summary: nanami counts his chances and bets on this last one.
contains: implied f!reader but no mention of pronouns, canon-adjacent, exes, mentions of alcohol, swears, mentions of drunk calls, pov switching, angst, c.death
a/n: another brainchild from me and @augustinewrites, with song inspos: you were good to me, tequila, bourbon, already gone, all i want, and something in the orange
part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request
prompt: waiting for that call you know won't come
part 1 <- you are here
October 31, 2018.
Your company halloween party isn’t all that fun when you think about it.
The optional suggestion from HR to wear a costume has always been promptly ignored for as long as you can remember, pressed suits in dark neutrals coloring the celebration instead. Nothing exciting about it at all.
It used to be though, when you had Nanami to spend it with.
Liquid pools by the sides of your fingertips, condensation dripping down your glass of bourbon. One of the perks of being in a financial firm’s halloween party is that the alcohol is good, expensive to match the tastes and budget the partners can afford.
Calling it a party is overhyping it, if you’re being honest. It’s just another day at work, except without the alcohol restrictions; your coworkers still check the markets every five minutes (you do too, out of habit), and directors still ask for summary reports while attending to a phone call or two—one hand on a tablet and another on a drink, earbud slotted securely in one ear.
You and Nanami used to hide, even just for a few minutes, by the break room at the back, inside the pantry—a place now foreign but still filled with all your memories; you haven’t stepped foot in it since he broke it off.
It's a common notion amongst your peers that workplace romance is dead—it always has been (at least, outwardly). HR would have cut either of you out of the next payment cycle if they had caught wind of your mingling.
Workplace romance is dead, they say, but what you had with Nanami was alive, beating with every giggle muffled by the palm of your hand. No one would ever consider him a funny guy, but you did—all his snide remarks, comments unapologetically deadpan in a way so bluntly his.
The gray curtain separating you two from the rest of the office kitchen was thin, but it held every weighted moment you snuck with him—secret confessions a little before midnight, a hand or two you couldn’t possibly resist, sobs hushed down, bitten between your teeth with you tucked into him.
Workplace romance is dead—it’s supposed to be, but a few desks down and a sharp left turn from yours, it haunts you, still.
You take a sip.
.
Nanami has a sense for these things.
It’s always when something doesn’t feel right that the numbers start to click.
Clusters of sorcerers have been grouped to surround the vicinity, his own trio comprising of himself, Fushiguro, and Ino. The instructions are simple: to be on standby in case anything happens. The wait time should be a good sign; it’s highly unlikely that anyone can match up to Gojo, after all.
He checks his watch, each second ticking agonizingly slowly. It feels unsettling, like the calm before the storm—a deep unrest simmering. Unsafe is the first thought that comes to mind, then you second; it prompts him to call you, his fingers slightly trembling.
Your contact is still marked with a star, filed under his favorites (he knows he probably should have moved it).
One ring. Two rings. Three. A ‘toot’ at the end of the line—it makes him antsy.
Then, the veils go down.
The action is alarming; these opponents move themselves like chess pieces, he knows this much—all part of a bigger plan, always with an underlying motive.
His thumb hovers over the call button again, thinking. The expression on his face remains impassive, sharp angles and straight lines concealing the weight of each worry.
“Nanami-san,” Ino calls.
Fushiguro’s already started theorizing, rationalizing some sort of ploy behind this occurrence—all highly plausible, all probably true; it’s some sick play that the moment the calculations click, there isn’t enough time to call you.
“That’s why we’ve stopped standing by and started to act,” Nanami interjects, shrugging off his blazer, khaki cotton falling off his shoulders as he slips his phone in his pant pocket.
.
If anything, you should probably do your best to enjoy whatever you can from this year’s Halloween party—after all, it’ll be your last in this company. You handed in your resignation papers last week, and though your boss has pulled you aside for the nth time tonight, disguising pleas as empty promises, you know better than to believe it.
It doesn’t matter to you anymore; you’ve made up your mind.
The bartender mixes you another drink: 2 ounces of bourbon for a ball of ice, the same one you’ve been having the entire night.
A White Russian is your usual pick—a spiked latte as you call it. Nanami’s claimed that Bourbon On The Rocks is like its older, more mature cousin, and you’re afraid he’s right. He always is.
The hints of vanilla and caramel remind you of your morning pick-me-up, part because of the drink and part because of the man you used to spend it with.
Your phone vibrates from your inner pocket, but you don’t feel it, the alcohol dulling your senses.
.
“Na-na-na-na-na-na-min!”
For this reason, he thinks, it’s good that the nickname has stuck; a perfect identifier for whom and where it’s coming from.
Echoes of Itadori’s voice lead them straight to a rooftop, Fushiguro catching the boy’s attention to ask for the run-down. Mechamaru warns that it’s pandemonium deep within the station, curses of all grades mixed with scattered transfigured humans. There’s only one thing he knows can be responsible for that.
Nanami doesn’t do jokes, but he secretly wishes this is just a really bad one, because—
Gojo’s been sealed.
—the punch line isn’t funny at all.
Sorcery has prepared Nanami for anything, but this possibility lies in his 0.01%—if this has happened, it’s free game.
It makes sense now, why this unease has slowly been surfacing.
Keep people safe and survive—the single thought at the forefront of his mind.
He moves quickly, devising a plan for maximum efficiency; Ino is to stay with Fushiguro and Itadori inside this veil while he meets up with Ijichi to put down the other one. Time is running short, options even more so—there are only a handful of people who can do certain requests and being a first-grade qualifies him as one of them.
Eerie silence greets him as he steps out on the sidewalk, the streets practically swept. It’s instinct when his hand reaches in his pant pocket, fingers moving in memorized pattern as he calls you again.
You don’t pick up for the second time.
.
One of your co-workers almost trips down the steps to the taxi, your arm stretched out to catch her should she fall forward completely. Cool air nips at your cheeks; you’ve had more to drink but you handle liquor well—if managing to keep up with Nanami means anything.
The vibrations of your phone get lost in the commotion. You haul your co-worker into the cab and tell the driver her address, asking if he can drive you to yours soon after.
.
It’s shit.
Climbing up the steps to the overpass fills him with a sense of foreboding. A sickening dread. On the way here, he spotted four managers, dead.
The sight before him angers him more than anything—blood pooling around Ijichi’s frame, crumpled on the ground. He steps closer, crouching low to check for a pulse; it’s faint, but it’s there, accompanying the man’s shallow breathing.
He does quick work bringing Ijichi to the rescue team, hopefully fast enough to make it back to Shoko where she can fix him.
The casualties are rising.
It isn’t safe anymore. The radius of collateral damage is widening and this is just the beginning.
What will happen to you? If the events in here break containment?
How can he keep you safe if jujutsu society falls?
He crunches the numbers, sorting through each possibility; the phone in his pocket feels heavy, sinking with each step he takes on concrete. It’s not often that Nanami runs out of options—there’s always an answer to anything; but this, he thinks, has never made him feel more desperate.
His fingers hover over your contact again.
There’s not enough time—this is the only way.
He needs to get you out of here.
.
You’re left with a voicemail.
The key slips from your hand, falling to the ground again, like the many times it has before. You step inside your apartment, swiping through your notifications to find two missed calls and an email.
It’s confusing enough getting calls from the ex you drunk dial once a week; receiving a flight notice set to depart later tonight with a ticket under your name doesn’t make things any clearer.
You tap your screen, odd anticipation and nerves coiling in your belly.
“Hello,” the audio starts, “I’m assuming you received the email.”
His voice sounds different when you’re a little more sober; you’re not sure if that’s a good thing—if it’s worse or better, just that it aches the more you hear him clearly. You kick off your heels, letting the audio play as you pour yourself a glass of water.
Your ticket details stare at you from your screen.
(Shouting isn’t a quiet man’s usual and his throat hurts from the overexhaustion. His voice echoes across the sea, calling for everyone to hurry over. There’s only so much Fushiguro can take from beside him, holding open the simple domain for everyone to slip through simultaneously.
He supposes, this isn’t the first time he’s done something out of character today—moving your flight and hoping you get on it is the most reckless thing he’s ever done.)
“I’m sorry this is so sudden, I understand if you’re confused. I know most of our conversations have been unideal lately.”
Metal clinks in the recording, a sound so familiar to you—the links of his watch band hitting. Nanami has a habit of shaking his wrist when he’s uneasy about something, and you can almost hear it from the small breaths he takes before each sentence.
It should embarrass you, the amount of times you’ve drunk-called him, but you have reason to believe he doesn’t find it all that off-putting.
(He wonders if he’ll get another chance to sit through one more unideal conversation with you.
Blood drips down the side of his head, his shoulder slashed through his shirt. Adrenaline moves every muscle he barely has the energy to.)
“Do you… do you remember that vacation we planned?” he breathes out from the other end, a hesitancy uncommonly heard from him, “To Kuantan?”
You do, very vividly—a trip discussed some time ago with your head on his chest, scrolling through flight promos on your phone. Nanami’s dream has always been to be free by the sea; you don’t expect it from a man turned jaded, but it feels like a secret spoken truthfully.
So you take it and run, booking a flight two years down the line—a ‘when we have the time’ flexible enough to move and transfer whenever either of you would like.
(In a flash, he’s flushed along with the current, waves engulfing him as he’s washed out of the domain.)
“I’ve thought about it and believe now would be a good time,” his voice continues, “with your resignation and things. ”
The spray sunblock on your dresser is barely used, but you grab it knowingly. Nanami is pale and—
(—when he burns, he thinks of the Kuantan sun—how nice it would be to be under it, bathed in the deep orange afterglow next to you.)
“I…” Nanami rarely stutters, but you hear a slight shake to his timbre, “I know this is a tough ask, especially when I’ve been unfair to you. But…”
You can picture him clearly—hand running through his hair as he adjusts his lenses; he pinches the bridge of his nose before shaking his wrist, that familiar metal clinking.
It almost sounds pained, his acknowledgment of it, as if he’s long since regretted treating you any less than you deserve. Does it make you stupid? Or sad? That you still hang on to every word he says, that the spaces between your fingers still miss the way he used to fill them.
You drag the zipper of your bag shut, patting it down to flatten.
“...I hope you know the reason I left isn’t because of something you did.”
The Nanami you know speaks nothing but the truth, and you believe him each time.
It’s a contradicting mix of comfort and anxiety, like he’s freed you from the guilt that used to weigh on you heavily. If it isn’t because of you though, you don’t know what else it could be.
You sigh, pushing down on the door handle as you take one last look to make sure you didn’t leave anything.
(It’s a lie when he tells himself he can’t feel anything; the left side of his body is burned, charred down to his sinews—it's a surprise he can still move. The damage should have been enough to numb him, but it still hurts when he thinks of you.
Did you receive his voicemail? Are you on your way now?
Time moves slowly as he drags his feet across the station floor.)
“I’ll… explain myself more when I see you in a few hours.”
Your stomach starts feeling funny when you get in the taxi—the pauses in his recording are obvious.
You wonder what’s going on in his head.
(This is cruel, he knows, concealing the truth and feeding you false hope. He’s a liar, but there’s no other way. There’s no time to explain everything to you.
If this is what gets you out of here—)
Silence.
You hear his footsteps through the recording, the sound of his feet shuffling, contemplating.
He speaks again, hesitancy tinged with sadness you can’t decipher, “I apologize, if this is out of nowhere,” a breath, “but I hope I was good to you in the time we had.”
You shift in your seat, fiddling with your fingers. There’s a finality to his tone that you find oddly misplaced—the sound of a goodbye more than a second try.
It is wholly unlike him to be this sentimental.
Tears well up in your lash line as you think back to everything: how he used to wait for you after work despite it being past midnight, how weekends were filled with nothing but love, massaged into the soles of your feet; how he’d buy your favorite breakfast sandwich even though he’s a snob about the ingredients in it. He drove you anywhere as long as you had music control.
Nanami is an old soul, and you indulged him by buying records for that vintage record player he has. Songs from the 50’s, 60’s, maybe a bit of jazz from the 70’s and 80’s too—for a man so stiff, he sways smoothly to its melodies, holding you closely each time.
He has only ever touched you gently, attentive to every need you express lovingly; his kisses always form a line straight to your heart—from the top of your head to your forehead, down between your eyebrows to the slope of your nose. His lips are soft against yours, ticklish as they drag down your neck to your collarbones.
A patient and tender lover, the most wonderful man for the greatest years of your life.
He was more than good to you—you couldn’t have asked for any better.
(A mess of curses greet him on the floor—transfigured humans he has no choice but to take the lives of.
He’s exhausted.
His blade swooshes to the right, body following the path it glides to. He allows himself a glimpse of rest, to think of how it must feel to dance by the glistening seaside with you.)
“You were the best thing to happen to me in that shitty place.”
His honesty rings loudly in your ears, resounding even as you pull up your luggage to the check-in counter
Oftentimes, Nanami would say things and they’d sound a lot like ‘I love you’.
“I hope I can be good to you now, too.”
(Saying it would have been selfish—it’s good he didn’t, even though he wanted to. Those 3 words mean nothing if there’s no guarantee he’ll be alive to prove it to you.
A hand presses against his back; a crack in his soul.)
“The details are in the email, I’ll be there when you land.” he pauses; it takes a beat before he continues again, “See you then.”
You’re half-nervous and half-excited as you board the plane. The voicemail sounds suspicious, his actions even moreso, but if what he’s saying is true—
(It flashes before him, too fast and too slow; Haibara smiling, the life he couldn’t save. Yuuji calling him from the corner, a ‘Nanamin’ one last time.
Then there’s you. Just as he’s about to give in to it all—the beach. How pretty you’d look, beaming up at him, pointing towards the sun as it sets into the endless sea.)
“Don’t forget to turn off the lights.” he says softly, like a reminder to be cradled safely.
You settle into your seat, the captain speaking over the announcement system.
“Flight MH 1730 to Kuantan, Malaysia from Tokyo, Japan. Departure time is 11:16 p.m. Estimated arrival…”
—you can’t wait.
(At least he’ll get to save your life, right?
Nanami Kento. Time of death: 11:17 p.m.)
a/n: writing this was really tough (because it absolutely gutted me), but it was a good challenge! a few info bits: partners = high ranking roles in the company; white russian = vodka, coffee liqueur, & cream + ice; the flight details are not real; the pov switching is real time, except for the voicemail, which acts as a voiceover to the events concurring between nanami and you.
thank you notes: to @augustinewrites OF COURSE. what would i do without you fr. this has plagued us for the longest time and we have been way too sad for too damn long bc of it 😭 thank you for half-mothering this, where would i be without your sad songs 🥹 + @mysugu and @soumies for running through this idea & the voicemail dialogue with me 🥺 very important opinions from very important people indeed 🥺 + @stellamancer for helping me with my grammar doubts 😭
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
i’ve been thinking about werewolf!yuuji for a while now and i will expand on it further sometime in the future, but i do think he’d be very gentle with you despite being a monster!
just a playful pup who just so happens to be insanely huge and inhumanly strong at the same time; play fighting with you until you’re a giggling mess underneath him, completely trusting even though his jaws are strong enough to break through bone like it’s butter.
he’s very sweet and kind, and just a tad bit too protective when the need calls for it. he tries to not speak with that pesky growl in his voice whenever he transforms in your presence so that he doesn’t scare you, and thus ends up cooing and voicing little grunts of affection as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck in order to keep your heartbeat calm and steady.
he’d never bite you with his sharp teeth — he’s seen the way your eyes widen whenever he bares them with a smile — however that doesn’t exclude licking and tiny little nips that make you squeal with delight.
looooove thinking about traveling and meeting someone you fall deeply in love with . . . in this case, it is higuruma hiromi . . . you meet him at a packed restaurant and sit besides him at the bar.
you start the conversation. ask about the newspaper in his hands, the drink he ordered, if he recommends it, has he seen the pelican that always resides by a pole at the beach? you’re kind of scared of it and he smiles and says he is, too.
he takes you to the place he’s staying at after 3 hours of conversation. offers you wine he bought the other day and hasn’t come around to opening.
one thing leads to another and you are on his lap, only slightly tipsy as you grind down on him and pull on his tie.
Childe wasn't a big fan of the Tsaritsa's demand for him to find a wife, until he'd come upon the perfect girl for the job. You—a lady he knew in his childhood to be a horrible nuisance and demon on Earth. Not only would this marriage fulfill his duty, but would let him settle a long-time grudge as well. Little did he know, he stood more to gain from this partnership than he thought.
Childe x fem!reader II arranged marriage, angst? to fluff, childhood enemies to lovers, romance!
Childe was never one for romance, and especially not for commitment.
He just had so much else on his plate, much bigger dreams than that of settling down in a household and abandoning his place on the battlefield.
He was always looking ahead to a future of bloodshed, of power, of someday ruling the world.
That wasn't going to happen if a distraction stood in his way.
He would sometimes muse about having kids, loving the idea of continuing his lineage and watching a bunch of mini-me's run around, but ultimately, he decided his duty to the Tsaritsa would stand in the way of him being a good father. So he'd just have to settle for being an amazing uncle to the children his siblings would eventually have, spoiling them with presents at Christmas time and teaching them how to protect themselves out in the wild.
So when he was called into the Tsaritsa's throne room and received the news that a harbinger of his status was to be married, in order to keep up with regal airs the nobles of Snezhanaya, he was, respectfully, very unhappy.
"You'll be seen at balls and lead battalions. Your role must be carried with honor. Nobody will respect an old lonely man.", she claimed, then drew out a long, thin arm to hold his chin with a bony hand—long pointed nails pressing divots into his skin. Though her touch was frigid, she looked down at him with a certain fondness in her eyes, though the sincerity of it was undistinguishable. "You need a pretty thing by your side to elevate your status. You know I only want what's best for you.", she cooed, like she was addressing a child.
He new better than to disobey her commands, and something about the smoothness of her voice assured him that this was the right choice. He only nodded, though his fists clenched at his sides in dismay.
Childe read over the listed names of eligible young ladies for him to marry with contempt; scrolling through the meaningless last names and accompanying statures, ordered from top to bottom by how highly they stood in the totem pole of nobility. Like he cared where the girl would come from.
He felt guilt for the miserable thing that would have to marry him; though he could care less about who these women were, he believed that they deserved a partner that loved them, or at least a good man that could stand to take care of them. All they would be to him is a nuisance, a label which they had done nothing to earn.
Though, when he neared the end of the list, a section devoted to common folk who had certain merits like striking beauty or some sort of fame, that he found a name he recognized.
Your name.
Oh, how he remembered you.
You were the daughter of good friends of his parents. Your families would often gather for holidays or dinner parties, sharing what little they had in the name of kinship. The gatherings were lively, full of happiness and cheer...
But you had a certain countenance that stood out to him and branded your name into a special part of his brain to be remembered for the rest of his life.
You were a little brat was what you were.
Though you were only a toddler when he met you, having only just taken your first steps while he was already halfway through being eight, he found you to be the most insufferable little human he'd ever met.
Your parents would always gab and brag about what a good little girl you were; how you never cried or screamed, how you were sweet and patient and loving—a wonderful surprise for parents preparing for the "terrible two's.".
They had to be lying, because every time Ajax would come into view you'd immediately throw a fit, wailing and swiping at his face with a kind of rage an entire army of men could not match.
He had no idea why; he never touched you, or spoke to you, all he did upon your first meeting was draw back in repulse.
You weren't a pleasure to look at; with your beady little eyes and thick eyelashes that lined them, your thin eyebrows and piercing gaze. You looked like some haunted porcelain doll. And there was a certain consciousness behind your eyes that children your age were not supposed to have.
His little siblings were much cuter.
And he did not hesitate to say that.
"Tonia was a prettier baby. What's wrong with her?", he piped up, humiliating his mother and father who immediately scolded him for his rudeness. Your mother only laughed.
"Trust me, she'll be a beauty when she grows up. I won't be surprised when you come around here in sixteen years asking to marry her."
This started a little musing session between your mothers, giggling about the possibility of their children being wed and how wonderful that would be for their friendship and their families.
Meanwhile, Ajax was dwelling on how that would absolutely never happen—if the look on your face was any indicator.
You were red as a tomato, nose scrunched in distain as your eyes pierced his. Like you'd understood him.
How was he supposed to know babies could take offense?
Whether or not your infant brain could comprehend his words, your hatred was clear, and before he could react, your soft little hand went flying towards his face and landed with a resounding THWAP!
Even though you struck him, you immediately burst into tears, bawling crocodile tears that ran down your face and dripped off of your chin.
All of the adults in the room immediately ran to your aid, hushing and petting you while scorning Ajax for "tormenting the poor girl."
Never before had he felt so cheated.
That begun his feud with a two year old.
Your detest for one another ran deep. So much so that every gathering between your families ended in you receiving plenty of sneaky pinches to your fat baby skin and him risking a bald spot with the amount of hair you'd rip out of his head.
It was a nightmare you could walk too, since you'd often seek him out just to babble in annoyance and tug at the knee of his trousers.
"See? Look at how much she likes you!", his mother would coo, but he knew better. Your grappling with his pants was your pea-brained strategy to get him to bend down and remove you so you could bop him one on the nose.
He swore you were such a strong baby. He'd rather take a hit from a club than suffer the force that your tiny fists could bring down on his head.
That's why you were the perfect girl to be his wife
If he were to marry any other woman, the guilt of leaving her alone at home for long stretches of time, depriving her of having the good husband she deserves rather than a man who could never love her, would be overwhelming.
Sure, he was a monster, but he wasn't about to let some innocent bystander be collateral damage.
But you? The evil, horrible little wench you are? You more than deserved it.
In his mind, he'd actually be doing his fellow man a favor by saving an unsuspecting bachelor from accidentally marrying a grisly thing like you.
So, although his retainers were already in the process of scheduling meetings with his potential brides, he plucked your name from the list without hesitation.
"Set the wedding date. I'll have that one."
The organizers looked between themselves warily, deciding whether or not they should challenge him on this monumental decision.
"And nothing too grand—it'll just be family.", he cooly added, leaning back in his chair to rest his feet upon his desk and crushing the list of names under his dirty boots.
In the end, the harbinger always gets what he wants, so his retainers retreated with quiet nods and quick steps.
Though Childe acted aloof towards the decision to have you as his bride, when the day of the wedding actually arrived and he found himself standing at the altar of a small church in Mosepok—his home town, his palms were sweating and eyes darting around nervously. He shifted his weight on his feet as the congregation waited for you to enter; this was supposed to be a small ceremony, but leave it to his mother and father's proud announcements to their friends and neighbors to draw a crowd. As his eyes scanned the faces of those who'd known him in his youth, he realized near all of the small port town was packed into the pews. He wracked his brain for the answer as to why these people would want to watch their old town troublemaker's union, but he supposed it would be the most interesting thing to happen in the town since his era of delinquency.
It was a miracle that the budget the Fatui gave Childe for this wedding greatly superseded the amount he'd needed for the original plan of a small gathering; it was more than enough to feed the whole town for a night, which actually brought a flicker of joy to Childe's chest.
He was pleased that he could give back to the community that handled him like a family in his childhood.
But that flicker was immediately quenched when the creaking sound of the heavy oak doors that led into the chapel reverberated through the room—revealing the silhouette cast in white of his bride.
His stomach turned with anxiety. Childe had led battalions into what could be considered suicide missions if not for their miraculous victorious outcome, and yet, somehow, the fear he felt standing in front of a girl that, though she may not be small by definition, definitely looked so standing next to him, significantly surpassed that of which he's ever felt.
His cold body shook like he stood inches from death.
Suddenly, he remembered the fury your little body had when you were only a baby, and it dawned on him that you've only gotten bigger, smarter, stronger. A little arbiter of the apocalypse couldn't have grown into the meek woman he imagined, if anything, her bloodlust grew with age.
What did he get himself into? Was he an idiot? Did he, blinded by his scheming for revenge, land himself in a lion's den?
With a light tap on the shoulder from the priest, he jolted out of his stupor and found you standing in front of him already, suddenly remembering that he was now to lift your veil.
His hands shook as he reached out, bracing himself for the hideous face he'd been forced to associate with at every friendly gathering between your parents in childhood, and now, due to his own brashness, would have to associate with every time he returned home or attended public events.
He took a deep breath and shut his eyes as he took the fabric between his white-knuckled fingers and threw the thing up and over your head. The procession hummed with awe and approval—some more boisterous men from the docks whistling, to which their wives jabbed an elbow into their ribs.
The sounds of adoration resounding from the audience perplexed Childe, drawing his interest and encouraging him to open one wary eye and peek at you.
But his cautious peek grew into an owlish gawking and dropped jaw when the woman before him shined like an angel.
This couldn't have been the girl he knew in her infancy; her once-beady eyes now twinkled like stars, her red puffy face was now sculpted and the only remnants of her discoloration resided in dusted pink pigments on her cheeks. They were so perfectly placed that they could be mistaken for a painting by an artist with a keen eye. He pried his gaze from your enrapturing eyes to ogle your lips—plushy and inviting. He'd give anything to kiss a gorgeous woman like you.
And he remembered with an unexpected delight that he would by the end of this ceremony.
Before he knew it, the soft ring of your voice settled upon his ears. Having been caught in a trance, he hadn't realized the procession already arrived at your vows.
He only tuned in after the opening sentences of your declaration had passed, your words blurred by his reverie.
"I promise to wait for you when you go and embrace you when you return; to make a warm, solace of a home for you that you can always come back to, whether there be a roof over our heads or not. I promise to follow you through this life and meet you in the next, to be by your side when you need me, no matter how far apart we may be forced to exist. I promise to love you and only you, to be true as long as your ring encloses my finger, and promise to keep it there forever. I will take your family into my arms just as you will me, care for them—as they are an extension of you, to love them just as I do you. I'll hold you ever close to my heart, speak to you with nothing but kindness, recognize your face as that of my partner in life, my one and only, and..."
Childe jumped when he felt your warm hand sneak up on his and gingerly intertwine your fingers, to which he did not resist, nor want to.
"I promise to love you as you are; no matter how much the years we spend together may change us."
To his puzzlement, Childe felt a certain wetness roll down his cheek, causing him to look up at the skylight above the both of you to check if it was raining. When another droplet ran down the other side of his face, he realized he was crying.
Childe never cried, he couldn't even remember the last time it had happened; maybe it was sometime when he was a boy, but the memory simply did not exist. These were not tears shed in misery, they were spurred by your words of devotion, words he'd never been blessed with before. He truly wondered now if you may be divine, but all he beheld of you told him you were, in fact, human, and not a vision of absolution sent from the heavens above.
You tilted your head to the side and blinked your dollish eyelashes at him, obviously waiting for something, to which he remembered that is was now his turn.
He had neglected to write vows beforehand or memorize the traditional vows spoken by couples bound by marriage as an arrangement. He had, in fact, planned on skipping the process altogether, but your profession of love caught him off guard and incentivized him to speak his own.
So, with a blank mind, he resorted to letting the few truths he knew spill from his mouth.
"I'd only known you during our childhoods, but how you've blossomed and changed has..."
He had never been one for words, so making something up on the spot in front of quite literally a hundred people was daunting. His voice seized with trepidation, but he took a breath and moved forward.
"Has...left me speechless. My mind is empty, and all I can think of now is...that I am blessed."
He swallowed a lump in his throat and continued, struck by your endearing gaze on him—it made his voice quiver as it resounded from his chest.
"I'd assumed I knew you, but it's clear to me now that I have so much more to learn."
He unconsciously squeezed your hand for comfort, and, with a gentle smile on your face, you reassuringly squeezed back; making him sigh and yearn to feel more of you—imagining that you felt like warm cotton, soft and homey, something he could bury himself in and happily stay there for eternity.
"And I want to learn it. I...want to spend my whole life in awe of you, discovering as much as I can, knowing you like I know myself."
He could not hesitate before he blurted his next statement, his voice getting carried away from him and spilling his most personal beliefs.
"And loving you as you love me."
Your cheeks turned an even brighter shade of pink, and your eyes glimmered as your perfect lips stretched into an even more enticing smile. He could hear your soft, happy sigh, a sound that not even the priest beside the two of you could catch, almost like a secret meant just for him.
Your sweetness enthralled him like nothing he'd ever experienced— slowly convincing him that you very well may be the best thing that's ever happened to him.
"I'll take care of you.", he promised, and meant it. "I'll spend the rest of my life ensuring your safety and happiness. Despite what you promised before, I will always put a roof over your head. You'll be forever warm and safe. I will fight for you, die for you, do anything you ask. You will want for nothing as long as you're mine."
His vow had come upon its conclusion with one final promise he all but growled, like it was somehow in danger of being broken—that he would go to any length to protect.
"And you will forever be mine."
His pause at the end indicated to the priest that the his vow had ended, and the way your lips parted in wonder and your wide eyes remained locked on his made him want to lean in and kiss you like every inch of his body burned to do. But he had to, begrudgingly, wait; hoping the ceremony would end as soon as possible so he could finally have you to himself and ask you all the questions he was dying for the answers to.
Did you really mean what you said? He sure did, and he didn't even know he had the capacity to not only promise, but want, desperately so, the fulfill the oaths he had declared to you.
Soon enough, the priest announced it was now time for the bestowing of the rings—a symbol of the bond you will share for eternity.
As the ring bearer, Childe's dear brother, Teucer, brought the rings resting on a white silk pillow over to the altar and held it over his head while he balanced on his tippy toes so the two of you could reach the rings with ease. Childe immediately felt awash in shame. All he'd purchased for you was a simple silver band—no precious gems, no original detailing, just a band. He didn't expect to want to take pride in the symbol of his loyalty you'd wear for him on your finger. He'd get you a new one, a better one—one he could admire as he kissed your hand, held it with adoration and smoothed his fingers over it.
But although the ring fell below expectations, there was no disappointment on your face. You barely glanced at it, your eyes trained on his face with a fondness he'd never received before. Your gaze had his heart spilling over with exaltation.
You took his hand in yours and slipped the perfectly fitted ring around his finger, giving it a small squeeze when you were done—as if to brand your affection deep into his hand.
He returned the gesture, taking your other hand in his and, carefully, securing the ring around your finger as well; he breathed a sigh of relief and felt a weight he hadn't known was resting on his shoulders alleviate. His heart thundered in his chest, threatening to leap out in a desperate attempt to be ever closer to yours.
The priest spoke, but his voice was drowned out by Childe's inner voice, wailing for you.
All he could register was the sound of your silver bell-like voice, piercing through the fog in his head like a star's light in the void of the night sky above.
"I do.", you said.
He couldn't tell if he'd rushed ahead of the priest's announcement of his turn or not, but he followed your statement blindly.
"I do.", he whispered ardently, brushing the backs of those precious hands of yours softly with his thumbs.
After the final blurb recited by the priest, a sentiment he couldn't bring himself to listen to in his anticipation, he finally heard the words he'd been waiting for.
"You may now kiss the bride."
Without a moment of delay, he brought both of his hands up to cup your cheeks, a look of ache in his face as it felt like you had reached an invisible hand into his chest and gripped his heart, and kissed you.
Fervently, passionately kissed you.
It took your breath away, left you panting when he finally pulled away after remembering he was, in fact, in front of his parents and broader community.
But cheers sang from the crowd for your union as he led you back down the steps of the altar and out of the church, eyes trained on your feet with your hand secured in his—watching carefully as you descended to make sure you wouldn't fall. He treated you as if you were sculpted from crystal glass.
After the two of you crossed the threshold out of the church as one, Childe gently tugged your hand to draw you closer so that he could whisper in your ear.
"Could we take a walk in the garden?"
While the guests made their way to the reception hall for their lavish dinner, you and Childe strolled through the church's garden together, hands still intertwined as the two of you gazed at the various winter shrubs and evergreen trees sprinkled with snow. It was beautiful in its own kind of way; the way life persevered through otherwise uninhabitable conditions, how even the bear oak trees existed as intricate silhouettes against the grey sky—providing cover as the sun sank down and gave way to a grim dusk, it was wonderful, and in this moment, it was yours to share.
The two of you came to a halt at a marble bench next to a large, frozen fountain, adorned with swirling details and moulding from an older, more fanciful era. He swiped off the snow that had built on top of the bench, then removed his large, fur-lined cloak to rest on the surface. He led you down to sit on it, having fashioned a dry, warm seat for you as he stood.
"Won't you be cold?"
"I'll be fine.", he assured you. He'd grown used to the frigid air of his home country, having entered various conflicts with nothing but thin linen to cover him for the sake of his movements not being burdened by thick, heavy fabric.
"Thank you.", you spoke, softly, and the words warmed his chest more than any coat could.
He stood there for a long moment, just taking in the sight of you. He just couldn't believe you were real, and couldn't believe you were his at so little a cost—he'd done nothing but bellyache and pluck your name off of a paper, and somehow the situation ended up being the best decision of his life. He'd found someone that claimed to truly, deeply love him by sheer chance.
And that thought brought him to the question that had been weighing on his mind since your vows.
"Did you really mean what you said?", he asked, quietly, hesitantly. After the words left his mouth, he wished he'd never said them. He didn't want to know the answer; if he could live in a fantasy where a miracle like you truly adored him, he'd seize the opportunity and hold it close to his heart for the rest of his life. He felt like such a fool.
"Of course I did.", you chuckled, like the question was ridiculous.
"I thought you hated me.", he confessed, his curiosity for your change of heart getting the best of him when he knew better than to ask too many questions. You only quirked your head and blinked at him, indicating that he needed to clarify. "When we were younger, you acted like you wanted my head on a stick."
To that admission, you laughed heartily. It was a lovely sound, one his mind would no doubt play on repeat in his darkest of times, sending sparks to his heart that would keep him moving forward—back to you so he could hear it again and again. "I was a toddler, dear. I didn't understand my feelings! And you were pretty nasty to me, too.", you said with a playful, pointed look.
The term of endearment made his heart bubble, craving to hear you say it again, but his mind was desperate for more answers. "But...how did you...", he coughed awkwardly, "fall for me?".
His carefully spoken question only made you giggle once again, but you could understand his confusion.
"Oh, Ajax. You were the most entertaining person I've ever met. I know we fought, but I remembered your presence in my life so fondly. And I'd look at pictures of us from our old gatherings, where our parents would force you to hold me on your lap and smile, or take candid shots of us chasing each other around, and I'd wish for you to come back so we could fight again.", you laughed at the memory. "I thought of you all the time, you know. And, as I grew older and life passed by, I'd keep looking back on those photos and...", your cheeks turned even redder than the chilly air had already done, flushing your cheeks and nose. After this conversation, Childe would make sure to rush you inside so you could warm up by a hearth. "Well, my heart would beat for you. And I wished you would come back for different reasons...so I could see you again and fall in love with the man you've become."
Childe gulped in shame. He knew the man he'd become was...cruel. Wicked. He'd never thought so little of himself than when he stood before you, your glorious, pure eyes assessing him like Celestia would upon the day of his death.
But how you looked on at him was not in judgement, but affection. "And when I met you at the altar, I did. I truly did."
He was so swayed by your words, so caught up in your devotion, that though he knew he was undeserving, he leaned down and connected your lips with his once again; his large hands warmed you where they caressed your cheek and the side of your neck, his lips thawing your frozen ones. The flavor of you was intoxicating, but as much as he wanted to prolong this moment, your icy skin pushed him to get you inside immediately.
So he drew back, drawing the most angelic whine of protest from your lips. It made him grin in pride.
"Let's warm you up, huh?"
Though you wanted to stay in the privacy of this isolated garden, continue to live in this moment that only existed for the two of you, you couldn't deny how you shivered and your stomach growled. It was time for your reception, and you couldn't keep your guests waiting.
So you, albeit reluctantly, let Ajax pull you up into his arms and throw his cloak around the both of you before taking you back to the church where he married you, now entering sharing one heart, one life, one love. Forever.
cw: fem reader with she/her pronouns, zbaby and child talk.
"What if they don't like me?"
Osamu turns so suddenly that you're afraid he's going to swerve the car, humor drained from his face.
"They like 'tsumu." He stares at you a bit too long before looking back at the road. Luckily, out here in farm land, in between acres of crops, there's no one else driving.
You glance over your shoulder, expecting his twin to defend himself, but the instead the blonde is slumped in his chair, neck cocked oddly to the side. Despite your attempt to fight it, a smile creeps up on the corners of your lips. Even with drool on his cheek and a bit of a snore, he's beautiful.
"If our friends like him, they'll like anyone," Osamu clarifies.
Osamu is beautiful too, of course. They are twins; it would be strange for you not to find them both attractive, but Osamu doesn't glow like Atsumu does. Not to you, anyway.
You've spent a lot of time looking at their faces. Both men have round cheek bones and low nose bridges, with the same copper skin all year round, but Osamu's nose doesn't crinkle when he laughs, Osamu doesnt hum when he's thinking, and Osamu certainly doesn't look at you with a smile so bright it's as if he's staring into the sun.
You turn back around and stare at the road, flustered by your own romantic waxing.
"Can I talk to you about something?"
Osamu's hands squeak against the pleather steering wheel. "Sure. Why not?"
"I like your brother a lot, but-"
"Oh, fucking shit, fuck," Osamu's eyes are wide, cursing low as to not waking up the man in question, "You're breaking up with him?"
"No! No, I'm so in lo-" you stop yourself for admitting to that, "Things are good. We are good."
"Thank fucking god," Osamu sighs. "He's having a lot of fun with you."
That sentence does nothing to calm the sick feeling in your stomach. You pick at the edge of your dress, pulling away loose strings and nonexistent pieces of lint.
"That's my worry." The road continues straight, almost disappearing into the distance, but a house ha come into view, perched upon all this land, "Osamu, I'm really serious about your brother. I think I wanna marry him one day."
Osamu was your friend before you even knew his brother. At first, he seemed to dislike your relationship, but lately, he's warmed up to it. His hand pats your knee with the platonic warmth, "And that's bad because...?"
"I'm worried he's just having fun with me," you admit, "I don't know if he ever wants to settle down and get married or have kids or-"
Osamu cuts you off with a thunderous, booming bark of a laugh.
"'samu!" Atsumu pokes his head between the front seats with a whine. "You scared me."
"Oh, cram it." Osamu's wiping a tear from his cheek, "Blame your girlfriend for being so funny."
Atsumu squeezes your shoulder with a hum, still drowsy. "She's fucking hilarious."
You watch Osamu, hoping for an explanation, but he just raises his eyebrows and bites his lip, shoulders bouncing with silent laughter. Is he laughing at you? Is this why he didn't want you dating his brother?
The two of them talk a little as the house gets closer and closer, but you can't bring yourself to say anything until the tires start to crunch on the pebbled driveway.
"It's Kiba, right?"
"Kita," Atsumu corrects, "And Aran and his wife and Suna and his Komori are coming too,"
"Can't believe I'm the last single one," Osamu laments.
"You're practically fucking your restaurant,"
"You're married to the store."
You and Atsumu quip at the same time. He laughs, reaching to grab your hand, but you don't connect with him. Osamu's laughter is still ringing in your ears.
Is it that stupid to want to be with Atsumu? Maybe you do need to break up.
When Osamu parks the car, a man is already waiting on the porch. His hair is a salt and pepper splattering, stark against his deeply tanned skin. He has the calm presence that you were told about; you can feel it the second you step out of the car.
"Kita!" Osamu greets.
"Welcome. It's so nice to-"
The slam of the bar door and Atsumu's voice cuts him off. "Where's my girl?"
A puff of curly grey hair streaks from the front door and barrels its way down the dirt driveway, barefoot and dress akimbo. You barely have time to realize it's a child before she's launched herself into Atsumu's awaiting arms. He catches her with ease, twirling her around in a circle as they both dissolve into laughter.
"Stormy girl!"
"Uncle Atsumu!" she giggles,"Throw me! Throw me!"
He squats down a bit and then launches up, tossing the little girl into the air and immediately catching her again. He does that a couple times, laughing all the way.
"Again! Again!"
"Later," he nestles her into his side easily, despite her much too be to be carried, "Me and your aunt over there will play with you all you want, okay?"
You melt a bit. Aunt- as if you're already family.
Kita, who's clearly her father the more you look at the both of them, just sighs, amused. "Please remember that you cannot throw the baby like that."
"Kita-san! I'm not gonna throw the baby!" Atsumu says with mock offense, "I'm just gonna sniff her little head."
"What?' Osamu gawks, turning ro you in horror.
"Don'tcha know babies smell good?" Atsumu turns to you too, "He's hopeless, huh?"
The glimmer in his eye makes your stomach flip flop. He looks so good like this, hair tussled and a baby on his hip.
"Hopeless," you agree.
The other other men start chatting, heading in towards the house, but Atsumu heads to you.
"Baby, this one right here is my favorite girl in the world," he gestures to Kita's daughter, "Stormy girl, this is my girlfriend. Say hi."
"Hi, Miss Girlfriend," she says, "Nice to meet you."
"Aww, you have such nice manners," you say, "It's nice to meet you too, Stormy."
"That's not really my name. Uncle Atsumu is just silly." She wriggles until he lets her down, "Wanna see my baby sister? She's too tiny to walk, so we gotta go to her."
"Please say yes-" Atsumu whispers not so quietly, "I've been dying to hold this stupid baby."
A warmth overtakes your earlier worries. "I'd love that."
-
Hours later, after everyone has arrived and dinner is long finished, the whole group is gathered in the living room. Aran, Suna, Kiba- you almost have their names down - are all reminiscing about high school as their partners mingle to themselves. Atsumu is on the couch, pinned in place by a sleeping six year old across his lap and a fussy baby in his arms. Somehow, he still looks peaceful and content.
"I hate to admit it," Osamu saddles up beside you, qine glass in hand, "Baby head does have a good smell."
"Yeah," you agree.
"About your concern earlier... He'd marry you today if he could," Osamu continues quietly, "He's been telling Ma about how much he loves you."
An elbow bumps against your side. "He's not afraid to say it like you are."
You titter a bit over that, embarrassed but glowing at the thought of being loved back, "I'll say it soon."
"Just be careful," Osamu takes a long drink, "He's gonna have baby fever for the next month, so you better set an alarm for birth control or whatever."
You look at your boyfriend as he stares down at blissed out smile.
𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 always calls you his girl. He rambles on and on about you to his friends — talking about you constantly at parties or during sporting events — and he never fails to call you his girl.
“Yeah, my girl and I just got back Miami, we went there for her birthday…”
“No, my girl’s not into that kind of music, she likes…”
“I gotta go, my girl’s waiting for me to come home for dinner…”
One day, when you ask him about the nickname, the taller man smiles down at you happily. His cheeks turn pink because he just adores you so much, he can’t help but become giddy when he thinks about his feelings for you.
“I call you that because it’s what you are. You’re my girl, right? Sometimes I just gotta remind myself that you’re actually mine. You actually chose me.” Pulling you in for a hug, he sighs with contentment. “And I just love my girl so much. You’re my baby.”
sitting on gojo’s lap with just a skirt and no panties underneath and watching him have an aneurysm as he realizes that. gojo trying to keep his composure as he’s getting hard, the bulge in his pants hitting your naked cunt, “baby, where are your panties?” when you shrug with the most innocent face his grip on your hips tighten and his fingertips clutch you so tightly as if he needs it to keep himself sane and not fall down the abyss, but the only thing that will do is leave bruise on your skin.
gojo just can't help pulling his cock out and make you ride him right here, heavy breaths and all escaping his mouth as you bounce on his cock leaking all over him.
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