and though well-worn, they still rub uncomfortably against your heels.
Beside you, Satoru moves as if he owns the world, his long strides lazy. His clothes, though practical, have the distinct look of someone who wants to be looked at—worn leather boots, dark pants, a white tunic half-buttoned beneath a navy vest cinched at the waist. The coat hanging off his shoulders is long, lined with faded embroidery at the edges, the kind of detail that once belonged to something expensive before time and travel wore it down.
Unlike you, he looks completely at ease. As if he’s done this a thousand times before—which, of course, he has.
“I was expecting a little more enthusiasm,” Satoru comments. “Most people would kill for a trip to the capital with someone like me.”
You adjust the strap of your bag. “Most people would just kill you.”
“Ouch. That one actually hurt.”
“If only,” you mutter.
He chuckles, undeterred, and kicks a stray pebble along the path. You’ve been walking for over an hour, and he hasn’t stopped talking the entire time. It’s mostly been nonsense—complaints about the lack of decent taverns in your village, dramatic sighs about the state of his boots, and a running commentary on the tragedy of being forced to travel with someone so determinedly unfriendly.
“What exactly is your plan once we get there?” he asks. “Because I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but the capital isn’t as great as they make it sound.”
“I don’t need a plan,” you mumble. Truthfully, you have no idea, but you’re certain the answer will come to you. Somehow.
“Right, because winging it always works out well,” he says, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to react. He gets no such satisfaction—your eyes are fixed firmly on the road—and so, he ploughs on, “You know, it’s adorable how much faith you have in your ability to not get robbed, lost, or, I don’t know, arrested for trespassing.”
You let out a slow breath. “If I do get arrested, I’ll make sure to tell them where to find you.”
“Ah, but that would require you to know where I am. And I am a famously difficult person to pin down.”
You make a noise of irritation in the back of your throat, adjusting the strap of your bag. At this rate, you’re starting to think that letting him get caught might have been the better option.
By the time the sun has dipped below the horizon, the two of you reach the edge of the woods. The thick canopy overhead swallows the last of the daylight, leaving only streaks of violet and deepening blue through the gaps in the leaves. The path ahead is narrow and winding, the scent of damp earth and pine filling the air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls.
“This is it,” Satoru announces, dropping his bag on the ground. “Our humble abode for the night.”
“We could walk a little further,” you say, frowning.
“And risk running into something with fangs?” He plops onto the ground, resting back on his elbows. “No thanks.”
You sigh but don’t argue further, shrugging off your pack and kneeling down to clear a space for the fire. If you wait for Gojo Satoru to be useful, you’ll be waiting until your bones turn to dust. To your surprise, he doesn’t interfere. He simply sprawls out on the grass, watching as you gather dry leaves and kindling.
“Watching you work feels kind of nice,” Satoru says, tapping a finger against his knee. “It’s like having a personal servant.”
You shoot him a glare. “Do you want to get stabbed?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, and guffaws to himself.
Rolling your eyes, you focus on the fire, striking flint against steel until sparks catch in the dry grass. Slowly, the flames flicker to life, casting an amber glow over the clearing. Shadows stretch long and uneven, the trees shifting in the fire’s light.
The thief sits up, brushing stray grass from his vest. “Alright. Time to find some food.”
“We have food,” you point out, nodding at your pack.
He makes a face. “We have bread. I, for one, refuse to live like a peasant.”
“You are a peasant,” you say, raising your eyebrows.
“Wrong,” he corrects. “I am a distinguished criminal.”
“Go starve in the woods, then.”
“Fine,” he huffs, standing up and dusting himself off, “but if I don’t come back, you have to live with the guilt.”
“I think I’ll manage.”
He mumbles something under his breath, but disappears into the trees anyway. You take the opportunity to sit back against your pack, stretching your sore legs and letting the warmth of the fire seep into your bones. Five minutes later, Satoru returns—only, he’s not alone. He sprints back into the clearing like a man being personally hunted by death itself, arms flailing as a blur of fur and claws barrels after him.
“What the—” You barely have time to sit up before Satoru dives behind you, using you as a human shield.
“Get it away from me,” he hisses, gripping your shoulders like his life depends on it.
Your eyes whip back to the so-called menace: A small, scruffy-looking cat with patchy grey fur, green eyes, and one torn ear. It stands by the edge of the firelight with its tail puffed up like a bottlebrush.
You blink. “Did… Did you just get chased by a cat?”
Satoru glares at you, panting. “That thing is deranged.”
The cat lets out a shrill mrrow and lunges. Satoru yelps, scrambling further behind you, but the little creature stops just short of pouncing and instead sits daintily by the fire, licking its paw like nothing happened. You stare at it. Then back at Satoru. Then back at the cat.
“Wow,” you say slowly, turning around to face the grown man cowering behind you. “You, the great Gojo Satoru, feared thief and most wanted man in the entire kingdom, are afraid of a stray cat?”
He scoffs, straightening up as though he hadn’t just used you to hide from a cat. “Afraid? As if. I just didn’t expect it to be so… fast.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It ambushed me.”
You glance at the cat, which is now lying on its side and stretching out luxuriously. It is, unarguably, the most harmless thing you’ve ever seen. You smirk. “I think I’ll keep him.”
Satoru gapes at you. “What? No! That thing has a personal vendetta against me.”
The cat looks up, makes direct eye contact with him, and flicks its tail in a deliberate motion. “Yeah,” you say, grinning, “I like him.”
Your companion groans, rubbing his face. “What are you going to name him?”
You tilt your head, considering. The cat gives an unimpressed meow and swipes a paw at your ankle, before it pads over to you, climbs onto your lap and turns around in a circle. It kneads your thigh before settling down.
“Megumi,” you decide.
“Oh, come on.” Satoru lets out a strangled noise. “That thing is definitely not a blessing.”
Ignoring him, you scratch behind Megumi’s ears absentmindedly, reaching behind with your free hand and grabbing your pack. You undo the drawstring and pull out the loaf of bread; tearing out a chunk, you pop it into your mouth. The cat purrs in satisfaction, settling deeper into your lap.
Satoru watches this betrayal unfold with a deeply wounded expression. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “Two minutes ago, it was out for blood. Now it’s purring like it pays rent.”
You snort, tossing him a piece of bread. He catches it with ease but doesn’t eat it right away, instead tearing at the crust in distracted motions. The fire crackles between you, throwing warm golden light over his features, softening the sharp angles of his face.
You hesitate for only a moment before speaking. “Tell me a story.”
Satoru quirks a brow. “What, like a bedtime story?”
“No, idiot.” You roll your eyes. “Tell me about the capital. I’ve never been past my village.”
“...The capital, hm?” He shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands, and tilts his head skywards. For a moment, he’s quiet. The fire pops, and its glow dances over his cheekbones. Somewhere in the trees above you, an owl hoots. Then, he starts speaking.
“The capital is loud,” he says, “but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of noise that reminds you that you’re alive. The streets smell like roasted chestnuts, chocolate, and something sweet that I’ve never been able to place. No matter where you go, you’ll always be able to hear something—someone haggling in the market, children playing hopscotch, lovers whispering sweet nothings under balconies.”
His voice lowers, almost like he’s letting you in on a secret. “There’s this place, just past the main square. A bookshop, tucked between an apothecary and a tailor. You wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t looking. It’s small—cramped, really—but it smells like ink and old paper, and the owner never minds if you stay too long. When I was younger, I used to sit there for hours, reading about places I’d never been. I’d tell myself I’d see them all someday.”
“And then there’s the bridge,” he continues. “It stretches over the whole river, wide enough for carriages to pass, but if you go at the right time, just before dawn, it’s empty. You can stand in the middle and watch the whole city wake up—lamps flickering out, shutters creaking open, the sky turning from grey to pink to gold. It makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, just for a little while.”
Satoru exhales, and there’s something wistful about the sound. When he looks at you again, there’s a lopsided smile playing on his lips. “Not bad for a bedtime story, huh?”
You blink, caught between the warmth of the fire and the warmth in his voice. “...Tell me more.”
He laughs, bright and careless. “You’re greedy.”
“Maybe.” You shrug, suppressing a smile.
“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” he says, leaning back fully and folding his hands behind his head. “If I tell you too much, you might decide you don’t need to see the capital for yourself, and I’d never get my crown back.”
You glance down at Megumi, still nestled comfortably in your lap, tail flicking lazily. Perhaps it’s the way the thief spoke about it, or maybe it’s the way you’ve always yearned for this, but the thought comes quietly, unbidden: I already want to see it more than ever.
Morning creeps up on you slowly, quietly, peacefully. The fire has burned down to embers, the air is crisp, and the forest hums with the comings-and-goings of woodland creatures. You are warm, bundled in your cloak, Megumi purring against your chest, and for once, Gojo Satoru is quiet.
It’s perfect. Until something snorts directly at your face.
Your eyes snap open just in time to see a giant, pinkish nose inches from your own. Then— Snort. A blast of hot air right into your face. You yelp, scrambling back, only to trip over Satoru’s arm and land hard on your side. The movement startles Megumi, who lets out an indignant yowl and bolts straight onto Satoru’s face, claws out.
“What the Hell—” The man jerks upright with a strangled sound, flailing as Megumi uses him as a launchpad and disappears into the trees. His vest is askew, his hair is sticking up at odd angles, and he looks utterly lost. “What—where—why does my face hurt— Who is attacking me?”
“That!” You point wildly at the culprit.
Standing at the edge of your makeshift campsite, staring you both down like a disappointed parent, is a massive white horse. At first, you’re confused—horses don’t live in the woods, you’re pretty sure. Then you see the crest of the royal family hanging off of its neck, and you grimace. His reins are hanging off the sides of his saddle; he seems like a runaway royal horse. He paws at the dirt, ears pinned back, looking every bit a soldier preparing to arrest a pair of criminals.
Satoru blinks at him. Then at you. Then back at the horse. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
The horse huffs like he can’t believe he has to deal with this nonsense. Then, before either of you can react, he lunges straight for the thief.
“SUKUNA, NO!”
You barely manage to scramble out of the way as Satoru lets out an undignified squawk and rolls out of the way, narrowly avoiding being stomped. He barely has time to get to his feet before Sukuna lunges again, snapping at his cloak.
“What is your problem?!” Satoru screeches, holding his arms up defensively. “I didn’t even do anything—oh, my God—Stop—”
Sukuna does not stop. Instead, he clamps his teeth onto Satoru’s sleeve and drags him sideways.
“He’s arresting me!” Satoru howls, flailing as his feet skid in the dirt. “I’m being detained! Help!”
You double over in laughter. “I—think—he recognises you—”
“Oh, what gave it away? The way he’s dragging me to my demise?”
Sukuna whinnies like he’s insulted by the accusation. As if to prove a point, he yanks even harder—ripping Satoru clean off his feet. He lands on his back with a thud, groaning. Sukuna looms over him, nostrils flaring, clearly debating his next move.
“Okay, okay. I surrender,” Satoru wheezes. “I hereby admit to all my crimes—past, present, and future. Just let me live.”
Sukuna snorts. Satisfied, he steps on Satoru’s stomach for good measure before backing off. You wipe tears from your eyes, your own stomach hurting from laughing too hard. “I think he hates you.”
Satoru groans, draping an arm over his face. “I think I have internal bleeding.”
Megumi, now safely perched atop a tree branch, lets out an approving meow. Sukuna steps back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. His ears flick forward, and he turns to you, huffing expectantly.
You tilt your head. “Oh. I think he likes me.”
“Oh, great,” Satoru says, lifting his head weakly from the ground. “Betrayed by my own travel companion.”
You ignore him, cautiously stepping forward and holding out a hand. Sukuna eyes you warily but doesn’t move away. “You just don’t like him, do you?” you murmur, glancing down at Satoru, who’s still groaning in the dirt.
Sukuna snorts. Satoru lifts a finger from where he’s lying. “That was unnecessary.”
“I think it was perfectly necessary,” you reply sweetly before turning back to Sukuna. He’s still watching you closely, but he doesn’t seem hostile. If anything, his tail flicks once, like he’s waiting for something. Slowly, carefully, you raise a hand to his nose. “You’re not so bad, are you?”
Sukuna leans in, taking a few experimental sniffs before—much to your delight—nudging your palm with his nose. Satoru lifts his head again, gaping at the scene unfolding in front of him. “What the Hell,” he says flatly. “I used to feed you when I was in the palace, you ungrateful beast.”
The horse flicks an ear, unimpressed. Then, as if to drive the point home, he lifts a hoof and kicks dirt in his direction.
You barely stifle a laugh. “I don’t think he remembers you very fondly.”
Satoru groans. “This is what I get for trying to be a good person.”
“You’re a thief.”
“Details.”
You scratch gently at Sukuna’s muzzle, feeling the warm puff of his breath against your fingers. He allows the touch, nuzzling further into your palm. The royal crest on his bridle—the golden emblem of a sun against a dark blue background, the visage of light always conquering darkness—glints in the morning sun. It feels like a reminder of where exactly he’s from.
A warhorse. Loyal to the palace. Loyal to—
You glance at Satoru. He’s watching Sukuna with an expression you can’t quite place. Something distant. Something nostalgic.
“You’re from the palace, then?” you ask softly.
His usual bravado doesn’t come immediately. He props himself up on his elbows, staring at Sukuna like the horse is a relic from a past life—one he hadn’t expected to come face to face with again. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says. “Wouldn’t lie about that.”
Sukuna snorts, stepping closer to you. He’s massive, all muscle and barely-contained energy, and yet he stands still beneath your touch.
“Did you ride him?”
“He wouldn’t let me.” Satoru scowls. “Little bastard always tried to bite me when I got near him.”
The horse huffs, as if to confirm this. You stroke his mane absently, and say, “He seems different now.”
“Yes, well—” Satoru finally gets to his feet, dusting himself off with a wince. “Guess we both are.”
There’s something about the way he says it that makes you think he’s not telling you the whole truth. You decide not to push him further, curious though you may be. You let the silence settle between you both, the rustling of leaves filling the space where conversation might have been.
Finally, Satoru sighs. “Since he’s so smitten with you, does this mean we get a free ride to civilisation?”
“Maybe.” You glance at Sukuna.
“Wonderful!” Satoru says, clapping his hands. “Because I refuse to walk another ten miles while my organs are busy rearranging themselves from being trampled.”
“Let’s see if he’ll let us.” You pat Sukuna’s side reassuringly before turning towards the remnants of your campsite.
The fire has long since dwindled into ash and embers, and your packs are haphazardly strewn about—likely due to your frantic wake-up earlier. Your bag is slumped against the base of a tree, close to where you’d left it. Satoru’s bag is nearby, though considerably messier. One of the straps is half-ripped, and the flap is barely secured. You pick it up, brushing off dirt and leaves.
“You live like this?” you ask, tossing it to him.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Satoru says. He fumbles but manages to catch it, just barely.
“You were cribbing about bread last night,” you remind him, slinging your own pack over your shoulder.
“I wasn’t begging. I was demanding my basic human right to a proper meal.”
Megumi, who had disappeared into the trees during Sukuna’s rampage, reappears, gracefully leaping down from a low-hanging branch. He lands neatly on the ground, flicks his tail, and gives you both what can only be described as the feline equivalent of the stink eye.
Satoru looks at him warily. “Are you sure he isn’t plotting revenge on us?”
“He likes me,” you say, crouching to scratch behind Megumi’s ears. The cat lets out a quiet purr, rubbing his head against your hand in approval.
“Of course, he does.”
“Don’t be jealous.”
Satoru mutters something under his breath that you couldn’t be bothered to listen to properly. You gently pick up Megumi and settle him into the crook of your arm. He doesn’t resist, curling up as if he’d rather not exert the effort to protest. Sukuna, who has been watching this entire exchange with the unimpressed air of a soldier waiting for incompetent recruits to finish fumbling, lets out a sharp huff and stomps his hoof.
You turn to him. “Okay, okay. I’m ready.”
“You know how to ride a horse, right?” Satoru asks, raising an eyebrow.
You pause. “...How hard can it be?”
“That’s not an answer—”
Satoru’s warning goes unheeded; you’re already marching towards Sukuna with the kind of confidence only possessed by someone who has no idea what they’re doing. You place a careful hand on the saddle and hoist yourself up. Or, well, you try to. Your foot barely catches on the stirrup before you wobble, losing balance. The next thing you know, you’re slipping straight off the other side.
Satoru catches you before you can hit the ground, his hands firm around your waist. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
You scowl, pushing yourself upright, but he doesn’t let go right away. You’re close enough to see the way the morning light catches in his eyes, the sharp blue softened by gold. His hands are warm where they steady you. You swallow thickly, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up the back of your neck.
Megumi, disgruntled from the movement, lets out a miffed meow. The spell breaks.
“Alright,” Satoru says. “Let’s try something else before you end up with a concussion.”
You glare at him, dusting off your sleeves as he turns to grab your packs. He ties them securely to the saddle, double-checking the knots before giving Sukuna an approving pat on the neck. The horse swishes his tail but remains otherwise still. Satisfied, Satoru turns back to you, hands on his hips. “Okay, up you go.”
Begrudgingly, you step closer, adjusting your hold on Megumi before reaching for the saddle. Satoru moves before you can think to protest, hands steady around your waist once more as he lifts you effortlessly onto the seat. You let out a startled breath, barely managing to swing your leg over the saddle before scrambling to adjust yourself. Your fingers grip the front of the saddle so tightly, the hard leather digs into your palms. Megumi, situated against your chest and in between your arms, flicks his tail against your face.
Sukuna shifts beneath you, muscles rippling underneath his sleek coat. You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. You’ve never ridden a horse before.
The thought doesn’t sink in until you’re actually up here, perched atop a beast far larger and stronger than you, with only a few flimsy leather straps keeping you from falling to the ground. For all the bravado you’ve shown so far, you have to admit that you’re terrified.
“See?” Satoru drawls, stepping back. “Much better. Was that so scary?”
“No,” you lie.
The thief studies you for a moment, and then comments, “You’re a terrible liar.”
You give him a withering look, but he’s already moving—grabbing the front of the saddle and swinging himself up behind you in one smooth motion.
“Satoru—!”
Your protest is cut short when he settles in, his chest pressing flush against your back. He’s warm—too warm (or is that you?)—and suddenly, all your attention is split between the solid, sturdy weight of him behind you, and the hands that reach around you, easily taking the reins.
“Relax,” he says, voice lower than usual. “I’ll steer.”
Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you don’t think it has anything to do with the horse anymore. “I wasn’t scared,” you mutter, but there is no conviction in your voice, even to your own ears.
Satoru leans in just slightly, breath ghosting against the side of your face. He chuckles, the sound reverberating against your back, and says, “I’m sure you weren’t.”
You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you stay quiet, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of Sukuna’s steps once he starts moving—and despite your determination to remain oblivious to Gojo Satoru and his presence, you can’t ignore the way his arms remain loosely draped around you, or the way he shifts ever so slightly when the horse moves, keeping you steady without saying a word. It’s natural, the way he adjusts to you, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like he doesn’t even need to think about it.
The woods stretch ahead, quiet and endless, but all you can focus on is the sound of your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.
“Tell me more about the palace.”
The rhythmic sway of Sukuna beneath you is oddly soothing, each hoofbeat settling into a steady, lulling cadence. You tilt your head back slightly, feeling the warmth of Satoru’s chest where he sits behind you. His arms are still lightly caged around you, as he guides the reins like it’s second nature to him. Megumi, no longer content with being curled up against your chest, perches himself on the base of the horse’s neck, swiping lazily at Sukuna’s mane every now and then. The horse flicks his ears in annoyance but does not stop him.
Satoru hums, considering your request. “What do you want to know?”
“I don’t know,” you admit, eyes drifting upwards, towards the slivers of blue sky beneath the trees. “What was it like?”
“Well, it’s exactly what you’d expect,” he says. “Tall, grand, and filled with old men who love to hear themselves talk.”
You huff out a silent laugh. “Sounds charming.”
“Oh, it’s a real dream. The walls are lined with marble, the kind that catches the light just right in the mornings, almost as if the whole place is glowing. The halls stretch wider than some villages, with paintings hanging on the walls that tell stories older than anyone can remember. And the ceilings—” He shakes his head, his chin brushing against the back of yours. “So high it feels like you could reach the sky if you just climbed a little higher.”
There’s something distant in his voice, something wistful and melancholic and fond. “You make it sound very beautiful,” you say quietly.
“Because it is. It’s meant to be. A symbol of power—of control. A kingdom that shines so brightly, no one knows about the shadows it casts.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, but his expression is stony. That easy drawl of his is still there, but beneath it, something festers—and it makes you hesitate before you press further.
“And you?” you ask. “Where did you belong in all of that?”
Satoru exhales through his nose, a slow, measured sound. “Wherever they needed me.”
It’s not an answer, but it tells you enough. You let the silence stretch, waiting to see if he will offer more. He does.
“The training grounds were always my favourite.” His voice drops slightly, thoughtful. “They were tucked away behind the east wing, away from all the silk and the gold. You could hear the clash of swords from sunrise to sundown.” He pauses, then adds, almost to himself, “You never forget the sound.”
A soldier, you think. Or something close to it. It makes sense—the way he carries himself; the way he moves, like he’s always aware of every possible escape route; the way he knows so much about the kingdom and the capital.
You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you ask, “Did you like it?”
“I liked knowing what was expected of me.” A beat of silence, and then, “But I was never very good at following orders.”
A soft breeze cuts through the trees, rustling the leaves and cooling the warmth of the sun against your skin. “Is that why you left?” you ask carefully.
Satoru chuckles, but there’s no real humour to the sound. “Oh, I didn’t leave.” His fingers tighten around the reins, just a little. “I was sent away.”
The words are heavy. You don’t push. Sukuna continues forward, steady and unbothered, the sound of his hooves filling the silence that follows. You focus on the road ahead, on the sunlight filtering through the trees, on Satoru’s warmth behind you.
When he finally speaks again, voice lighter, teasing, you let him steer the conversation away. Somehow, you get the sense that when he’s ready, he’ll tell you the rest.
The afternoon sun begins to dip, casting long shadows through the trees. The road ahead winds towards the hills, where a small village is nestled between the slopes. You’ll have to pass through it to get to the capital, according to Satoru. Smoke rises lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood and roasting meat carrying faintly on the breeze.
Satoru shifts slightly. “Looks like we’ve made it before sundown.”
Megumi meows, flicking his tail before settling back down; you reach forward and scratch in between his ears, absent-mindedly. The thought of a warm meal and a real bed makes your shoulders sag with relief. The past few nights have been spent beneath open skies, wrapped up in your cloak that barely keeps the chill away.
“You think we’ll find an inn?” you ask, glancing behind.
“Unless it’s run by a hermit who hates money, yeah,” Satoru says. “Though I wouldn’t count on a royal welcome.”
That much is obvious. Travellers are rare in villages like these—strangers even more so. Your presence will not go unnoticed.
As you pass the first row of wooden houses, heads begin to turn. A blacksmith, hammer paused mid-swing, watches you warily from his forge. A woman gathering water casts a cautious glance before whispering something to the child at her side. Even the baker, hands dusted in flour, spares you a lingering look.
Satoru doesn’t seem fazed. “Friendly place.”
“Maybe they’d be friendlier if you weren’t grinning like you had a bounty on your head,” you mutter.
“I think we both know they wouldn’t be wrong about that.”
That sends a sharp prickle down your spine. You don’t respond.
The village square is small, paved with uneven stone and lined with merchant stalls. Most are already closed for the day, wooden shutters drawn and lanterns lit. Near the far edge, tucked between a tailor’s shop and a grain store, stands an inn. The wooden beams are weathered with age, but the sign above the entrance is freshly painted—The Fuzzy Duckling, it reads, complete with a crude drawing of a yellow duck underneath. The scent of stew and ale wafts through the open doorway.
Satoru nudges Sukuna to the stable. “We’ll rest here.”
You dismount first, stretching your legs as Satoru swings down beside you. Megumi jumps off the horse’s back and lands gracefully on the thief’s shoulder.
The inn is dimly lit, the glow of lanterns casting flickering silhouettes. The scent of firewood, damp earth, and something vaguely sweet lingers in the air. It’s fairly empty, though you suspect that’s just because of the early hour. Wooden tables and stools lay barren, with empty tin jugs placed on each table. Behind the counter, a man leans lazily against the wall, watching you both with sharp, hooded eyes. His dark hair is slicked back, and there’s a faint scar on his jawline. He doesn’t say anything as he steps forward.
“Hey, hey, look who it is!” Satoru grins, though, by now, you’ve spent enough time with him to know it’s fake. “If it isn’t my favourite innkeeper, Shiu. Did’ya finally get rid of all the mould growing in your wine cellar? I don’t know if it was the mould or the age, but it sure tasted weird the last time I was here.”
Shiu smirks. “Been wonderin’ when you’d show up again, Gojo.”
You look between them, sensing familiarity, though not necessarily the friendly kind. “We need a room,” Satoru says, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Think you can manage that, old man?”
“Call me that again,” Shiu says, “and I’ll leave you to sleep outside with the horse. The lady will get a room for free, of course.”
You tense at his words, not enjoying the way the man’s gaze rakes over your body before settling back to Satoru. You get the feeling the thief notices too, because he moves closer to you, shoulder brushing against yours. “Ah, well,” he says. “I’m afraid that’s not negotiable.”
“Relax,” the innkeeper says. “I’m not a skirt-chaser. You can keep your woman with you. Room’s at the end of the hall. Payment upfront.”
Satoru flicks a coin onto the counter. Shiu catches it easily, giving it a quick once-over before pocketing it. As Satoru turns towards the stairs, something catches your eye near the entrance—sheets of parchment tacked to a wooden board. Your eyes snag on one in particular.
A wanted poster.
The ink is bold despite the crumpled paper. The sketch is rough but unmistakable—wild white hair, sharp features, a grin that barely conceals its arrogance.
WANTED—DEAD OR ALIVEREWARD: 100 GOLD COINS
Your stomach twists. Satoru follows your gaze and sighs. “Damn. They just can’t get my nose right.”
“This isn’t funny,” you whisper.
“It’s a little funny.” Satoru’s grin widens, but you don’t miss the tautness in his shoulders. He nudges you gently towards the stairs. “Come on, let’s get some rest.”
Shiu watches you both go, smiling, but his gaze follows too long for comfort. Your chest constricts. The room at the end of the hall is small but serviceable—one bed, a rickety wooden chair, and a window with a view of the village square outside. The floor creaks under your boots as you step inside. Megumi jumps onto the bed immediately, curling up near the pillows, flicking his tail once before settling.
Satoru stretches with a groan, rolling his shoulders. “Cozy.”
You sigh, pressing your forehead against the cool windowpane. The village outside is quiet, bathed in early moonlight, but the unease gnawing at your stomach refuses to fade. “I don’t like this,” you murmur. “The way Shiu looked at you—”
“He always looks at me like that,” the thief says, sounding far too chipper than he probably should.
“Satoru.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “We won’t stay long. You can take the bed. I’ll use the chair.”
The exhaustion from days on the road pulls at your limbs. You don’t bother arguing; sleep finds you much faster than expected.
You wake to the sound of boots in the hallway. Your breath catches. This isn’t the usual creak of old wood settling—this is deliberate. Heavy. Purposeful.
Your eyes dart to Satoru. He’s already awake, sitting rigid on the chair, blue eyes alert even in the darkness. His hand moves instinctively to his belt, where he’d shown you his dagger rests a day back, hidden.
A knock echoes against the door.
“Room service,” Shiu’s oily voice drawls from the other side.
Your blood runs cold. Satoru doesn’t answer. He tilts his head, listening. You strain your ears too, heart hammering—there’s a faint shift of fabric. The sound of leather gloves flexing. Someone adjusting their grip on a sheathed blade.
Satoru curses under his breath. “Son of a—”
The crash comes a second later.
The door splinters inward, sending shards of wood flying. You barely manage to roll off the bed before a knife thuds into the headboard where you had just been lying. A figure stands in the ruined doorway: Tall, broad, dressed in black. A jagged scar cuts across the side of his mouth.
You don’t recognise him, but Satoru does. His entire posture shifts—his usual cocky, easygoing stance sharpens, muscles tensing. A slow, tight exhale leaves him as he pushes himself to his feet.
The man in the doorway tilts his head, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. You can just make out a jagged scar cutting across his mouth. “Been a while, Gojo,” he says.
Satoru’s lips press together in a thin line. “Not long enough.”
You glance between them, a creeping unease settling in your bones. Whoever this man is, Satoru knows him—and he doesn’t like him. The stranger takes a lazy step forward, boots crunching over the splintered wood. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flick to you for a moment before settling back on Satoru. “Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to walk back in here, with a beautiful lady by your side and a bounty on your head, too. Guess you really wanted to see me again.”
“Trust me, Fushiguro—” Satoru’s jaw ticks— “I’d rather be anywhere but here.”
Fushiguro. The name means nothing to you, but the way Satoru spits it out like a curse sends a prickle of warning down your spine. The man clicks his tongue, his smirk widening. He twirls another dagger in his fingers, casual, lazy. “Did I wake you? Sorry to have disturbed your evening, but—”
Satoru moves faster than breath, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back towards the window just as another blade whizzes past his ear, missing him by an inch. Megumi hisses, darting into your arms and scrabbling onto your shoulder. You don’t even feel the pain where his claws dig into your skin.
Fushiguro lets out a low, amused chuckle. “Running already? C’mon now, Gojo. You’re making this too easy.”
Satoru kicks the window open. “Hold onto me.”
“What—”
And then he jumps.
The wind rushes past as the two of you and the cat drop down, the world blurring around you. You barely register the impact—Satoru lands with a practiced roll, keeping you close, his arms tight around you as he shifts the force of the landing onto himself. Your pulse is roaring in your ears.
Above, Fushiguro leans lazily out of the open window, tilting his head condescendingly. “You’re just making this more fun.”
Satoru doesn’t wait. He grabs your wrist and runs. The streets are quiet, the village mostly asleep, but your footfalls pound against the dirt. Behind you, you hear the faint creak of wood—Fushiguro dropping down from the second story without a sound, graceful as a damn cat.
The thief yanks you towards the stables. “Get Sukuna. Now.”
You don’t argue. The stable doors slam open as you shove inside. Sukuna snorts, stomping his hooves in agitation. You fumble for the reins. “What about—”
Satoru turns just as Fushiguro appears in the doorway. Everything slows.
The light from the lanterns flickers against his dark silhouette. He’s alone, not a single other mercenary in sight. But somehow, that makes it worse. In the darkness, it feels like he’s pressing down on the space, filling every corner, every shadow.
He moves—a flash of steel—and Satoru shoves you back. The blade slices through the air where his throat had been a second before. He ducks low, twisting away, and kicks. His foot slams against Fushiguro’s side, sending him skidding back a step—but Fushiguro barely reacts, barely blinks, like he had been expecting it.
He strikes again. You barely see the knife coming before Satoru dodges, his movements sharp and fluid. The stable door splinters as the blade embeds itself in the wood.
Satoru grits his teeth. “Go!”
But you—curse your damn cowardice—hesitate. Fushiguro notices. His foot pivots—he lunges for you. A flash of fear tightens in your chest—
But Satoru is there. He grabs Fushiguro’s wrist mid-strike, twisting it brutally. Fushiguro growls as Satoru hurls him backwards, sending him crashing into a pile of hay bales.
“Get on the damn horse,” Satoru orders, breathless. He swings himself onto Sukuna’s back, pulling you up after him, Megumi leaping onto the horse in time with you.
You barely have time to wrap your arms around his waist before he kicks off. Sukuna surges forward, hooves pounding against the dirt road as you tear through the village, leaving the inn—and the very pissed-off bounty hunter—behind.
Behind you, there’s a sound—something sharp, fast—whistling through the air. Satoru jerks the reins, pulling sharply to the side. A blade embeds itself into the wooden post just ahead of you, still quivering from the force of impact.
“Shit,” the thief breathes. “He’s not giving up.”
You don’t look back. You don’t dare to. The village gate is just ahead. If you can get past it, you might have a chance of losing him. Megumi wails, digging his claws into your cloak, ears flat against his head.
Satoru leans forward. “Come on, come on—”
Sukuna bursts out of the gates. Fushiguro curses loudly behind you, but it sounds far away, swallowed down by the horse’s thunderous galloping. You tighten your grasp around Satoru and squeeze your eyes shut. (You might be imagining it, but you swear you feel one of his hands cover your own, a gentle brush of his palm against the back of yours.)
The fire crackles weakly, providing warmth against the cold night air. Sukuna, exhausted from his earlier run, tucks his legs underneath himself and settles down near it. Megumi curls up next to him and begins washing himself. The stream nearby gurgles and bubbles merrily.
The fight is over, the adrenaline long faded, but still, the stress of it all loiters like a phantom pressing against your ribs. Your shoulder throbs now, where the cat had dug his claws into the skin, but thankfully, it isn’t bleeding. Your hands are shaking. You dig your fingers into the earth, trying to steady yourself.
Satoru stands a few feet away, pacing, his boots crushing twigs and dried leaves. His breath comes fast and hard, back rigid with frustration. His coat is torn at the shoulder, and there’s a thin line of blood trailing down his forearm.
You should say something. Thank him, maybe. Apologise. But the words stay stuck in your throat.
“What the fuck what that?”
You flinch, but his voice keeps coming, sharp and cutting.
“You froze—I told you to move, and you just stood there.” His hands come up, then drop to his sides. “You could’ve died.”
You bite your lip, shame curling hot beneath your skin, but his anger makes something inside you snap. “I was caught off-guard—”
“No shit!” he bites out. “You don’t get to be caught off-guard, not in the middle of a fight!”
“I didn’t ask to be in a fight!” you snap. “I’m not—” You exhale sharply, hands curling into fists. “I’m not like you, Gojo. I’m not a fucking thief who’s used to running for my life every other night.”
His jaw tightens. “So it’s my fault now?”
“Isn’t it?” You throw your arms out. “If you weren’t on the face of every damn wanted poster from here to the mountains, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
Satoru lets out a bitter, humourless laugh. “Right. Because I’m the one who dragged us into this.”
“You are—”
“No,” he cuts in, eyes flashing. “If it wasn’t for your stupid, fucking dream, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”
The words slam into you like a fist to the gut. A cold wind rustles through the leaves, stirring the dying fire. Sukuna neighs lowly from where he’s sat near the flames, but you barely hear him over the ringing in your ears.
Your stupid, fucking dream. The dream you’d held onto for years, the one that had kept you going, had pushed you forward through every hardship. Your throat tightens. “That’s not fair.”
“Oh, it’s not fair? You had no idea what you were asking for when you dragged me along on this little adventure of yours. Now, we’re running for our lives in the middle of nowhere, because you had to see some damn lanterns.”
The way he says it—like your dream is nothing more than a childish whim—makes something ugly twist inside you. “You know what, Gojo?” Your voice shakes, but not from fear. “At least I have a dream.”
His expression darkens.
“At least I want something, something that isn’t just running and stealing and barely surviving,” you press on, chest heaving. “But you? What do you want, Satoru? Huh?” You step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Do you even have an answer, or are you just going to keep laughing everything off like you always do?”
His lips part, but no words come out. For the first time since you’ve met him, Gojo Satoru is speechless. But it only lasts a second. His gaze flickers, something unreadable flashing through his eyes before his mask slams back into place. He lets out a sharp breath, his expression twisting into something cruel.
“You think you’re better than me?” He steps forward now, and you don’t back away. “You think just because you’ve got some dream, you’re any different?” His voice lowers, turning razor-sharp. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart—dreams don’t mean shit when you’re dead.”
Your breath hitches.
“Out here, it’s about surviving. That’s it.” He gestures between you. “And the only reason you’re still breathing is because I’ve been watching your back.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate that you froze. You hate that, for all your fighting words, you hadn’t been able to do anything when it mattered most. Perhaps worst of all, you hate that he saw.
Satoru exhales, shaking his head. “Forget it,” he says. “I’m going to get food.”
He turns and stalks off into the woods. You don’t call after him, because you don’t trust your voice not to break. The moment Satoru disappears into the trees, the night feels oppressive, like the darkness is closing in on you.
You stand there for a long time, fists clenched at your sides, staring at the spot where he walked off. Sukuna shifts in his sleep. Megumi’s breathing is slow and even. You should rest. You should scrounge through whatever leftover supplies you have from your village and find something to eat.
But your chest feels tight, like there’s a rope around your ribs, pulling, pulling— With a shuddering inhale, you turn and walk towards the stream.
The water is cold when you dip your fingers in, crouching beside it. The icy surface reflects the moon’s pale light. You stare at your own reflection, at the way your lips tremble, at the redness creeping into your eyes. You squeeze them shut. It’s fine. You’re fine.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, willing the burning away. But the second you take a shaky breath, it hits you all at once—the fear, the frustration, the exhaustion weighing on your bones. A choked sound leaves your throat before you can stop it.
You shouldn’t be crying. You don’t want to cry, but the argument replays in your mind over and over—Satoru’s voice laced with anger, the way he threw your dream back in your face like it was nothing.
He doesn’t understand, you think. But is he right?
What were you thinking? That you could drag a thief to the capital and expect everything to go smoothly? That the world would just let you chase your dream, no consequences, no danger? Maybe your dream really is foolish. Maybe you are naïve for believing that you could just waltz into the capital and see the lantern festival without any repercussions. Maybe—just maybe—Gojo Satoru regrets ever having met you.
The thought makes something inside you crack, the pressure behind your eyes spilling over. A broken sob escapes, and then another, your shoulders shaking as you press a hand against your mouth, desperate to smother the sounds.
A hand lands on your shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, jerking away, heart racing—
“It’s just me.” The voice is quiet but unmistakable.
Your breath stutters. Satoru crouches beside you. His presence is warm despite the chill in the air, and you realise now how cold you’ve gotten, how your legs have gone numb from sitting in the same position for too long.
You quickly wipe at your eyes, turning away. “Go away, Satoru.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he sighs heavily and shifts so he’s sitting right next to you, close enough that his knee bumps against yours. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I was a dick.”
You blink.
“I mean, I’m usually a dick,” he continues, gazing at the water, resting his elbows on his knees. “But that was… excessive. I didn’t mean—” He stops. Tries again. “Your dream isn’t stupid.”
Your voice is small when you ask, “Then why did you say that?”
“I just… When you froze back there—” His voice is quieter now, almost hoarse. “I thought you were gonna die.”
You swallow hard. He murmurs, “I’ve seen people freeze like that before. And they didn’t walk away from it.”
“I did walk away,” you whisper, not sure if it’s the right thing to say.
“Yeah.” He turns his head, meeting your eyes properly for the first time since the fight. “You did.”
There’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time. Or, maybe, like he’s seeing too much. You don’t know who moves first, but his hand is covering yours, warm and solid. His grip is hesitant at first, but when you don’t pull away, his fingers tighten around yours. You squeeze his hand back. Neither of you speak.
The fire crackles behind you. The water rushes softly. The moon watches from above.
Gojo Satoru, you think, is an enigma wrapped in glib promises and endless grins. You wonder if it’s his coping mechanism. He’s intelligent, quick-witted and silver-tongued. He’s good at fighting. You want to ask him why they sent him away from the palace, but you don’t think you have the right to. He always seems torn about it, when he’s spoken to you about it before—like it’s a bittersweet part of his life that he’s not very keen on revisiting.
He must have been something before turning to thievery. You stare at him like he’s a particularly intriguing puzzle, walking next to him. He guides Sukuna loosely by the reins; only Megumi is perched on his back, you and Satoru having favoured your own two feet instead of the back aches and leaden legs that come with extended periods of horseback riding.
“If you wanted to stare at my face so badly, I could’ve nicked the wanted poster back at Shiu’s inn,” Satoru says, not bothering to look at you.
Your cheeks prickle with heat. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble.
The night air is cool against your skin; the wind carries the scent of damp earth and distant firewood, the kind of smell that reminds you of home—though, truthfully, you’re not sure what home even is to you anymore. Maybe it’s the road beneath your feet, the anticipation and uncertainty that comes with weeks of travel. Maybe it’s this: Walking beside a thief who used to be something more, who still is something more, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise.
Satoru doesn’t say anything for a long time, but his arm brushes against the side of yours, familiar in a way that’s almost comforting. The dirt path winds through the trees. The occasional torch flickers in the distance, marking the outskirts of the city. Sukuna snorts softly, and Megumi’s ears twitch as he scans the darkness ahead.
Eventually, Satoru speaks again. “It’s rude to stare and not share your thoughts.”
“I was just thinking,” you huff.
“Dangerous pastime.”
You kick a loose pebble from the path. “I was thinking about you.”
He makes a low, amused sound in his throat. “How nice of you. I knew you liked me, but I didn’t think I occupied your thoughts so thoroughly.”
You don’t rise to the bait this time. “I was thinking,” you say, “about what you were before this. You told me once you were from the palace, but you never really told me why they sent you away.”
Satoru is quiet for a moment. The leaves rustle around you, and you tug your cloak tighter around your shoulders.
“They trained me to be a soldier,” he says, finally, softly. “Me and—” He stops, swallowing the words like they taste bitter.
“And…?” You prompt. Your steps slow.
His grip tightens around the reins. “And someone else,” he finishes. “My best friend.”
The way he says it makes your chest ache. Satoru clears his throat and continues, “They trained us young. Said we had a gift for it. A gift for war, for strategy and battle.” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “But a soldier only has value if he follows orders. And I wasn’t very good at that.”
You don’t push him to say more, though questions press against the tip of your tongue. The capital looms closer, the distant glow of lanterns casting an orange hue against the horizon. The trees begin to thin, giving way to rolling hills and farmland. In the distance, you can just make out the towering walls that guard the city, their stone surfaces illuminated by torches.
As you near the outer gates, the sleepiness of the countryside fades into the vibrant pulse of the capital. Even at this late hour, the city is alive, breathing, stretching its limbs in the form of flickering lights and distant laughter. You can hear the clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the occasional shout of a merchant still trying to haggle his wares, raucous debates from the inside of taverns. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, of damp stone and burning oil. It’s overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your chest tighten with something too big to name.
The capital. Your dream.
Satoru slows Sukuna to a halt just before the stone walls of the capital, guiding him off the main road and into the cover of a surrounding thicket. You follow, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. The trail here is narrow and overgrown, winding through the roots of old trees. Sukuna moves easily, his hooves barely making a sound against the packed dirt. When the city walls finally loom ahead, Satoru pulls on the reins, bringing the stallion to a stop beneath the shadows of an ancient oak.
“This is where we part ways,” the thief says, patting lightly on Sukuna’s saddle.
Megumi’s dark ears twitch, catching every sound, his green eyes narrowing at the imposing walls. The cat hops off the horse’s back. He’s been tense since you approached the capital; he doesn’t like unfamiliar places, and the sprawling city is anything but.
Satoru tugs the reins over Sukuna’s head and leads him to a sturdy tree, securing him with deft hands. He runs a palm along the stallion’s neck in reassurance before crouching to do the same with Megumi. The cat lets out a mrow but doesn’t resist when Satoru scratches him behind his torn ear.
“You stay here and watch Sukuna, yeah? Be good,” he says, tapping him once on the head before straightening and unhooking your weather-beaten packs tied to Sukuna’s saddle and tossing them over his shoulder.
“You’re leaving them here?” you ask, glancing between the horse and the cat. It feels strange to abandon them at the outskirts, but you suppose it would be impossible to smuggle a massive stallion and a stray cat through the streets of the capital.
“Not leaving,” Satoru explains. “Just letting them sit this one out. Sukuna’s too big, and Megumi doesn’t care for crowds.”
You hesitate. Satoru doesn’t give you time to dwell on it, already striding ahead. You follow him through a break in the trees, slipping past the walls through a hidden opening you never would’ve noticed on your own. The dirt beneath your feet slowly gives way to stone and lamp-light.
By the time you emerge into the streets, the towering stone walls are behind you, replaced by the overwhelming grandeur of the inner city.
You barely notice the way your breath catches in your throat, too preoccupied with taking it all in. The streets are narrower here, winding and twisting, labyrinth-like. The buildings loom taller than any you’ve ever seen, their façades adorned with intricate carvings and delicate ivy creeping up the sides. Ornate balconies overlook the streets, their silk curtains swaying with the breeze, and the warm glow of candlelight flickers in every window.
A vendor still lingers at his stall, selling roasted chestnuts wrapped in parchment, the rich scent making your stomach grumble faintly. A group of masked performers twirls in the city square, their laughter bright and musical. A nobleman in embroidered silks strides past with a pretty woman on his arm, their voices hushed as they slip into a gilded carriage.
It’s stupendous.
You don’t realise how close you’ve pressed to Satoru, your shoulder pressing into his arm. He notices, of course—he notices everything—but he doesn’t comment. He simply keeps moving, weaving through the crowd with the sort of confidence that only comes with someone who has walked these streets their entire life.
“Stick close,” Satoru tells you. “It’s easy to get lost if you don’t know your way around.”
The deeper into the city you go, the grander the architecture becomes. The modest stone buildings give way to towering structures of marble, their columns wrapped in flowering vines, their streets lined with lush greenery and carved statues. The roads widen, no longer cramped and twisting, but sprawling and lined with golden lanterns. Then—
Your breath stutters as you step into an open courtyard, and there, standing tall and regal under the silver glow of the moon, is the palace.
It’s massive, far grander than you ever could have imagined. White stone gleams under the warm lights, intricate carvings adorning every arch and column. The banners of the royal family ripple in the cool night breeze, deep blue with the yellow royal sigil against the ivory walls. The golden spires reach towards the heavens, their tips catching the light of the stars, as if they themselves are part of the sky.
Awe roots you to the spot. For years, you’ve dreamed of this place; of seeing it with your own eyes. Now that you’re here, it doesn’t feel real.
Satoru stops beside you, watching you quietly, blue eyes twinkling. With a smile curling at his lips, the thief tilts his head towards you and murmurs, “Well, sweetheart. Welcome to the capital.”
Satoru says he knows a place where both of you can spend the next three days until the lantern festival commences. You don’t believe him, especially after what happened the last time with Shiu and the bounty hunter. He had glared at you, deeply affronted, said, “Your lack of faith in me is appalling,” and then proceeded to lead you back towards the inner city.
“Remember that bookshop I was telling you about?” he asks, rounding a corner.
“I remember,” you say.
“The former owner’s son runs it now,” Satoru says. “He’ll let us stay there.”
You don’t deign to reply, still drinking in everything—the towering buildings, the banners hanging from balconies, the cobblestone streets that shine under the flickering lights. Shopfronts boast their trinkets and fine silks, while street vendors call out to passersby, offering skewers of sizzling meat and honey-dipped pastries.
It’s strange. The world you have known until now has always been smaller. Quieter. Even in the busiest towns, even in the places where merchants and travelers gathered, there was never anything like this. The capital, you think, is a city that never sleeps; a city that belongs to people like Satoru—people who thrive in movement, in laughter, in places where the streets are never empty and there’s always something new waiting around the corner.
You tune out the thief talking beside you. He’s rambling about something, making some quip about your starry-eyed expression. The city is so alive, so rich with colour and movement, that it fills every space in your mind.
A sharp tug at your wrist yanks you back just as a carriage rushes past, wheels rattling violently against the stones where you’d been standing a second ago. The force of it stirs your cloak, wind whistling against your cheek. The shock of it doesn’t register right away. You stumble, your body pulled by something—someone—solid and hard.
Satoru’s arm is firm around your waist, his fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist where he pulled you. The warmth of him is undeniable, even through layers of fabric. He holds you against him, close enough that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your breath is stuck somewhere in your throat, heart pounding against your ribs. You hadn’t even noticed you’d stepped into the carriage’s path, hadn’t realised how dangerously close you’d come to being trampled beneath its wheels.
Satoru exhales slowly above you, his grip tightening for a brief second before relaxing. “Gawking at the scenery is nice and all, but I’d rather not have to scrape you off the road.”
“I wasn’t gawking,” you mumble, more out of reflex than actual protest. Your stomach flips, though whether it’s from embarrassment or something else entirely, you’re not sure.
“You were,” he murmurs, but the teasing lilt in his voice is absent. His fingers, still wrapped around your wrist, loosen just slightly—but he doesn’t let go.
Instead, his grip shifts. His fingers slide down, intertwining with yours, palm pressing firmly against your own. He’s holding your hand. A warmth unfurls inside your chest, one that you don’t quite know how to name.
The two of you weave through the crowd like that, his fingers still tangled with yours, warmth bleeding into your skin with every step.
Satoru doesn’t let go until you round the next corner. The streets narrow, becoming quieter. The clamour of the main road fades behind you, replaced by the occasional murmur of voices from dimly-lit taverns and the sound of the wind rustling through laundry lines strung between buildings. The air smells of damp stone, faintly sweet and petrichor-like.
You clear your throat, trying to ignore the persisting warmth of Satoru’s touch even after he lets go. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he continues ahead. You wonder how often he’s taken this path—how many times he’s disappeared into the quiet corners of the city, both as a thief and as a soldier-in-training.
Eventually, he stops in front of a small, weathered shop tucked between a tailor’s boutique and an apothecary. The wooden sign above the door sways slightly in the breeze, the faint, worn lettering just barely readable. Nanami’s Books.
It doesn’t look like much from the outside. The wooden shutters are drawn, the paint on the door slightly chipped, but there’s something sturdy about it—something dependable, like it’s been here for years, and will remain standing for years to come. A single candle flickers behind the window, casting a warm glow through the glass.
Satoru raps his knuckles against the door. “Nanami,” he calls, sing-song.
The door creaks open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair, wearing a crisp, white tunic, and an expression so unimpressed, one would think Satoru had just asked to rob the place. “No.”
“Nanami,” Satoru coos, grinning.
“No,” Nanami repeats, firmer this time, as if sheer repetition will make him disappear.
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
Nanami sighs wearily, bringing up a hand and rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “You’re going to ask if you can stay here.”
Satoru places a hand over his chest, wounded. “What, no warm welcome? No, ‘Satoru, my dear friend, I’ve missed you’?”
“I’ve never said that to you in my life.”
“The lack of hospitality here is astounding.”
Nanami does not dignify that with a response. Instead, his gaze shifts to you. His scrutiny is wary but not unkind, expression flickering with mild curiosity. You shift slightly under his gaze, unsure of what he’s looking for.
“You’re new,” he says.
You nod. “First time in the capital.”
“And what trouble has Gojo dragged you into?”
The corners of your mouth lift up in a smile; Nanami seems like someone you can get along with—a kindred spirit in the art of pushing Gojo Satoru’s buttons. The thief, of course, doesn’t share the same sentiment. He gasps, offended, and says, “Why do you assume it’s trouble?”
“Are you really asking me that?” the bookshop owner asks dryly. He sighs, visibly considering whether allowing Satoru into his home is worth the inevitable headache. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, a gesture that suggests this is not the first time he’s found himself in this exact situation. “How long do you plan on staying here?”
“Two nights,” Satoru answers. “Just until the festival.”
“Fine.” Nanami’s shoulders slump as he reluctantly steps aside. “But if you so much as breathe near my ledger—”
“You’re the best.” Satoru claps a hand on his shoulder before he can finish, flashing a triumphant grin. Nanami, on the other hand, looks like he instantly regrets his decision.
Inside, the bookshop is lit by candlelight, the scent of parchment and ink thick in the air. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, packed with books that look well-loved and well-worn. The floorboards creak softly underfoot, and a single lamp flickers on the counter beside an open ledger, its pages filled with neath, meticulous handwriting.
“The loft is upstairs,” Nanami says, rubbing his temples. “Try not to destroy anything.”
“No promises,” Satoru says cheerfully.
You follow him up the narrow staircase, stepping into the small loft above the shop. The space is simple—two mattresses perpendicular to each other, pushed against the wall, a low table, and a window overlooking the street below. Dust lingers in the corners, the scent of old parchment soaked into the very walls. There’s no extravagance here, nothing grand or gilded, but it’s warm and lived-in.
Satoru throws himself onto a mattress with no ceremony, arms spread as he sighs dramatically. “See?” he says, peering up at you. “Told you I knew a place.”
You roll your eyes, but despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips.
You wake up to the sounds of an argument in the shop below. The mattress is lumpy and a little hard, but it beats sleeping on the forest floor with nothing but your cloak separating you from the cold earth. Satoru’s mattress looks the same as it did last night—the covers placed meticulously and tucked into the sides, the pillow not creased, as though he hadn’t slept at all. A quick glance around the loft leads you to find a wooden basin filled with water. You pad over to it and splash your face once, twice. The water is cool against your skin. You rub the gunk out of your eyes.
It seems the argument isn’t going to abate anytime soon. Nanami’s voice rises, and, cautiously, you make your way out of the door and pad over to the top of the staircase so you can hear better.
“You’re a fool,” the bookshop owner says. “I told you that months ago, and yet here you are. Again.”
Satoru sounds almost amused when he replies, “Well, hello. What happened to good morning?”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
A beat. You shift onto the first step, careful to keep your steps light.
“I appreciate the concern, Nanami,” Satoru says. “Really. But you should know by now that I’m impossible to kill.”
“That isn’t the point.” There’s the sound of something hitting the counter—a book, maybe, or Nanami’s palm pressing against the wood as he fights for patience. “You’re still chasing this—this ridiculous theory? After everything?”
Your fingers tighten around the bannister. “It isn’t ridiculous,” the thief says, quieter this time.
Nanami scoffs, dry and unimpressed. “You’re gambling with your life for a theory you can’t even prove.”
“That’s the point, Nanami,” Satoru counters, sharp. “I have to prove it.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” Nanami says, and there’s something frayed at the edges of his voice, something that sounds a lot like concern buried under layers of irritation. “You could leave this alone. Walk away before—”
“Before what?”
“You know what.”
For a moment, neither of them speak. The words sit heavy in the air, thick enough that you almost feel them pressing against your skin. Nanami exhales. “And even if you’re determined to be a reckless idiot,” he says, voice cooler now, “what gives you the right to drag someone else into this?”
You stiffen at the mention of yourself. Satoru clicks his tongue. “Oh, come on. I didn’t drag her into anything.”
“She’s here, isn’t she?”
“She dragged me here. She made that choice herself.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s choosing,” Nanami snaps. “Tell me, Gojo, did you bother explaining anything, or did you simply try to charm her skirts off and decide that was enough?”
“I can be persuasive if I want, you know.”
“Insane. You’re insane, and I want nothing more than to—”
You’re not sure what compels you to move, but you step down the stairs, making your way towards them before the argument can escalate any further. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s annoyance, maybe it’s the simple fact that you’re irked at being talked about like you aren’t standing just a few feet away. At the sound of your footsteps, both men turn.
Nanami regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze. Satoru runs a hand through his hair, but grins at you. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he greets. “Enjoy your beauty rest?”
You give him a withering look before turning to Nanami. “What’s going on?”
“That,” he says, lips pressed into a thin line, “is exactly what I’d like to know.”
“It’s too early in the morning for us to be concerned with all this serious talk,” Satoru cuts in, clapping his hands. He glances at you. “Nanami, does Utahime’s shop open this early?”
“Yes,” he replies. “But I don’t think she’ll be very receptive to you barging in and ruining her morning.”
“Nonsense! Utahime loves me.”
Nanami sighs. “I’ll warn her first.”
“There’s no need for that.” Satoru waves a hand in the air dismissively, placing his other one on the small of your back and gently steering you out of Nanami’s bookshop. You bite your tongue, curious to know what they were arguing about, but unsure if it’s in your place to pry.
“Where are we going?” you ask instead.
The thief grins, letting the door to the bookshop swing shut behind him. “To get you some new clothes.”
“What’s wrong with—” You don’t bother finishing the question, as Satoru leads you through the winding streets of the capital. The city is slowly waking—merchants setting up their stalls, children darting between their parents, the scent of roses and bread wafting from nearby bakeries and flower shops. You can hear the clang of a blacksmith hammering metal in the distance, the occasional neigh of a horse, and people haggling over the fresh produce that’s just arrived from the surrounding countryside.
You clutch your cloak around you a little tighter, feeling a little out of place. It’s different, now, in the daylight, when the darkness doesn’t obscure your vision and those of others. You glance down at yourself, taking in the well-worn fabric of your cloak, the practical cut of your tunic and trousers. It’s not like you’re dressed in rags, but compared to the finery you’ve seen nobles wearing in the streets, you suppose you do stick out rather like a sore thumb. (So does Satoru, your mind offers helpfully, but unlike you, he moves as if he owns the very streets he walks on, as if the world itself bends to his whims.)
“Is this really necessary?” you ask hesitantly.
“Absolutely.”
You narrow your eyes. “I feel like you’re just looking for an excuse to spend money that isn’t yours.”
“I would never—” he begins, but you give him a flat look, and his lips curl up into an utterly unrepentant grin. “Alright, maybe I would. But in this case, it’s a matter of principle. Don’t you want to look all nice and pretty at the lantern festival?”
You roll your eyes but let him drag you long, weaving your way through the bustling market district. Eventually, he stops in front of a charming little boutique, its windows lined with displays of elegant dresses, rich fabrics draped across headless mannequins. A little brass bell jingles as Satoru pushes open the door. The interior of the shop is warm, bathed in the golden light filtering through the windows. Shelves upon shelves of neatly arranged fabrics line the walls, bolts of silk and brocade in every shade imaginable. The air smells of lavender and fresh linen, with the faintest hint of parchment from the stack of ledgers resting on the counter.
Behind that counter, a woman with dark hair pulled into a loose bun looks up from where she’s inspecting a sheet of shimmering fabric. Her sharp eyes land on Satoru, and whatever semblance of peace she had this morning is immediately shattered. “Oh,” she says, “not you.”
“Utahime!” Satoru places a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“You deserve it.”
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he simpers.
Utahime arches a brow. “You are not my friend.”
Satoru wags a finger at her. “Business associate, then?”
“Barely.”
You shift uncomfortably, not entirely sure how to insert yourself into this conversation. The two of them clearly have some sort of shared history, similar to Nanami and Satoru. Curiosity prickles in your stomach; you want to know more about them, about Satoru’s life before he became a wanted man.
Utahime exhales through her nose, then finally turns her attention to you. Her expression softens slightly, the corners of her lips quirking upwards. “And you are?”
You hesitate, suddenly feeling very out of place surrounded by all this luxury. “Um—”
“She’s my new travelling companion,” Satoru interrupts, slinging a hand around your shoulders as if that explains everything. “Which is why I’ve so graciously brought her here—to make sure she looks the part.”
Utahime stares at him, then at you. Slowly, her grin turns amused. “You mean, to make sure you don’t look like a pauper standing next to her.”
You choke back a laugh. Satoru splutters, “I—how dare you—”
“You look like you’ve been sleeping in ditches, Gojo,” the tailor says.
“That is not true.”
“You have leaves in your hair.”
Satoru blinks, reaches up, and, sure enough, pulls a small, dried leaf from his messy white locks. He flicks it away with a muttered curse.
“I can’t stand someone as pretty as her walking around with a man who looks like he lost a fight with a laundry line. Come,” Utahime says, addressing you and already pulling a gown off a nearby rack. “Let’s get you sorted before I throw him out.”
You follow her shyly deeper into the boutique, leaving Satoru to sulk near the counter. The further in you go, the more extravagant the fabrics become—rich velvets, shining silks, intricate embroidery, lacy tulle. You hesitate, again, feeling out of place among such luxury, but Utahime does not seem to care for your reservations. She studies you with a critical eye, holding up various fabrics against your skin.
You shift awkwardly under her scrutiny. “I don’t need anything too fancy,” you say quickly.
Utahime gives you an unimpressed jerk of her chin. “You think he is going to let you walk around in something plain?”
You glance over your shoulder at Satoru, who is currently inspecting a mannequin in the corner, tilting his head. He doesn’t even pretend to be paying attention. You sigh. “Probably not.”
“Exactly.” Utahime flicks through a row of dresses before pulling one out. “Try this.”
The fabric is smooth beneath your fingertips, a deep blue that shimmers like water under the sunlight. The embroidery along the neckline is delicate, intricate swirls of silver thread that catch the light. It’s beautiful—far more beautiful than anything you’ve ever worn before.
“I—I don’t know if I should,” you admit.
“Why not?”
“I mean, I—” You falter. The words sound silly even in your own head. I’m not used to things like this. Things this nice.
But Utahime merely shakes her head and shoves the dress into your arms, though not unkindly. “You should, because you can.” She gestures to a dressing screen next to you. “Go. Try it on.”
You nod, uncertain, before stepping behind the screen, fingers tracing over the soft fabric. It takes a moment to undo the laces of your old clothes and slip into the new dress. The material drapes over you fluidly, the fit surprisingly perfect. The bodice is snug but comfortable, cinching at your waist before flowing down in gentle folds. The sleeves are light, sheer fabric brushing against your skin like a caress.
When you step out, Utahime nods in approval. “Better.”
You look down at yourself, smoothing your hands over the fabric. It’s strange, wearing something so fine, something that makes you feel seen. You’re so used to blending into the background, to preferring practicality over beauty. But now—
A low whistle interrupts your thoughts.
You glance up to see Satoru leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips. “Damn,” he muses. “I always knew you were cute, but this is something else.”
Your face heats. “Shut up.”
“I’m serious!” He pushes off the counter, walking over to circle you, inspecting you from every angle. “You’re going to have every noble in the capital turning their heads.”
“Which means you can’t go around looking like that,” Utahime interjects, shooting Satoru a pointed glare.
He blinks. “Like what?”
“Like a half-drowned stray,” she says, and before he can protest, she shoves a bundle of clothes into his arms. “Go change. I refuse to let someone as beautiful as her be seen with an absolute pauper like you.”
You laugh, and Satoru pouts at you. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Extremely,” you agree.
Grumbling under his breath, he disappears behind another dressing screen, leaving you and Utahime in silence. After a beat, she turns to you. “You’re travelling with him willingly?”
“It’s…” You chew on your lip. “Complicated.”
She hums, as if she’d expected nothing else. “Be careful.”
You don’t know how to respond to that, so you simply nod. A moment later, Satoru emerges, now dressed in something far more refined than his usual attire. The loose, tattered shirt underneath his vest has been replaced with a fitted tunic of dark navy, the high collar emphasising the sharp angles of his jaw. The long coat draped over his shoulders is a deep charcoal, lined with silver embroidery. Even his boots look newer, shinier.
He runs a hand through his hair. “Well?”
Utahime clicks her tongue. “It’s an improvement. Barely.”
Satoru ignores her and turns to you. “What do you think?”
“You look… less like a thief,” you say.
“I’ll take that as a win.”
Utahime rolls her eyes, thrusting a pair of slippers that match the colour of your dress at you, along with an ivory comb to pin your hair back in place. “Take these and get out of my shop.”
So you do.
The capital, you’ve come to realise, is a place of contradictions—grand stone buildings adorned with ivy, shadowed alleyways where whispers slip through the cracks, noblewomen in embroidered shawls brushing shoulders with street performers balancing on stilts.
Satoru weaves between crowds easily, pausing only when something catches his interest: A vendor selling sugared fruits, a fortune teller shuffling tarot cards at a makeshift stall, a pair of children chasing each other with wooden swords, their giggles ringing bright in the late morning hour. He lingers just long enough to soak in the moment before moving on, as if the city itself is nothing more than an elaborate game designed for his amusement. You try not to stare, but the way he carries himself is captivating—like he’s seen it all before and yet, still finds a way to be charmed by it.
“See?” He nudges your arm lightly with his elbow. “Told you you’d fit right in.”
You press your lips together and say nothing. The fabric of your new dress sways as you walk, softer and finer than anything you’ve ever owned. It feels unfamiliar against your skin, but not unpleasant. It makes you feel different, somehow, like you’ve stepped into a role that doesn’t quite belong to you. People glance at you differently now; not with suspicion or wariness, but with curiosity.
“So, what now?” you ask instead.
Satoru grins, wild, his blue eyes shining with mirth and excitement. “Now? Now, we explore.”
And explore you do.
He leads you through the winding streets, pointing out interesting stalls and dodging carts and carriages. He stops at a street performer juggling knives and dramatically gasps at every toss, leaning in as if he’s witnessing a royal duel. You shake your head, but his antics coax a quiet smile out of you. When he catches it, his smile softens just a little.
A hidden alleyway tucked between two bustling shops reveals an old woman sitting behind a small table, delicate glass trinkets laid out in neat rows. The figures catch the light, shimmering like captured stardust. Satoru crouches, fingers hovering over a tiny glass cat, its tail curled in mid-motion. His white hair falls into his eyes as he studies it, the briefest flicker of something thoughtful passing over his features.
“D’you think Megumi and Sukuna are getting lonely?” he murmurs, turning the figurine over in his hands before placing it back, offering the woman a charming wink as he tosses her a coin for her time.
“You didn’t buy it,” you observe. The two of you step back onto the main street.
“Didn’t need to,” he replies, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just wanted to look.”
You make your way towards the bustling heart of the market, where stalls overflow with bright fabrics, glinting trinkets, and fresh produce. The scent of roasted chestnuts curls around you, warm and nutty. Satoru pauses, his gaze flicking to a vendor skillfully tossing chestnuts in a wire pan over an open flame. The chestnuts pop and crackle in the heat. Without a word, he steps forward, tossing a few coins onto the counter. The vendor barely has time to acknowledge him before Satoru is already handing you a small paper pouch, its warmth seeping into your fingers.
“Try one,” he says, grinning.
You peel open the shell of a chestnut, the scent much richer up close. When you take a bite, it’s soft and sweet, the kind of warmth that settles deep in your chest.
Satoru watches you expectantly. “Well?”
“They’re good,” you admit.
“Of course they are,” he boasts. “I have impeccable taste.”
You huff a small laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t pull away when he reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your face that escaped the confines of Utahime’s comb. His fingertips barely ghost over your skin fleetingly, but you feel it like an ember catching flame. It stretches between you like a thread being pulled taut—and then he clears his throat and looks away.
“Come on,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of another street. “There’s one more place I want to show you.”
By the time you arrive at the jewelry stall, the sun hangs high overhead, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Unlike the market district, this section of the city is quieter, the chatter of merchants distant, softened by the hum of rustling leaves. The stall itself is small but carefully arranged—dainty chains displayed on dark velvet, rings nestled in silk-lined boxes, gemstones catching the light in a kaleidoscope of colours. Here, the world feels slower, as if it exists in its own pocket of time.
Satoru steps forward, fingers skimming lightly over the jewelry. His expression is uncharacteristically thoughtful. You watch him curiously. Until now, he’s been aimlessly amused by everything, flitting from stall to stall and shop to shop like a butterfly with no real direction, but this—this is different. There’s an intention behind the seriousness in his eyes.
“What are you looking for?” you ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately, instead picking up a simple silver necklace with a small blue gemstone embedded in its center. He turns it between his fingers, the pad of his thumb brushing over the stone as he studies it for a long moment. Then, as if coming to a decision, he looks at you.
“This suits you,” he says.
You blink, taken aback. “What?”
He steps closer, the space between you shrinking. “Here,” he says softly. “Let me.”
Your breath catches when his hands lift, brushing against the back of your neck. The metal of the chain is cool against your skin, but his fingers—his fingers are warm, careful, the touch light enough to send a shiver down your spine. He lingers for just a fraction too long before fastening the clasp, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck in a way that makes heat bloom beneath your skin. When he pulls away, the pendant rests just above your collarbone. You touch it lightly.
“I—I can’t take this,” you say, voice quieter than before.
Satoru only smirks, but it’s not his usual brand of tiresome arrogance. It’s softer. “Too late. No returns.”
Your fingers tighten around the pendant. The stone is smooth beneath your touch, reflecting the sunlight in shifting shades of blue. It reminds you of something—of fleeting moments, of oceans you’ve never seen, of something vast and untouchable yet undeniably present. The question slips out before you can stop it: “Why?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze roams over you, something unreadable flickering in those too-bright eyes. Then, he shrugs. “Consider it a souvenir,” he says. “Something to remember today by.”
You want to press him for more, but something about the way he says it is fragile, delicate in a way that makes you hesitant to touch it too harshly. It is a thread pulled just slightly tighter, a balance shifted just slightly off-kilter. He reaches for your wrist, tugging you gently back towards the street.
“Let’s go,” he says, ever the one to move before a moment settles. “We’ve still got time before sunset.”
By the time the sun begins its descent, the capital is alive in a different way than before. Where the market had been filled with the shouts of merchants and the clatter of wooden carts, the town square now hums with a different kind of energy—joyful and infectious.
Colourful paper lanterns have been strung between buildings, flickering to life as the sky fades from gold to dusky violet. Musicians gather in the center of the square, their lively tune spilling into the air, coaxing laughter and movement from the people around them. The scent of honeyed pastries from a nearby stall blends with the perfume of crushed petals from garlands strung over doorways.
“Well, sweetheart,” Satoru says, “it’s your lucky day. Looks like we’ve arrived just in time for a celebration.”
You look up at him, slightly wary. “A celebration for what?”
“The night before the lantern festival, ‘course.” He grabs your wrist and pulls you forward.
“Satoru—”
“Hush, we’ve done nothing but walk around all day,” he says, meandering through the crowd. “Let’s have a little fun.”
Your protests die on your tongue when you step into the heart of the square. The music swells, a melody of flutes, fiddles and tambourines; it is so rich and lively that it seems to settle beneath your skin, curling around your ribs like something alive. All around you, people spin and sway to the rhythm, moving as if the music is stitched into their bones. Women twirl in dresses of deep reds and blues, their skirts fanning out like blooming flowers, while men clap their hands to the beat, laughing as they switch partners. Children dart between the dancers, giggles escaping their lips, while couples sway together, lost in their own world.
You’re so caught up in taking it all in that you don’t notice Satoru moving until his hand finds yours again. The moment you realise what he’s doing, your eyes widen. “Oh, no—”
“Oh, yes,” he counters, grinning as he spins you suddenly, catching you before you can stumble. “You can’t expect me to dance alone, can you?”
“I can if I don’t know how,” you retort, heart racing at the unexpected movement.
He clicks his tongue. “Tsk. And here I thought you were quick on your feet.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Only when I need to be.”
The thief only laughs, that bright, boyish sound that makes something warm settle in your chest. “Just follow my lead,” he says, drawing you in.
Against all reason, you do. At first, you’re hesitant, stiff under his hands while he guides you into the rhythm of the dance. But Satoru is nothing if not persistent. He keeps you moving, spinning you into the flow of the music, making the world blur in bursts of colour and light.
It’s dizzying, the way he moves—not just with grace, but with a kind of unshaken confidence, like he’s never once doubted that the world will bend to him if he asks it to. His hands are steady on yours, his steps sure, and when he grins, it’s the kind of grin that makes you feel like you’re part of some grand adventure, something wild and untamed.
You’ve never met a man like him before.
Somewhere along the way, your hesitation fades. Your body moves with his naturally now, drawn into the lilt of the music. Your laughter bubbles up before you can stop it, spilling into the air between you as he twirls you beneath the glow of the lanterns. Satoru watches you closely, his smile softening, just a little around the edges.
“Told you it’s fun,” he murmurs.
You shake your head, breathless. “Warn me next time.”
“You do want a next time, then,” he says, and you don’t have an answer to that.
Because—maybe—you do. Something in you, you think, has begun to unravel. Maybe, against all logic, you’re slipping. Maybe, you don’t mind. You meet his gaze, heart rabbiting about in your chest. His eyes are impossibly blue, bright even in the dim glow of the lanterns. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, your thoughts a mess of tangled emotions, but you can’t bring yourself to step away. Not when his grip is this steady, not when his eyes are watching you like that.
The music melts into something softer, the once-rapid twirls melting into something slower, more intimate. Satoru’s hand shifts, resting lightly against your waist, his other still holding yours between calloused fingers. The world feels smaller now, quieter, narrowed down to just the two of you.
When the song finally ends, both of you out of breath and a little bit sweaty, Satoru steps back and bows with an exaggerated flourish. The fondness in your chest betrays you, and you curtsey back. He holds your hand again, and doesn’t let go. Even as the music fades and the crowd disperses, laughter trailing off into the warm night, his grip remains firm. You should pull away. Should remind yourself that he’s still a thief, still unpredictable, still frustrating beyond belief.
Instead, you let him guide you through the winding streets of the capital once more, past shops closing up for the night, past candlelight flickering through bedroom windows, past lovers whispering in darkened corners. The warmth of the evening settles over you both, the smell of jasmines and roses and summer heat pressing in close.
“You’ll like this,” Satoru says, turning back over his shoulder.
“You say that about everything.”
“And I mean it every single time,” he replies.
He takes you through a narrow alley, walking with the surety of someone who has spent their childhood finding all the hidden parts of the city. A wooden ladder rests against the side of a weathered stone building; Satoru lets go of your hand and immediately starts climbing.
You pause. “Seriously?”
“Unless you want to climb up four flights of stairs,” he calls down, teasing. “But I don’t think you’re in the mood for a hike.”
With an exasperated shake of your head, you gather the folds of your dress into your arms, bunching up the fabric. The ladder, thankfully, is sturdy despite having stood in that spot for who knew how long. The climb is easier than you expect, and when you reach the top, Satoru is already waiting, standing near the edge of the rooftop with his hands in his pockets, watching the city unfold beneath him.
Your breath hitches. The view is stunning. From here, the capital is a sea of golden lights, stretching wide until the river that snakes around the perimeter near the far end. The castle looms in the distance, its towers reaching towards the heavens, the marble reflecting all the lights. Beyond it, the countryside stretches endlessly, shadowed hills rolling underneath a sky dusted with constellations. The stars seem impossibly close, as if you could reach out and trace them with your fingers.
Satoru watches your reaction, the corners of his lips curling into something softer than a smirk, something quieter. “Told you.”
You don’t reply immediately, too busy taking in the sheer vastness of it all. The castle, the city, the stars—things that once felt distant and untouchable now seem just within reach. Stepping closer to him, you ask, “How did you find this place?”
“I used to come up here as a kid. Sometimes, when things got—complicated, I guess you could say—I’d sneak away, climb up here, and just watch. The world looks different from above.”
You nod, turning back to the view, letting the quiet settle between you. Satoru plops down onto the shingles of the rooftop, inches away from the part where it begins to slope, and motions for you to do the same. You comply, dress rustling as you sit down next to him. After a moment, Satoru shifts, leaning back on his palms, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The cool night air ruffles his hair, the moonlight catching on the silver strands.
“Can I ask you something?”
“...That depends,” you say.
His smile is easy, lazy—but his eyes are sharp and searching, like he’s trying to peel back all your layers. “Back in the market,” he starts, slow, “you let me pull you into that dance. You could’ve left. You could’ve made an excuse, walked away, ignored me entirely. But you didn’t. Why?”
You suck in a breath, eyes drifting to the city below. The streets are quieter now, the celebrations beginning to wind down. For so long, your world has been small. Not just physically, but in the way that mattered—the way that made it feel like you were meant to stay in one place, bound by duty, by love, by responsibility.
“My grandmother,” you begin, softly. “She was the only family I had left.”
Satoru doesn’t move; he just watches you, waiting. “She got sick,” you continue, wringing your fingers together on your lap. “And I had to take care of her. I couldn’t leave, even if I wanted to. Even if—” You pause, exhaling through your nose. “Even if I dreamed about it sometimes.”
The memories come back in pieces—watching the world pass by beyond the edges of your village, wondering what lay beyond the fields and forests you had never crossed. The way you used to sit by your grandmother’s bedside, listening to the stories she told of places she had never been either.
“She passed away,” you say, quieter this time.
Satoru doesn’t speak, but the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten. You turn your head, looking out over the city again. The castle towers rise high against the star-streaked sky, the view stretching beyond anything you ever could have imagined from your tiny corner of the world.
“I spent so long staying in one place,” you admit, “being careful and doing what was expected of me. But now…” You trail off, searching for the shape of the feeling that’s been unravelling inside you since the moment you first stepped beyond the life you thought you were meant to live. “Now, I think I just want to see what’s out there.”
A slow smile tugs at Satoru’s lips. It’s not the cocky smirk you’re used to, nor the grin that comes with a teasing remark. It’s softer, something almost—fond. “And now that you’re here, is it everything you’ve dreamed of and more?”
“Yes,” you breathe out. “It’s incredible.”
“I’m glad,” he says, then, after a beat: “Alright, my turn.”
“Your turn?”
“To answer a question.” His eyes flicker to you, playful. “You want to ask me something, don’t you?”
You pause. Then, before you can overthink it, you ask, “Are you still only with me because you want the crown back?”
The teasing edge in his expression falters, just for a second. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, fingers tapping idly against the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the distant castle. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more thoughtful.
“At first, yeah,” he admits. “That was the plan.”
You wait, sensing there’s more. Satoru lets out a breath, a faint chuckle escaping him, though there’s a strangeness to the sound—like he’s amused at his own thoughts, still figuring them out. He says, “But you’re not exactly what I expected.”
You frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He shifts, turning to face you fully now, the golden lights casting shadows across the side of his face. “It means,” he says, “that I figured you’d be like everyone else. Predictable. Easy to manipulate. Someone who’d either slow me down or get in my way.”
Satoru smiles, tilting his head, but this time, it’s different—less teasing, more like he’s studying you, trying to commit you to memory. “But you’re not.”
Your heart stutters. You don’t know if it’s the words themselves, or the way he’s looking at you—intent, unrushed, like you are something worth deciphering—but something shifts, something fragile and terrifying in its certainty. You should say something; you ought to shake your head, roll your eyes, scoff at him like you always do. But the night air is wrought with something you don’t have a name for, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.
“You’re stubborn,” he continues, voice dipping just slightly, low enough that you feel it more than hear it. “Smart. Quicker than I expected. You surprise me.”
The breath you’ve been holding releases in a slow exhale, but it doesn’t make the feeling in your chest settle. “I don’t know if I believe you,” you murmur.
Satoru leans in, not touching—not yet—but close enough that the heat of him brushes against your skin. “You really should.”
You barely have time to process what he means before he moves, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to stop him. Some part of you registers this—but you ignore it, because somewhere along the way, you stopped wanting to.
His hand lifts first, fingertips ghosting along your jaw, barely there, a touch so cursory, it could be mistaken for hesitation. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull you in like a man desperate—he waits, breath mingling with yours, gaze flickering down to your lips, then back up again, watching. It’s agonisingly slow, and maybe that’s what makes your pulse hammer in your throat, makes your fingers tighten at your sides as if fighting the instinct to reach for him.
And then—the faintest brush. Featherlight; testing. A breath of a kiss, a question rather than an answer. You could pull away now, but the moment his lips meet yours, something inside you caves.
It’s soft at first, uncertain, but the second you respond—just the smallest tilt forward, the slightest press of your lips against his—he becomes more insistent. His hand cups your jaw more firmly, his other coming to rest against the small of your back, drawing you in as though the space between you is something offensive and unbearable.
You gasp against his mouth, but it isn't surprise. It’s relief; like something that had been threatening to snap inside you has finally, finally broken loose. His lips move slowly against your, unhurried but devastating, a contradiction of softness and something deeper, something unjumbling beneath your skin. You don’t even realise when your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like he might slip away if you don’t.
You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just fall.
It’s easy enough to fall into Gojo Satoru like this. Too easy, really. It should be harder. It should be something that gives you pause, something that makes you second-guess yourself. But you don’t, because right now, on this rooftop with the whole city stretching out below you and the stars scattered across the sky like crushed diamonds, it doesn’t feel like a mistake. It doesn’t feel like something you’ll regret. It just feels like him.
Satoru pulls away and watches you carefully, the way he always does when he’s waiting for you to make a move first. His hands rest loosely on either side of him, deceptively relaxed, but his gaze tells a different story. There’s something in his eyes tonight—softer, expectant, something that makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t entirely understand. Maybe you’ll never understand him fully. But you think, maybe you don’t have to.
You reach for him first this time. A brush of your fingers against his wrist. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—just watches, as if memorising the moment. You shuffle closer, until your knees touch where he’s sitting, until his breath stirs the air between you. When you finally lean in, when your lips graze his in something that isn’t quite a kiss yet, you hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes. Then, finally, he moves.
Satoru kisses like he does everything else—sure of himself, but not impatient. He takes his time, lets you press in closer as his hands find their way to your waist, his touch steady and warm. The rooftop is quiet except for the distant sounds of the city and the faint hum of the night air, but all you can hear is him—the way his breath blows on your cheek, the way he exhales softly when your fingers slip into his hair.
You let him kiss you deeper, let him tilt his head and pull you closer and melt into him as easily as breathing. When he pulls you into his lap, hands firm on your hips and his lips trail lower, brushing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, you decide you don’t want to stop at all.
The inn is a modest place, tucked between streets. Its wooden beams creak, and the scent of old bookshelves and candle wax wafts through the air, mixing with something sweet—honey, maybe, or the remnants of a forgotten perfume. Satoru had brought you here so quickly and paid for a room that, despite the knowing look the innkeeper gave you both, you didn’t have the time to feel embarrassed before he was whisking you away.
It’s quiet here, away from prying eyes. The bed beneath you is softer than you’d expected, sheets worn but clean, warmed by the heat of your bodies. A single melting candle in the corner lights up the room, its glow casting shadows along the rough-hewn walls, pooling in the hollow of Satoru’s throat as he hovers over you.
There’s a moment—just a moment—where uncertainty creeps in. You’ve never done this before. Somehow, Satoru seems to know that without you even saying anything. His hands, steady and warm, never wander too far, never push for more than what you’re willing to give. Even as his lips move against yours—slow, coaxing, patient—there’s an unspoken question between every kiss; an invitation rather than a demand. It makes it easier. Easier to melt into him and to follow the way his fingers map careful paths down your spine.
You barely register when he tugs at the hem of your clothes, when fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling somewhere unseen. His gentle fingers unclasp the comb in your hair, letting it fall down loose. He leaves the necklace on, though, the blue pendant just above your collarbone, reflecting his own blue eyes. They darken when he sees you like this. His hands are on your bare skin, and it’s different—more real, somehow. More intimate than anything else before this.
Satoru leans back, exhaling as he takes you in, eyes dragging over every newly exposed inch of you. His gaze is heavy, reverent in a way that makes you shiver. “You’re beautiful.”
Your breath catches. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading through you in slow, curling tendrils. Then he’s pressing his lips to your throat, his hands gliding down your sides, settling on your hips. His touch is firm but never rough. Still, the anticipation builds.
Your skin feels too hot, too sensitive, aware of the way his mouth drags lower—over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Then, lower still. You shudder. “Satoru—”
He hums against your skin, one hand sliding beneath your knee, urging you to part for him. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”
You hesitate for only a moment before nodding. That’s all the permission he needs. His hands settle on your thighs, parting them gently. His lips ghost over the sensitive skin, teasing and testing, before he presses a kiss where you’re already aching for him.
The first touch of his tongue is tentative—just a slow, languid drag against you, as if savouring the taste. Like he’s learning exactly what makes you tremble. You do tremble. A quiet, broken sound slips from your lips before you can stop it, your fingers tightening instinctively in his hair. Satoru groans, low and pleased, and the vibration of it makes your stomach tighten.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overwhelm you. He simply moves with purpose, unravelling you piece by piece, lick by lick, until the pleasure builds into something unbearable. You don’t know when your eyes flutter shut and your body melts into the sheets. His grip tightens just slightly to hold you in place. When he drags his tongue over that one spot, when he sucks, slow and deliberate, pleasure licks up your spine like wildfire. You gasp.
“That’s it,” Satoru says, a tad proud. “Just let go.”
Your fingers tangle in his hair, your thighs tightening around him as he coaxes pleasure out of you with maddening patience. The tension builds, winding tighter, higher, and when he rubs your bundle of nerves with his thumb, you moan. Warmth spills through your limbs; your breath catches and everything around you blurs, reduced to nothing but the feeling of his mouth, his hands, his name falling from your lips in a whisper. Satoru stays there for a moment longer, pressing one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before moving back up. He kisses you again, slow and deep, and the taste of yourself on his lips makes your head spin.
“How was that?” he asks.
“You talk too much,” you say, and slant your lips against his again.
Satoru pulls away, though reluctantly. Kneeling between your legs, his hands move to his belt. You watch, still dazed, as he undoes it and kicks his trousers off, then pulls his tunic over his head in one smooth motion. You swear you forget how to breathe.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for him, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He shudders at the contact, and something about that—about the way you affect him—sends a thrill through you. Wordlessly, he leans back, watching you carefully.
You meet his gaze, and, slowly, slide your hands up, over the defined lines of his collarbones, over the faint scars that mark his skin. You take your time, tracing the firm places of his stomach, the ridges of muscle beneath your fingertips. He has a scar cutting through his torso, a jagged line that should look unseemly, but on Satoru it does not. You don’t think anything ever could.
“How did you get this?” you whisper, running your fingers along the line.
“Failed assassination attempt on me,” he whispers back. You’re not even surprised anymore.
Satoru is beautiful. It’s a thought that strikes you suddenly, like a realisation that had been waiting for the right moment to surface. He’s all long limbs and lean strength, a body built for running and fighting and surviving. The sight of him, bare before you, makes something warm bloom in your chest.
“You’re staring,” he teases, but his voice is quieter this time, almost breathless.
You hum, letting your nails drag lightly down his torso, watching the way his stomach tenses in response. “Maybe.”
His breath comes out uneven. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he leans down, pressing his weight against you, caging you beneath him. The heat of his body is overwhelming, the feel of bare skin on bare skin sending a shiver through you. Even then, when he presses his lips to yours, he asks, “Are you sure?”
You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He exhales sharply, his forehead dropping against yours. “You’re going to kill me.”
You laugh, breathless, tilting your head just enough to kiss him again. “Then die quietly.”
His answering grin is crooked. He nudges your nose with his, and his hand finds yours against the sheets as he laces your fingers together. Slowly, he moves.
The first press is slow, careful, an unfamiliar stretch as he eases himself inside you inch by inch. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers tightening around his while your body adjusts to him. There’s a sting, a deep pull of discomfort that makes you tense, but he stills immediately, exhaling a shaky breath against your temple.
Satoru’s lips ghost over your skin, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, murmuring quiet praises in between. “You’re doing so well,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “So fucking perfect.”
The ache fades gradually, melting into something warmer. You take a slow breath, then shift your hips slightly—just enough for him to move. His sigh is shaky, his grip on your hand tightening.
He starts moving, and the world narrows to nothing but him. It’s slow at first, every movement measured, as if he’s trying to memorise every little reaction and gasp that spills from your lips. He watches you the entire time, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it, like he’s seeing you for the first time. The pleasure builds gradually, a slow burn spreading through your veins. Each roll of his hips, each press of his body against yours sends another wave of heat through you, until the discomfort is nothing but a memory. Your legs tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper. Satoru groans, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he curses under his breath.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice strained. “You feel—” He shakes his head, unable to finish the thought. His teeth graze lightly over your shoulder. His pace quickens slightly, pulling breathy moans from you with every movement. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach, winding like a thread about to snap.
And then he angles his hips just right, hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur. A broken sound escapes your lips. Your grip on his hand tightens, nails digging into his skin. “There?” he asks, voice thick with something you can’t quite place.
You nod, unable to form words, and he groans, pressing deeper, chasing every little reaction you give him. It’s overwhelming—the warmth of him above you, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the way he whispers your name like it’s something sacred.
When you finally reach that peak, when the pleasure crests and crashes over you in dizzying waves, your entire body shudders beneath him. The thread snaps, leaving you weightless and drowning in sensation as he follows soon after, his movements growing erratic. Satoru pulls out just in time, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he spills onto your stomach, one hand gripping your waist as his body trembles above you. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly; he takes in the sight of you beneath him—flushed, panting, utterly wrecked.
For a long moment, neither of you move. His breath fans over your collarbone, fingers fiddling with the silver chain around your neck. He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, and his grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. Eventually, Satoru shifts, rolling onto his back and searching for something to clean you up. He finds a wash basin with a cloth placed nearby; wetting it gently, he pads back to you. The thief—your lover, now, you suppose—is gentle, wiping you down with slow, careful movements before tossing the cloth aside. Then, without hesitation, he pulls you against him, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing his lips against your temple.
His fingers trace absentminded patterns along your spine, his touch featherlight. You feel his lips press against your hair, and the gesture makes your chest ache. You curl into him. He rests his chin on the top of your head. “Sleep,” he says.
You don’t say anything—just let your eyes slip shut, and let yourself sink into the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Satoru coaxes you out of bed with the promise of buying you a honey-dipped pastry from one of the vendors you’d been eyeing the day before. You grumble about his methods, saying he has an unfair advantage knowing your weaknesses so well, but truthfully, you don’t really mind. You dress quickly, smoothing your hands over the creases in your gown and pulling your hair back with the ivory comb, while Satoru lounges against the doorframe, watching you with that easy, lopsided grin of his. The sunlight catches in his hair, and when he tilts his head at you, something warm curls inside your stomach. You shove it down.
The two of you leave the small inn just as the sun begins to rise, the golden light spilling over the rooftops. The streets are still mostly empty, save for a few vendors who’ve begun setting up their stalls. You walk beside Satoru, your hands brushing against each other now and then, though neither of you makes a move to pull away. He fills the quiet with his usual chatter, talking nonsense, teasing you about how you hogged the blankets, about how you snored (you did not). You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and spinning you in a quick, playful circle.
When you finally reach Nanami’s bookshop, it looks the same as it did the day before—quiet and unassuming, its worn wooden sign creaking slightly in the breeze. You push the door open.
Nanami is at the counter, as usual, a book open in front of him. But you can very quickly tell something is off. He doesn’t look up right away. His hands are still, fingers pressed against the page, unmoving. When his gaze finally lifts, it lingers on Satoru first, then flickers to you. He exhales and gives you just the faintest shake of his head. A warning. Leave.
You blink at him, confused. Satoru, oblivious as ever, only grins. “Morning, Nanami,” he sing-songs, stretching as he strolls further inside.
Nanami doesn’t answer. You hear footsteps, slow and heavy—the sound of hard boots against wooden flooring. Not from the entrance. From the back of the shop.
A man steps into view. Tall, with broad shoulders, his dark hair pulled into a high knot, leaving a few loose strands to frame his face. His clothing is different from the soldiers you’ve seen before—black and deep blue, his vest embroidered with the sigil of the royal family. But what strikes you most is his expression: Blank and unreadable; the kind of stillness that feels dangerous without needing to try. His eyes, dark and steady, scan the room methodically before resting on Satoru. He’s flanked by two soldiers on either side of him, standing in metal-plated armour with their faces hidden by the visors on their helmets.
“Ah,” the thief says. “So that’s why Nanami was looking at me like I was already dead.”
The room is still. Satoru doesn’t move. Neither does the man at the back of the shop. Nanami, ever composed, keeps his fingers pressed against the pages of his book, though you can see the tension in his shoulders. He knows exactly who this man is. You don’t.
“You’ve gotten sloppy,” he remarks, as if he was simply commenting on the weather. “I had multiple reports of you wandering throughout the city yesterday. You weren’t even subtle about it.” A small pause, and then: “Frolicking, they said. With a girl.”
His eyes slide towards you. Your stomach tightens. You don’t recognise him, but something about his presence makes your skin prickle. It’s the way he carries himself—the way his posture is lazy, the way his voice is even and smooth, but not emotionless. He reminds you of Satoru, but less flamboyant and raucous.
“I should introduce myself,” he continues, “to our friend here who appears visibly confused. Geto Suguru, captain of the Royal Guard, at your service, madam.”
Satoru merely shakes his head. “You really ought to pay your soldiers more,” he drawls. “Imagine sending them on a wild goose chase to find me. Surely there are more pressing matters to attend to—but I am flattered about the attention you’re very generously bestowing upon me.”
The man hums, unimpressed. “They do their jobs well enough. Unlike you.”
His gaze flicks to a low table pushed to the side. To the crown—the crown that was supposed to be tucked underneath your mattress back in your cottage. Your pulse quickens. Satoru follows his gaze. “Hm,” he says, like it’s all very unfortunate, “I suppose that’s how you found us.”
“You’re different,” the man says. “You never used to be this careless.”
Familiarity bleeds into his tone when he says it. They have a history, the thief beside you and the soldier opposite him, that much is clear. Your fingers curl into your palm.
“Is this the part where you tell me I’ve gone soft?” Satoru grins but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Captain Geto lifts a brow. “If the boot fits.”
Satoru snorts. You stay quiet, your mouth drying up. You don’t know how deep their history runs. You’re not sure if you want to, anymore, even though, earlier, your curiosity about Gojo Satoru knew no bounds.
“You found me, Suguru,” Satoru says simply, grin vanishing.
The captain inclines his head. “You always make things difficult,” he says, lifting a hand.
The soldiers step forward. Satoru doesn’t fight when they grab him. He stays motionless, doesn’t even flinch as they wrench his arms and wrists, twisting them behind his back. He doesn’t move, but you do. “Satoru—”
He turns his head towards you, and you swear you see something shutter in his expression. But as quickly as it comes, it goes, replaced by a grin that looks more like a sneer.
“I assume you won’t struggle,” the captain says.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Geto,” Satoru says.
You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—before your brain wraps around what’s happening—Suguru turns to you. His dark eyes sweep over you, assessive. “You’re from the villages, aren’t you?”
You freeze. His voice is calm—not unkind or threatening. Just certain. There is nothing that suggests immediate condemnation about the way he says it, but it sends a prickle of something cold down your spine. You force yourself to square your shoulders and look him in the eye when you confirm his question.
Suguru nods at your reply, something thoughtful about the way he regards you. “Then you have a choice,” he says.
“A… choice?” Your pulse thunders against your skin.
He tilts his head once more, slightly, and for a moment, you could almost call him composed—gracious, even. His words are anything but. “Either you come with us, as his accomplice. Or you return to your village and pretend this never happened.”
The words drop between you like stones. Your throat tightens. You know what he’s offering. A way out. A chance to walk away and go back to the life you left behind. You can let these past few weeks become nothing more than a bitter memory, something you can tuck away and bury deep. But if you leave—
You find yourself looking at Satoru. He grins at you, looking for all the world like he doesn’t have a care. Like he isn’t standing there, bound, with soldiers at his back and chains ready to be locked around his wrists. But you also see the way his shoulders have gone taut, the way his fingers twitch, just slightly, like he wants to reach for you. Before you can think to answer, Satoru cuts in.
“I lied to her.”
Your heart hammers in your chest at his sudden declaration. Captain Geto raises a brow, waiting.
Satoru’s grin widens, careless and easy. “She didn’t know who I was. She didn’t know about the crown or any of this. I played her the fool, and charmed my way into her good graces. Can you blame her?”
You feel like the ground beneath you has vanished. He’s lying. You know it, Suguru knows it, Nanami knows it—but he says it anyway, as if willing it into truth, daring Suguru to challenge him.
“You never change,” the captain murmurs.
“Nope,” the thief agrees, popping the ‘p’ sound.
There’s a silence; a slow, quiet sigh. Suguru shakes his head. “Take him.”
The soldiers move. You react on instinct, lurching forward, reaching for him—but rough hands seize your shoulders, pulling you back. Nanami, you realise. His sturdy arms—too muscular for a simple bookseller—hold you in place no matter how much you squirm in his grip.
Satoru, on the other hand, merely presses his lips together when they fasten the iron cuffs around his wrists. You feel the sharp sting of panic rise up your throat. “No—” Your voice cracks, but no one is listening. Your limbs feel useless, weak, as the soldiers push past you. “Wait—”
Captain Geto steps forward, blocking your path, his presence an immovable wall of black and blue. His dark eyes settle on yours, calm and resolute. “We found the crown at a cottage.”
His words feel like ice water down your spine. You swallow hard. Suguru doesn’t look triumphant, doesn’t even look like he’s enjoying this. He states it as an inevitable fact. “The entire village was searched,” he continues, measured and unhurried, like he’s laying out the pieces of a story so that you understand. “We found the stolen heirloom hidden there. And if it was there, then that means whoever lives in that cottage—”
He pauses. You don’t dare to breathe.
“—was harbouring the kingdom’s most wanted criminal.”
A leaden weight settles in your chest. No. No, that’s not true. I didn’t know. But the words don’t come. Because you did know, right from the start, when you stole the crown from him. It was already too late, then, and it is too late now, because now—now, you know the shape of his smile, the sound of his laugh, the calluses on his fingers. Satoru was protecting your secret, and the realisation burns. Your nails bite into your palm. You want to say something, to fight back and demand an explanation from Geto Suguru. Satoru turns his head towards you.
The soldiers pull him to the door, and you watch, your throat tight and your breath shallow. Your feet won’t move, your body feels frozen, like some part of you believes this is the last time you’ll see him. Like some part of you is already mourning. Satoru’s grin doesn’t slip. His white hair falls over his eyes, and for a brief second, you swear you see something there—something reassuring. He’s telling you it’s going to be okay. He’s telling you not to follow.
“Gojo Satoru,” the captain announces, “as the Captain of the Royal Guard, as per the First Commander’s decree, I hereby arrest you for the cases of looting, thievery, causing bodily harm and injury, failure to repay your debts to the capital, stealing the royal family’s most precious heirloom, and betrayal to the Royal Crown. Do you object to any of these claims?”
“No, Captain,” Satoru says.
“Very well. Your punishment for the following acts of treason is death. The execution will be tomorrow, at sundown. Do you have anything you wish to say?”
His blue eyes find yours. “No, Captain,” he repeats, quieter this time.
Your vision blurs. Gojo Satoru, the menace, the thief you’ve journeyed with, the man who knows you more intimately than anyone else, smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, as the guards lead him away.
“There’s a history, isn’t there?” You cross your arms over your chest. Nanami and Utahime—who had arrived almost as soon as Nanami had sent word—look at each other. “Between the captain and Satoru, and—and you two and Satoru. Tell me.”
It’s been two hours since Satoru was arrested. Two hours of restless pacing, your mind running in frantic circles and your hands clenching and unclenching as you tried to come up with a plan—any plan—that didn’t result in you standing at the end of a sword.
Nanami had stopped you before you could even try to follow the captain and his soldiers. “That’s suicide,” he had told you, his voice low but firm. “You wouldn’t make it past the castle gates.” He had barely convinced you to stay. But the truth was, you wouldn’t have made it far. Not when Geto had given you just one day to gather your things, buy what you needed from the capital, and leave. Leave. The word itches under your skin. You had nodded shakily when Captain Geto had told you as much. But even as you agreed, you knew. You’re not leaving—not while Satoru is to be executed.
Nanami sighs. “It’s not something you need to involve yourself in.”
“I don’t care,” you argue. “Satoru is in a cell somewhere, waiting to be executed, and you’re acting like it’s already over.” You take a step closer. “But it’s not, is it? Because if it were, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Fine,” the tailor says. Nanami opens his mouth to protest, but she gives him a look and he stays silent. She leans against the table, fingers drumming on the wood, and takes a deep breath before she starts:
“We were all soldiers once. Me, Nanami, our friends Shoko and Haibara, Geto, and Gojo. We trained together. We fought together. We thought we’d die together. And some of us did. Haibara—he was the youngest of us. Too kind, too trusting—” her jaw tightens— “and he shouldn’t have been sent on that mission. Gojo and Geto were the best of us. The strongest. That strength made them invaluable, but it also put them close to the former captain of the Royal Guard.”
“The First Commander?” you ask.
Nanami nods, his expression darkening. “After Haibara’s death, Geto and Gojo… They changed. Geto became more distant, more dissociated from all the blood and the killing. Gojo became more reckless. At first, we thought it was just grief. Losing Haibara—it did something to all of us. But Geto and Gojo… they were different. They knew something we didn’t.”
Utahime shifts uncomfortably. “They spent more and more time with the First Commander. We didn’t think much of it. He was a brilliant strategist, and they were his best soldiers—it made sense that he’d favour them. Then, one day, while we were busy sparring at the training grounds near the east wing, Geto and the First Commander came up to us. They said—they said that they’ve entrusted us with a new mission: To find and kill Gojo Satoru.”
Your blood runs cold. “...What?”
“We didn’t know why,” Nanami says, grimly. “We still don’t. But we didn’t have a choice, so we played along. We followed his trail, but we never got too close—we made sure of it. Geto was the only one who really cared; the rest of us couldn’t stomach killing our friend.” He lets loose a breath, shoulders slumping. “Eventually, we got sent away for being too incompetent. I took over my father’s shop. Utahime became a tailor. Shoko moved to another kingdom to practice medicine.”
“And Satoru became the kingdom’s most wanted criminal,” you finish for him.
“Yes.” The man sounds tired, resigned when he says it. “The former captain of the Royal Guard became the First Commander—he is the current king’s elder brother, after all—and Geto rose in the ranks to become the new captain. The late queen passed away, and the king’s health deteriorated rapidly, until the First Commander was forced to rule in his name.”
Your head spins with all this information. There must be more to this story—there has to be. Satoru couldn’t have become a notorious thief for no reason. Geto Suguru couldn’t possibly have still been hunting for him if there wasn’t something Satoru knew. Something invaluable. How does the crown tie into this? Satoru must have stolen it for a reason. What could he gain from stealing the royal family’s most priceless heirloom, other than a grand amount of money? You know Satoru wouldn’t have stolen the crown just for the fun of it.
You’re missing something. Something crucial. You just need to figure out what. But first, you need to save the thief who showed you the world beyond the borders of your village.
Nanami exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. His expression remains blank, but there’s something tense about the way his fingers curl into a fist before he forces them to relax. Utahime has her arms crossed, her fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeves. They had hesitated before, unwilling to speak of the past, but you are nothing if not determined and stubborn.
“Do you guys know your way in and out of the palace?” You shift on your feet. The words leave your lips with urgency, and you don’t dare let yourself hope.
Utahime answers without hesitation. “Of course. I couldn’t forget it even if I tried.”
The certainty in her voice makes your chest loosen just the slightest bit. You chew on your lip, mind racing. The execution is set for tomorrow at sundown. The timing isn’t a coincidence—if your hunch is right, Captain Geto has chosen to use the lantern festival as a veil for the event. A celebration of light and joy to mask the bloodshed.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, the beginning threads of an idea weaving together in your mind. It’s reckless and dangerous, but what other choice do you have? “I have,” you say slowly, “a horse and a cat waiting for me outside the capital.”
Nanami’s brows furrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”
You allow yourself a small, wry smile. The plan forming in your head is far from perfect—it’s borderline absurd, really—but the best distractions are often the ones no one expects.
“What better way to cause a disruption at a crowded event,” you say, leaning forward slightly, “than by letting a massive warhorse go rogue?”
The lanterns haven’t been lit yet—there are still hours to go for that—but the festivities begin with pomp and affair, much like the evening before, when Satoru and you had danced in the town square. Laughter rings out in waves, warm and unrestrained, carried through the crisp summer air laced with the sweet scent of spiced cider and roasted chestnuts. Music swells from the centre of the town square, a lively melody played by nimble hands on well-worn strings, and for a moment, the festival feels untouchable—like something out of a dream.
Until a scream splits through the dusk. The first crack in the revelry appears as festival-goers stumble back, their joy crumbling into confusion, then alarm. The cobblestone streets tremble beneath the furious pounding of hooves, and the festival—once so bright and golden—erupts into chaos.
Like a demon birthed from light and flame, the beast arrives. A massive white warhorse, his snowy coat gleaming beneath the lamps’ glow, surges into the square, his reins flopping about his sides with no one there to ride him and his mane whipping about with the force of his gallops. His powerful frame barrels through the market stalls, hooves kicking up a storm of dirt and debris. A merchant barely dives out of the way as a cart of oranges topples over, spilling fruit across the street in a surge of gold and tangerine. The scent of crushed citrus only seems to amplify the panic.
Sukuna. Warhorse, menace, and a walking natural disaster. He rears up, hooves cutting through the air, and lets loose a shrill, defiant neigh that sends festival-goers scrambling. Children clutch at their mothers’ cloaks. Guards—once lazily stationed at their posts—snap to attention, hands flying to their weapons. Merchants abandon their wares, shouting frantically instead.
From the alleyway, you watch, heart hammering against your rib cage. The plan was simple. Let Sukuna loose. Create a distraction. Slip into the palace unnoticed. You were not, however, expecting this. Your eyes drift to where Nanami and Utahime stand, safely behind a water fountain, observing to make sure no real harm is caused and no one is actually injured. Utahime looks mildly shocked, while Nanami looks a little green.
Sukuna swings his massive head to an unfortunate vegetable vendor, plucks a perfectly round cabbage from the wreckage, chews it once, twice—and then hurls it full force at the nearest guard’s nether region. The cabbage makes impact with a resounding thud. The man crumples instantly. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, holding Megumi tightly against your chest with your other one. You’ve replaced Utahime’s gown with your tunic and trousers from before and a pair of sturdy boots; it’s easier to move and hide the cat against your chest by covering him with your cloak. Your pack rests against your shoulders, filled to the brim with all your supplies.
The horse pivots, tail lashing as he sends a stack of pastries flying with a single, well-placed kick. Cream-filled tarts arc through the air, and one particularly unlucky festival-goer takes a hit directly to the face, stumbling backwards in stunned silence. The panic spreads like fire through dry brush. Flower stands topple as people shove their way through the square, knocking over barrels and baskets in their desperate attempts to flee. Musicians abandon their instruments, their once-lively tunes now replaced by the erratic clang of an overturned drum.
You press further into the shadows, gripping Megumi a little tighter. “Alright,” you whisper, gaze darting to the now-abandoned palace gates. “This is our chance.”
The cat flicks his tail against your arm, but doesn’t resist when you set him down. He slinks forward, paws silent against the stone. You take one last glance towards the town square—where Nanami and Utahime are watching Sukuna with the expressions of a duo questioning every single life decision they’ve ever made—before slipping out of the alley.
The plan had been reckless from the start. Nanami had called it suicidal. Utahime had looked moments away from smacking you when you first suggested sneaking into the palace alone. But when it became clear you wouldn’t be swayed, she’d relented, pressing a map into your hands and tracing a single, hidden path with her fingertip.
“The old passageway beneath the garden wall,” she had told you. “Hardly anyone remembers it exists—except for Geto, maybe, but he won’t be looking for you. It leads you straight through the kitchens and towards the prison underground.”
From this distance, the palace looms like a beast sleeping beneath the stars, its many towers and arching spires silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. The golden sconces hanging from its walls cast a warm glow, creating long shadows that dance across the stone. Behind you, beyond the square, the festival rages on despite the commotion Sukuna caused. With a population this big, a simple horse won’t stop the people from celebrating—no, Sukuna had done his job well. You don’t hesitate in front of the palace. Hesitation means death.
The main gates are impossible—too well-guarded and exposed. But Utahime had spoken of another way, a smaller side entrance used for deliveries that leads you straight to the garden. It’s tucked away in the farthest corner of the palace grounds. The guards stationed there have been pulled towards the chaos in the square, just as planned. Still, you move carefully.
The shadows are your only ally as you press yourself to the outer walls, each step as silent as you can be. Megumi slinks beside you, nothing more than a wisp in the darkness with a half-torn ear, his sharp green eyes scanning for movement. You follow the curve of the stone wall, past ivy-covered archways and gushing marble fountains, until—
There. A wooden gate, half-hidden behind overgrown vines. You reach for the iron handle, fingers curling around the cool metal. You push against it with your shoulder, and it gives. The gate swings open just enough for you and Megumi to slip through, and then you’re inside the palace.
The palace gardens stretch before you in a maze of hedges and stone pathways. White roses bloom in the moonlight, petals pale as ghosts, their sweet scent thick and cloying. Marble statues of forgotten kings stand in silence, their hollow eyes seeming to follow you as you move. Somewhere beyond, you hear the distant murmur of voices—guards perhaps, manning the main halls. But here, amidst the leaves and the flowers, you are alone.
You weave through the bushes, careful not to let your cloak catch on thorns. The path Utahime described had been clear in your mind before, but now, with the pressure to get Satoru out as quickly as possible increasing with every beat of your heart, the details feel hazy. A fountain, an old tree, and then the passage.
The fountain comes first, its water glimmering like molten silver under the moonlight. You crouch low, pressing yourself against its cool stone base, scanning the area. There’s no one around. A few paces ahead, a twisted oak rises from the ground, its gnarled roots stretching across the earth like reaching fingers. Its bark is scarred, and its branches are half-bare despite the season—just as Utahime had said.
Your pulse quickens. At the base of the tree, partially covered by weeds and wildflowers, a patch of stone juts out at an odd angle. Unlike the rest of the carefully arranged stone tiles in the garden, this one looks out of place—covered by dirt and worn by time. You drop to your knees and press your fingers against the surface. There is a slight shift, a breadth of space where there should be none.
This is it. With a careful push, the stone gives way, revealing a dark opening beneath the roots. The air that rushes out is humid and damp, as though it has not been stirred in years. You glance at Megumi. “Well,” you whisper to no one in particular. “There’s no turning back now.”
You drop legs-first into the hidden passageway. The moment your boots hit the ground, the world above seems to shrink away, muffled by layers of soil and stone. The darkness here is absolute. It presses in from all sides, thick and mawkish, the kind that swallows light and sound alike. For a moment, you do nothing but breathe, your fingers braced against the rough tunnel walls. The air is damp and stale, carrying the scent of moss, old stone, and something faintly metallic—like rain-soaked iron.
In front of you, Megumi lands soundlessly, his lithe form slipping into the darkness easily. You hear the soft thump of paws against dirt, then nothing. If not for the glint of his sharp eyes, or the way he presses his body against your leg, he might as well have disappeared.
Your fingers find the small lantern strapped to your belt. You turn the wick as low as it will go before striking the flint. A tiny ember flares, then blooms into a soft, flickering glow, just enough to illuminate the path ahead. The tunnel stretches forward, curving out of sight, its ceiling low enough that you have to crouch slightly to keep moving.
The walls here are old—older than the palace above, maybe even older than the kingdom itself. Stones worn smooth by time line the passage, their edges softened by centuries of damp air and creeping roots. In some places, cracks have formed, letting in faint sounds from the world above—the distant echoes of music and cheering from the lantern festival. Each sound feels impossibly far away, as if the tunnel exists in a world entirely separate from the one above.
You move forward carefully, your steps light on the uneven ground. Megumi pads ahead, his tail lifted in the air. The path narrows, forcing you to squeeze between the crumbling walls, and then widens again.
The passage spits you out into a vast, cavernous room, its ceiling arched and lined with thick wooden beams. Dust floats in the lantern’s dim glow, stirred by your arrival. Wooden barrels sit stacked in rows along the far wall, their formerly pristine surfaces marred by age and neglect. Bottles of aged wine and forgotten casks of ale sit upon the rotting shelves, relics of a time when this place had been used for more than secrecy. You drag your fingers across one of the barrels as you pass, feeling the rough texture of splintered wood beneath your touch.
Somewhere above, a faint creak echoes through the ceiling—a floorboard shifting beneath weight. Your breath stills. Someone is walking the halls above. You and Megumi freeze in place, listening. Silence.
Whoever it was is gone now. But the reminder is clear: You’re inside the palace now. You are running out of time. Exhaling slowly, you move to the far end of the cellar, where Utahime had said the servants’ door would be. The wood is warped with age, but when you press your shoulder against it, it gives way with a quiet groan. Beyond it, a narrow stairway spirals upwards. At the top lies the palace kitchens—and beyond that, the key you need to free Satoru.
You unsling your pack, shifting it in your arms, and step cautiously into the palace kitchens. The air is thick with the scent of past meals—roasted meats, cinnamon, and something rich and spiced. The massive hearth smoulders with dying embers, glowing orange.
The kitchen is deserted, just as Utahime had said it would be. Most of the palace staff must have gone to watch the festival, or—more conveniently for you—to see whatever disaster Sukuna had caused in the square.
Still, you don’t take any chances. You straighten your back, undo the strings of your pack, and heft it in your arms like a sack. Striding forward, you lift your chin as though you belong here. Megumi flits past your feet, disappearing underneath one of the heavy wooden tables.
The ruse almost works—until just as you near the door leading out of the kitchen, footsteps sound from the far hallway. You freeze for only a moment before forcing your limbs to loosen. With a quick breath, you throw a mild look of annoyance onto your face, shift the pack higher onto your hip, and march forward. The door swings open and you nearly collide with a harried-looking cook. He’s a broad-shouldered man with a walrus moustache, apron stained with what looks like a day’s worth of work, and he stops short when he sees you.
“You—who are you?” His moustache quivers. His eyes flick to the open bag in your arms, filled with a hastily gathered of carrots, leeks, and a single sad-looking turnip.
You let out an exasperated huff. “Finally,” you say, injecting the right amount of irritation into your voice. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to get these here?”
“What?”
“The town square’s a disaster! Some lunatic set a warhorse loose! I had to take the long way around the outer walls just to get here, and by the time I arrived at the usual gate, no one was there to let me in.” You shake your pack for emphasis. “Thought I was going to have to eat these myself. You’re lucky I even bothered.”
The cook eyes you suspiciously, but your complaint sounds mundane enough to be true. He rubs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. “The gods are testing me tonight. Fine, fine, put them on the table. But be quick about it.”
“Yes sir,” you mutter under your breath, making a show of stomping towards the long wooden table in the center of the kitchen. You set your pack down with a decisive thud, dusting your hands afterwards for good measure. The cook is already distracted, grumbling to himself as he turns towards the fire. You take the opportunity to scan the room, eyes landing on a rack of pots and pans hanging next to the hearth.
A weapon. Your fingers itch. It’s not that you’re planning to hit someone, but it’s always good to be prepared. And you wouldn’t exactly be the first person to use a frying pan as a last-minute means of self-defense; you’ve heard of tales of the princess of a neighbouring kingdom escaping her tower where she was kept imprisoned with nothing but a chameleon for company and a frying pan for safety.
Without hesitating, you grab one from the rack, testing its weight in your hand. It’s sturdy. Heavy enough to knock a man out cold if necessary. You slide it under your arm, keeping it close as you edge your way towards the door.
“Oi.”
You stop. The cook is watching you again. You lift the pan slightly. “Borrowing this.”
His moustache quivers again. “For what?”
“To use,” you say vaguely. “Surely I deserve it after having brought you your vegetables despite all the trials and tribulations I faced along the way.”
“You know what? I don’t want to know. Just get the Hell out of my kitchen.”
You don’t need to be told twice. With a slight nod, you make your way towards the hall, Megumi slipping out from his hiding place to follow at your heels. The moment you’re out of sight, you tighten your grip on the pan and let out a slow, relieved breath.
You’ve done it. You’ve infiltrated the palace.
The halls stretch before you, long and gilded, lined with tapestries and portraits. The marble beneath your feet gleams even in the dim torchlight, and the walls are carved with intricate patterns of swirling gold, catching the flicker of flames like veins of molten fire.
It really is beautiful. A shame you don’t have the time to appreciate it.
Satoru had spoken of this palace with an almost begrudging sort of fondness, describing the soaring ceiling and the endless hallways. He’d said that it was too grand and gaudy, but his voice had betrayed him. Maybe, if things were different, you’d have let yourself stop for a moment; might have run your fingers over the carved archways or peeked behind the heavy velvet curtains just to see if what he had said is true.
But right now, Satoru is locked in a cage beneath all this finery, and if you didn’t move fast enough, he’d stay there.
So you force your gaze away from all this grandeur and press forward, Megumi keeping pace beside you. The entrance to the underground prison is right where Nanami had explained it would be—tucked away at the end of a long corridor, next to the life-size portrait of the late queen. A single guard stands watch, leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.
It’s almost insulting. You’d expected some kind of resistance, but clearly, the festival is a grander affair than you thought it’d be, given the fact that the entire palace is mercifully empty. (Take that, Gojo, you think. It’s not just some stupid, fucking dream.)
The guard is young, barely older than you, and his helmet is tilted back on his head like he doesn’t expect to actually need it. A ring of keys hangs from a nail on the wall beside him, just out of his immediate reach. You exhale slowly. It has to be fast.
You step forward, letting your footfalls become just loud enough to catch his attention. The guard startles, straightening as his hand drifts to the sword at his hip. “You’re not supposed to be—”
You don’t give him a chance to finish. Before he can react, you swing the frying pan. There’s a thunk as the cast iron connects with his temple, and his expression shifts from alarm to blank surprise before his knees buckle beneath him. He falls to the floor, out cold before he even hits the ground. For a moment, you just stand there, blinking down at his unconscious form.
“Okay,” you mutter. “That actually worked.” Megumi lets out an unimpressed meow.
You shake off the momentary shock and step over the fallen guard, reaching for the keys. They’re cold in your hand as you lift them from the nail, heavier than you expected.. You kneel, looping a thin cord you’d kept in your pocket through the keyring before carefully tying it around Megumi’s neck. The metal dangles against his dark fur, catching the light as it sways with the feline’s movement. Megumi flicks his ears.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, scratching behind his ears in silent apology. “You’re the only one small enough to slip through the bars. Go save Gojo, yeah? I’ll let you use him as a mattress for the rest of your life if you do.”
You glance toward the heavy wooden door leading to the prison. You can already feel the cold draft seeping through the hinges. Satoru is waiting—and you’re almost there.
The moment Megumi slips through the prison door, you press yourself against the cold stone wall, every muscle in your body coiled tight. Now comes the hardest part: Waiting.
The silent stretches, suffocating. The distant echoes of the lantern festival feel like they belong to another world entirely—one where people are laughing, dancing, reveling underneath lantern-lit skies. But here, away from all the joyousness, in the belly of the beast, the air is still. You tighten your grip on the frying pan, the only weapon you have, though you’re not sure how much use it’ll be if someone really finds you. The minutes drag, each one more agonising than the last, and you fight the urge to start pacing.
What’s taking so long? Did Megumi make it inside? Did Satoru get the keys? Did something— A sudden, ear-splitting clang echoes from the prison depths—and then, footsteps. Heavy, fast, running. Before you can brace yourself, the door bursts open.
Gojo Satoru is a blur of white and shackles and laughter, stumbling forward as if he can’t believe the oxygen he’s breathing is real. Megumi bounds after him. The thief’s hair is a mess, his clothes rumpled from captivity, and the iron cuffs that once bound his wrists now dangle uselessly from one hand with the lock wrenched open.
He stops, just for a moment, breathing heavily, and then— “Oh.”
He reaches for you. Strong arms reach around you, lifting you clean off your feet before you can protest. He spins you once, laughter bubbling from his chest, the sound bright and alive and so him that your heart lurches.
“You’re brilliant, did you know?” he says, breathless, grinning into your hair. “My beautiful, clever girl.”
Heat rushes to your face, but before you can come up with anything resembling a response, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands settle firm at your waist, fingers pressing into you as if he needs to ground himself, needs to believe that you’re real.
“You actually did it,” he murmurs, voice softer now, as if the realisation is still settling in. His eyes—so much brighter now that he’s not sentenced to imminent death—roam your face, searching. “You came for me.”
“Of course I did,” you say, and there’s a conviction to your voice that you didn’t know you were capable of. “What, did you think I was going to leave you in there?”
Satoru lets out a breath that could almost be a laugh. His fingers tighten just slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “Nah,” he says. “You love me too much for that.”
You would have smacked him for that, but Megumi hisses in warning, and—
A slow, deliberate clap shatters the moment. The sound echoes through the empty corridor. Satoru stiffens. You twist in his arms, and there, standing at the entrance to the corridor, framed by torchlight, is Geto Suguru.
He is calm. He is composed. His uniform is pristine, untouched by the madness of the outside world. Something about the way he stands—the way his eyes glint—tells you that he had been expecting this.
“Oh, my,” Geto says, dark amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “What a touching reunion.”
He doesn’t lunge, doesn’t rush—simply tilts his head, fingers shifting ever-so slightly around the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. But that is enough. Satoru reacts immediately.
“Time to go,” he says, and before you can even register it, his hand grips yours and pulls.
You break out into a run, Megumi bounding alongside you both. Your feet barely touch the polished marble floors as you tear through the hallway. Satoru’s grip is firm, unyielding, tugging you forward even as your heartbeat roars in your ears.
The palace corridors blur past in streaks of gold and shadow. The vast, open walls, formerly filled with the hum of courtly affairs and the soft shuffle of silk-clad nobles, now echo with the rhythm of your own footsteps. The grandeur, the impossible opulence—none of it matters now. The only thing that does is putting as much distance between you and the man behind you.
Geto does not rush, but you feel him there, just beyond the edges of your vision. He moves like inevitability, his steps unhurried, the soft tap of his boots against stone barely audible over the breathless pace Satoru sets.
Left. Satoru veers sharply, nearly yanking you off balance as he takes a turn down a narrower passageway. The walls here loom closer, lined with paintings depicting long-forgotten wars and rulers whose names history has nearly erased. Megumi races ahead, his black fur a blur against the dim light, navigating the twisting hallways with a hunter’s instinct.
“Where—” you barely manage, lungs burning— “are we going?”
Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His grip tightens around your wrist, fingers warm despite the chill in the air. Then, finally: “The throne room.”
You nearly stumble. “The what?”
“Best place to corner him.” He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite the speed at which you’re moving. “No exits. Just him and me.”
“That’s a terrible plan!”
“Oh? Got a better one, beautiful?”
You don’t. Not one that doesn’t involve getting caught. Another turn. Another impossibly long hallway. The walls here are different—sleek, dark stone rather than marble, lined with towering pillars that stretch high into the vaulted ceiling. This is the heart of the castle, you realise. The oldest part. The place where power has been passed from one ruler to the next, where history has been carved into the very foundations. The entrance to the throne room looms ahead. Twin doors. Impossibly tall, made of dark oak reinforced with gold filigree. The sigils of the royal bloodline are carved into them, worn smooth from centuries of rule.
Megumi reaches it first. He doesn’t slow—just slips through the narrow gap left ajar. Satoru doesn’t stop running, either. He shoves against the heavy doors, and they groan open, the vast chamber beyond yawning wide to swallow you whole.
The throne room is silent. No guards. No nobles. Just tall stone columns, high windows that cast fractured moonlight against the polished floors, a row of swords hanging on the far end of the wall, and the lone, empty throne that sits at the far end of the chamber. Your stomach drops when you see what’s placed on the throne’s seat.
The crown. Geto Suguru has expected this to happen—had planned for it, even. All for what?
Satoru releases your wrist just as the doors slam shut behind you. The sound of approaching footsteps makes you whip around so quickly, you nearly lose grip of the handle of the frying pan. Satoru turns, unhurried, a smile curling at the edges of his lips even before Geto steps into the dim light.
“How predictable,” the captain drawls. His fingers roll the hilt of his sword idly, his gaze sweeping from the empty throne to Satoru, to you. “Well played, Satoru. But I’m afraid this game is already over.”
He doesn’t move in a rush—not in the reckless, desperate way of a man eager to end a fight—but with slow steps. The grip on his sword remains loose, casual, as if he’s hardly concerned. As if this is nothing more than a simple conversation. Satoru backs up, just as measured, retreating step by step towards the far wall where the swords hang in an orderly row. You stay still, carefully stepping away, Megumi hiding behind your legs. This is not your fight to partake in; you know this because the captain barely glances your way.
“You’ve always been stubborn,” Geto says, tilting his head as his boots click against the floor. “All those years, running in circles, chasing shadows. Looking for something that was right in front of you the entire time.”
“I don’t know,” says Satoru, almost lazily. “I think I was more preoccupied with avoiding your assassination attempts.”
Geto chuckles. “Come now, old friend. I gave you plenty of warning.”
“Oh, sure. That time you nearly poisoned my drink?” Satoru grins manically. “Tell me, was that your idea, or were you merely using the First Commander as inspiration?”
Your breath hitches. The First Commander?
The laughter in Geto’s expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was doing what I had to do. Look at me now, Gojo. I’m the Captain of the Royal Guard, while you’re just a fugitive with no place to call home. This could’ve been your position, had you not decided to be so fucking righteous.”
“Right. It’s my fault for finding out that the First Commander murdered the late queen.”
Everything clicks into place. Nanami had mentioned that the First Commander was the current king’s older brother—the current king, who has been severely ill for the past decade, who hasn’t been seen in the public eye ever since, because he was supposedly on permanent bedrest. Your heartbeat quickens. Just how much rot is this kingdom hiding behind the rubies?
“Ah,” Satoru continues. “I’m forbidden from speaking of it, aren’t I?”
The captain’s jaw ticks, but his smirk remains. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The thief scoffs. “Of course. Because it wasn’t you who told me to shut up about it instead of confronting the old man. To turn a blind eye, to let it happen ‘cause it was—what did you say?—bigger than us.” He laughs, sharp and humourless. “How’s that working out for you, Suguru?”
“Still so naïve.”
“And you’re still so blind,” Satoru throws back. He reaches behind him, grabbing the nearest sword from the wall, and swings it down. “What was it, again? The commander deserved the throne because he was older? Because the king was too soft? Because it was for the good of the kingdom?” His voice drips with mockery. “Come on, Suguru. Give me that speech again. I loved that speech.”
Geto’s fingers shift on the hilt of his sword. “You never understood.”
“Oh, I understood perfectly,” Satoru snaps. “The commander couldn’t sit on his hands and wait for fate to hand him what he thought was his. So he took matters into his own poison-stained hands. And you let him.”
Silence stretches between them, thick as fog, pressing against the walls. You swallow hard, watching the way Geto’s jaw sets.
“We’ve had this conversation before, right before you decided to rat me out,” he continues. “We both knew. We knew he was killing them.”
Geto’s eyes flash. “And what was I supposed to do, Satoru? Fight back? Get myself executed like you nearly did? The commander had already won the moment the queen died.”
“The queen,” Satoru seethes, “who had a son, Suguru. The trueborn heir to the throne. The very thing the commander feared most.”
Geto’s lips part—then press into a thin line. There. There it is. The missing piece, the lock to the key.
Satoru takes a step forward, lifting the sword in his hand. “That’s what broke you, isn’t it?” His voice is softer now, but not kind. “You could stomach the poison. You could stomach the lies. But when he tried to kill the baby, that was when you hesitated.”
“I thought you were dead,” Geto says, almost conversationally. “When you ran. The first few months when they declared you a fugitive, I thought you wouldn’t make it. And yet, here you are.”
“I am very hard to kill.”
“That, you are.”
They move at the same time. Steel clashes in a burst of sparks, the force of the impact ringing through the cavernous throne room. Satoru twists, parrying the next strike with ease, but Geto presses forward, forcing him back towards the dais. They circle each other, two hunters hunting each other. You tighten your grip on the frying pan—though it might be rendered useless given the situation.
“You were so convinced you could save him,” Geto murmurs, keeping his blade pointed at Satoru’s chest. “That you could find the heir, put him on the throne, and somehow make this kingdom right again.”
“And you were so convinced that I wouldn’t,” Satoru says. “It took a while, but I managed to steal the crown, didn’t I? The late queen—may she rest in peace—was clever. It was tough trying to figure it out—that the clue rested upon what belonged to the true heir.”
“Clever, indeed. But not clever enough. You see, I’ve already figured it all out.” Geto lunges again, blade flashing. Satour meets him mid-strike. They push against each other, each testing the other’s strength, neither giving way.
“You think you’ve won just because you found the crown?” Geto taunts. “Because you figured out the queen’s little riddle? It changes nothing.”
“No, Suguru. It changes everything.” Satoru grins, eyes alight with someone reckless. He shifts his weight, twisting free of Geto’s grip, and swings his sword in a sharp arc. Geto blocks it, but just barely—his foot skids slightly against the polished marble, his balance momentarily off. Satoru seizes the opening, pressing forward with quick, calculated strikes.
The clang of their swords echoes, the only sound save for your own shallow breaths. You inch closer to Megumi, keeping him shielded behind you, even as you cannot tear your eyes away from the fight.
“You were there that night,” Satoru bites out in between strikes, “when the commander told us of his plan for the queen’s son to be killed.” His blade swings, forcing Geto another step back. “You heard the order.” A sharp clash. “You almost let it happen.” Another blow. “And you knew I wouldn’t.”
Geto parries the next attack with more force, forcing Satoru back. “I told you to let it go. I told you it was too late.”
“And I told you to go fuck yourself!” Satoru fires back. He dodges another strike easily, as though his years of training as a soldier have not left his body despite the disuse of sword-fighting.
“You should’ve joined me,” he says. “We could’ve risen the ranks together. Fixed things together.”
“Fixed things? You wanted to erase the truth. I wanted to bring it back.” Satoru’s eyes narrow. “That’s why you never killed me, isn’t it? Because some part of you—some part of you—wanted me to prove you wrong.”
A flicker of something crosses Geto’s face. A hesitation. A second too long. Satoru moves. His blade sweeps low, and Geto barely has the time to block before he’s forced back again, this time nearly stumbling. His boot scrapes against the first step of the dais, right in front of the empty throne—mere paces away from where you’re standing, clutching your frying pan like it’s a lifeline. Satoru stops, standing just a few feet away, his own sword lowered slightly, his breathing steady.
Geto exhales slowly, eyes shadowed, and then—finally—he laughs. Low; amused; dark. “You always were the best, Satoru,” he says. “I’ll give you that. But I’ve figured it out too. The queen’s secret. The heir’s true identity.”
Satoru’s expression doesn’t waver. “Oh?”
A slow smile spreads across Geto’s face. “Okkotsu Yuta is his name,” he says.
You take a step forward. Geto continues, “The last remaining royal—”
Another step. “—was raised as—”
Another step; this time, you raise your arms over your head. “—a low-life peasant on the border between our kingdom and the next.”
CLANG!
Geto Suguru’s mouth slackens. His eyes go cross-eyed before he crumples to the floor, unconscious. Satoru blinks. His eyes dart up to meet yours.
You stand over the captain of the Royal Guard’s stupefied body, the frying pan gripped so tightly in your hands, the handle digs into your palms. “...Oops?”
Satoru exhales—a sound caught between disbelief and sheer delight—before throwing his head back with a bark of laughter. “You,” he says, stepping over Geto’s unconscious form, “are fucking amazing. And here I was, thinking I’d have to duel him for longer.”
You lower the frying pan, shoulders sagging slightly as the adrenaline ebbs. “Yeah, well, you were taking too long.”
He drops the sword; it falls to the floor with a resounding thud. You grimace. Satoru wraps his arms around you, melting into you as though drained of all his energy. You lean against him, as well. It’s not over yet—the First Commander is still alive, the king’s health is still failing, the heir is still unaware of his royal lineage, and the kingdom’s fate is uncertain.
“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, after Megumi weaves about in between your legs. “We might be able to catch a glimpse of the last bit of the lantern festival if we’re lucky.”
You pull back slightly, brows knit together in a frown. “Aren’t you tired? You should be resting!”
“Nah.” He grins. “What sort of man would I be if I brought you all the way to the capital and didn’t let you see your dream?”
“But—”
“Tomorrow. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”
“Okay.” You give in. How could you not?
The river glows with the reflections of a thousand golden lanterns, each one a drifting star against the darkened water. Somewhere beyond the riverbanks, the kingdom rejoices, but here—adrift in a tiny wooden boat, far removed from the noise and the world—it is quiet. It is just you and Satoru, bathed in the warm glow of floating light. You trace your fingers along the delicate paper lantern in your lap, the thin parchment almost translucent beneath your touch. Satoru watches you, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Make a wish,” he tells you.
You let your lips turn upwards, closing your eyes. The lantern lifts into the air. It floats upwards, joining the sea of golden light that drifts towards the heavens. Beside you, Satoru releases his own, head tilted back to watch it rise, the glow reflected in the blue of his eyes. For a long while, you don’t speak. The world has never felt so hushed, so suspended in time.
Then, he turns to you, the shimmer of the lanterns casting his face in soft gold. “I think,” he says, “I have a dream too.”
“Really? Tell me.”
He leans in instead, and his lips press against yours—warm, certain, like the promise of something endless. Overhead, the lanterns continue their slow, drifting ascent, rising higher, higher, until they are nothing but distant constellations in the dark.
It feels like stardust.
⇢ a/n: @mahowaga & @admiringlove, you both know who you are. thank you, as well, to kae, @ylangelegy, for beta reading this fic, giving me invaluable feedback, and letting me ramble about this fic to them; i appreciate you endlessly. and, of course, thank you, dear reader, for reading this behemoth of a fic :) i hope you have a wonderful day! sidenote: due to tumblr’s paragraph limit, several paragraphs that were written as separate word blocks had to be combined into one in order to make it fit in one post. to read it with the original formatting, as it was written in my google docs, ao3 would definitely offer you a better experience!
hi ! :) these are my personal recommendations, might contain suggestive content but nothing too explicit. and these are mostly drabbles because it’s hard to find swf oneshots or series, i’m sorry :3 also most of the fics are fluff
╰┈➤ gojo satoru
✧.* the great war ( @satorulovebot ) got me FUCKING SOBBING THIS IS NOT OKAY. don’t read this in a good mood, it will ruin your day ( not in a bad way tho, this is so good, one of my favs on this app, dk why this isn’t popular )
✧.* how to fake date a doctor ( @lostfracturess ) i know there is a really suggestive content(no smut tho), but :( it’s too wonderful
✧.* i know you still think about the times we had ( @/saetoru ) angstyy but happy ending
✧.* we can dip, if you’re ready ( @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat ) unrequited love trope is one of my favorites ….
✧.* yandere!gojo ( @gojoest ) i’m not usually into yandere stuff, but this drabble is really good
✧.* this is home ( ryowritten ) this is rb link because the original blog isn’t available, i’m sorry. but you should definitely read this
✧.* husband!satoru x pregnant!reader ( @sanemistar ) this is soo so sweet ;(
✧.* crybaby ( @suhtorus ) another sweet tooth rotting drabble
✧.* dad!satoru ( @cute-sucker ) aaand another one!
✧.* #needthis ( @kentwos ) this is not the title .. lol
╰┈➤ fushuguro toji
✧.* valentines day ( @lemonlover1110 ) ft. megumi fushiguro ;)
✧.* argument ( @lymtw ) reader is SO ME …… ugh i love hurt/comfort (also read author’s other works please they’re amazing)
✧.* lockedup!fushiguro ( @animamii ) please read this series, this is veryyy good
✧.* bad dream ( @stellawish ) i love love dad!toji
✧.* toji fushiguro is no blind man ( @kissitbttr ) veery suggestive but also very good ;)
✧.* dad!toji drabble ( @kashverse ) this person got a huge amount of fluff drabbles of many characters and their works are freaking amazing
✧.* toji fushiguro had no intentions of getting married again ( @starmapz ) i’m actually rereading it like once in three days no jokes
✧.* olderboyfriend!toji ( @tojibnuy ) i audibly giggled btw
✧.* acts of service ( @levisjinchuriki ) like i said , i love hurt/comfort and this oneshot is amazing
✧.* toji with pregnant wife ( @onehundredelevven ) ughh this is so cute i’m gonna die
✧.* when you caught flowers on the wedding ( @pepperyduck ) it made me want to attend someone's wedding …unfortunately i've never been to one 🥲
✧.* one step forward, two steps back ( @jjk4isen ) this is just cruel.
╰┈➤ nanami kento
✧.* jealous nanami ( @shebrewscoffee ) this is SO nanami i love it
✧.* olderhusband!nanami ( @vampyhvnt ) this is canon actually ….
✧.* evening walks were sacred in the nanami household ( @kashverse )
✧.* nanami is part danish ( @iid-smile ) this is very sweet i’m actually exploded
✧.* his protégé ( @augustinewrites )
✧.* my wife ( @chastiefoul ) you could tell nanami is very married
✧.* heart attack ( @iid-smile )
✧.* disturbed sleep ( @iid-smile )
✧.* nanami bittersweet ( @/creamflix ) i’m sorry this is a rb link too .. and this one HURTS
✧.* the secret wife ( @chuluoyi ) hehe i love this .. you should also read love entries ( gojo ) from this author <3 this is very good
✧.* yuji after anesthesia ( @unabletonotlovesatoru ) this is healing my btw ..
╰┈➤ geto suguru
✧.* the paint doesn’t move the way the light reflects ( @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat ) OOH I LOVE LOVE ROYALTY AU AND THIS IS SO SWEET AND CUTE OMG
✧.* i love you, i love you (kill me in the morning) ( @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat )
✧.* six degrees of separation ( @starmapz ) best geto series imo ….
✧.* i crumble completely when you cry ( @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat ) arctic monkeys mentioned ⁉️ but seriously this is AWESOME also if you want some good geto fics please check this blog and read their works
✧.* i dream, now, of a normal life with you ( @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat )
✧.* suguru drabble ( @jjk4isen )
✧.* baby, my baby ( @sugudoe ) this is a smau including geto, gojo and nanami, AND THIS IS SOO AMAZING LIKE OML did i mentioned that i LOVE hurt/comfort ??
pairing: gojo x fem reader
synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation.
wc: 12.7k (huhhhhh?)
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation, mentions of miscarriage
a/n: smidge more angst, delves more into yns internal thoughts & feelings
series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter
“Sa…” you can’t even find it in yourself to finish that sentence, to utter his complete name. As if afraid that when you do, it’ll be like summoning some sort of demon. Only this time, it’s the father of your child—same thing.
He looks as shocked as you, if not more so. His eyes widen and then narrow in a rhythmic movement that makes you scared, anticipating whatever utterance will fall from his pretty lips. If only you could go back in time and deny even the thought of going on this whatever with Mr. Ito. Maybe then you could’ve been spared, at least given some time to mentally prepare yourself for seeing the face of the man who has been practically haunting you for seven years. Maybe then, he wouldn’t look so…different.
“Ms. Y/N?” Mr. Ito’s confused voice snaps you both simultaneously out of the small staring contest you were just in. When Satoru finally acknowledges the other man, you can see a small tick on his eyebrows. Mr. Ito—well he’s not dumb. Every feature of Satoru reminding him of a small, much younger someone who happens to be in his kindergarten class. “O-oh…is this…do you two…know each other?”
What do you even say to that? Yes? No? Maybe so? It’s all so fucking confusing and complicated, but Satoru seems to save you. “And who are you?” he asks, voice flat and calculating. His eyes dart between you and Mr. Ito, like he’s trying to silently gauge what’s going on between you two. His analytical skills always seem to put you off, so you look away.
“Um…well, I’m Ms. Y/N’s son’s teacher. Nice to meet you.” Mr. Ito slowly explains, putting on a timid smile, outstretching his tan hand towards Satoru.
To no surprise, Satoru doesn’t reciprocate the welcome gesture. He is instead, clenching his fists by his side. You can see his jaw tick from your peripheral, as if he’s doing his damned hardest not to blow the hell up right now. “Are you now?”
Mr. Ito, caught in the middle of something he has no business in, glances around awkwardly. A weird chuckle leaving his mouth, lowering his hand back down to his side. “Um, yes, sir.”
“Funny,” Satoru laughs, though there’s no humor laced in it. He looks back down at you. “Very funny,” Satoru adds, his voice light, almost conversational. His sharp blue eyes flick from Mr. Ito to you, then back again, but there’s a glint in them you recognize all too well—calm, composed, and dangerous.
Mr. Ito doesn’t seem fazed, meeting Satoru’s gaze with polite confidence. “Yes, we were just discussing some things regarding her son,” he says, his tone smooth and professional. There’s a flicker of curiosity in his expression, though, as he glances between the two of you, clearly piecing things together.
“Were you now?” Satoru’s lips twitch into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He then casually pulls out a chair from the table and sits, resting one arm on top of it as if he has all the time in the world. “And what kind of things are we talking about?”
With every second that passes, you feel yourself grow closer and closer to pissing your pants. You know exactly what he’s doing, it’s the calm before the storm. Satoru is great at saving face, but after knowing him so intimately, you know his true intentions and feelings. But still, you’re too frozen in place to stop it all before it gets out of hand.
“Well,” Mr. Ito replies, still composed but he spares a look at you before continuing. “Just a few concerns regarding his talkativeness.” Mr. Ito keeps it vague, still a little on edge by this sudden change of events.
Satoru lets out a low hum, nodding slightly. “Oh, he talks a lot, does he?” he says, his tone almost too soft, too soothing. His eyes slide to you, lingering just long enough to make you squirm. “And that’s become a problem?”
Mr. Ito nods.
Satoru smiles, arms crossing and one leg crossing over the other. “Must be a little troublemaker, he seems to take after his mom.”
The subtle barb stings, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. Mr. Ito, seemingly oblivious, smiles warmly. “Hah, well, I’m not sure who he takes after.”
“Correct.” Satoru simply responds.
Mr. Ito pauses then continues. “But, She’s an excellent parent,” he says, glancing your way. “We’ve had a few chats during pick-up. It’s always nice to see someone so involved in their child’s education.”
Satoru’s smile tightens ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching as he leans forward just a fraction. “It is nice, isn’t it?” he says smoothly, his voice calm but edged with something you can’t quite name. “I mean, a teacher like you must see all kinds of parents. You’ve really taken the time to notice Y/N, haven’t you?”
Mr. Ito hesitates for the first time, sensing the subtle shift in Satoru’s tone. “Well, I try to be passionate about connecting with all the parents of my students,” he replies, still polite but less certain now.
Satoru’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens slightly, though his eyes remain cold. “Of course,” he says, leaning back as if completely at ease. “You’re just doing your job. Going above and beyond, I see.”
You can feel the tension radiating off Satoru, even if he’s doing his best to appear calm. It’s in the way his fingers tap against the table in a measured rhythm, the way his gaze sharpens with every word.
“Satoru,” you interject quickly, trying to defuse the situation before it escalates. “Can we ta—”
“Oh, just a second,” he holds up a long finger, regarding you with such simplicity in a way that makes you feel inferior. Eyes not moving from Mr. Ito’s. “I mean, I should probably be involved in this conversation too, no? Considering I’m the—what do you call it?—Oh, right, father.”
You gulp hard. Mr. Ito once again shifts his position, hands awkwardly clasping together.
“Anywho,” Satoru switches back to the subject at hand. “Passion’s a good thing. As long as it’s directed where it belongs, of course.”
The remark hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Mr. Ito moves uncomfortably but keeps his polite demeanor, clearing his throat. “Well, I should probably get back home, I have some things to grade,” he says, glancing at his watch. “It was nice meeting you, Mr.…”
“Gojo,” Satoru finishes for him, his smile razor-sharp. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
Mr. Ito nods, grabbing his jacket he put on the back of his chair. “Goodbye, Ms. Y/N. I'll see you on Monday.” He still has the audacity to give you a warm smile before leaving the cafe, the bell dinging following his departure.
After a second or two, Satoru’s calm facade finally cracks, his jaw clenching as he exhales slowly through his nose. You brace yourself, knowing that the real conversation is about to begin. The way his eyes scan you up and down in an analytical way makes you feel naked. “And look at you,” he huffs, head tilting in a patronizing way. “Silent and jittery like a little mouse. If I didn’t have other things to say, I’d say you look quite pathetic.”
Blow number 1, there he goes already. Though, you can’t find it in you to rebuttal that. Scared to say anything, honestly. There’s a pause as Satoru picks apart every little thing about you inside his head. You might have felt better hearing it out loud instead of being stuck on the silent end of the stick. Eventually, you find your small amount of courage. “Satoru…”
“Oh, look. You do my name. Thought you would have forgotten it after all the sneaky shit you seem to have been doing these past few years.”
“Can we please talk?” You ask, voice laced with desperation.
“Hm?” His eyebrow raises. “We’re talking right now, right? Why don’t you sit down?”
Hell no. You bite your lip, hands trembling by your sides. “Please, somewhere private.”
“What makes you think you deserve anything right now?”
He’s right, really right. You probably deserve shit with the lies and deceitful nature you’ve been harboring these years. But, can’t he have at least a little bit of sympathy for you? He has no idea about the shit you’ve been going through all this time by yourself. And while yes, you do feel guilty, he should be still trying to address the situation in an adult-ish manner. “Satoru…please. We shouldn’t talk here, let’s just…go somewhere more quiet.”
Satoru mulls over your words, a part of him wanting to drag this out even longer and make you more uncomfortable. You deserve it. But, you’re also right. So, he takes in a deep breath, stands up, and motions his head towards the door in a silent command. Without wasting a second, you turn around and walk out of the cafe with him hot on your tail. Intending to lead him to the secluded park that you and Koji frequently visit because there’s not a lot of foot traffic. Although your ideal spot would be indoors, you can’t exactly lead him to your apartment right now—not that you want to, anyway.
It’s only a few minutes of walking, but the entire time feels horrible. He stares at the back of your head, eyes roaming down to your back, legs, and then ass. In that specific order. Satoru’s always saved the best for last, and while checking you out should be the last thing on his mind, staring at your ass will at least somewhat calm him down. You’re not stupid either, it’s like you can feel his eyes shamelessly darting about. However, that’s the least of your worries right now.
You see the familiar bench in the distance, taking a seat. He sits beside you, leaving a considerable distance between your bodies. There’s another silence, this one feeling more suffocating. It suddenly hits you that you’re about to do this—about to have this conversation with him, own up to all your bad deeds. You have to, no more hiding. You gulp down the lump in your throat before speaking, “I know this is all probably…really bad. I know you’re mad at me, you have every right to be.”
Satoru doesn’t respond right away, leaning back on the bench with an air of nonchalance that contrasts starkly with the storm brewing in his eyes. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the horizon, as if giving you the floor—but the weight of his silence feels heavier than any words he could’ve said. “Mad?” he finally repeats, his voice low and deceptively calm. He turns to you, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Mad doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
You wince, his words cutting deeper than you expected. Your hands grip the edge of the bench, knuckles turning white as you scramble for the right thing to say, the perfect way to explain yourself—but nothing feels sufficient. Nothing ever will. “I know,” you whisper, forcing yourself to look at him even as shame threatens to make you shrink away. “I know I should’ve told you—about Koji, about everything. I was just… scared. I didn’t know how to handle it, and—”
“Don’t,” he interrupts, his tone sharp enough to slice through your excuses. His gaze pins you in place, icy and unrelenting. “Don’t you dare try to justify it. You made the choice to keep my son from me. For five years.”
The raw anger in his voice makes your chest tighten, guilt clawing at your insides. “I didn’t do it to hurt you,” you plead, voice trembling. “I swear, Satoru, I thought I was doing what was best—”
“For who?” he snaps, his calm facade slipping for a brief moment, revealing the frustration bubbling underneath. “For me? For Koji? Or just for you?”
You flinch at his words, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “For Koji,” you choke out. “I wanted to protect him. There’s—there are reasons why I didn’t…..” your voice trails off, unable to get the remaining part of your excuse out. But it’s true. You had—have—your reasons. And while most people still might not consider it good enough or justifiable, you truly believed what you did was for good.
Satoru lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair as he looks away, shaking his head. “Reasons?” he mutters, almost to himself. “And what, you think keeping my son a secret all because of ‘reasons’ makes this situation any better? Are you that fucking stupid?”
“No, no, I…know it won’t make anything better,” you whisper, voice barely audible. “I know that. But back then, I just… I just thought that…he wasn’t ready for your world, like I’m not.” By world, you mean quite literally that. Satoru grew up spoiled, his inner elite circle is all he’s ever known. Responsibilities at such a young age, responsibilities no child should face. Expectations, public display, people constantly butting their heads in your business, you have absolutely zero privacy. Satoru would vent to you about that, and you knew—just knew—you couldn’t put your innocent baby boy through that. There’s a class divide between you and Satoru, the main reason as to why you two broke up in the first place.
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to lash out again—but instead, he exhales sharply, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You didn’t even give me a choice,” he says quietly, his voice laced with hurt. “You decided for both of us. For him.”
The weight of his words crushes you, the reality of your actions settling in your chest like a stone. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, tears finally spilling over. “I’m so, so sorry, Satoru. I just… I didn’t know how to face you.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, his head bowed as if he’s trying to gather his thoughts. When he finally looks up, his gaze is softer, but no less intense. “Do you have any idea what it’s like,” he murmurs, “to find out you have a son—your son—after all this time? To realize you’ve missed everything?”
Your heart breaks at the pain in his voice, and you reach out instinctively, your hand hovering over his before pulling back, unsure if he’ll accept your touch. “I know I can’t fix this,” you say, voice shaking. “But I want to try. I want to make things right. For you. For Koji.”
Satoru studies you for a long moment, his piercing gaze searching your face for something—truth, regret, maybe even hope. “Making things right?” he echoes softly. “You can’t make this right. Because you did something so fucked up, I think I’m starting to hate you.”
“I don’t expect you not to,” you say, sniffling as you wipe your eyes. Now’s the time to be transparent.
“Tell me,” he commands, looking at you with an unrecognizable face. “Tell me every single fucking reason why you thought what you did was okay. Then maybe—only maybe—I’ll decide how we should move forward from this.”
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I thought I was doing what was best for Koji,” you repeat softly, though the words feel hollow even to your ears. “Your world, Satoru—it’s suffocating. The spotlight, the responsibilities, the pressure... I didn’t want him to grow up with that. I didn’t want him to be molded by something he never asked for. I–I just wanted him to have a normal childhood growing up, something you weren’t able to have…”
He stares at you, unblinking, his expression unreadable but his jaw visibly tightening.
“And then... there was us,” you continue, your voice faltering slightly. “We had just broken up, and I—I didn’t think you’d want to settle down with a kid so soon after everything. I didn’t think you were…ready.”
His eyes narrow, sharp, and cold. “So you assumed I wasn’t ready, just like you assumed it would be better to keep him from me?”
“It wasn’t just that,” you say quickly, the tremor in your voice betraying your desperation. You let out a shaky exhale, willing yourself to continue, even though it’s getting harder to breathe. “After the miscarriage... I couldn’t handle the idea of telling you I was pregnant again. I was terrified, Satoru. Terrified of losing him too, and what that would do to both of us. I thought... if I kept it to myself, maybe I could protect him, protect us from that pain.” The words of your past are extremely hard to get out. You vowed to yourself to never even utter or think of the word miscarriage ever again, though that’s hard to do when you’re explaining yourself. It was hard, so fucking hard for you. No words or exercises can prepare you for the pain of having a child, just like nothing can prepare you for the pain of losing one. It happened two years into your relationship, and although it was completely unexpected and accidental, you felt something in your bones that told you to keep it.
Satoru tried, as hard as he could, though you’re not sure that means a lot. You could see the exhaustion and fatigue in his face, feeling guilter by the day for wanting to keep it. While he never explicitly voiced out getting rid of it, you knew he wouldn’t be upset if you did. That alone was the start of your relationship’s downfall. Maybe it was your own version of stress, anxiety, and whatever else you were going through back then, but you lost it. Your body wasn’t strong enough to house and grow a production of your love, which you hated yourself for. Maybe even a small part of you started hating Satoru, thinking about how happy he must have been behind his soothing words and even more soothing hugs. You thought how ecstatic he must be, lying straight to your face after crying with you. Of course, you never voiced these malicious feelings out either. The memories you’ve locked away for years now come crashing through your defenses, spilling out into the open where they can’t be ignored.
You remembered the nights spent curled up on the bathroom floor. The heavy blood clots, mixed with strong abdominal pain. Sobbing silently so Satoru wouldn’t hear you, your hands pressed to your stomach like you could keep your child safe just by willing it. But it hadn’t been enough. Nothing you did was enough.
The moment you’d lost your first child, a part of you had shattered beyond repair. The guilt was unbearable, the self-loathing even worse. A horrible thing for a twenty-one year old to experience; for any woman to experience. Every reassuring word from Satoru felt like a lie, no matter how sincerely he meant them. It’s almost like you could see the shadow of relief in his eyes when he thought you weren’t looking, the slight easing of tension in his shoulders that felt like a betrayal even though you couldn’t blame him for it.
It had eaten away at you, little by little, until the mere thought of being pregnant again felt like a cruel joke. You’d failed once—what if you failed again? When you saw the test, you didn’t cry out of happiness. You cried out of fear, choking on your sobs as the weight of the decision pressed down on you. Keeping Koji meant risking everything again—your heart, your sanity, your relationship with Satoru, already frayed and stretched thin. Could you go through that pain again? Could he?
You didn’t think you could, and that thought was what finally broke you. Because if you couldn’t handle it, how could you expect Satoru to? You’d already seen the exhaustion in his eyes, the way he’d tried so hard to comfort you when he was barely holding himself together. And the truth that you never said out loud, the truth you could barely admit to yourself, was that you didn’t believe he’d want to try again.
You were terrified he’d ask you to get rid of it this time. Or worse—he’d do what he did last time: try to be there, try to support you, while secretly wishing for a way out. You couldn’t handle the idea of hearing him say it. You couldn’t bear the thought of watching his love for you chip away under the strain of something neither of you was ready for.
So you decided. Alone. After the break-up. That is when you found out, after all; three weeks later.
You told yourself it was for Koji. That keeping him away from Satoru’s world—the world of power, expectations, and relentless spotlight—was what was best for him. You told yourself it was for Satoru, too, because he deserved to live his life without being shackled to a family he might not have wanted. But deep down, you knew it was also about you. About your own cowardice, your fear of rejection, your inability to face the possibility of losing everything again.
Sitting here now, with Satoru’s eyes burning into you, the weight of your decisions feels unbearable. The excuses you clung to for so long sound hollow, even to you. But they were your truths at the time, however twisted and fragile they might have been. “I thought I was protecting all of us,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the strain of holding back tears. The words hang in the air, raw and exposed, as you finally let yourself feel the full weight of the choices you made and the people they hurt.
Satoru feels his world pause when you mention the traumatic event you both went through. His stomach twisting in a disgusting feeling, a hint of bile rising in his throat. Memories, painful memories playing on repeat in his mind. He even feels the familiar tickle at his eyes, blinking rapidly to avoid any pour out.
Then, for a moment, his gaze softens, just a flicker of something raw and unguarded crossing his face—but it’s gone as quickly as it came. “So…by protecting, you decide to hide it, him, everything from me. You decided I didn’t deserve to know him,” he says bitterly. “That I didn’t deserve to be there for him—or for you. Did you just think that I wouldn’t be the man I was supposed to be towards my children? You didn’t give me a second chance, to—too prove to you we could’ve done this, together. You…You didn’t even give me a chance, Y/N.”
“It wasn’t just about you,” you snap, the frustration bubbling up despite your guilt. “I was scared, Satoru. Scared of rejection, of what your family would think, of how we’d even make it work with everything stacked against us. I didn’t have your money, your power, your family name. I was just... me. And I didn’t think that would ever be enough.”
His brows furrow, and you can see him processing your words, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think I care about any of that?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I’d let a class divide or family politics get in the way of being there for my son?”
“I didn’t know what you’d do,” you admit, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “You were so far out of reach, Satoru. And after we lost... after everything we went through, I didn’t think you’d want to try again. I thought it’d be easier for you—easier for both of us—if I just disappeared.”
“Easier?” he repeats, his voice rising slightly, his calm facade threatening to crumble. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve hated myself for the last five years? For losing you? For wondering what could’ve been?”
You blink at him, startled by the crack in his voice, the sheer vulnerability in his words.
“You didn’t,” you whisper. “It wasn’t you, Satoru. It was me. I was scared, and I made the wrong choice. I know that now. I know I can’t fix this, but I want to try. For Koji’s sake. For your sake.”
He leans back slightly, exhaling sharply as he runs a hand through his hair. The silence between you is deafening, the weight of everything you’ve said hanging heavily in the air. “Do you know what I’m feeling right now?” he says finally, his voice quieter but no less intense, “How it feels like to find out you have a son you’ve never even met, to know you missed his first steps, his first words, his entire life so far? And why? Because you took that from me.”
Tears spill down your cheeks, but you don’t wipe them away. “I know,” you whisper. “I know, and I’m sorry. I was selfish. I thought I was protecting him, but I was just protecting myself.”
Satoru looks at you for a long moment, his piercing gaze searching your face for something—truth, regret, maybe even hope. Finally, he exhales, his shoulders sagging slightly. “You’ve done a lot of damage, Y/N,” he says quietly. “And it’s going to take more than an apology to fix it.”
You nod, wiping your tears away. “I’m not asking for forgiveness, Satoru. I’m just asking for…a chance to make things right.” Your head lowers, vision blurry as you focus on your trembling hands in your lap.
He doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze shifting to the horizon. “This isn’t about you and me anymore,” he says after a long pause. “It’s about Koji. And I’m not going to let you shut me out of his life again.”
“I wouldn’t,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “I–I swear, Satoru. I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work. For him.”
Satoru lets out a slow breath, standing up and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Then let’s start now,” he says, his tone firm. “Take me to him.”
Your heart skips a beat at his words, the reality of the situation sinking in. This is only the beginning—and there’s no turning back. “H-he’s at home.”
“So take me there.”
You stand, fumbling with your words. “I…I can’t just have you two meet out of nowhere, I have to tell him in advance.”
His lips purse, and downturn into another frown, a look that lets you know he’s this close to being lenient with you. However, he concedes. “Tomorrow. Here.”
“Whe–”
“Ten in the morning, I’ll leave my meeting early.” he glances at the pristine, gold watch on his right wrist. “Give me your number, in case you try to run and lie again.”
A pang of hurt flies through you, though you can’t blame him for being cautious. Even if that cautiousness is riddled with snide remarks and insults. He gives you his phone, to which you go to contacts and place your new number in, marked by your name. Without another word, he pockets his phone. When he looks at you for one last time, it looks like it hurts, like he’s forcing himself to. After a second, he turns around and walks away, leaving you to your own devices.
Letting out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, you sit back on the bench, head in your hands and lightly tugging at your strands of hair. Things still don’t feel right. You know you two still have a lot more to say to one another, unspoken words being your enemy. It’s far from over, actually.
But at least you two have come to a small conclusion, for now. However, you don’t know how tomorrow will go. You can only hope you don’t cry too much, and that Koji and him will get along well.
Still, you can’t help that lingering sense of anxiousness. Is it okay for you to feel this way? To be wary? Or are you stretching your already little luck?
The walk back home feels boneless and empty. Taking your time, going through small detours, and whatnot. You get back home after a few hours, it’s already twelve in the afternoon. Regarding Sana with a muttered greeting and haphazardly giving her her money. When she leaves, you’re left alone. Koji’s surprisingly down for a nap. Usually, you would question why he’s sleeping this early in the day, but you could honestly use the peace and quiet right now. You could use it every day, actually.
You sit on the small, worn-out couch. Letting your body sink into the thin material, head leaning back against the cushions. You’re in your mind again. It seems like every day is more exhausting than the last. As the saying goes, you learn something new every day. And today, one of the things that surprised you most was how Satoru said he’s been miserable in these past five years. He missed you? He hated himself for losing you? Then why didn’t he fight for you? Why’d he just stand there and take everything? If he really wanted you, he would’ve begged you to stay, he would’ve come up with some solution to your deteriorating relationship. Unless he said all that now just to make you feel even more shitty. You don’t know what’s right anymore.
The thoughts spiral like a storm in your mind, each one crashing into the next without pause. The quiet apartment, usually your refuge, feels stifling now. The weight of everything Satoru said—and everything he didn’t—presses down on you like a heavy fog. You pull your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as if it could keep the memories and doubts at bay. It doesn’t. His words replay in your mind, over and over.
"You think I’d let a class divide or family politics get in the way of being there for my son?"
"Do you have any idea what it feels like to find out you have a son you’ve never even met?"
It’s not just his anger that haunts you; it’s the pain you saw flickering behind his icy facade. You knew it would be there, but experiencing it firsthand feels nauseating. Satoru Gojo wasn’t the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but in those fleeting moments, his vulnerability was almost unbearable to witness.
Still, you start to wonder. Why didn’t he fight for you? That thought burns the most. It’s a question that’s lingered in the shadows of your mind for years, one you tried to bury under the weight of your choices and responsibilities. The truth is, you don’t have an answer. Maybe you never will.
You glance at the small coffee table, littered with Koji’s coloring books and the half-empty mug of coffee you didn’t finish this morning. It feels like a snapshot of a life you’ve tried so hard to hold together, but now the cracks are impossible to ignore. You think of Koji, sleeping soundly in the other room, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in your chest. He’s your anchor, the one thing that’s kept you grounded all these years. But now, with Satoru back in the picture, everything feels uncertain.
A part of you wants to believe he meant what he said—that he missed you, that he hated himself for losing you. But another part of you wonders if it’s just anger talking, a need to lash out and make you feel as miserable as he does. The exhaustion pulls at you like a tide, and you let your head fall into your hands, groaning softly. You want to scream, cry, or maybe just disappear for a while. But none of that will solve anything. You can’t rewrite the past.
The soft hum of the refrigerator fills the silence, a dull reminder of the life you’ve built here, brick by fragile brick. And now, in just a single morning, Satoru has shaken the foundation of everything you thought you knew.
You sigh heavily, forcing yourself to stand. There’s no use drowning in your thoughts. You glance at the closed door to Koji’s room, then at the kitchen. Maybe you should prepare something for lunch. Maybe you should sit down and write out everything you’ve been feeling, like the therapist you saw briefly after Koji’s birth suggested.
But instead, you just stand there, frozen in place, as the weight of your choices and the uncertainty of what comes next presses down on you. He’s gonna meet his dad. Koji’s finally getting what he’s wanted after so long, after so many curious questions. You think about how happy he might be, a little shy at first, but he’ll grow to become best friends with his dad. Bitterly smiling, you walk to the kitchen, forcing open a locked cabinet. You pour an unknowing amount of small white pills in your palm, dry swallowing them to quell your monstrous cluster migraine. The pills burn slightly as they go down, a sharp reminder of how raw your nerves are. You grip the edge of the sink, your fingers curling into the cold metal. The thought of Koji meeting Satoru feels like a knife with two edges—one gleaming with hope and the other with fear.
Once Koji wakes up, you’ll need to have a talk with him. Koji’s been asking about his dad for as long as he could form the words. His innocent curiosity, his longing, had always been a reminder of the choices you made, and now…now, you’ll have to confront what those choices mean for him.
He’ll most likely be jumping off the walls, but…you start hoping he doesn’t. You imagine his face lighting up when he sees Satoru—those wide, curious eyes sparkling with excitement and the kind of joy you could never quite give him on your own. That should make you happy, shouldn’t it? He deserves to have both parents in his life. But the thought of him bonding with Satoru, looking up to him, and maybe even loving him more than you…that thought digs into your chest like a splinter. You hate how petty and small it makes you feel.
You’ve done your best, haven’t you? You’ve given everything you could, sacrificed so much, and tried to shield him from the harshness of the world. But Satoru has something you can’t give—a life free of constant worries, opportunities Koji can only dream of, and a charisma that pulls people in like gravity. It’s stupid, you know it is. But you start worrying that Koji will begin to prefer Satoru over you. That he’ll find more comfort in happiness in a parent he just met than the one who’s done everything she could.
But that’s the thing.
Maybe your everything, your all, it just wasn’t enough. It still isn’t enough. Because while you’re giving Koji the bare minimum, you can’t do the littler things. Vacations, buying him toys he loves that he constantly sees on TV, newer clothes and not the thrifted kind, going out to eat dinner. None of that, and more.
You glance at the clock. Koji will hopefully wake up soon. There’s no more time to wallow in your thoughts. You rinse your hands under the cold water, hoping it’ll steady the tremor in them. "This isn’t about you," you remind yourself firmly, staring at your reflection in the window above the sink. The woman staring back looks older than her years, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and worry. But beneath all of that, there’s still love—a fierce, unrelenting love for the boy who’s about to have his world turned upside down. You can’t control how Koji feels about Satoru, just like you couldn’t control how things fell apart between you and him. But you can control how you navigate this moment, for Koji’s sake.
You take a deep breath, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack your face. When Koji wakes up, you’ll talk to him. You’ll answer his questions, help him prepare, and do your best to hide your own fears. Because this isn’t about you.
"It’s about him," you whisper, as if saying it out loud will make the truth easier to accept.
“What I say, baby, I want you to listen well, okay? Can you do that for me?”
The young boy nods and grins. “I can listen, Mama,” he admits proudly.
You should also probably bring up the issue Mr. Ito expressed to you, but that’s for another time. Also, you feel as if you weren’t getting the full story there. Whatever, that’s for another time. You steel yourself, choosing the correct words to say. “So, you know how Papa is always busy?”
He nods.
“Well,” you continue, taking his much smaller hand into yours, presenting a warm smile. “Papa won’t be busy tomorrow.”
He gasps, already seeing the twinkle form in his eyes, and you feel a tad jealous at how happy he’s already getting. “He is?!”
“Mhm,” you nod back. “Do you want to see Pa—”
“I wanna see Papa!”
He cuts you off, causing your jealousy to momentarily skyrocket. You catch yourself before the feeling twists any further, biting down the sharp edge of jealousy threatening to creep into your tone. This isn’t about you—it’s about Koji. It’s always been about Koji. “That’s great,” you say, forcing your smile to stay steady, even as a part of you aches at how easily he lights up for someone who’s been a ghost in his life until now. “But, Koji, baby, you need to listen to me first, okay? Seeing Papa is a big thing, and we need to talk about what that means.”
He tilts his head, the excitement in his eyes dimming just a little as he picks up on the seriousness in your voice. “Is it gonna be like when we see Uncle Ren?”
Your heart twists at the innocent comparison. Ren, for all his faults, has been one of the only constants in Koji’s life outside of you. But no—this isn’t like Ren. This is his father. Ren’s the nicer, older man who runs the sweet shop down the corner. He always greets you two with such warmness, even giving Koji a free lollipop most of the time.
“Not exactly,” you say carefully. “Papa is... someone very important. He’s not like Uncle Ren. He’s your family, Koji. Your real family.”
He blinks, trying to process your words. His little brows knit together in confusion. “So... he’s gonna stay with us?”
You feel your stomach drop at the question. You hadn’t prepared for this. You hadn’t thought about how to explain that Satoru isn’t coming into Koji’s life as a permanent fixture—not yet, at least. How do you tell a child something so complicated when it’s barely something you’ve figured out yourself? “Not right now,” you say gently, squeezing his hand. “But he’s going to start spending time with you. He’s been waiting a long time to meet you, Koji.”
“Really?” His face lights up again, his tiny frame vibrating with excitement.
“Really,” you confirm, though your voice feels thick. You clear your throat, forcing the emotion back down where it belongs. “But when you meet him, you have to be on your best behavior, okay? No running around like crazy or talking over people.”
“I’ll be good!” he promises, practically bouncing in his seat. You hope so. More than anything, you hope this meeting is what Koji dreams it’ll be. That he gets to see the man who is half of him and feel nothing but joy.
But as you watch his wide, excited smile, your stomach churns with doubt. Will Satoru disappoint him? Will Koji’s expectations crash under the weight of Satoru’s complexities? Or worse, will Koji grow to love him so much that he stops looking at you the same way?
You push the thought away, leaning forward to kiss Koji’s forehead. “I’m proud of you, baby,” you murmur, even as the ache in your chest refuses to subside. “And I’m so excited for you to meet Papa.”
Koji giggles, his little arms wrapping around your waist in a hug so pure it threatens to undo you entirely. You hold him close, pressing your cheek to his soft hair, and try to anchor yourself in this moment—this fleeting, fragile peace—before tomorrow comes and changes everything. As Koji pulls back, his eyes are gleaming with uncontainable joy. “Do you think Papa likes dinosaurs?” he asks suddenly, his voice pitched with excitement. “I can show him my dino book! And my drawings too!”
Your lips twitch into a soft smile despite the heaviness sitting in your chest. “I think he’ll love them, Koji,” you say gently. “But remember, it’s okay if Papa doesn’t know everything about dinosaurs. You can teach him, right?”
Koji nods eagerly, his little hands fidgeting as if he’s already planning how he’ll show off his collection. “I can teach him all the big words, like pachy... pachycephalosaurus!” he declares proudly.
Your laugh is small but genuine, breaking through the weight of your thoughts. “That’s a big word, alright,” you say, ruffling his hair. Koji’s excitement is infectious, and for a moment, you let yourself bask in his enthusiasm. It’s easier to pretend that everything will go smoothly, that tomorrow won’t bring possible complications you can’t predict or control. But as he bounds off to his room, presumably to organize his dinosaur books and drawings for tomorrow, the silence that settles over the apartment again feels excruciating. You glance toward the kitchen, where the locked cabinet hides the pills you’ve been relying on far too often these days. For a moment, the thought crosses your mind, unbidden: Would it even matter if I wasn’t enough anymore?
You shake your head sharply, disgusted with yourself for even entertaining it. No. You have to be enough—for Koji, if nothing else.
Sighing, you push yourself off the couch and move toward his room. You lean against the doorframe, watching as he carefully stacks his books into a neat pile, his little hands moving with purpose. “Koji,” you call softly, and he looks up at you, his face lit with the same pure joy it’s always had.
“Yeah, Mama?”
“I just...” You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. I just love you so much. It feels too simple, too heavy all at once. Instead, you force a smile. “I think Papa’s really lucky to have you.”
Koji beams, his smile wide and toothy. “And you, Mama!” he says, matter-of-factly, before returning to his project.
You linger for a moment longer, letting his words wrap around your heart like a fragile thread. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring—if it’ll heal or shatter you further—but for now, you let yourself hold on to the hope in his voice. Because like always, Koji is your guiding light in a world so dark, he’s the hand that pulls you out when you’re sinking too deep. If you begin to question your love for even yourself, your love for him is enough to keep you going.
Today’s a little more warm than usual, though that doesn’t say a lot considering it’s winter and the air feels crispy; still sunny. You hold your son’s hand, guiding him along the sidewalk and to the inevitable meeting spot between father and son. You left a little early; it being 9:30. It feels slightly calmer within your mind, probably because Satoru isn’t here yet.
You sit with Koji on the bench, letting him find placement on your lap. Adjusting his red beanie and gloves. “Are you excited, Koji?”
“I’m really excited, Mama. do you think Papa will like me?”
You coo. “Of course he will. Papa already loves you.”
“Really? Even though he’s never seen me?”
“Koji beams at your words, his small hands tugging at the ends of his gloves as if to keep himself busy. “Do you think he’ll play with me? Maybe dinosaurs or tag?” His little backpack is full of things he wishes to show his father, most of them being either dinosaur or car-related.
You smile softly, stroking his cheek. “I think he’ll play whatever you want. Papa will want to get to know you, Koji. You’re very special to him.”
His grin widens, and he leans into your touch, the warmth of his trust settling heavily on your chest. You wish you could bottle this moment—his innocence, his excitement, his unshakable belief that everything will turn out fine.
The minutes pass as you and Koji wait for Satoru, the latter being more excited than the other. Finally, the sound of footsteps crunching in the frosty grass pulls your attention, and your heart skips. You glance up and see Satoru approaching, his tall frame unmistakable even from a distance. His coat flutters slightly in the breeze, his pace steady yet reluctant, as if he’s as nervous as you are. He’s wearing sunglasses, per usual. A voice in the back of your mind berates him for that fashion choice. “There he is,” you murmur, nudging Koji gently.
Koji hops off your lap, his tiny hand still clutching yours tightly. He squints toward the approaching figure, his expression a mix of curiosity and awe. “Is that Papa?”
You nod, your throat tightening. “That’s him, sweetheart.”
As Satoru comes closer, his steps slow, his gaze fixed on the little boy beside you. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between wonder and hesitation, like he’s trying to process the reality of seeing his son for the first time.
“Koji,” you say softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Say hello.”
Koji looks up at Satoru, his shyness momentarily overtaking his excitement. “Hi, Papa,” he says, his voice small but filled with hope.
Satoru stops a few steps away, his hands shoved in his coat pockets. His usual cocky demeanor is gone, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable. His blue eyes flicker to you briefly before settling on Koji. “Hey there, little buddy,” he says, his voice quiet. He crouches slightly to Koji’s level, offering a tentative smile. “You must be Koji. I’m Satoru.”
Koji nods, gripping your hand tighter. “That’s me. Are you really my Papa?”
Satoru chuckles, though there’s a faint crack in the sound. “Yeah, kid. I am.”
Koji’s face lights up, and he lets go of your hand to take a step toward Satoru. “Mama said you love me already. Is that true?”
For a moment, Satoru seems at a loss for words. His gaze softens, and he nods, his voice rough with emotion. “Yeah, Koji. I do. I’ve always loved you.” The boy beams, closing the remaining distance to hug Satoru’s waist, his little arms barely wrapping around it. Satoru freezes for a second before carefully putting his hand down, his large palm resting gently on Koji’s back.
Your chest tightens at the sight, and you quickly look away, blinking back the tears threatening to spill. This is their moment, you tell yourself. A moment you’ve waited so long for, no matter how bittersweet it feels.
Koji pulls his head back, a wide and toothy smile as he regards his father. His head tilts, staring at his own reflection within the tinted shades of the glasses before Satoru reaches and pulls them over his head. It’s like a mirror, almost uncanny how similar the two look; you seem like an outsider. There’s an unspoken moment as the two continue to look at each other, as if finally saying this is really him. Their eyes are like when you place two mirrors in front of one another.
Satoru’s lips twitch upward into a faint smile as he holds the glasses out, letting Koji’s small fingers curl around the frame. “Here, try them on,” he says, his tone light but carrying a hint of something deeper—an unspoken acknowledgment of their connection.
Koji’s eyes widen with delight, and he eagerly slips the oversized glasses onto his face. They sit crookedly on his nose, far too large for his small frame, but his grin stretches even wider. “Do I look cool, Papa?” He asks as the glasses slide down his nose.
Satoru laughs softly, a sound that feels warmer than you expected. “Cooler than me, for sure. Guess I have to step up my game now.”
The boy giggles, and you watch the interaction with a bittersweet ache in your chest. This is what you’d imagined all those nights when you wondered how the two of them would get along. The way Koji lights up under Satoru’s attention is both heartwarming and a painful reminder of what’s been missing. Koji pulls the glasses off and holds them out to Satoru. “Here, you can have them back. Mama says sharing is nice.”
Satoru takes them, sliding them back over his forehead. His gaze briefly flicks to you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he looks back at Koji. “Your mama’s right. Sharing is pretty nice.”
You clear your throat, feeling like an intruder in their growing bond. “Koji,” you say softly, “how about we sit down for a bit?”
Koji nods eagerly, pulling Satoru’s hand as he moves toward the bench. Satoru lets him lead, his expression softening as he glances down at the boy. It’s a strange sight—Satoru, who’s always seemed larger than life, brought down to such an intimate moment. As they sit, Koji climbs onto the space beside him which is in between you two, his legs swinging with restless energy. “Papa, do you like dinosaurs? Mama says I know a lot about them!”
Satoru leans back, crossing his arms as he smirks. “Dinosaurs, huh? Bet you’re smarter than me already. You’ll have to teach me everything.”
“I can do that!” Koji declares proudly, bouncing slightly in his seat. Satoru hums, his gaze shifting to you again momentarily. There’s an unspoken question in his eyes, as if silently acknowledging the effort it must have taken to bring this moment to life. It’s gone before you know it.
You offer a small, shaky smile, unsure if it’s enough. But for now, it seems to be all you can give. Koji digs into his backpack, pulling out his dinosaur drawings and books. Koji’s small hands fumble with the zipper of his backpack, his excitement palpable as he pulls it open and begins rifling through its contents. “Wait, Papa! I gotta show you something!” he exclaims, his voice bubbling with enthusiasm.
Satoru leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, curiosity piqued. “Oh yeah? What’ve you got in there, buddy?”
Koji triumphantly pulls out a stack of slightly crumpled drawings, held together by a paperclip, and a well-worn dinosaur book with a cracked spine. “These are my favorite! Look!” He spreads the drawings out on Satoru’s lap, pointing at each one with his little finger. “This is a T-Rex—it’s the king of dinosaurs. And this one’s a Triceratops! It has three horns, see?”
Satoru’s gaze moves over the colorful scribbles, a mix of crayons and markers. He chuckles, tapping the corner of a particularly fierce-looking dinosaur. “This T-Rex looks like it’s about to eat someone. You’re a pretty good artist, Koji.”
Koji beams, his chest puffing out with pride. “Mama helped me with some of the colors!”
You can’t help but smile at the way he gives you credit, even as you hover a few inches away. “He did most of it himself,” you say, your voice softer than you intended.
Satoru glances at you, his expression unreadable, before turning back to Koji. “You’re really into dinosaurs, huh? You know, I think I might need some lessons. I don’t know much about them.”
Koji’s eyes widen. “You don’t? Oh, Papa, I know so much! I can tell you all about the Velociraptor! They were super smart and super fast, like this!” He hops off the bench and runs a small circle in front of them, his arms tucked close like claws.
Satoru laughs, leaning back and watching his son’s animated movements. “Fast, huh? Guess I’ve got a lot to catch up on. You think you can teach me everything in one day?”
Koji stops, his hands on his hips as he considers the question. “Maybe two days,” he says with a solemn nod, as though he’s made a grand concession.
“Deal.” Satoru holds out his pinky, and Koji eagerly hooks his smaller one around it.
You watch the scene unfold, a lump forming in your throat. It’s a simple, tender moment—a glimpse of what could have been all these years. The sight of Satoru interacting so effortlessly with Koji stirs something deep within you: a mixture of relief, regret, and longing. For now, though, you let it play out, quietly holding onto the hope that maybe—just maybe—this is the start of something better.
Watching Satoru and his little carbon copy switch from topic to topic so animatedly, laughing practically in the same tone, hopping up from the bench and making their way over to the playground a few feet away where they play tag and other parently things, it’s bittersweet. Their voices overlapping with excitement, is nothing short of surreal. They laugh at the same things, sounding so bright, carefree, and unrestrained. It’s uncanny how similar they are, from the sparkle in their eyes to the animated gestures they make when they’re especially engrossed in a story.
Satoru follows Koji without hesitation. His long legs make exaggerated strides as he pretends to struggle to keep up with Koji’s smaller but determined ones. They dart toward the playground a few feet away, the father pretending to stumble dramatically as Koji tags him with a triumphant giggle. “Gotcha, Papa!” Koji exclaims, hands on his hips in victory.
Satoru clutches his chest, feigning defeat. “Oh no! You’re too fast for me! How am I ever gonna catch you now?” Koji’s laughter fills the air, high-pitched and unbridled, and Satoru’s laughter follows—louder, but just as genuine. They move seamlessly into other "parent-y" things: Satoru helps Koji up onto the monkey bars, playfully pretends to lose at rock-paper-scissors, and even kneels in the dirt to “help” Koji build a small castle from wood chips and fallen leaves.
It’s poignant.
On one hand, this is what you always wanted for Koji: the joy of having his father present, the sense of belonging that comes with it. Seeing them together, it’s clear they’re already forming a bond—one you never doubted they’d have. But on the other hand, it’s a painful reminder of what could have been. Of all the moments you and Koji missed out on, of the milestones, Satoru wasn’t there to witness. It feels like watching a puzzle finally fall into place, except you’re the piece that doesn’t quite fit.
You sit on the edge of the bench, arms crossed tightly over your chest, trying to focus on the joy radiating from Koji rather than the ache in your heart. The past five years feel heavier than ever as you watch them, your mind flipping through memories of bedtime stories, scraped knees, and birthdays spent alone. You did your best, but sitting here now, it feels like it was never adequate.
Satoru glances over his shoulder at one point, catching your eye. There’s something obscure in his expression—maybe it’s a touch of hesitation, or something softer. For a moment, you hold his gaze, unsure of what to say or do. Then, Koji calls his name again, and he’s pulled back into the moment, grinning as he lets the boy climb onto his back for a piggyback ride.
You smile faintly, blinking back the sting in your eyes. This is for Koji, you remind yourself. This is for him. Even if it hurts, even if it feels like you’re standing on the outside looking in, it’s worth it for him. Always for him. Because at the end of the day, no matter what his parents are going through, he needs Satoru just as much as you, and vice versa.
What if he starts needing Satoru more? Fathers and sons always have that special bond that can’t be replicated by mother and son, it’s like how daughters and mothers have a relationship like no other. Fathers and sons, they always seem to share a unique connection, one that feels effortless and almost predestined. The kind of connection you can never quite replicate, no matter how hard you try; and daughters naturally gravitate toward their mothers, a coalition that feels like it was written into their DNA.
But Koji’s all you have.
What if he starts asking for Satoru more? What if this new relationship between them becomes so strong, so unshakable, that you’re left standing on the sidelines? A shadow of the parent you’ve always tried to be. The thought sends a jolt of panic straight through your chest, cold and unrelenting.
What will you do then? No, you think, that can’t happen. It won’t.
You shake your head, trying to banish the thought as quickly as it came. That can’t happen. It just can’t happen. You’ve been there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every nightmare that needed soothing. You’ve carried the weight of being both parents for five long years. There’s no way Satoru can just step in now and take your place, no matter how effortlessly he seems to connect with Koji. But that was because you chose that, a voice in your head reminds you.
Still, is it bad to hold your son this close to you? Fearing that he’ll be ripped away from you before you can even blink? Is that co-dependence? To want to shield him from a world that feels like it’s constantly trying to take him away from you? Is it selfish to want to keep him tethered to you, even as you know he deserves the freedom to explore this new relationship with his father?
You swallow hard, your hands fidgeting in your lap. Maybe it is selfish. Maybe it is in fact co-dependence, this need to keep him as close as possible, as if letting go even a little might mean losing him completely. But how could it not be? He’s been your everything for so long, the only light in a world that’s often felt impossibly dark. You glance at the playground again, watching as Satoru spins Koji around in his arms, both of them laughing like they’ve known each other forever. And maybe they have, in a way. Maybe some part of Koji has always been waiting for this, for his father to finally show up and fill the space you couldn’t. Wait, you know he’s been waiting for this.
Your chest tightens, and you force yourself to take a steadying breath. This isn’t about you. It never was. Koji deserves this, and you owe it to him to put aside your fears and let him have it.
Even if it feels like it’s breaking you apart in the process.
It’s been a few hours and if possible, it’s like Koji and Satoru are best friends. That’s good, right? Satoru has always been a charming person, one you could easily find comfort in. You’ve lived that. Koji’s sweating by the time he comes over to you. “Drink water,” you gently instruct, handing him his small Spiderman water bottle, and wiping at his sweaty face and neck with the sleeve of your coat.
“Energetic little boy,” Satoru sighs in mild exhaustion as he comes over. He seems to be sweating too, cheeks flushed a nice red, chest heaving up and down. He undoes another button on his casual button-down, giving you a view of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. You catch yourself staring too intently and look away before he can say anything.
He notices.
“Mama, Papa is so fast. I wanna be fast like him.” Koji breathes out, smiling at you, his cheeks red in similarity to his dad.
With a light chuckle, you take his water bottle back once he’s done. “You’re already fast, Koji. But when you grow up into a bigger boy, you’ll be really fast, maybe even faster than Papa.”
“Hey,” Satoru cuts in, giving you a frown that teeters on the line of a playful pout. “He’s not there yet, let’s cross that bridge when we get there.”
The word let’s makes your stomach twist a bit. A reminder that he does want this, he does want Koji, he does want to be a father. You entertain the idea of him wanting you, before quickly shuffling that away.
“Papa, are you coming home with us?” Koji innocently asks, unaware of the way his two parents simultaneously stiffen. The question hangs in the air like a weight, heavy and unrelenting. Koji’s wide-eyed innocence is almost cruel in its purity, completely unaware of the way his words have sliced through the fragile peace you and Satoru have been clinging to.
Satoru’s eyes dart to yours, his expression unreadable, though the slight twitch of his jaw betrays his tension. You can feel his gaze searching for some kind of answer, some indication of how you want him to handle this. But how could you possibly guide him when you don’t even know what to say yourself?
You force a smile, though it feels more like a grimace, and gently brush Koji’s hair back under his red beanie. “Papa has his own home, sweetheart,” you say carefully, your voice soft but firm. “He’s not coming home with us today.”
Koji’s face falls just slightly, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks back at Satoru, his small hands clutching the hem of his sweater. “Can I see Papa again?”
Satoru crouches down to Koji’s level, his long fingers lightly ruffling the boy’s hair. “Of course, you can,” he says, his voice warm and reassuring. “I’m not going anywhere, buddy. You’ll see me again real soon.”
The promise is sincere, and it makes something in your chest ache. For Koji’s sake, you want to believe him. You want to believe that Satoru will keep his word, that he won’t somehow put his work over his own son. But a small, bitter part of you—the part that remembers how he let you go so easily all those years ago—can’t quite let go of its doubts.
Koji seems satisfied with the answer, his smile returning as he hugs Satoru tightly. “Okay! I’ll see you soon, Papa!”
As Satoru hugs him back, his eyes flicker to you over Koji’s shoulder. There’s something there, something unspoken but heavy. Guilt? Hope? Regret? You can’t tell, and you’re not sure you want to. When they finally pull apart, Satoru stands, his hands slipping into his pockets as he looks down at you. “I’ll walk you both back,” he offers.
You hesitate, your first instinct to decline, but Koji’s excited cheer cuts you off. “Yes! Papa can come with us!”
And just like that, you’re outnumbered. You force another tight smile, nodding as you gather Koji’s things. “Alright,” you say quietly.
The three of you set off together, Koji happily chatting away as he skips in front of you, completely unaware of the tension simmering just beneath the surface. Satoru walks close enough that his shoulder occasionally brushes against yours, each touch sending an unwelcome jolt through you.
It’s a painfully wistful image, the three of you walking together like some semblance of a family. But deep down, you know it’s just that—an image. A fleeting moment in time that doesn’t change the years of distance and pain that still stretch between you and Satoru. And yet, for Koji’s sake, you try to hold onto it just a little longer. Even if it hurts.
The closer you get to your apartment, the more the houses look a little run down. Trash on the streets, beat-up cars, the way the number of people slowly dwindles down as if they know not to cross an unspoken line of the city. You suddenly feel extremely self-conscious; you know Satoru is having internal questions.
You live here?
Is this even a safe neighborhood?
You’re raising my son in some place like this?
He stays quiet, but you know he wants to say something. He has to want to. Because Satoru was given everything growing up, all in pristine condition. He’s never had to worry about whether those were fireworks or not, he’s used to the kind of neighborhood where your neighbors are mowing their lawns at seven in the morning, greeting everyone in a happy way.
The tension is stifling, stretched thin by the unspoken judgment you feel radiating off Satoru. You don’t dare look at him, your eyes fixed on Koji’s little form skipping ahead, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering behind him. Your cheeks burn with shame, and you hate yourself for it. This is your reality, your life. You’ve done everything you could to provide for Koji, and while it may not be perfect—or anywhere close—you’ve kept him safe, fed, and loved. But under Satoru’s unspoken scrutiny, it suddenly feels like none of that is enough.
He’s used to opulence, to security, to the kind of life where struggle is nothing more than an abstract concept. What could he possibly know about living paycheck to paycheck, about stretching every dollar, about the fear of your son asking for something you just can’t afford?
Still, his silence grates on your nerves, each step you take toward your apartment building making the tension in your chest tighten like a vice. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm, measured—but you can hear the edge in it, the careful restraint. “You’ve been here the whole time?”
You stop walking, Koji a few feet ahead now as he fiddles with a crack in the sidewalk. Turning to Satoru, you feel your stomach churn at the unreadable look on his face. His hands are still stuffed in his pockets, his posture casual, but his piercing blue eyes burn with an intensity that makes you feel exposed.
“Yes,” you answer, lifting your chin slightly as if that could shield you from the vulnerability creeping up your spine.
“And this is where you’ve been raising Koji?” There it is. The question you knew was coming, coated in a thin veil of curiosity but laced with something deeper—concern, maybe even disappointment.
“Yes,” you say again, your voice firmer this time. “This is where we’ve been.”
Satoru lets out a slow breath, his gaze sweeping over the street, the cracked pavement, and the graffiti-stained walls. “It’s not exactly... ideal,” he says carefully, though the criticism in his tone is unmistakable.
Your fists clench at your sides, a rush of defensiveness coursing through you. “I know it’s not ideal,” you snap, your voice low but sharp. “But it’s what I could afford. It’s where we’ve made a life, and Koji is happy here. Isn’t that what matters?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks at Koji, who’s now crouched down and inspecting a dandelion sprouting from a crack in the sidewalk, blithely unaware of the storm brewing between his parents. Satoru then sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not saying you haven’t done your best,” he says, his voice softer now. “But...he deserves better than this.”
The words hit you like a slap, and you take an involuntary step back, your heart sinking into your stomach. “You think I don’t know that?” you hiss, your voice trembling. “You think I don’t hate myself every single day for not being able to give him more? I’m doing everything I can, Satoru. Everything. And if that’s not good enough for you, then maybe you should’ve been here sooner.”
“Then maybe you should’ve told me sooner,” he’s quick to quip back.
The silence that follows is deafening, and for a moment, the two of you just stare at each other, the weight of years of pain and resentment hanging heavy between you.
Koji’s voice breaks the tension, cheerful and oblivious. “Mama, look! A flower!”
You force a smile, blinking back the sting of tears as you walk over to crouch down to Koji’s level. “It’s beautiful, honey,” you say, brushing a hand over his soft hair. “Just like you.”
Behind you, Satoru says nothing, but you can feel his eyes on you, heavy with something you can’t quite name. And as you take Koji’s hand and lead him toward your building, you can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, and what this moment means for the three of you.
You three finally get to the poor excuse of an apartment lobby, making your way to the elevator that always makes questionable sounds. Once inside, you press the 3 button, and you’re off. The doors creak shut and the small, dingy light above flickers during the ascent. During this time, you wish Koji would mask the awkwardness with his childish nature. Too bad he’s pretty tired from playing til his heart’s content, leaning his cheek against your arm.
The elevator hums and groans as it ascends, the sound filling the uncomfortable silence that hangs between you and Satoru. Koji’s small, warm weight against your side is a comfort, but it’s not enough to dispel the tension. You steal a glance at Satoru, who stands a step away, his hands shoved into his pockets as he leans against the elevator wall. His expression is unreadable, his blue eyes fixed on the faintly glowing numbers above the doors.
You wonder what he’s thinking. Does he regret coming? Is he silently judging everything—the elevator, the building, you? You hate how self-conscious you feel, how his presence has peeled back layers of armor you didn’t even realize you had put on. Koji shifts against you, mumbling something incoherent. You brush a hand over his head, smoothing down his messy hair, and whisper, “Almost home, sweetheart.”
Suddenly, there’s a sound of a ding. Followed by another. And then another. And then another. Confused, you glance over at Satoru who subtly pulls his phone out to glance at his home screen, a frown pulling at his lips. You can’t see who’s texting, but it looks and sounds like a lot. You know you have no right asking, but you can’t help but speculate about who’s blowing up his phone, and why he looks so annoyed by it. And why he also looks like he’s trying to hide the phone from your view.
The elevator jerks slightly as it reaches the third floor, and Koji stirs, blinking up at you sleepily. “We’re here?”
“We’re here,” you confirm with a small smile, gently nudging him upright.
Satoru stuffs his phone away again as the doors creak open, revealing the dimly lit hallway beyond. The carpet is worn and the walls are scuffed. You promptly feel another intense wave of embarrassment. You’ve grown used to this place, its imperfections blending into the background of your daily life, but seeing it through Satoru’s eyes makes you painfully aware of every flaw. “This way,” you say, your voice tight as you step out, leading them down the hall.
Koji perks up a little, his steps are more energetic as he tugs on your hand. “Papa, wait till you see my room! I have dinosaurs everywhere!”
“I can’t wait,” Satoru replies, his tone light and easy, but there’s something in his eyes as he glances around. He’s taking it all in—the peeling paint, the faint smell of dampness, the creak of the floorboards under his expensive shoes. You stop in front of your door, fishing your keys out of your pocket. The chipped paint and tarnished doorknob seem to scream your insecurities aloud.
“This is it,” you say quietly, unlocking the door and pushing it open.
Koji rushes inside, his earlier fatigue forgotten as he kicks off his shoes and heads straight for his room. “Wait here, Papa! I’ll show you my dinos!”
Satoru lingers in the doorway for a moment before stepping in, his gaze sweeping over the small living room. It’s cluttered but clean, with Koji’s toys and drawings scattered here and there. The couch is worn, the coffee table scratched, and the kitchen in the corner is cramped and outdated.
“It’s... cozy,” Satoru says after a moment, his tone careful.
You bristle instinctively, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s what I can afford.”
“I didn’t mean—” He stops, exhaling softly. “You’ve done a good job, really. Koji’s happy. That’s what matters.”
You study his face, searching for any trace of condescension or pity, but all you see is sincerity. It catches you off guard, and you look away, busying yourself with tidying up. Satoru takes a few steps further into the room, his gaze lingering on one of Koji’s drawings taped to the wall. It’s a crayon depiction of you and Koji holding hands under a smiling sun. Next to you, there’s an empty space, as if waiting for someone to be added.
He doesn’t say anything, but the slight tightening of his jaw tells you he’s noticed.
Koji rushes out with his toy dinosaurs, holding them up for his father to take. The two move to the couch, the weight of Satoru causing it to creak weirdly. Once more, Koji is giving his father a lesson about dinosaurs, their names, and what they were like—even what sounds they made.
“Do you want a drink?” you ask, looking over to the kitchen. “I have water and some juice.”
He looks up momentarily. But just as he’s about to answer, his phone rings, this time a call. The three of you look down at his phone, Koji tilting his head in confusion before focusing on making his dinosaurs fight again. However, you’re a little more focused. Seeing a name, a woman’s name, accompanied with a picture of your ex kissing a woman you’ve never seen before.
You feel your muscles stiffen, a tug at your heartstrings. As if he notices your behavior from his peripheral, he locks his phone and lets it ring, putting it back in his pocket. “Sorry.” is all he mutters before looking at Koji. “Hey, buddy.”
Koji looks up at him. “Mhm?”
“Papa has to go home now, I have work to do,” Satoru responds slowly.
“You work today? But Mama doesn’t.”
The older of the two nods. “I know, but it’s special work.”
“Special?!”
“Special.”
“Okay!” Kojis nods, grin widening. “When will you come again, Papa?”
Satoru hesitates for a moment, his eyes moving to you, then back to Koji. You notice the brief pause, the weight of his words hanging in the air. He doesn’t look at you directly, but you can feel the shift in the space between you both. “I’ll come back soon, buddy,” he says finally, ruffling his hair affectionately. “I’ll see you again. We’ll play more, alright?”
Koji’s eyes light up, and he nods vigorously. “Okay! We’ll play dinosaurs again!” His excitement bubbles over, as if nothing has changed, as if the uncertainty of the last few minutes never existed.
Satoru smiles, ruffling Koji’s hair. “You’re the best, Koji.” He stands, looking over to you now. There’s an awkwardness that lingers, like the space between you two is suddenly filled with things unsaid.
“Thanks for letting me come by and meet him,” he adds quietly, the words sincere but tinged with something you can’t quite place. His gaze flickers down to his phone again, but it’s almost as if he’s avoiding it now, like he knows the reminder of what’s going on in his life is right there.
You nod stiffly. “Of course. Thanks for spending time with him.” Your words feel distant.
Satoru turns towards the door, his steps slow. “I’ll text you about when I can come back,” he says, his voice a little more subdued than before. He opens the door, then stops, his hand resting on the handle. “Take care of him. And yourself.”
You can’t tell if the last part is meant to be comforting or a reminder, but you nod anyway, your own thoughts swirling. With that, Satoru steps out, and the door closes behind him. You hear the faint click of his shoes as he walks down the hall, and then everything goes quiet.
Koji is already back to his dinosaurs, chattering to himself, completely unaware of the complexities unfolding in the space between his parents. You stand in the living room, your gaze lingering on the spot where Satoru had been, a thousand different emotions crashing inside you. The woman’s name on his phone, the kiss, the way he shut down the moment you noticed—it all gnaws at you, but you don’t know how to confront it. How do you even begin to ask? And what would it change, anyway? Why do you even care in the first place?
You take a deep breath and walk over to where Koji is playing, forcing a smile for his sake, trying to push everything else to the back of your mind. For now, it’s just you and him, and that has to be enough.
a/n: can you guys tell i love ominous endings? ^--^
summary: megumi fushiguro is one of the best players on the major league baseball team, and when you finally spot him on the big screen after practically dozing off at every game you went to with your girl friend? you were absolutely IN LOVE, but IN DENIAL that he could ever like you back… but he does, and bad.
warnings: MDNI. afab!reader, NASTY NASTY MEGUMI, oral sex, SMUT, pussy eating in locker rooms HEH, mentions of drinking but like tiny just once, reader is oblivious to the way megumi wants her, DOMINANT AF MEGUMI PHEWW, cursing, flufffff!!, barely any angst, DIRTY TALK, pet names.
word count: 12.1k (IK IM SORRY ITS A CUTE ONE THO)
authors note: you GUYSSSS i love megumi fushiguro i want him so bad and i LOOVEEE this fic!! i worked like a little worker bee for days and i really hope it makes you guys happy :] MWAH!!
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・
megumi fushiguro was the hottest baseball player you had ever seen in your life.
and you didn’t even like baseball to begin with, dozing off at every game your girl friend dragged you to because her boyfriend was on the major league team— but the one time you decided to open your eyes and pay attention to the big giant screen in front of you?
there he was in all of his emo glory.
number eighteen.
focused, half lidded eyes resembling borderline boredom as he waited for the pitcher to throw, his forehead glistening with sweat, flushed red cheeks, and his jet black hair slightly peeking over his forehead from underneath his baseball cap.
“my god—” your hand flew and you gripped your girl friends arm tightly, your jaw to the fucking floor as your eyes were gorilla glued to the screen, her quirking a curious eyebrow at you as she matched your frantic nature.
“what? what is it? who did you see? whats happ—”
you pointed your finger up at the screen, him swinging and hitting a fucking grand slam as he proceeded to get four runs with one hit, the one thing you knew about baseball besides a home run.
“that’s a— that’s a grand slam!” you pointed frantically, probably looking absolutely insane as you stood and screamed your fucking head off.
your girl friend laughed loudly, “you like fushiguro? megumi fushiguro?”
you jumped up and down, your girlfriend astonished and laughing as this was the first time she’d ever seen you energetic at a baseball game.
“he’s friends with yuji!” she yelled over the hollering of the crowd. “we can go to their locker room after and you can say hi! i heard he’s kind of mean though—”
“no!” you spun around, eyes wide and terrified. “i already know he’ll eat me alive then! i’m a loser, i can’t talk to him i don’t have game i—”
she rolled her eyes. “you’ll be fine—”
“no i can’t!” you shook your head frantically. “please he looks like the type to love bomb me and then leave me i don’t think i can handle that—”
she snorted. “are you sure?!”
you hesitated for a moment, biting your bottom lip as your eyes trailed back over to the screen, seeing megumi breathing a little heavy from running the field, his hands on his hips as he scanned the arena.
you sighed through your nose. “yeah i’m sure!”
“suit yourself!”
a year. a year you spent continuing to tag along with your girl friend to their games, staring lovesick and sad at the big screen over megumi, and standing outside far far away from the locker room once they scored another big win and not going in like you used to, waiting for your girl friend to finish up speaking to her boyfriend as you tried your best to avoid the chance of running into megumi.
she finally emerged from the locker rooms one day, a knowing smirk on her face.
“i told yuji.”
you blinked. “told him what?”
“that you like fushiguro.”
“no!” you gasped, a hand flying and smacking over your mouth. “please no im about to experience the biggest heartbreak of my life—”
“oh relax!” she grabbed your arm and practically dragged you towards the locker room doors. “he’s not even here megumi already left, but yuji wants to talk to you.”
“why?!” you exclaimed. “to let me down easy? to tell me he’s sorry on his behalf—”
your girl friend just about threw you in and went in after you as you stumbled, eyes blown wide as the air became humid and heavy, several of the players lounging about and refreshing themselves as the sound of lockers slamming shut echoed through the space— deep, broad voices laughing filling the room as yuji spotted you, his eyes friendly and polite. “y/n!”
you relaxed and smiled, “hi! you guys played really well today!”
“megumi also played really well today.”
“oh my god—” you groaned, throwing your head back as you spun around, heading straight for the exit.
“wait wait!” he laughed loudly, jogging up to you. “sorry sorry.”
“what do you want with me..” you mumbled.
he gave you a half smile. “i wanted to tell you that megumi’s weird.”
you snorted, “elaborate please.”
yuji threw an arm around your girl friend before continuing.
“you know we support your feelings and what you want…” he began.
your eyes narrowed. “why are you guys talking to me like you’re my parents—”
“but—” yuji cut you off. “i’m just gonna be straight with you. i’ve never ever seen megumi interact with anyone, let alone another woman, besides the team.”
“i don’t think i’ve ever seen him have a proper conversation with anyone on the team besides you actually…” your girl friend muttered to yuji.
yuji winced. “yeah…” he turned back to you. “back when megumi and i first got signed, he was really popular and a lot of girls would come up to him after games for his number or just to talk to him.”
“well obviously he’s a greek god,” you grumbled. “this is hurting me man get to the point.”
he sighed. “he basically scared all of them off. didn’t give a single one a chance and was kinda mean... he would either ignore them or straight up just tell them he wasn’t interested without them even being able to get a word in.”
you stared blankly.
“i tried to tell him that he needs to be nicer but he’s just not interested.”
you kept staring.
“that’s why i’m telling you this because we don’t want you to get hurt and i feel like if you try and talk to him he’s gonna be a dick and it might…” yuji looked at you sadly. “it might be a lost cause.”
you blinked.
“y/n?”
“that’s fine!” you squeaked, hands tight at your sides. “a part of me already knew. i read about it in an article, and i’ve seen his interviews.”
your girl friend looked at you with concern filled eyes. “are you okay?”
“yeah!” you waved them off. “why wouldn’t i be?”
“because your eyes are red.”
“ppffttt!” you blew out. “i’m fine! seriously. i never intended to talk to him anyways, i’m too much of a scaredy cat.”
you extended your arms out and engulfed the both of them, squeezing tight. “thank you guys for telling me though, i appreciate it.”
“y/n…” yuji trailed off.
“i’m gonna take off though, i’ll see you guys later, okay?” you waved and opened the door. “love you!”
and you scrammed, your heart in a million pieces.
it’s not like you didn’t already know. you knew, so why were you sad? why did you feel like you just got ran over by a double decker bus? why did you pathetically feel so sad?
this was the reality. you never stood a chance.
so why were you crying?
you continued walking down the hall and towards the main exit, utterly embarrassed at your sobbing and trying your best to hide it as you navigated through several groups of people, your vision entirely blurry as you were basically drowning in your tears.
you had barely escaped the crowd when you spotted a little secluded area in the lobby, trudging over pathetically and plopping down on the coushy seat as you wiped your cheeks, staring at the wall in front of you— a huge glass casing proudly decorated with the teams trophies and awards, gigantic portraits of the players on the team adorning the walls with megumi’s serious beautiful framed face right in front of you just making you feel worse.
you already knew, but regardless of megumi’s stand off ish personality, you liked it. you had curiously browsed his interviews and quotes in articles, and you always laughed at his responses, him almost every time offending the staff without even trying or knowing, and you found it so so funny, it only making you admire him and want to get to know him even more, even if it was just a friendship.
megumi fushiguro was one of the best players on the team in history, and as you closed your eyes, silent pathetic tears still slipping down your cheeks?
he never felt so out of reach.
“here.”
your eyes opened, but you literally could not see jack shit as your tears were still blurring your line of sight, you completely and utterly mortified that a stranger caught you sobbing as you wiped your face quickly in response.
“put on my sunglasses if you don’t want people to see you crying.”
the voice was gruff and lazy, but you could not care less as you took the sunglasses and settled them over your eyes, the lenses so freaking dark that you couldn’t see a single thing— your sight worse than before.
but it relieved you, as you figured no one could see your bloodshot eyes and therefore thankfully not notice you losing your mind over something so stupid.
“thank you,” you mumbled. “sorry.”
“for what.”
you felt the plush of the bench shift next to you, figuring that the stranger man sat beside you as you refused to look in their direction out of embarrassment.
not that you could even see in the first place.
“for looking like a loser.”
the stranger man snorted. “s’fine.”
you wiped your nose with your sleeve, sniffling.
“how do you see in these?” you muttered softly. “they’re making me claustrophobic i can’t see a thing.”
“that’s the point,” he hums.
“how come?”
“i get migraines everyday. they help.”
“oh i see.” you responded softly. “have you ever run into a wall because of them?”
you hear him huff out through his nose. “i did once, when i first got them.”
you giggled gently. “did you bleed?”
“no,” he spoke calmly. “i got a bump on my forehead.”
you snickered, “what? loserrr.”
you stood up and carefully tried to walk around a little, testing out how to guide yourself through the dark lenses and trying to be careful and not bump into a wall (which was literally impossible), your hands out, feeling around.
“jesus christ i’m just kidding now i feel bad. i think im gonna bump myself into a wall too so we can call it even.”
you couldn’t see, but the stranger man’s lips twitched at your comment.
“don’t do that.” he murmured. “sit back down.”
you listened and started making your way over, feeling him reach out and wrap his fingers around your wrist carefully and guide you to the bench, you plopping down on it once you felt it.
“thank you!” you responded sweetly. “…i’m actually glad i can’t see a thing right now.” you perked up, pushing the sunglasses back up over the bridge of your nose.
“why is that.”
“so i don’t have to look at megumi fushiguro’s big portrait in front of my face.”
the stranger man stopped.
“…why?”
“because he indirectly broke my heart.”
you heard a little audible laugh, and you smiled to yourself.
at least someone is having fun right now.
“how did he indirectly break your heart?”
“my girl friend’s boyfriend is yuji itadori. she spilled the beans against my will about how i have a crush on him, and yuji told me that he’s mean and he’ll basically bite my head off and tell me to scram.”
“did he?”
“uh huh,” you nodded. “they were trying to let me down easy, but it’s not like i was gonna try and talk to him anyways. i’ve gone a year without saying anything i can go on and on and on.”
the stranger man hummed.
“he’s so cool though…” you murmured, dazed. “he’s gonna be a hard one to forget about.”
“why do you like him?”
“i feel like im being interrogated,” you giggled.
you felt the stranger man lean back against the wall. “sorry, just curious.”
you copied him and crossed your arms, “mmm… because he’s really good at what he does. i admire that most of all.”
you tilted your head. “everyone berates him for being mean but i like that he’s supposedly mean for some reason…. he’s just serious about his profession and he doesn’t want to waste time. he’s also the hottest man i’ve ever seen so that definitely helps.”
the stranger man laughed a little.
“i don’t know,” you sighed sadly. “maybe i’m just demented. i am demented.”
“if yuji itadori told you the exact opposite about him, would that have encouraged you to go up to him?”
you sat in thought for a moment, but ultimately shook your head. “no. it’s too embarrassing for me and i’m also a big fat wuss so…”
you slid your fingers underneath the lenses and rubbed your stinging sore eyes. “maybe in the next life if i’m lucky, ill be reincarnated as a cool baseball man too and i won’t have to deal with this shit.”
“cool baseball man.” he repeated, tone seemingly amused.
“yup.”
the stranger man sighed. “is this why i found you crying?”
“maayybeee?” you dragged out shyly, your cheeks flushing.
it was silent for a moment, your vision completely black but his on your rosy cheeks, oddly staring that if you could see right now, you’d probably call him a creep.
“i’m sorry i made you cry.”
you jumped back.
“no not you!” you huffed. “have you not been paying attention? catch up man—”
you felt a shadow reach up and tug the sunglasses slightly away from your face, your eyes constricting against the bright lights of the hall as they tried to adjust.
and when they did?
megumi fushiguro was sitting right next to you, a tiny smile on his face dressed in all black with his teams baseball cap on.
your eyes widened dramatically and you slapped both hands over your mouth, beyond horrified as everything you had thought you were telling a stranger about him, you were telling him directly, your brain short circuiting and your body heating up like a fucking hot flash.
“oh my god i’m so sorry!” your voice was muffled, you shaking your head in absolute denial.
you immediately sprung up and grabbed your purse, slowly backing up further and further away from him.
his smile widened.
oh my god.
megumi fushiguro was smiling, a sight you’ve never ever seen during his games, practices, interviews, articles, or magazines as your cheeks increased in shade— wanting to mentally take a picture and remember forever as you knew you’d probably never see him smile like that again.
but he was smiling.
“pretend i don’t exist!” you stammered, “pretend this never happened i’m sorry this is so embarrassing keep winning your games okay and i’ll keep being an idiot far far away from you—”
“where are you going?” he chuckled lowly.
“—you’ll never see me again i’m going home and i’m going on lockdown—”
he laughed through his nose, his lips in an amused smile.
“you don’t have to do that.”
“yes i do—”
“you don’t have to forget me either.”
“that i definitely do—”
you were halfway out of the main entrance doors.
“hold on y/n—”
megumi stood, his long legs walking over to you and you froze.
y/n?
you slowly turned around, your face pale and afraid.
“how do you know my name?” you asked softly.
“your best friend is dating yuji, is she not.”
you nodded, eyes blank.
“i’ve been seeing you inside the locker room after our games for like… two years.” megumi mumbled.
oh.
oh that’s right.
you didn’t actually notice megumi until last year, when you decided to finally open your eyes for once during a game and that’s how you spotted him for the first time on the big screen in front of you, in all of his gorgeous handsome entity.
“oh.”
he raised a hand and pressed his index finger to your forehead, nudging you softly.
“dummy.”
“s-sorry..” you gave him a wobbly bashful smile, your cheeks pinky as you rubbed your red eyes.
his eyes slightly softened and he shook his head. “s’fine.”
megumi continued to stare at you, a stone cold face that always seemed to scare off the teams entire fan base, but only made you feel numb and giddy all over every single time.
you smiled wider then, and megumi’s lips twitched.
cute.
“i’m— i’m gonna go now.”
“do you have a ride home?”
you stopped. “no i was just gonna call an uber—”
he shook his head and walked past you, his shoulder brushing gently with yours with his hands stuffed in his pockets as you turned and stared at him.
he paused and looked over his shoulder.
“you coming?”
your eyes widened. “coming? w—where?”
he rolled his eyes. “i’m taking you home.”
“no!” you shot your hands out. “it’s okay! really! thank you thank you i appreciate it but—”
he stared lazily.
“come.”
you pressed your lips into a thin line and tipped your head down, taking tiny painful steps as you followed after him to the parking lot.
megumi led you from the public parking area to a secluded section around the back of the arena, one you assumed was for players and crew members only as you nervously gnawed on your bottom lip, feeling absolutely sick.
you both continued to walk down until you arrived to a private parking garage, megumi slipping out his keys from the pocket of his hoodie as you approached a shiny black luxurious car sitting neatly in a spot.
his car was really fucking nice, and you figured so being as he was one of the most popular players and probably had more than enough money in the bank— your fingers trembling as you gripped the passenger side door, settling yourself inside his plush cool leather seats and all black interior.
megumi pressed the ‘start’ button and his engine roared to life, the motor echoing through the structure as you clumsily tried to put on your seatbelt, your cheeks growing pinker with each passing second that you just couldn’t get the stupid damn thing to— click—
he reached over across the console and took the seatbelt from you, pulling it over your body and clicking it secure without a word.
“thank you.” you said softly, eyes trained to your lap.
megumi gave you a small nod and backed out of his parking space, driving around a couple of rows before making his way out with the night air softly breezing through your hair as he drove, his dash illuminated with blue lines that ran smoothly across.
“can you put your address in—”
“oh yeah!” you jumped. “sorry—”
you reached over and tapped in your address on his big touch screen, watching the way the gps registered the location and gave him the estimated time of arrival.
forty fucking minutes.
“megumi..”
his eyes looked over at you for a second before turning back to the road.
“hm?”
“i live kinda far from here and i don’t want you to drive the opposite way from where you live.”
you leaned a little, eyebrows pinched. “i can take an uber seriously, this is too much trouble i—”
“you’re already in my car.” he deadpanned.
“i’ll jump out.”
he pursed his lips, trying to suppress a smile.
“i have child lock on.”
“child lock?!” you gawked. “is this what you think of me?”
“you’re a little helpless… and you’re a crybaby.” he mumbled. “child lock stays on.”
you giggled after, your eyes shining and filled with mushy feelings for him as you nodded. “you’re probably right.”
he looked over at you then, and he smiled, softly.
“what do you do?”
you fidgeted. “h—huh?”
“do you um…” he ran his thumb over the top of his gear shift. “do you work? do you go to school?”
he’s asking you?
“i go to school!” you responded shyly but kind. “i go to a college that’s about fifteen minutes from your stadium. i usually go and meet up with my best friend after class if there’s a game.”
he hummed. “are you a big baseball person?”
you grimaced.
do you lie? do you tell the truth? do you roll down his window and attempt to jump out of the car that way?
you played with a strand of your hair. “i— i um—”
he raised an eyebrow.
“i— don’t?”
he cocked his head. “you don’t?”
you shook your head no, completely ashamed of who you are as a person as you covered your eyes.
“i knoww i suuucckkk,” you whined. “the only things i know about baseball are home runs and grand slams— which you did!”
you pointed at him excitedly. “last year! i remember you hit a grand slam! i got so excited that for once i knew what the fuck was going on and why everyone was going crazy…”
you fiddled with your fingers nervously, your eyes trained to the road. “i felt so included.”
he chuckled, and unexpectedly, reached over and gently ruffled your hair.
you then stared at him as he did so, doe eyes wide and cheeks pink.
megumi was truly just beautiful— his smooth face that didn’t have a single blemish on his skin shining under the moonlight, his black spiky hair peeking from under his cap that you had no doubt in your mind was soft and velvety.
you hated that you’d probably do anything for that man.
“i’m sorry i made you cry,” he repeated, you recognizing his words from before.
your eyebrows furrowed.
he was still thinking about that?
you shook your head furiously, “you didn’t! i swear it’s okay. i’m just crazy.”
he huffed out a laugh.
megumi thought you were odd, but in a good way. he thought everything you did was a little funny, as you were jumpy and clumsy and a crybaby and helpless, but he also took note of how polite you were. he noticed how considerate you were of him even though you were really upset, and you were kind of sweet… really sweet actually, your personality something that was totally different from the usual girls that came up to him.
well, the usual girls that used to come up to him back when he first started.
megumi pulled into your driveway and shifted the gear into park, the doors automatically unlocking.
you opened the door and stepped out before leaning down and peeking your head in.
“thank you for the ride!” you said sweetly, a cute smile on your face. “i’m sorry you had to listen to my confession against your will.”
he shook his head. “it’s alright.”
you went in to close the door.
“y/n.”
you leaned back down, “yeah?”
“are you gonna stop coming to our games?”
you gnawed at the inside of your cheek, your eyes darting around the interior of his car nervously.
“i— i don’t think so.”
“good.”
megumi watched you close his door and walk back a bit, him shifting his gear into reverse as the corners of his lips turned a tiny bit upwards.
“i’ll see you then.”
as you watched him pull out and drive away, his engine roaring down the street, you could not stop or simmer down the way your heart raced against your chest, so much so that you were afraid it was going to burst through your chest and literally kill you.
the next time you went to a game, you hadn’t told your close girl friend yet as she led you through the crowd and down to the v.i.p. lower level seats like always, a kind courtesy of yuji’s that he did whenever he could.
as you watched, you embarrassingly spotted megumi almost the minute you arrived, stars and hearts in your eyes as you watched him do his thing and work magic through the field with his absolutely insane batting, strong and purposeful as he barked orders or observed the opposing team for leads.
once his and the opposing team switched sides, megumi looked up as he jogged, his eyes seemingly scanning the v.i.p. front sections until he spotted you.
he raised a hand and gave you a little wave, and your eyes widened as you timidly, hesitantly, gave him one in return— your cheeks turning pink.
“who are you waving at?”
your girl friend pressed a cheek against yours and looked.
“who is- fushiguro?!”
you looked at her sheepishly.
as you recounted the story to her, her eyes bulging out of her sockets and screaming her head off every two seconds, her head snapped to the field.
“i have to tell yuji—”
“no!” you gripped her shoulders. “it’s literally nothing! he drove me home and he probably just feels bad for me.”
“megumi isn’t the type to make a crying girl feel better or drive her home.”
“it’s because he knows that we know yuji.”
“mm i don’t think so..” she scowled, crossing her arms in eventual defeat as she stared straight ahead.
that’s how it went for about a month.
you would come to their games, megumi would wave at you from the field or you would catch his attention and wave at him, and you would briefly speak to him casually just after his games, your conversations with him usually lasting no more than three minutes as he was often pulled by his coach or a crew member.
but even though the conversations were short, they were really nice, and the both of you never seemed to notice the people around you wanting his attention until he physically had to get pulled away.
but you still refused to go inside the locker room, knowing that was surely the place where you had to talk to him for longer than three minutes. you were too scared, embarrassingly so as you bid your girl friend and yuji goodbye from just outside the door before leaving every time, completely unaware of the way megumi would stare expressionless at you from inside.
when your girl friend invited you to the team’s yearly banquet, you flat out said no, decision firm and unmoving as she begged you over and over and over again.
“please please you have to go! you can’t avoid megumi forever!”
“what is the purpose of me going though?” you sighed, shaking your head with a smile at the sight of her dramatically on her knees over you. “for you it makes sense because you’re with yuji but what’s the excuse for me? i’m not anybody’s plus one.”
“yes you are,” she got back up on her feet and wiggled her eyebrows, “you’re megumi’s plus one.”
“bye i wish,” you mumbled, plopping down on your bed.
“okay you’re my plus one, or yuji’s! so he has two plus ones!”
she walked over and sat down next to you, resting her head against your shoulder as she sighed. “please come. you don’t have to talk to megumi okay? fine. but just come with me, i’ll have a better time if you do.”
you gave her a silly smile and thought for a moment, her sad tone swaying you as you finally gave in.
“only if you swear you won’t force me to talk to him.”
she nodded eagerly.
“i swear!”
so you stood there, nervous and biting your thumb as you frantically looked around, dressed in a pretty black off the shoulder mermaid style gown with a high slit exposing your leg— fiddling with your styled hair as you waited and waited and waited for your girl friend to come back from the dessert table with yuji.
you hadn’t seen megumi yet as you were trying to keep on a look out, because the moment you did see him all dressed up? you were sure you were going to start pathetically bowing for him on your knees in front of all these people and end your social life forever.
finally, she came back and handed you a little pastry, you thanking her kindly and taking a small bite.
“wait no!” she gasped, turning her pastry around. “fuck, i got the wrong one. i meant to get the vanilla one this is coconut.”
“i can get it for you this time.” you smiled kindly, her looking at you gratefully as you patted her shoulder, making your way over to the dessert table.
your eyes lit up like stars at the sight of it, grand and luxurious as any kind of pastry you could ever possibly think of was present— neat and gourmet-like, each adorned with elegant toppings as multiple huge chocolate fountain stations ran from the sides.
“hi.”
you jumped and looked to your right, megumi standing there beside you with a bored expression, clad in a polished black button up and slacks, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
you gulped.
“h—hi.”
“i didn’t think you’d come.”
he lazily picked up a tiny slice of chocolate mousse cake and looked at it.
“i was dragged by my best friend,” you puffed out a laugh. “she said i was her and yuji’s plus one or something like that.”
he nodded, biting his cake slice and swallowing.
“you stopped coming inside the locker rooms.”
you faltered.
he noticed that?
“oh yeah! i just—” you shifted your weight from one foot to the other. “i’ve been really busy with school so i study right after…”
for some reason megumi eyed you carefully, and your cheeks grew pinker the more he blatantly stared at you as you fidgeted.
“are you—”
“fushiguro!”
you both turned your heads to the source, and you spotted an unfamiliar guy, one who you assumed was on the team with them, smiling enthusiastically and throwing a heavy arm around megumi’s shoulder.
“who’s this? i’ve never seen you talk to anyone besides us!”
megumi only spared him a nonchalant glance before he looked back over at the dessert table.
the unknown man extended a hand out to you, and megumi’s eyes snapped to it.
“hi! i’m takuma!”
you cheerfully took his hand. “y/n!”
“are you megumi’s girlfriend?”
you gawked, guilt and embarrassment already filling your body at the thought of megumi finding that comment uncomfortable and being uncomfortable because of you.
at his own banquet.
“n—no!” you shook your head, eyebrows pinched. “i came with my best friend and yuji.”
takuma unhooked his arm and let it rest beside him. “oh nice! you know yuji as well?”
you nodded, “mhm!”
the rest of the crowd began to take their seats for the awards ceremony segment, and the three of you walked over to your designated table by yuji and your best friend, who’s eyes widened at the sight of you next to megumi.
you all sat, and takuma pointed to the empty seat next to you.
“is anyone sitting here?”
“oh no!” you smiled politely. “it’s empty you can—”
“take mine ino.”
megumi pulled out the chair next to you and plopped down on it, scooting up. “it’s closer to the front.”
huh?
“o—oh!” takuma scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “okay! thanks fushiguro.”
he only nodded in response and stuck his face in his champagne glass, sipping.
and he was right. you watched as takuma navigated through the circular tables before sitting in a seat that was right smack dab in the front.
“that’s really nice of you megumi!” you chirped. “he has such a good view now!”
“mhm.”
your best friend smacked a hand to her forehead with a shake of her head, and you looked at her quizzically.
the awards ceremony was the most fun you’ve ever had, as you were over the moon for all of the players that were awarded prestigious titles and recognitions, and even more excited for yuji and megumi, the both of them combined taking award after award that by the time the event was done, your table was filled to the brim with frames, medals, and trophies.
your doe eyes glowed over megumi’s earnings, pride and admiration bubbling in your chest as you took in the result of his hard work, feeling like he was the most talented person you ever had the privilege of knowing.
he stared at your enamored look.
“you’re so cool, gumi..” you gushed, not even noticing the little nickname you gave him.
but he did.
“cool baseball man?” he responded softly, referencing your words from when you first met.
your eyes snapped to his and you gave him the shiniest smile, nodding quickly. “yeah! cool baseball man.”
megumi looked down at his awards, and after a couple of seconds, picked up a shiny gold medal hung on a baby blue striped lanyard, holding it out for you.
“here.”
your eyes traveled down.
“what?”
“for you.” he pushed the medal forward.
shock crossed your face, and you frantically shook your head, pushing the medal back to him. “no! no megumi that’s yours you earned it—”
megumi rolled his eyes and held on to the edges of the lanyard, effortlessly setting it over your head and around your neck, the medal clinking and twinkling against your chest.
“i have four others. it’s fine.”
“no but—”
he carded his thumbs underneath your hair and gently slid your hair out from beneath the lanyard, setting it delicately over your bare shoulders.
yuji and your best friends jaws were on the floor, but you didn’t notice, too busy ogling over the fact that megumi fushiguro was the kindest person you had ever met, utterly amazed that he selflessly gave you something so precious. you.
your gaze trailed down to the medal, and you softly touched it with the pads of your fingers.
“t—thank you gumi…”
his lips twitched.
you realized then that the music had started and the crowd had already dispersed to celebrate, some dancing in the center while others mingled on the sidelines or hogged the dessert table.
and you spotted your best friend with yuji, the both of them smiling adoringly at each other, laughing and dancing— something bashfully wished for yourself as you grinned softly at them.
megumi followed your gaze, and he huffed an amused small laugh through his nose.
“they met at a party didn’t they?”
you looked to him and nodded, “uh huh! i was with her. she was so scared to talk to him and i literally had to throw her in.”
he scratched his cheek. “i remember. i was there.”
your jaw dropped. “you were?!”
he nodded. “and i remember you too.”
you sat there in silence.
how long had megumi been around in your life without you knowing? how didn’t you ever freaking notice?
before you could press any further, megumi squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his forehead in pain, groaning softly.
you jumped, “are you okay? what’s wrong?”
he shook his head. “migraine. the lights are fucking with me a little.”
“oh!” you frantically looked around the table and around him. “where are your sunglasses? the dark ones the ones you ran into a wall with!”
megumi snorted and shook his head again, eyes peeking at you a bit. “it’s fine. i left them at home.”
your eyebrows rose, “you left them?”
he nodded and dropped his hand, sitting up straight and trying to open his eyes fully to seem normal, but his lids only dropped again and his forehead fell to rest against the table.
“i’m sorry,” he mumbled. “just give me a minute.”
“don’t be sorry gumi…”
you figured the rest of the night was going to be like this, and if megumi stayed, he was going to end up dealing with the dull ache in his head for hours on end and not enjoy his banquet.
but you wanted him to enjoy it. this was his night, and you didn’t want him to spend it pissed off and writhing in pain.
“do you want to leave?”
he turned his head to the side and looked at you.
“we can um—” you fiddled with the medal around your neck. “we can go outside? or we can go for ice cream…”
you tilted your head to the side cutely, and you were oblivious to the way megumi’s cheeks went a little pink at the sight.
“ill pay though!” you smiled sweetly. “it’s the least i can do for the medal you gave me.”
he gave you an endearing half smile and nodded.
your eyes lit up. “really?! okay!— wait let me just say bye to my best friend and let her know—”
you quickly stood and walked over to the dance floor, megumi watching after you before picking up his black blazer and holding it underneath an arm, wondering how the fuck he was gonna pick up all of his awards himself.
“y/n!” your best friend gushed. “you’ve been talking to megumi for hours what the fuck is going on—”
you laughed. “nothing! it was nothing but i’m gonna go get ice cream with him!”
“what?!” her and yuji said in unison.
“did he ask you?” yuji pushed.
“no!” your eyes narrowed. “of course not i’m a big fat loser why would he? i invited him because he has a migraine so—”
your best friend hummed, a smirk on her face. “oh i see... use protection.”
“huh?!” your jaw dropped. “no! that’s not—”
“y/n!”
you turned and saw takuma walk over to you, a big smile on his face. “you enjoying the banquet?”
“oh yes! it’s really great!” you smiled kindly. “the dessert table is absolutely insane.”
“right?!” takuma stepped closer to you. “they go all out every year, it’s what everyone looks forward to.”
“i can definitely see why!”
he chuckled and nodded but then turned to you, speaking quieter. “listen um… i was wondering if you were uh— well if you wanted to dance? with me? y’know… maybe get to know each other better and then—”
yuji shoved his lips to your best friends ear.
“he’s stealing megumi’s girl.”
“i know!” she whispered harshly. “what the fuck do we do—”
“i don’t know!”
“well call megumi over—”
suddenly, a tall broad figure walked in between you and takuma, your vision blocked by his back.
“sorry ino,” megumi stepped to the side a little and placed a hand on the small of your back, ushering you towards the exit. “we were just leaving.”
yuji and your best friend gave each other a low high five before their eyes darted around, putting on false ignorance.
“sorry!— it was nice meeting you takuma!” you called from over your shoulder before the both of you stepped out of the venue and into the cool night air.
megumi’s car was parked right out front, him unlocking the doors with a button just like he had done the last time, you noticing how all of his awards were set neatly in the back seat.
“oh i’m sorry gumi! did you carry these over by yourself? i was gonna help you—”
you sat yourself on his passenger side seat, the leather creaking with every movement you made.
he shook his head. “i had my publicist team do it. it’s fine.”
“oh okay…” you mumbled, still feeling a little guilty that you didn’t help him.
you went to reach for your seatbelt when megumi’s arm flew in front of you and grabbed the strap, pulling it over your frame and clicking it securely before his hands wrapped back around the steering wheel, just like he had done a month prior.
you couldn’t make out his expression, as it was blank and stone-like and not a word was coming out of his mouth as he backed out from the parking space, but you smiled at him cutely nonetheless and thanked him.
the nearest ice cream shop was literally down the road from the venue, and the drive took less than three minutes before megumi pulled in and parallel parked on the side of the street.
you both stepped out and walked inside, the shop colorful and vibrant as what looked like twenty different assortments of ice cream were on display, your eyes launching across each flavor excitedly.
“i haven’t had ice cream in a fat minute…” you murmured as you pressed your hands against the glass.
“me neither.”
“which flavor do you want megumi?” you asked him sweetly, your eyes still glued to the flavors that it made him chuckle.
“um…” he stepped forward and scanned the different colors. “i’ll take whatever you get.”
you looked at him and your eyebrows softened, “are you sure? what if you don’t like it?”
the corner’s of his lips turned upward, the sight making your heart skip a beat.
“it’s okay. i trust you.”
you ended up getting your all time favorite flavor that you never skip— cake batter, one that tastes different depending on who’s palette it is, and something you anxiously thought over as you gnawed on your bottom lip and stared, waiting for him to try it as you both sat on a park bench not too far from the shop.
“why do you look like you’re about to cry.” he snickered lowly.
your eyes snapped to his and you giggled. “i might if you don’t like what i picked out.” you plopped a little spoonful in your mouth, the cold ice cream melting and spreading over your tongue as you swallowed. “cake batter is a hit or miss for different people…”
he hummed, “how come?”
“it’s either too sweet or just nasty.”
“i have a sweet tooth.”
your eyes lit up, “so do i! i’m a big sweets person. i love love desserts and chocolate and ice cream… but i’m not the biggest fan of candy.”
“you’re not?”
“i love candy but not how i love sweets… and i wouldn’t randomly pick it out like at the store because i wanted to. most likely i would get a cookie.”
megumi liked how much you talked.
“have you always had a sweet tooth?” he pressed on, looking at his ice cream cup.
you nodded. “have you?”
“not really,” he shook his head. “i didn’t pick it up until i met—” he stopped. “…my dad.”
met his dad?
megumi spotted your confusion and continued.
“my actual dad disappeared. dunno where he’s at. all i’ve heard is that he had a bad gambling addiction so i’m guessing it had something to do with that.”
your eyes softened.
“gojo is kind of like my dad…” he mumbled. “he’s supported my sister and i financially ever since i was maybe five or six.”
“you have a sister?” you murmured, eyes big.
he nodded. “i do.”
he scooped a bit of cake batter ice cream up with his spoon and plopped it into his mouth, smiling softly. “gojo gave me a sweet tooth. he can’t go a day without it.”
you’d never heard megumi open up so much before, and you felt incredibly lucky and special to be the one to hear about his family and share a precious moment with him over eating ice cream, something you wanted to treat delicately and remember for as long as you lived.
“do you like it?” you asked softly, gesturing to his cup.
“i love it.”
you beamed, and he took in your cute smile for a minute as you ate some more on your end.
“i’m sorry about your actual dad… but i’m glad you and your sister got the support you needed when you were young.”
he nodded.
“did he encourage you to do baseball? or was it you?”
“he did initially.” he shook his head. “he was annoying at first, was a cheerleader at every game and was so loud.”
you giggled.
“but i grew to like it… and that’s what i wanted to do for a career. if it wasn’t for gojo’s funding i wouldn’t have been able to.”
you hummed, savoring the ice cream a bit before swallowing. “that’s really nice, gumi. i’m really happy you got the opportunity to grow your skill out like that…” you swirled the ice cream around your cup with your spoon. “what you have is a solid gift, and i would hate to see it not get the recognition it deserves when you’ve worked so hard to make it what it is now.”
you looked at him. “so i’m really, really glad that it does get it.”
megumi stared at you, face blank and a scoop of yet to be eaten ice cream on his spoon, his cheeks growing hot.
“i don’t know why you think so highly of me.” he murmured.
everyone thinks he’s rude.
your eyebrows furrowed. “i don’t think megumi, i know. you’re not a mean person, you’re honest and serious about the important things in your life. and if the medal around my neck that you gave me selflessly doesn’t tell you otherwise? i might have to kill you.”
he laughed, loud, his eyes sparkling. “you might?”
you bit your lip to refrain yourself from freaking out over his smooth laughter. “i might.”
you subconsciously rubbed your hands over your chilling arms then and megumi eyed it before he put his cup down, reaching next to him for his blazer and opening it up as he gently placed it over your shoulders.
you looked at him like he was the world then, doe eyes big and round and shimmering, and megumi felt like he could do anything with that look as long as it came from you— a permanent red tint on his cheeks that was entirely your doing.
“thank you..” you mumbled shyly, your eyes glued to your now empty cup of ice cream on the bench as you clutched the sides of his blazer, the smell of him wafting in your nose that made you absolutely weak.
megumi timidly, slowly, reached up and moved a strand of hair from your eyes then, and you looked up.
“pretty…” he murmured, dazed even.
his hand fell and landed gently on your exposed thigh from the slit of your dress, but instead of moving it, he let it stay there, his hand smoothing over your plush soft skin as he was completely entranced by your heavenly face, his body pulling his lips closer to yours as megumi’s breath quickened with absolute need the higher up his hand trailed up your yummy thigh.
you couldn’t say a word, he practically didn’t let you as his lips pressed delicately and timidly against your plush ones, his mouth moving so slowly and his tongue parting your wet lips for the purpose of devouring more of you, all while his fingertips reached and felt the side straps of your panties— the material alone making him erratic and desperate while his other hand gripped your waist tightly.
your mouths moved faster now, the sounds of wet smacking and lips separating to reconnect with more greed than before muffling your ears as he breathed heavily through his nose, his eyebrows pinched together in pent up everything as he finally had you with him after months of you avoiding him.
and then you pulled away with a wet pop.
“i—i’m sorry!” you covered your mouth. “i didn’t mean to kiss you!—”
what?
megumi’s eyebrows furrowed, both of your chests heaving as his cheeks and lips were blushed red.
he shook his head, “no i kissed you—”
“don’t cover for me gumiii,” your shoulders slumped, your brain so in denial that he could ever like you back that it tricked you into thinking you were the one kissing and all over him. “fuck i’m sorry… that was so disrespectful and— and weird of me and i—”
megumi’s hands slipped away from your body and he shook his head, his eyes dead locked on yours with his eyebrows pinched together. “y/n no you’re not understanding—”
“i’m the biggest creep on the planet man i understand if you don’t ever want to speak to me again—” you covered your face and leaned forward.
megumi stared at you astonishingly as he listened to you ramble apologies and dramatic insults for yourself continuously, his shoulders slowly relaxing and his lips turning into a soft knowing smile, your random speech starting to make absolutely no sense at all and his heart aching at the fact of how naive you were.
“y/n.”
you stopped. “what.”
he reached over and pulled your hands away from your face. “you’re helpless, you know that?”
“helpless and a creep.”
he laughed and shook his head. “stop it.”
he stood and offered his hand out for you.
“it’s getting late, i’m driving you home.”
megumi decided he would properly speak to you about it the next time he saw you… except he didn’t.
you started avoiding him like the plague again, horrendously horrified about what you believed you had done, thinking that it was better if you stayed away from him and fulfilled your initial task of forgetting him, no matter how much it hurt you.
you didn’t want megumi to ever be uncomfortable or experience what you believed he experienced with you. he didn’t deserve that. he didn’t deserve a pathetic little fan girl that never left him alone and hindered his work on the field, even though you wished so badly you could see him again, as the taste of his lips and mouth never left your fuzzy mind.
you kissed megumi fushiguro.
“oh my god y/n, you’re so stupid.”
“no i’m not! do you really believe megumi could ever like me back? no! absolutely not. i kissed him and i fucked up and that’s it. i’m staying away from him.”
your best friend ran her fingers through her hair and almost tore a chunk out in frustration. “it sounds like he kissed you! he had his hand on your thigh—”
“that was for stability! he—”
“no it was to feel you up!”
you shook your head side to side with your arms crossed. “nope nope nope nope—”
“y/nnnn!”
as for megumi, the next game he had he looked for you while on the field like he always did, looking forward to seeing your precious face and giving you a little wave… except he couldn’t find you. after the game, he went around the stadium and towards the locker room, inside and back out, the parking lot, his parking lot—
and he couldn’t find you.
this went on for a full three weeks of game after game nearly every day him doing the same exact thing— him getting increasingly more confused and a bit upset at your disappearance, going as far as to staying hours after his games still in his sweaty baseball uniform and cap with hopes that you’ll turn up.
except you never did.
and at the end of the third week, he had had enough.
“oh hey megumi!” your best friend greeted him, her hand fixing around yuji’s hair in the locker room after a game.
“hi.”
he stood there and said nothing, and your best friend eyed him skeptically. “…yes?”
megumi shifted awkwardly. “have you um… have you seen y/n?”
she sucked in a breath. “uh yeah. i saw her this morning.”
“this morning?” his eyes narrowed. “is she okay? why hasn’t she been coming to our games with you?”
“because—” she stammered. “well because—”
“is it our place to say?” yuji muttered.
“is it our place to know?” she whispered back harshly.
“i don’t know!”
“let’s just tell him!”
“but what if!—”
megumi rolled his eyes and huffed. “nevermind. please tell her to come tomorrow, i need to talk to her.”
your best friend gulped and nodded, both her and yuji watching the way he walked away and snatched his cap off, throwing it inside his locker and slamming it shut with his foot before picking up his duffel bag and leaving, not even bothering to change out of his dirt covered uniform.
“i’ve never seen him so stressed,” yuji commented.
“it’s because he likes her and she’s being an idiot…” your best friend sighed sadly.
so when she came to you the next day and told you megumi needed to speak to you, she amplified how upset he was to get you to feel bad and feel the urgent need to come to the game tonight, which you of course did.
and you were worried. so so worried and scared that he was finally going to tell you off for kissing him, to tell you that you sucked and that he never ever wanted to see you again in his life and that you were a disgusting human being—
but the roar of the crowd pulled you from your thoughts, the team winning once again as many began to pack their things and take their leave. you were completely and utterly shitting yourself, petrified and already heartbroken over the fact that megumi was officially going to cut you off as a friend when you hadn’t even had the chance to try and win him over yet.
and the way he played on the field tonight was way more aggressive than normal. he was louder, meaner, and didn’t take his eyes away from the ball or his opponents as he nearly got into a fight with another player, yuji and a few others needing to pull megumi apart and set him aside to cool off— the cameras and reporters having a field day in regards to him.
and that bothered you like nothing else. why the hell were they so excited over him getting angry? to amplify the brand that he upholds as the teams meanest player? as if they’ve never had a bad day a day in their lives? what was the point?
and it was all because of you, you realized.
you made him upset.
you covered your face with your hands and groaned, feeling like you wanted to cry.
“y/n…” your best friend patted your back. “it’ll be fine… he just needs to talk to you! you don’t even know what it’s about.”
“i can take a wild guess.”
she looked at you worriedly before picking up her things. “whenever you’re ready babe… i think he’s in the locker rooms by now.”
she left you there to gather yourself, and you sat there for a couple of more minutes before finally getting up and making your way to the locker rooms.
most of the fans had cleared out by now, and the sun was beginning to set as you passed and squeezed through crew members and news reporters, gnawing at your bottom lip as you turned a corner and spotted the locker room, many of the players already leaving.
just as you had reached your hand up to open the door, a firm voice called out to you.
“y/n.”
you froze, retracting your hand as you turned to look.
megumi stood there at the end of the hall, his baseball uniform still on and his cap dangling from his belt loop, hands in tight fists with his chest rising and falling, an agitated look on his face that you had never seen before.
“h—hi-”
“are you trying to forget me? is that what’s going on?”
your eyebrows furrowed.
“what?”
megumi took stride full steps towards you. “you finally talk to me, you confess to me, you disappear for a month, i wait for you, you finally show up at the banquet looking like the most beautiful woman i’ve ever seen in my fucking life—”
he stopped in front of you. “takuma tries to steal you from me, i get pissed off, i fall for you at the park, i kiss you—“ he threw his arms up. “and you disappear again!”
your eyes bulge out of their sockets.
fall?
“you what?—”
“so i’m asking you again,” megumi bent his knees to look at you at eye level, his hands coming up to cup your pink cheeks and his face so close to yours you can make out the exact color of his eyes.
“are you trying to forget me? like you said you would?”
you fidgeted.
“i— i was doing it for you—”
“why for me? i never said—”
the feeling of his big hands on your cheeks was making your heart do backflips and trick shots as your wide doe eyes looked at him.
“because when i kissed you i made you uncomfortable and i don’t ever want you to be so i thought it’d be best if i left you alone—”
“okay let’s fix that right now,” his hands tightened slightly around your cheeks and he readjusted his footing, knees still bent. “i kissed you. if anything i should be the one worried if i made you uncomfortable because i put my hand on your thigh like that and for that i’m sorry.”
“no but—”
“yes y/n. i kissed you because you’re polite and you’re sweet and you’re funny, and you don’t see me as rude like everybody else does. and even though you’re naive and helpless sometimes, i like that you are. i like you.”
“but you’re megumi fushiguro…” you squeaked.
“so?”
“and i’m a loser.”
he laughed so cutely and shook his head, his pearly whites fully shining at you so big that it took you back to the first time he smiled in front of you.
“no you’re not you big dummy.”
he let go of your cheeks and placed his palms flat against the brick wall behind you, cornering you in as he let his head hang low, the top of his spiky black hair the only thing in your line of vision.
“i don’t know how else i can make you see…”
he sounded so exhausted, and your heart clenched.
“was it—” you timidly placed your hands on his shoulders. “was it actually you that kissed me?”
he nodded, head still hung.
“and do you actually like me? like— like more than a friend…”
“way fucking more,” he mumbled.
you bit the inside of your cheek as you tried to contain yourself from screaming.
you couldn’t believe it. the megumi fushiguro, number eighteen, the most handsome man you’ve ever seen and the kindest one you’ve ever met… liked you.
“i could’ve sworn i kissed you..” you spoke softly, trailing off.
“you didn’t.” his voice was firm. “i kissed you and i put my hand up your thigh…” his forehead lifted to rest on the crook of your neck as he sighed a deep breath.
“i told— i told takuma to scram at the banquet because i got jealous that you were talking to him more than me. i saw you crying in the hall that first time we spoke and i recognized you and i went up to you because finally—”
he picked his head up slowly, eyes serious. “finally, you noticed me.”
he was so close that your nose brushed gently with his.
“you’re so dense y/n…”
megumi’s eyes flickered to your lips, “i’ve wanted you since the party.”
“the party?” you murmured.
he nodded. “the party where your friend first met yuji.”
your breath hitched as you felt his hands slide down the wall and snake over your hips, holding you tightly against him as the shock of his words made your body numb and tingly.
since the party?
it all seemed to click into place then, every single moment megumi tried to get you to look at him, to talk to him, in his own discreet way that you were completely oblivious to. and you were so fucking caught up in this fog of denial, that a person like megumi could never be interested in a person like you, that it made you push him away for the longest time without even giving yourself a chance.
you were so fucking stupid.
your arms slowly wrapped around his broad shoulders, the rough feeling of his baseball uniform underneath your fingertips and arms as you pressed your nose up against his shoulder shyly, feeling so incredibly bad for avoiding megumi for so long.
“i’m sorry…” you mumbled. “i’m sorry i was so oblivious gumi.”
you felt him shake his head from the crook of your neck silently, the vibration of his heart beating rapidly against you making you sweat and melt at the same time.
“don’t be.”
“i just—” you struggled. “i just thought you didn’t like me like i liked you and i wanted to respect your space…”
“i understand,” he muttered. “but i don’t want you to respect my space anymore.”
you held him tighter.
“and—” your voice was slightly muffled by his shoulder.
“hm?”
“i liked it when you put your hand on my thigh…”
megumi stilled, you playing the night he kissed you over and over in your head again like you’ve done since it happened— the thought making you nervous and timid.
he gripped you tighter.
“did you?”
you nodded, “mhm.”
megumi without parting from you, slipped a hand under your shirt and soothed his fingers over the bare skin of your torso, your breathing stuttering, his rough hand radiating warmth.
“what else do you like.”
you gripped the fabric of his uniform.
“i like… i like the way you kissed me. and how you touch me… like right now.”
your voice was so so soft, practically a whisper as he seemed to shiver under your words, wanting more.
“what else.”
“you,” you mumbled. “your body… your hair… your face… your hands… the way you talk to people.”
“you want me?” he murmured breathlessly.
“more than anything.”
“what else do you like?”
you leaned your head back a little and pressed your lips to his ear. “the way you play ball.”
he hummed, “you like the way i play baby?”
you nodded, your heart hammering.
he lifted his face from the crook of your neck and shamelessly pressed his lips to your cheek, murmuring.
“you wanna see what else i can do?”
“what— what else?”
megumi’s face remained pressed against your cheek as he let both of his hands now snake underneath your shirt and upwards, slowly but roughly groping the cup of your tits over your bra, feeling you up as you gasped.
“uh huh..” he pressed an open mouthed wet kiss to your pink fuzzy cheek. “‘cause i can do a lot more than just be your cool baseball man.”
he roughly spun you around and pushed you up against the wall, his hands coming back up to your breasts to grope you as he shoved and rubbed his hardened clothed dick against your perky ass, your tiny skirt riding up and revealing your pretty pink panties that made him absolutely feral.
“gumi!” you gasped. “s—someone could see—”
“i don’t fucking care.”
megumi buried his nose further into the back of your neck and your hair, him being a little pervert in the most delicious and intoxicating way possible.
he dragged his mouth up against your skin and latched on to the nape of your neck, sucking and biting sloppily against it as he marked you aggressively, no doubt in your mind that a purple bruise would follow soon after as his hands slipped under your bra now, pinching your hard nipples meanly and laughing when you jumped.
you moaned and whined against the wall, your body trembling as you felt your slick arousal slip from your hole and dampen your panties, choked up embarrassment coating your face as he shoved his fingers down your skirt without warning.
“you’re soaked baby…” he whispered. “and all because i grabbed your tits?”
“megumiii…” you whined, and you squeaked as he quickly slipped his fingers in between your pussy lips and pinched your clit.
“gumi,” he corrected. “fix it.”
“g—gumi—”
“good, pretty baby...” he praised, his dick rock fucking solid against your ass at the way his fingers slipped and slid in between your lower lips without much effort, both of your chests heaving and panting as your brains frazzled erotically.
the sounds of footsteps echoed from the end of the hall and you both immediately froze, a gasp slipping past your lips before megumi quickly covered your mouth with the same hand that was just fingering you.
“shh.” he kissed the back of your head.
if anyone were to walk in and see the sight before them— megumi with his crotch pressed up against your ass, a hand pushing your top and bra up, squeezing your bare puffy tit and the other covering your mouth?
they’d drop dead.
without another moment wasted, megumi uncovered your mouth and turned you around, his tongue darting out and licking the patch of wet on your cheek from his fingers before shoving them in his mouth, sucking up your left over juice as he bent down and wrapped his arms around your legs, lifting and throwing you over his shoulder.
megumi was freaky.
your eyes widened as he walked to the double doors of the locker room and kicked it open with his foot, turning around to lock them shut before walking to a corner and setting you down gently on a bench, his palms flat beside you on the smooth wood as he towered over you.
“is— is everybody gone?”
“long gone.” he nibbled at your cheek.
“but— but what if someone wants to come in?—”
he pulled away and got down on his knees. “i’ll tell them to fuck off.”
you panted as he pressed his hands against your thighs and squeezed, spreading them apart slowly with his eyes trained to your drenched cute pink panties.
he slid his hands underneath your thighs and lifted, bending you and pressing your knees closer to you as your back hit the lockers behind you, your hands gripping the bench for dear life.
“has anyone ever seen your pussy?” he gruffed, licking his lips.
you shook your head, embarrassed. “n—no.”
“has any other man touched you the way i’ve touched you?”
“m—maybe in high school?—”
megumi sunk his teeth into your inner thigh and bit you as you yelped.
“thought you liked me.”
“i do!” you sputtered.
“clearly not if you’re being a little whore and letting other filthy men on you.”
your hole clenched.
“that— that was before you!”
he stuck his tongue out and pressed it flat against your pussy covered panties, dragging it slowly and agonizingly up until the tip of his tongue passed and flicked up against your clit, the tip moving around and around your little nub as your thighs shook.
“doesn’t matter.” he let a string of drool fall from the corner of his lips and over your ruined underwear, your eyes fluttering as you felt his warm saliva ooze in between your lips.
“and what about takuma, hm?”
you tried to open your eyes. “ta—takuma?”
“mhm. he was all over you.”
you hiccuped as he wrapped his fingers around the straps of your panties and pulled them down.
“i—”
“bet he wanted to do to you what i’m doing right now…” he hummed. “would you have let him?”
he stuffed his nose into your bare pussy and inhaled deeply, your jaw dropping as you squeezed your eyes shut.
your lack of response caused him to pull away and bite your thigh again, harder.
“would you?”
“n—no!” you shook your head quickly, strands of your hair lightly grazing your face. “i wouldn’t—”
“so who then?” he licked over his bite mark. “who would you spread your legs open for like this and let them see what a nasty fucking girl you are…”
“you gumi!” you hiccuped. “just you—”
“just me?”
megumi finally let his tongue slither itself in between your folds, slowly running over your flaps and clit as your hole continued to squelch out your arousal, pooling on the bench beneath you.
“y—yes!”
he slobbered and spit over your pussy like a starved dog, his face glistening like sugary glazed sweets.
“that’s what i fucking thought,” he hummed. “you gonna try and forget me again?”
“no!” you shook your head. “never! i can’t!”
he gripped your thighs tighter as he absolutely violated your folds then, wet sloshing and slurpings filling the air as he spat and shook his head side to side rapidly on your clit, you squealing and attempting to snap your thighs shut in response, his strong grip not letting you even if you tried.
“i—i can’t!” you cried. “gumi slow please it’s too much—”
“be a pretty baby and stop complaining.” he ran his slimy tongue over your pussy entirely before shoving it inside your hole.
you choked and clasped a trembling hand over your mouth, tears of ecstasy spilling from the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut.
you whimpered and moaned and cried so pathetically, so cutely in his ears that he grinned as he pumped his tongue in and out of you filthily.
“you’re so fucking sweet—” he slapped your cunt and you jumped. “good thing i have a sweet tooth.”
your legs shook violently as you began to see stars, your tight hole clenching and sputtering around nothing as you felt your release approaching.
“gumi—” your hand flew back to the bench and you gripped it. “m’gonna cum! i’m— i’m gonna make a mess—”
megumi’s hand shot up and wrapped around one of your thighs so the tips of his fingers met your clit, his digits proceeding to rub and flick it as you climbed and reached your high, a high pitched scream echoing through the steamy locker room as your pussy leaked your sweet cum on his tongue.
you shuddered and jumped at the way he cleaned up your release and swallowed it, running his tongue soothingly over the bite marks on your thighs before coming back up and wiping his glistening face with his sleeve.
megumi leaned in and pressed a gentle loving kiss to your lips, a complete turn around from the feral beast you had in between your legs— you kissing him back with just as much feel and affection.
he pulled back and got back up on his feet, you watching him ditzy as he jogged over to his locker and turned the lock until it clicked open, him rummaging inside for a little before he shut it and came back with a fresh pair of gray sweatpants.
“put these on baby,” he murmured.
you nodded sweetly and took them from him, you slipping off your skirt and pulling his sweatpants over as you watched him bend and look over corners.
“what are you looking for?” you asked softly.
he perked up then and stuck his hand under a bench, pulling out your wet ruined pink panties and holding them up high like a trophy.
“oh my god—” you covered your mouth in embarrassment. “give me those!”
“nope.” he shook his head and walked over to his duffel bag on the floor, unzipping it before stuffing your panties inside. “these are mine now.”
megumi came back up and wrapped his palm underneath your chin, tilting your face up softly before planting a sweet kiss to your swollen lips.
“and so are you.”
and that you were.
you went on many many dates with megumi after that, each and every single one so incredibly lovely and fun, a genuine connection you felt with him and each other that you had never ever felt before in your life, absolutely enamored by the way he gently treated you and made you feel like the only one that mattered in his life.
your best friend was obviously over the moon for you, squealing like a maniac at everything you told her, and always teased megumi about his lovesick face whenever you came to his games or appeared in the locker room to help him change, sort his clothes, or fix his hair.
“megumi…” she snickered. “your cheeks are a little red! are you like— sick?”
he scowled at her and turned the other way, wiping his sweaty forehead as he watched you bounce down the steps cutely and onto the field after one of his practices, a huge smile on your face that replicated on his.
the minute you jumped into his arms, he peppered your little cheeks with kisses as you giggled and ruffled his spiky hair, asking him how he felt about practice and other things after he set you down.
without anyone noticing, a journalist was on the field, and at the sight of megumi fushiguro’s beaming toothy smile as he watched you run to him, they quickly snapped a photo and published it.
one was a perfect portrait photo of his shining white smile (that later became his signature picture) and the other was a photo of his arms out for you as you ran, the both of them causing an absolute uproar that altered megumi’s image from that day forward.
megumi fushiguro was thought to be the meanest player on the team since the day he got signed.
but when he started taking more pictures with fans, kind of stopped offending the people around him, signed more autographs, and smiled occasionally at the paparazzi— all while your pretty self stood right next to him?
megumi fushiguro was sometimes the meanest player on the team.
I would never condone watching F1 for free without subscribing to those expensive, corporate streaming sites that make millions from advertising other corporations.
And I would never condone clicking on this link to watch F1 pre-season testing and all the free practices, qualifying and races.
Don’t click on this link.
JOKES! Fuck that, free for all is what I say. No one should miss out on F1 because it’s expensive to watch.
Just to be clear…this is the link I am talking about. It streams F1 for free. FREE!
