Snippet from a Tamsy fanfic idea I had in mind where Reader works in a book shop as the cashier and scavenges for books people from the Sphere throw away.
Word count: 1.3k
Warning: basically NSFW. Kissing. Fingering. Down BHADISM for each other. This is 18+ and itâs my first time writing something smutty :D minors donât interact!
ââââââââââââ
âI can make you feel good, show you how you should feel.â
Velvet was his texture. Pillowy and smooth. You could go on about the way his lips felt for days to come.
Remembering a book you read in the past, it was like a flower petal the main characterâs lips accidentally brushed against when leaning in to smell their subtle fragrance. Or like a teasing feather that would drag softly across skin with the suggestive promise of something more.
Though as soft as his lips felt at first, it grew harsh and bruising against your own. Who knew flesh could contain the dichotomy of gentility and ferocity all in one?
It wasâŚ
Addicting.
He was so addicting. In the way his warmth engulfed you, rendering you helpless, voluntarily so. Never did you think youâd both end up here. Your body surrendered and pinned against the back shelf of the bookstore you worked in, your hands tangled in his hair, shirt hiked up over your chest. You're so soft against him, no bra, nipples brushing against the fabric of his shirt. The space between you is nonexistent.
Leather bound tomes you scavenged and cared for each day were scattered, forgotten at your feet after experiencing the intensity of Tamsy invading your being and towering over you. You werenât the shortest nor were you the tallest, but damn did he overwhelm you in this moment.
Your friendship with him was gentle and polite the moment he first walked into your shop all those months ago. However, this, this was anything but! Yes you did like him, but never did you think heâd return the feeling, especially to this extent.
âTamsy-â you tried.
âPlease, just-â he groaned out, his labret piercing grazing your already swollen lips.
Just what? You didnât know; he didnât bother to finish his sentence before he caved and stitched his lips back to yours. You didnât even bother to figure out what he was going to say before you tied off the stitching of his mouth on yours. Neither of you wanted this moment to end. Thank goodness you flipped the Open sign to Closed.
Teeth, tongue, and lips. Pushing and pulling you both deeper into each other. There was bite in his affection for you, and it was rough. There was passion in his focus on you, and it was intentional. If he didnât taste you nowâŚhe didnât even want to consider the alternative.
You wouldâve asked whatâs gotten into him, had his hand not been squishing either side of your face and the other down your skirt. He didnât bother pulling your underwear down, just shoved your panties to the sideâŚand rested the tips of his long middle and ring finger right where you throbbed for him most.
You knew he was teasing you, and you wanted to curse him for it, but couldnât because the anticipation was just as delicious, sinfully so.
Debauched and wrecked is how he wanted you before he'd let you both fall into the depths of intimacy.
The more his lips, confident and sure, bruised yours, wrought with want, the more you leaned into him. His mouth, his body. Your bare chest heaved into his while his long tresses fell out of his hair-tie, curtaining you to where all you could see was Tamsy.
There was nothing you could doâŚwanted to do, besides take from the desire he so easily goaded you to indulge in. So, your fingers, already woven into his two-toned hair, tugged at the roots, successfully tugging out a moan from the man you adored.
Fuck-
Tamsyâs want for you was like a waterfall, endless and intense in how he crashed into you. The feeling of your body was intoxicating. He was drowning, and he didnât know if you could see it.
The fervor in the way you kissed him tested Tamsyâs composure. Months and months of his careful control, wiped and wrecked in an instant from just hearing you breathe his name. Feeling your supple breasts pressed against him, captivating. The sweetness of your smile, your eyes, dammit, just the sound of your voice made him crave you in ways he never felt. It concerned him because you were never part of the plan. But my, were you soâŚmagneticâŚfrustratingâŚin the most beautiful way. How could he stay away from you?
The first time he came to your shop was so mundane. How did you both get here? He didnât know the answer, but he knew he was unraveling into you. The urge to sink you down beneath him, to overwhelm you, was great.
You didnât know how many times heâs finished to the thought and visage of you, alone and aching in his bed. How many times had he shoved his shirt in his mouth to muffle his own whimpers for you in case anyone at HQ walked past his door?
What he did know though, was that you were a greedy thing. Greedy for him as much as he was greedy for you. It was a carnal and fiery flame he wanted to burn in.
Then.
You both fell, the shackles of restraint breaking as you both tumbled into reckless abandon.
Youâve never done this before. Yet it was like your body was fined tuned to his-
His middle finger sank into your heat, slowly. You were so moist and warm, sucking his finger in down to the knuckle.
âAh! Ah-Tamsy!â
Oh. That moan of yours. His brows scrunched and his pants tightened even more.
He was screwed, you sounded so lewd but so sweet.
âAhh-hah!â A gasp from your pretty, glistening lips.
Youâre trembling against him. Hips grinding down as best as you could in your position, begging for more as small gasps and moans left you. A mix of his name, donât stop, harder, and more. Eager to hear you, Tamsy took this as a sign to slip his ring finger in with his middle, both digits stretching you out, immediately finding the spot that makes you squirm.
Your hands left his hair for purchase on his biceps, nails sinking into his coat, hips bucking in time with the rhythm of his fingers, which thrusted harder into you, working you open for him.
It was so...dirty. The sound of loud squelching, your wetness soaking his hand that slapped roughly up into you. It made your face burn in pleasure and embarrassment. Though your body didnât care as much, considering the way your hips were chasing each slam of his fingers.
âYouâre so wet, ruining yourself on my hand like a whore. You like it, donât you, Sweetheart?â
âT-Tamsy~!â
âLosing yourself in me like the good girl you are, hm?â
He mumbled cruelly against your slick lips. You felt his cruel smile, and it only spurred you on. Grinding harder into his fingers from the sound of his voice and nasty words, the heel of his hand now smacked into your wetness against your swollen clit. A keening mewl comes from you at the new aggressive sensation.
âDonât you?â His voice rough, his mask slipping.
âYes! Yes! I do, please ah, donât stop!â Yours weak with pleasure.
It took everything for the man, whose name youâre crying out for mindlessly like he could save you, to not ruin you completely. He canât do that just yet though heâd love every second.
âPlease-â
Moving his other hand that held your jaw, he placed his thumb on your plush bottom lip, golden eyes glued to your mouth as his thumb pushed past your teeth. Immediately, your lips closed around his digit, sucking lightly, and he almost lost it seeing that. Eyes rolling for a moment, an image of something more depraved appeared in his mind, you on your knees for him.
Focus.
âPlease what?â He moaned, hoarse. Golden irises flicking over your expression as his fingers still fucked into you down below.
Those soft eyes he adored, half lidded and watery watching his so desperately as your tongue lightly flicked the pad of his thumb around moans. You want more, he knows this, but he wants, needs, to hear you say it before he loses it completely.
And maybe thatâs exactly what you want.
âââââââ-
A/N: Iâm so nervous to post this cuz Iâve NEVER posted any kind of smut ever. But yeahâŚtheyâre freaky for each other. IdkâŚAH BYE!
synopsis: there's no point pining after a man who entertains everyone. especially when you're a princess whose only supposed to sit pretty and wait to be shipped off to another kingdom. but when you've wasted years wishing for the court jester to stop cracking jokes and crack you instead, you refuse to let your chance slip away. you'd rather have him one night than never get him at all.
pairing: jester x princess x prince
wc: 3.8k
content: smut, some angst ngl, porn with plot, fem reader, reader is very much resigned and avoidant, mutual pining (she just thinks it's unrequited), arranged marriages, mentions of sex work, not a lick of historical accuracy or attempts at it, oral sex (m!receiving), loss of virginity, unprotected piv sex, pulling out, awkward post-sex, emotional hurt, messy feelings
PREVIEW BELOW
You were in love with a fool.Â
Most women were, youâd come to learn â mostly through tales whispered to you from your handmaidens and gossip you picked up on from the other ladies in the court.Â
But you were literally in love with a fool.Â
Your fatherâs jester, to be precise.Â
A man who made his living playing an idiot in front of hundreds of people. Cracking jokes and filling banquet halls with giggles, tilting his hat as he teased and charmed the crowd of guests that frequented your familyâs parties. And if the other rumors were true, made a little extra sleeping with noble women who were neglected by whatever Duke or Lord they married.Â
Still, you saw him sometimes in the garden, head bowed over a book, face scrunched up in concentration, clearly capable of more than just jokes. Passed by him in the hall, wishing for the wit to come up with something not cheesy to say instead of sneaking over to the knights training hall once a week to watch him work out with a few of the friends he made in your familyâs guards.Â
You supposed you were really just another aristocrat to him. An idiot whoâd fallen for his pretty face, the sweet sound of his voice when he taunted all the other stuffy people you couldnât stand either, able to get away with it by acting like he was only playing.Â
Your parents were too stupid to see how many of his jokes were thinly veiled jabs at them. Mocking their more archaic customs and moronic laws and disguising it as praise. God, even laughing at their own expense, clapping for him while he took his bows.Â
They loved him.Â
They just wouldnât love the fact you did.Â
A princess should know her place.Â
Accept her position with a practiced smile, sit on her lonely throne without thinking crude things about members of her court.Â
A princess certainly was not supposed to think about what itâd be like for her jester to drag her away from this dumb banquet back to her bedroom. How it would feel for him to unlace your dress, strip you down bare and bend you over the bed, to paint your skin with kisses and bury himself inside you.Â
âYour Highness,â someoneâs voice snapped you out of it, blinking a few times as your eyes refocused on the sturdy figure in front of you. Disappointment flicked at the sight of one of your potential suitors. A prince from a neighboring kingdom visiting in the hopes of claiming you as his. âWould you join me out on the balcony?âÂ
You didnât exactly have a choice in the matter.
You didnât have many choices at all, actually.Â
As the youngest in your family, you had no power. You wouldnât inherit the crown. As a woman, they wouldnât offer you any land.Â
You were just a political pawn to be traded away.Â
Still, you should be grateful. Thankful that you would still be a queen of something if this marriage with him went through.Â
It wasnât that he was ugly.Â
The opposite, really. Strikingly handsome, sharp features and serious eyes, the sort of broad frame that indicated he probably spent his mornings training with his knights.
But his sly smile didnât make your heart race.Â
His big hands didnât capture your imagination.Â
A future with him would be filled with duty. Days spent in separate palaces, scribbling signatures on paperwork and pushing reforms for a kingdom that wasnât even your own. The only sex youâd have would be for the sole purpose of having heirs.Â
Was it so wrong to wish for something romantic?Â
To crave passion? Care for your future husband? Choose him?Â
âFor a moment,â you reluctantly agreed, letting him take your hand and lead you to one of the private balconies, the banquet youâd been sitting and suffering through continuing in full swing. Your eyes flicking over the jester in the center of the hall, his hat perched lopsided on his pretty hair as he made some cranky old aristocrat laugh. But to your surprise, for a single second his gaze shifted to you, brows knitting together tightly before he plastered his best smile back on. But a strange glint lingered in his stare as he watched you walk away.Â
It was almost enough to get your hopes up.Â
Before you remembered that heâd probably just use your political marriage for more material to come up with jokes for.Â
Truthfully, despite all your useless yearning, youâd only had a handful of conversationsÂ
You returned your attention back to your potential fiancĂŠ, who was pointedly focused ahead, pulling open the ornate glass door to let you step outside first.Â
The night breeze was cool on your skin, extravagant dress fluttering at your feet as you gazed out at the gardens below. The neatly-trimmed hedges and blooming flowers, a fountain filled with coins from people whose wishes were never granted anyway.Â
âThis is my favorite view,â you hummed mostly to yourself, hand on the iron-wrought railing.Â
âItâs lovely,â he murmured softly, and when you turned your head, you discovered he was only looking at you.
FULL FIC ON PATREON HERE (also features a wide assortment of other oneshots/series!)
I promise I havenât forgotten about my Tamsy fanfic! I had to hold for a while cuz this was my last semester before I GRADUATE NEXT WEEEEEK! I just submitted a 25 page senior research paper on Piracy in the 18th century. đŽâđ¨Hopefully expect some new Tamsy content in the coming weeks đ¤đ¤đ¤
definitely not inspired by my own cat lol (she reminds me so much of him)
Sukuna never liked your cat. Sheâs an orange little thing with a fluffy tail almost longer than her whole body, and teeth so small and sharp they feel like razor blades.
And your cat never liked Sukuna either. Would bite into his hand every time he would reach out to pet her, or scratch at his chest when you squished her in between the both of you for a hug.
Sukuna never really saw the appeal in pets in general, but especially the feisty little creature you kept.
That is, until one night he decided to come over a bit later than usual. It wasnât any different from a normal night together. He drove to your house, used the key you gave him, and barged in. But this time, he didnât find you in your usual spot on the living room couch.
He walked down to hall to your bedroom, and pushed open your door to see you sprawled out on your bed, lips parted as soft breaths escape your mouth. He smiled softly and walked into your room, but then he saw her.
Your cat, emerald green eyes trained on him, sitting on the edge of your bed. Almost as if she was standing guard, watching over you as you sleep.
In Sukunaâs twisted mind, he imagined your feline protector watching over you while you slept since he wasnât around to do the same. What sheâd do if there were a threat, he didnât know. But the sentiment stuck all the same.
âHm,â he hummed, âkeeping her safe?â
She blinked back at him, slow and deliberate. Seemingly recognizing his presence, she circled the spot she was in, before finally resting in a ball by your feet.
A soft grunt almost resembling a laugh rumbled in Sukunaâs chest, and he walked closer, hovering his hand over the catâs fluffy ears. When she didnât reach out to bite him, as usual, he caved, and gave her a few firm pats on the head.
âLeave the job to me, little thing,â he mumbled as he got into bed next to you, âIâm here now.â
After that evening, there seemed to be a mutual understanding between the two. You had no idea about how fiercely you were protected.
I am in the thick of planning out this Tamsy story! Idk if I want it to be a one shot or two-three parts. Cuz I know myself and I write A LOT. But it will be done eventually!
okay hear me out⌠tamay with a reader who treats him with so much genuine love & affection. theyâre tender with him in a way no one has ever been & it almost makes him lose his mind. đĽş
anon,, can you hear me over there anon,, i love this so much,,, tamsy being scared of reader for being loving makes me so giddy,, i was too busy to proofread this,, im so sorry anon i hope u enjoy it <3
You almost kill him with kindness. . .
gachiakuta | tamsy caines x reader | hcs
Before relationship:
The gentleness in your voice when you meet leaves him miffed.
Makes it a game out of condescending you. Always fails to anger you, though.
Your unyielding kindness unnerves him so much.
It takes an excruciatingly long time for him to entertain the idea of having feelings for you. After all, heâs so used to pulling the strings from the dark.
And here you are, unraveling him into a flustered mess.
His flustered face is just him looking at you like he wants to murder you. His only tell is the redness at the tip of his ears. But those are ramblings for another day.
During relationship
Let me pre-phase by saying I picture Tamsy with a disorganized attachment style.
Leans into the softness of your touch with a racing heart and clammy hands.
Ghosts you for days when new developments come along (all your firsts). Itâs so overwhelming.
He ascends into the Sphere above the first time he let his hair down for you. You didn't see him for 3 days.
Always stumbles back into your arms, though. He yearns for your warmth.
The first time he sees you lose it at himâ or in generalâ is when he disappears for a week. It was your first kiss.
âAm I just a game to you!? Someone to spend time with when you're bored!?â you question with angry tears.
Itâs the first time he upsets you, and he doesnât even feel as smug as he thought.
Heâs godlike in his efforts to get his shit together after that. It teeters between affection and love-bombing.
pov: reader having an endless supply of love and affection vs tamsy's traumatized ass
okay hear me out⌠tamay with a reader who treats him with so much genuine love & affection. theyâre tender with him in a way no one has ever been & it almost makes him lose his mind. đĽş
anon,, can you hear me over there anon,, i love this so much,,, tamsy being scared of reader for being loving makes me so giddy,, i was too busy to proofread this,, im so sorry anon i hope u enjoy it <3
You almost kill him with kindness. . .
gachiakuta | tamsy caines x reader | hcs
Before relationship:
The gentleness in your voice when you meet leaves him miffed.
Makes it a game out of condescending you. Always fails to anger you, though.
Your unyielding kindness unnerves him so much.
It takes an excruciatingly long time for him to entertain the idea of having feelings for you. After all, heâs so used to pulling the strings from the dark.
And here you are, unraveling him into a flustered mess.
His flustered face is just him looking at you like he wants to murder you. His only tell is the redness at the tip of his ears. But those are ramblings for another day.
During relationship
Let me pre-phase by saying I picture Tamsy with a disorganized attachment style.
Leans into the softness of your touch with a racing heart and clammy hands.
Ghosts you for days when new developments come along (all your firsts). Itâs so overwhelming.
He ascends into the Sphere above the first time he let his hair down for you. You didn't see him for 3 days.
Always stumbles back into your arms, though. He yearns for your warmth.
The first time he sees you lose it at himâ or in generalâ is when he disappears for a week. It was your first kiss.
âAm I just a game to you!? Someone to spend time with when you're bored!?â you question with angry tears.
Itâs the first time he upsets you, and he doesnât even feel as smug as he thought.
Heâs godlike in his efforts to get his shit together after that. It teeters between affection and love-bombing.
pov: reader having an endless supply of love and affection vs tamsy's traumatized ass
guys I was re-reading tamsyâs day off and it gave me an idea
cause when Tamsy put up the blond part of his hair the side lasts just immediately stuck up like some sort of cow lick (?)
So heres my request: a Tamsy x reader where itâs late at night but theyâre still up. Reader is brushing his hair and just playing with it, but THENN those two side parts just stick up and startle her. It kinda embarrasses Tamsy but yeah
Smooth Like Silk | Tamsy Caines
a/n: what a cute little request, i love it! And I hope you enjoy it too :>
wc: 507
enjoy!
"It must be nice, having such silky, smooth hair." Long strokes ran through the man's golden hair, the brush pushing the strings into order and untying the barely existing knots.
"Yeah but try taking care of it. Drives me nuts all the damn time." His grouchy voice did not match the softness of his hair but at this time of day, nothing else was expected of him.
Tamsy was not a night person. He preferred to wake up while the world was still asleep and go to bed as soon as the moon made an appearance. If he missed his time mark, he would turn into a sleepy grouch, unable to perform even the most simplest of duties.
Such as brushing his hair.
That is when you stepped in. You enjoyed taking care of him, it showed that your relationship has developed enough for you to view him at his most precious.
Tamsy sat before you on the bed, eyes lazily staring into yours while you took care of his hair. Watching you like this, focused on getting his hair into perfect condition, it was worth staying up for.
"You look so cute when you're focused on me, love." His fingers inched forward, poking your cheeks in repeating motions.
"You sure love it when I only have eyes for you, Tams." And he indeed did. The smile on his face grew in size, now taking over his entire face as you grew flustered at his touch.
The moment was cute and sincere, despite it being past his "bedtime".
Your eyes lingered on his for a while, until they moved down towards his lips. The brush strokes slowly eased up in speed, your hands too now losing their focus. You allowed your guard to slip down, leaning in closer ever so carefullyâ when all of a sudden something jumped into your face.
"Argh!" Your body jolted back immediately. The brush fell out of your hands, hitting the poor man against the cheek.
"What is that?!" It was just a small shock, a sudden movement that had startled you, yet your heart refused to calm down. After finally sitting up, you examined the stray strands that now stood up high and mighty on his sides.
"I-" Tamsy's eyes couldn't have moved towards the mirror any faster. His eyes grew in size, seeing the two long strands sticking out like sore thumbs.
"Fuck, why do they keep coming back??" He cursed under his breath. You couldn't help yourself but chuckle at his flustered state, at how his eyes darted in all kinds of directions to avoid yours and the soft pink that burned on his cheeks.
"They look cute tho. So long and pointy." Reaching out for the stray strands, you gave them a light tug.
"Woah, they are locked in place! But still very smooth..crazy."
"Please stop!"
His face stayed buried in his hands, too embarrassed to look up, meanwhile you played with the strands with no care in the world.
âKidnapped at five and raised in a house of terror, you were carved out of darkness when Detectives Choso Kamo and Sukuna Itadori found you bleeding in a basementâalive, and the sole witness to a ruined network. For a fragile moment you began to heal, until the man who had stolen your childhood snatched you again from a hospital bed. Years later, trapped once more with four small children at your side, you fight for a life that keeps slipping through your fingersâwill you ever be able to call yourself safe?â
cw ; mdni ⢠18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. sex trafficking. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. murder. death. TW. PTSD. mental health.
word count; 8.2k
main masterlist | series masterlist | next
Autumn settled like a slow thought over the house, folding the hills into colors that meant other people raked leaves and bunched wood for winter fires. To you, the world had reduced to that small ledger of things he allowed: the kettle that whistled at noon, the single threadbare towel that smelled faintly of lemon, the clock over the stove that counted hours like sentences. Outside, fields went gold and then gray. Inside, the calendar pages turned without fanfare.
It had been eight months.
The swell of it made mornings into exercises in patience. Your belly was a horizon now, round and unavoidable; when you moved the room shifted like a small planet trying to stay in orbit. You had learned to measure time by its weightâkicks, the bruised flutter of a foot when it came, the way it turned mornings into announcements. He liked to tell you what the life would be: a small man with his eyes, a child trained to be neat and quiet, a proof he had been careful in the one thing he claimed as belonging. The sentences he fed you were designed to be soft at the edges; their core was ownership.
You were quiet the way the house was quietâdeliberate, practical, not empty. You kept to the things you could control: cooking plain meals that didnât argue with the stomach, sweeping crumbs like laying out permissions, washing a dish until the light bent through the suds and made little rainbows you would not allow yourself to look at for long. You learned the value of small rituals. They kept the day from being a single long list of fears. He was gone when the evening swallowed the sky. He drove away in the driverâs car that smelled of old tobacco and a cleaner whose label you could never read, and he returned when the night bent soft around the hedges. He slept during the day because sleep hid him from people who might ask questions. At dusk, he walked in like someone checking his own ledgerâslow, satisfied, hands full of groceries that had been selected as if his generosity could rewrite the ledger lines of debt. He would come to you like someone rehearsed in small kindnesses and bend to rub the belly he claimed as evidence.
His touch at those moments was a careful performance. Fingers pressed in arcs as if he were reading the shape of a map on your skin. He kissed the curve, soft in a way that tried to legislate tenderness, and you trembled because every tenderness he offered had once been a prelude to violence. You kept your face neutral and let him fold whatever small gratitude he wanted into his pocket. If you let him see anything elseâdisgust, despair, the small reservoirs of fearâit would put a weight on both of you the way thunder threatens the horizon.
Sometimes, late, when the house had found its slow breathing and the kettle had stopped insisting at the stove, you pressed your palm to the round of you and thought of him who had promised to find you. Chosoâs face came to you in fragments: the cramped, caring lines of his pen when he wrote names into his notebook; the dry joke that had once broken the ice in a hospital room and made you almost laugh from some thin, other life; the way his voice had said, We keep you. The memory of that sentence had lodged into you like a splinter and offered strange security.
You didnât know if he was still searching. In the beginningâyou rememberedâthe officers had been relentless. Stations and search teams and radios like a hive. Then Toji had tightened the noose; then the snares had bitten; then the nets had frayed and been reknit in shadows. Toji cleaned his tracks like a man polishing brass so it would not show fingerprints. You imagined how the detectives must feel: raw, hungry, halting between hope and procedural exhaustion. Sometimes you pictured Sukuna behind a car window, patient where he was usually flippant; sometimes Choso at a table, pen poised, reading a page the way a man reads a confession.
You wondered whether theyâd given up. The question was a live thing because hope without evidence is dangerous in ceilings made of hands. You held it anyway and turned it like a coin: if they had given up, the world had narrowed into a different kind of trap; if they hadnât, there might be a crack somewhere you could use.
So you watched.
The house taught you to be a careful observer. You kept a quiet inventory in your head: times the driver arrived and left; the distance between the hedgerow and the lane; the number of headlights that passed at dusk; the way the mailmanâs route changed by seasons and holidays. You marked who visited and what they carried. Men came with quiet faces and left with empty hands. Sometimes there were packages improvised into the dark that smelled faintly of clean, like someone trying to make the house respectable. You wrote nothing downâink felt like a public thing hereâbut the memory lived in your ribs like a ledger you checked hourly and though everything felt like a cage, the child inside youâno longer the child heâd stolenâkept a private stubbornness. The little life inside you moved and reminded you that you were still a vessel for possibility.Â
That movement was a small kind of proof that you existed beyond his claim. When the kicks were strong you pressed your face into the curve and let some part of your mind imagine a different world for that child, a world where names were not traded like receipts. Night had a way of making small things scream louder. On a particular evening, when chill had begun to stitch the hedges, you stood at the window and watched the lane. The house was a dark silhouette; beyond it, the world breathed with distant headlights and farm dogs that thought they were hunters. You traced the light of a passing car with the tip of your finger on the glass, a ritual for keeping the thought of motion alive.
For a long while nothing happened. Then, across the lane, a pair of headlights angled: slow, patient, not the quick flash of someone simply passing by. Your heart made a small, traitorous leap. You held still, as if the house itself could overhear you and betray the sound to the wrong ear. The car idled a moment, a pool of light pooling on the gravel, then the taillights blinked and the vehicle moved on. You exhaled like someone whoâd been holding their breath for an hour. It might have been a farmer. It might have been nothing. Yet in the small, strained way hope behaves, you let the possibility of intervention sit in your ribcage for a breath longer than you wanted.
He entered thenâhis footsteps the same measured cadence theyâd had since the day you learned you could be takenâand he found you at the window, watching the world like someone learning to map escape. His hand at your back was both claim and a reminder. You let it rest there because the act of resisting would have been noisy and dangerous and some safeties mean small losses. âYou were watching,â he said. The voice was neutral where it sometimes sharpened to command. âYes,â you answered, not trusting your own breath to do more than the minimum. He kissed your temple, and there was the same practiced tenderness that had marked every moment of your life in his care. âSleep,â he said. âWe have a long tomorrow.â
You nodded because nodding was a habit that kept heads from getting cut. You turned from the window and let the night shape you into the quiet things he liked. But the small image of the idle headlights did not leave you. It stayed like a stone in your palmâcold and solid and heavyâand you held it until it warmed enough to become fuel for a plan that might one day stop being only a whisper and start being a route.
Night had a way of making small things savage. You woke to a pain that didn't belong to routineâsharp, concentrated, as if something internal had been told to break ranks. It landed you in a folding of breath and sound, a raw animal noise you couldn't polish into words. You doubled over, the mattress a hard thing beneath you, and cold slid down your thighs. He was up before you could form the thought that might make him leave. Toji crossed the little distance around the bed with the kind of speed men who keep other peopleâs schedules do when they are startled from a ledger. He felt first for the obviousâyour pulse at the wrist, the lie of your skinâand then his hand brushed wetness. The light snapped on.
There was blood on your thighs. The sight was a dark instrument in the room: bright and precise and impossible to ignore. For a second he simply lookedâcomposed enough to be dangerous until the magnitude of what heâd assumed he could manage made him stupid. âStay with me,â he ordered, softer than he had to be but still the voice of command. He ripped towels from a linen basket like a man stealing time and pressed them to the wound, the action more about staunch and contain than comfort. You tried to answer and the sound that came was small and brittle. The world roomed itself into a tunnel of pain and the edges were only shapes. Your vision blurred; the ceiling stippled with a pattern that had nothing to do with reason. You could feel the life inside you flutter and then shrink like a bird startled.
âIâm taking you,â Toji said, and the words were not a promise to help so much as an announcement of his plan. He had reasons for everything; the hospital was a dangerous place for him because it could make people ask questions. He dressed quicklyâhood up, face masked, a plan he could put on like armorâand lifted you with a pragmatism that had nothing to do with gentleness. You wrapped around him the way a thing wraps around a pole, clinging because muscles had run out of other options. The drive to the hospital smelled of adrenaline and stale smoke and whatever small false civility his cleaner left on seats. You were halfway between comprehension and fog; every bump into the carâs suspension felt like a small assault. He spoke once, a string of short sentences: hold this, breathe, count to three. The counting was a small human talisman.
The emergency room shredded the quiet the way a knife shreds paper. Nurses moved like choreographed emergencyâshouts in clipped syllables, a bed appearing where there had not been one, lights switched on with brisk fingers. Toji said his name to the triage clerk, clipped and careful, and because the clerk was young and trained to accept anything that sounded like an identity, he did not look twice. They wheeled you in on a sheet of motion and set you down under a constellation of fluorescents that made everything unforgivingly clear. The staff were efficient and kind in the way professionals areâno sentiment, only the exactitude of tasks. âSheâs bleeding,â a nurse said into the air like a report. âPossible placental separation. Thirty-two weeks estimate?â Someone checked your chart, the numbers and dates making clinical demands. You tried to speak and words seemed borrowed and useless.
A doctorâtall, with hands that moved as if they had been practiced in a thousand crisesâkneeled and took your hand before you registered it was anyoneâs hand at all. âWeâre going to get the baby and you both safe,â she said, matter-of-fact, and her voice was a plank to hold onto. She ran a rapid set of checks and then, with that cold practical switch a clinician turns when life presses, told a nurse to page for the OR and the anesthesiologist. âEmergency C-section,â she said, and the words were glass-clear, surgical and without drama. Toji heard and, for a moment, his careful performance either cracked or rewired. He turned pale behind the mask as if color were something you could conceal like a badge. He paced once in the small doorway space reserved for relativesâmasked, hood pulled upâhis eyes flicking like a man who counted exits the way others count money. He kept the corner of his stance angled to the door, to the street, to the place his driver waited, measuring threat as if it were geometry. Nurses offered him a chair; he declined with a short sound and kept walking instead.
They pushed you into the operating theatre and the world folded into a smaller and sterner shape. The anesthesiologist explained quicklyâoxygen, a needle, a promise of a sleep that would not be cruel. You tried to nod and felt the motion like a boulder shifted on your chest. Lights came down. Hands moved. You lost a thread of waking consciousness and fell through a sieve of sound: clipped instructions, the metallic scent of the operating room, the distant, high note of instruments. Then a calmâan engineered oneârose and took you.
Outside, in the small airport of waiting where people are required by policy to keep their terror private, Toji paced. He was not the blank, confident man heâd been in the house. The hospital had a way of making even the most practiced liars adolescent; the possibility of blood and engines and the policeâof anything that might pierce his careful arrangementâmade the world fragile.
He checked the hall for cameras, for the way eyes in the corridor might be turned toward the doors. Each face that passed made his posture adjust. He clenched his hands until his knuckles showed white through the fabric of his gloves. His chest rose and fell in shallow, tight arcs. He swallowed once as if he had something lodged in his throat he could not shift.
A nurse came out to speak with him once, then another, professionals giving him the minimum of information while deflecting anything that might be a question about origin or custody. âMother stable for now,â one said, âbut we had to move quicklyâpreterm delivery. Weâll let you know when you can see the infant.â Medical words kept him in a holding pattern; they filled time without promising permanence. He drank coffee he did not taste, pacing the linoleum like the airportâs floor had been turned into a stage for his anxiety. For a man who built his life around control, losing the ability to decide was a small crucifix. He watched the surgery doors as if waiting for a sword. Every set of booted footsteps raised the hair on his forearms.
Inside the theatre, the surgeon worked with the steady efficiency of someone who has carved order out of chaos more times than they count. There was clamping, palpation, and then a soundâsharp and something like a cryâthat made the room contract and refocus. A small, bright life was handed immediately into hands trained to be precise with the noises newborns make. The team worked on the infant with gentle urgency: warming, checking, monitoring. Then the surgeon appeared in the doorwayâscrubs still damp with effort, a face that was tired and authoritative. âBabyâs alive,â she said, concise as a ledger. Her words were small but seismic. âPreterm. Respiratory support for now. Mother is stable, losing blood but weâve controlled it. Sheâll be in recovery; youâll be able to see her soon.â
Tojiâs body made a sound between a laugh and a sob that he fought to turn into something unreadable. He closed his eyes once and when he opened them they were a different color: raw, less polished. He paced the hall again, the baby a fact he could neither fully own nor entirely discard. He watched nurses wheel the incubator down the corridor and felt a strange, aching semblance of what might be fatherhoodâsomething like possession mixed with fear. He thought of the detectives, of the inked names on a manila folder in a police station somewhere, of Choso Kamoâs voice promising to keep. In the small quiet of the hospital corridor he did not know whether that promise had been kept, whether it had been broken, or whether the world still had places for both truth and erasure. He scanned faces the way he always scanned for threats, but tonight the threat was not just external; it was the loss of the map he thought he controlled.
By the time they wheeled you into recovery the aftertaste of anesthesia made your edges soft. You woke to lights that were too bright and a chorus of beeping that had a rhythm you could fit your breath to. SomeoneâShoko, or another resolute doctorâwas there, voice calm as a bell. Your hand found the bandage at your abdomen and pressed, feeling warmth and a vague, protected pain. Toji watched as they laid the infant in a small heated bassinet by your bedside, his face a mask that trembled at the edges. You saw the tiny shapeâa small fist, a muffled soundâand a wave that was both foreign and inevitable rose inside you. You felt light-headed and fierce at once; the sense of something arrived and also stolen made your chest tighten into a cork.
âTheyâre stabilizing her,â the nurse said softly, the pronoun oddly plural, and you realized acceptance and terror could exist at the same time in ways your body had not been taught to accommodate. Your mouth was a dry place. You wanted to cry for a thousand reasonsârelief, grief, shame, and a slow, tremulous thread of protection you had not trusted yourself to feel. Tojiâs hand hovered above the bassinet, almost reverent. He did not touch the child immediately; he kept his distance as if reverence could be a substitute for belonging. His eyes flicked toward the door every few seconds as if expecting men with notebooks and the word arrest embroidered on their sleeves.
You tried to form a sentenceâwords clung like wet fabric. âIsââ you began, voice small. The nurse answered with a professional gentleness. âPreemie care. Sheâs small, but sheâs fighting. Weâll have neonatology look after her.â The exactness of those words felt like a tiny, precarious gift. Toji looked at you then, an unreadable spasm passing over his features. For everything he had done, for every brutality he had planned, there was a slow, private fear severing his practiced composure. He had been staging lives and purchases and silence, and now there was an honest thing he had to reckon with: a thin human life that made the ledger of his crimes feel suddenly too small a place to hold consequence.
Outside, somewhere in a different map of the city, men in plain clothes renewed stakeouts, cameras were rechecked, and detectives continued their slow, dogged work. For now, in the small emergency room painted by fluorescents and the smell of antiseptic, the world had been interrupted by the arrival of two fragile thingsâmother and childâtied together by accident and violence. The next hours would be measures of whether that interruption opened a door or sealed another.
You closed your eyes again, the motion an exhausted habit. Pain throbbed where the sutures lived, but beneath it a strange, new motion, a movement that promised the world would not be only the place you had been kept. It was too soon to know what that promise meant, and the road ahead stayed long and crooked. But for a breath, in a room where Toji both hovered and fretted, the tiny guitar-string sound of a baby made the air differentâless only of ownership, and a little more of consequence.
The room smelled of antiseptic and heat lamps, the kind of smell that makes you small and honest. You were thin with sleep, the bruise of the operation a dull, constant throb behind the anesthetic haze. Your throat was paper; your fingers were soft and raw from gripping the rails of the bed. All you wanted was water and to hold the tiny, breathing thing that had been torn out of you and put under lights the way a rare bird might be inspected. Toji moved like a man whoâd rehearsed the motions of being useful. He padded to the sink with the careful efficiency of someone who has learned how to make kindness into theater. He filled a cup, set it on the bedside table, and looked at you with that practiced softness heâd used a hundred times before to smooth the room into obedience.
You reached for the cup because thirst is an honest, toothless thing. For a secondâjust thatâa life more ordinary seemed possible: water, a baby, a breath that didnât have to be counted. Then the hallway shifted its sound. Boot steps are a sound hospitals pretend not to flinch at, until they arrive in a particular cadence that means someone has come to take something back. The door of the recovery room swung inward and Toji turned. He didnât need to see the uniforms to know what was happeningâhis face went from calm to something like a mask tearing.
There were six officers in the doorway, black vests and steady hands. Behind them, impossible in the way heroes can sometimes be, two plain figures moved with the kind of quiet authority that made the air rearrange itself. Detective Choso Kamo and Detective Sukuna Itadori. Chosoâs coat hung like armor about him even now; Sukunaâs eyes were small, bright, dangerous with a patience that had boiled down to precision. For a beat everything in the room steadied and held its breath. Tojiâs mouth pulled in an ugly line. He had been careless, or brilliant; either way, he hadnât accounted for the one doctor who had held the c-sectionâwhoâd read the chart and the missing person alert like a map and had called quietly, correctly, without making a drama of it. Sheâd planted plainclothes at the entrance and dragged the law room by room without fanfare.
âHands,â one of the officers said, automatic and official. Toji did not comply. He made a human decision in a too-small momentâone the detectives had been trained to anticipate. He lurched, the way a man who had practiced escape in his head might lurch, and the room detonated into motion. âRun!â he snarled; he shoved past a nurse, shoulder to shoulder with panic. He moved for the door like a man trying to outrun an invoice. Sukuna didnât bother to draw his gun. He moved with the economy of muscle that had spent too many nights in cars and on concrete. He cut the corner of the doorway and was a shadow across Tojiâs path. Toji shoved more, trying for speed, for the small miracle of distance.
Choso stepped forward into the corridor as the rest of the officers spilled after them. He didnât shout; he didnât need to. His presence was a measurement that made people go where they should. He saw Toji tilt toward the ambulance bay, saw the line of emergency stairs that might have been a route of escape, and he moved like a man with map in his bones. Sukuna met Toji halfway down the hallâhands, weight, a clean takedown. The man went down with a sound that was not theatrical; it was the sound of a plan unraveling. Two officers were on him in seconds, cuffs and his flailing reduced to a thud on tile. Toji hit the floor and for the first time since youâd known him he looked small.
Choso didnât move to cuff. He stood and watched for a second the way a surgeon will watch a wound settle. Then, methodical, he took the handcuffs from an officer and clicked them closed with the economy of a man doing his job. His face was close to expressionless, but the line of his jaw worked, and his hands were steadier than the room had any right to expect. Sukuna had the sort of grim little smile thatâs funerary and triumphant at once. âYouâre not as clever as you thought,â he said, voice low so only the men near could hear. âYou picked the wrong hospital.â Toji spat words that were half bluster, half bargaining, but the moment for his theater had gone. Men in vests led him away with a dignity that felt like mockeryâthe kind you get when the world finally enforces consequences. He glanced back once, and his eyes met yours. For an instant the whole house held an ugly, human thing:Â
rage, fear, a terrible ownership remade into a look that said everything and nothing. Then the doors closed and the corridor reassembled itself into the steady work of people who put one foot in front of the other and did not let the world catch fire.
Choso paused in the doorway a breath longer than necessary. The sight of him filled the room with a specter of something you had not allowed yourself in months: a voice you knew, a person who had told you heâd keep his word. You had been so small for so long that even the sight of another adult who was not him made your breath twist into a sob you could not contain.
You began to cryâloud, broken, the kind of noise that takes the mouth for itself and speaks grief that no sentence could hold. Your hands clutched at the sheets, knuckles white, and The doctor and a nurse moved in with soft, practiced motions, offering warm compresses and measured words. But your sobbing did not ebb. It grew, the floodgate of months built from the strain of survival finally giving way. Choso walked to the foot of your bed with the slow, unhurried pace of someone who kept himself from moving too quickly around broken things. He didnât tower. He made himself level. For a man used to concrete, his presence was the sort of solidity you could rest against without fear of splinters.
He crouched downânot too close, but close enough that his shadow fell over your hand. His voice, when he spoke, was flat and dry and somehow full at once. âYouâre safe,â he said. No flower of sentiment, no promise you couldnât count onâjust a plain fact delivered like a bandage. âHeâs not leaving anywhere.â You sobbed harder, the sound hitching and jerking down into something smaller and more private. You looked up through the blur and saw himâthe crease at his brow, the pen still in his pocket, the black notebook heâd carried with the careful notation of a man who keeps lists he intends to finish. Your eyes found his and unmoored themselves. Chosoâs expression did not soften in show. Instead he offered you a handâone steady palmânot intrusive, not commanding. âIf you want me to, Iâll stay,â he said. âIf you want me to leave, Iâll go. You tell me.â
You wanted him to stay in a language older than words; the world had taught you to say please and to apologize for existing, but those teachable things didnât fit what you now needed. Your throat made a small, raw sound that meant yes without having to shape the word. He sat, quietly, where he could be seen and not crowd you. His shoulder brushed the edge of the bed like a landmark. The machine next to you beeped steady. Behind him, through the windows of the corridor, officers were processing TojiâDNA kits, cuff paperwork, travel logs. Sukuna hovered by the door, phone out, already nexting the networks, already thinking in a map.
The Doctor moved to arrange for your transfer to a private room when the doctors cleared you, and a nurse came with news quick and merciful: the NICU could allow a brief supervised visit. Utahime, efficient and gentle, wheeled a warmed bassinet toward the door, the infant sleeping under soft lights while tubes and monitors made small, confident noises. When the nurse brought the baby to the bedside you felt the world tilt on a precise axis. The tiny face, the perfect, ridiculous handsâso small and graceless in the way all newborns areâmade the sobbing shift into something rawer and more complex. You reached out with a shaking hand and Chosoâs fingers closed around yours for a second, a small, human grip that meant he would hold the line while you reached.
âSay her name when youâre ready,â he said, voice low.
You looked at the little thing and the sound that rolled from your chest was not the single-word prayer youâd half-formed but something elseâa sound of astonishment and ownership that had nothing to do with the man whoâd given you no consent. Your thumb found the tiny fist and made a small, private loop. Sukuna, from the doorway, allowed himself the barest, dry observationâless humor than a fact. âShe makes paperwork unnecessary,â he said. âShe is evidence of what we do the work for.â
Choso let the remark sit with acid and then with gratitude. He didnât smile for show; he simply sat with you and the small, living thing between both of you and let the room do what rooms do best when people need them to: hold the quiet while the rest of the world arranged itself into consequence.
The corridor sounded like a mouthful of things being swallowed at once: the click of handcuffs, the soft thud of boots, a radio coughing orders. Tojiâs voice carried through the open door as if he could wrench the world back to him with sound. âYou hear me? Sheâs mine! You canâtââ The shout broke into a string of foul things and then, as an officerâs grip tightened across his forearm, a last, raw plea: âMy daughterâmy daughterââ The men moved like tide; there was no theater left in it, only business. Tojiâs face was wild for a second as the officers led him toward the elevator and the ambulance bay beyond it. He glared back onceâhot, furious, all the ownership heâd tried to press into a lifeâthen was gone, swallowed by the hospitalâs doors and a chorus of controlled voices.
Inside the recovery room, the stillness that followed his leaving felt like glass settling. Your breaths came in small, ragged pulls. You had not named the childâyou hadnât known whether she would be a boy or a girl through all the monthsâbut the tiny weight against your chest was already a person with a rhythm you could learn to follow. A doctorâsomeone youâd only met in the blur of surgery, efficient and plain-featuredâlifted the infant with practiced care and laid her across your sternum. The warmth was immediate and holy in the small, desperate way of hospital light. The babyâs skin was the color of new paper, slick with vernix, her fists curled in the way of an animal that has already learned to hold on. She made a small sound that was not yet a cry and your whole body answered it before your brain had time to be surprised.
You didnât have a name yet. The thought flared through you like a small bell. You thought of the list of names you had once made in a faster lifeâNozomi had been one of them, neat and small and meaning something like hope. The sound of the word was new in your mouth, dangerous and tender at once. Tears came without your consent; they tracked unbidden down your cheeks and fell on the babyâs blanket. They were not only joyâtoo many things had happened for that single languageâbut surrender and fear braided together. You could not feel the incision so much as the absence of certainty; you felt only the absurd, miraculous certainty of this new life pressing warm against you.
Choso had stepped back into the doorway during the arrest like a man who arrived late to his own rescue, and now he stood by the foot of your bed with the same deliberate stillness he used on crime scenes. He watched the baby with a look that had always been used for inspecting evidence and now had been repurposed by something softer. When your eyes found his, you asked before your tongue could find courage for anything longer. âAre they going to take her from me?â The question was small and fractured; the sentence felt like an accusation you couldnât bear to voice aloud. Choso moved closer, the folds of his coat making a small shade across the bed. He crouchedânot a full kneel, just the lean that made him approachable without being smothering. His voice was dry, flat, the way he said hard things because sentiment would only complicate the work. âNo oneâs taking her from you while Iâm breathing,â he said. It was both a promise and a line of business: blunt, true-feeling, and legally careful in the space a promise is allowed to breathe.
âIâm not a lawyer,â he added, because he always gave people the underside of his words. âThereâll be paperwork. The hospital will do what it mustâreporting, social services consults, the usual. They do it to protect the child. That doesnât mean they take her away. It means they make sure sheâs safe.â He watched your face the way he watched an open file, cataloguing what you needed to hear and what might frighten you. âIâll make sure they know sheâs where she needs to beâhere with youâif thatâs medically advisable. If they try to move her, theyâll need a reason beyond being inconvenient for a criminal. Iâll be at every meeting. Iâll speak for her when you need me to.â
You let the gravity of that land like a new weightâdifferent from the one the body carried. Your hands trembled as they found the babyâs blanket and the curve of her tiny heel. Chosoâs face didnât soften the way the storybooks promised. Instead it hardened into the kind of focus that had saved other people small and large things before. âIâll make calls,â he said. âIâll have the station coordinate with hospital administration. Iâll make them show their paperwork. You tell me when to talk and when to be quiet. Iâll do the things you canât in this room.â Sukuna stood at the door, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, the stoicism in his posture folding rare sympathy into a single, unreadable look. He made a small noiseâhalf a laugh, half a bark that could have been a warning. âHe was loud while he could be loud,â Sukuna said, which in his language meant the manâs tantrum had been theatrical and useless. âHeâs quiet where it counts now.â
The babyâNozomi, a name that finally slid out of you like a small, frightened birdâpushed and opened her face as if naming had made her more real. You said the name slowly, tasting it like a foreign word, and the syllables seemed to sit in the room like a promise. Chosoâs eyes flicked to you and then down to the child, and for once his expression lost all its rehearsed dryness and became something like gentleness. âYou chose well,â he said, and the sentence had the plain approval of someone who rarely wasted words on compliments. When the social worker arrivedâquiet, professional, carrying a folder like a shieldâChoso stayed where he had placed himself: a stead point between you and a world that wanted forms. The social worker spoke in the even, procedural tone that can be a comfort because it is predictable. They asked questions about prenatal care, about the circumstances of the birth, about your immediate wishes, and about whether you had family support. You answered as best you could; Choso supplied the parts you could not. You felt both naked and buffered by the lines of procedure. It was an odd safety, bureaucracy as armor.
Later, when the machines had quieted and the room had been reduced to the softer hum of recovery, Choso remained in a chair by the window. He did not sleep; he sat like a man whose body was wired to readiness. Your hand found hisâsmall, instinctiveâand he closed his fingers over yours with an economy that said: Iâm here. I donât have a tidy ending yet, but Iâm here. Outside, in the city that had been a map of chase and patience, other pieces shifted. Officers took statements. Forensics dusted for the fingerprints a man had tried to hide. The name Toji Fushiguro moved through lists and into the slow machinery of arrest reports and warrants. It would not be clean. There would be hearings and lawyers and things that would make the small brightness of this room feel like a battlefield again.
But right now, with Nozomi tucked to your chest and breath finding a steady rhythm beneath the hospital lights, the world was reduced to a simpler ledger: one baby, one mother, one detective with a pen and a promise. You let your forehead rest against the babyâs crown and, for the first time in months, allowed yourself to listen to a sound that was not fear. It was the small, unstoppable sound of life, and it made the hospital room, for the moment, a place where someone had decidedâfinallyâto keep a secret safe.
The morning smelled like something ordinary at lastâcoffee from the nurseâs station, lemons on a cleanerâs cart, the faint copper of antisepticâbut ordinary had been a stranger for so long that every small normal thing felt like an act of mercy. The NICU had been less of a place and more of a ceremony. Nurses had fussed with tiny caps and warmed blankets; a neonatologist had grinned once at the stubbornness of a preemie who decided the world was worth trying out early. You had learned the rhythm of feeds and sutures, of pain that was a steady neighbor instead of a predator. Nozomi had latched with a ferocity that felt both like a claim and a promise; her mouth was work and mercy in one small, miraculous motion.
Now you were packed in the hospitalâs soft bureaucratic wayâpapers folded like practiced apologies, prescriptions that smelled of future headaches, a discharge sheet with boxes checked that seemed to mean you had moved from crisis to custody. The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something like newness; your incision throbbed in an even, manageable way. You sat in the wheelchair like a meridian someone had drawn around your body to teach it how to move after being kept still: small, careful gestures, a slow reintroduction to motion. Your parents waited in the hospital parking lot as if they had been rehearsing the moment in their sleep. When the sliding doors gave way and the sunlight hit your face, for a second the world looked too brightâharsh and then kind. Your motherâs mouth opened and closed as if she was forming something sheâd practiced for eight months in the dark. Your fatherâs hands were steady on the car door, but his knuckles were bloodless in a way that meant he had learned to hold a different kind of weight.
They got out before the wheelchair reached them. At first it looked like they might not moveâthe long pause of people learning how to be present without making new wounds. Then your mother crossed the low space and stood a respectful distance. She had the sleep-bronzed face of someone who had been living on adrenaline and prayer. Her hands were empty, which felt wiser than them being full of the sort of frantic gifts that look like love but land like demands. âWe put your room back together,â she said. Her voice did the careful thing parentsâ voices doâsmall facts to anchor you. âNew sheets. A comforter you can actually sleep on. I cleaned out the drawers like you askedânot too much, not to change things that might beââ She stopped, because speech can be wrong in rooms that still remember doors.
Your father came up beside her with the crooked pride of men who fix things with wood. âI built the crib,â he said, and there was a little stab of boyishness that had survived whatever had kept you hidden. âStrong enough to hold a small hippopotamus if it comes in a particularly stubborn mood.â He managed the joke like a hand finding its way around a tool. âWeâll bring the mattress in. We fixed the latch on your window. Whoeverâs watching the place has orders to keep it safe.â He said the last part as if boring was the only form of safety you should ever have to learn to enjoy. You wanted to tell them everythingâhow loud the nights had been, how quiet the rooms inside the house were, the list of small crueltiesâbut your throat kept the sentences where they would be safe. Instead you hugged Nozomi tighter, as if the act could translate what words could not. Her head rested on your chest, tucked under the old hospital blanket still warm from the NICU, and the small, consistent life under your hand was an island you measured with a finger.
âDo you want me to hold her?â your mother asked, the question careful enough to be an offering rather than an expectation. You looked at herâthe hands that had once cradled you raw and smallâand the truth rearranged itself into a quieter language. You were afraid, still, of someoneâs touch being a map to being claimed. You imagined a rush of overcompensation, of kisses and smothered love that would close your lungs. You answered with what you could give: âNot yet.â Your voice surprised you by not shaking. âMaybe when we get home. I want her to know us slowly.â Your motherâs eyes filled. She nodded once, a small, solemn concession to the time you needed. âOf course,â she said, and folded the words into herself like a promise she planned to keep.
Choso waited a few paces back, the constant that had not shifted through arrests and surgeries. He had on the same coat he'd somehow made part of the furniture of your life, and when he moved toward the car it was with the peculiar balance of a man who carried both papers and compassion like separate tools. He glanced at Nozomi as anyone with a working jaw wouldâcareful, appraising, already protective. Then he took a small step toward you and handed you a folded piece of paper.
His handwriting was compact, no flourish; the number and name were functional, like a line item. He didnât make a show of it. âWhen you get a phone,â he said, his voice sandpaper-soft, âcall me. If itâs an emergency and you canât, go to the station. Donât try to be brave in the dark alone. Weâll come.â He paused, as if deciding whether anyone needed the rest of the sentence. He added, quieter: âWeâll see you soon. Case is ongoing.â The words were practical, a promise with logistics. You took the paper with fingers that trembled regardless of the newbornâs warmth. The number felt like an odd talismanâthe idea that you could reach someone who had put himself into your life and not into your ownership was new and slightly radical. You folded it into the inside pocket of your cardigan the way you might hide a match for later use.
Sukuna lingered at the back, hands deep in his pockets, a cigarette half-imagined between his lips. He did not smoke in front of you. He did, however, make the eccentric joke that was his way of softening the moment without making it saccharine. âIf you need someone to deliver groceries under suspicious circumstances,â he said, voice rough with a humor that didnât pretend to fix anything, âcall me. I own a car that smells like bad decisions and good intel.â His mouth twitched at the edges. âWeâll take shifts making your yard safe.â It made your mother smile despite herself, small and grateful like a door unlocked from the inside.
Your father bent forward then, and in a movement that was both clumsy and precise, he took Nozomiâs tiny foot in his hand and laughed with the astonished relief of a man seeing his family whole in a way he had not yet allowed himself to hope. âShe fits perfectly,â he said, part way between a fact and a benediction. âSheâs mine to show off to neighbors I donât have.â You let a small laugh out, brittle and honest, and it felt like a sound you had misplaced for years. For a moment, the world was a photograph of the life you were trying to remember: a father proud of wood, a mother folding towels, a newborn whose small breathing made everything else negotiable. The nurse who had brought you out pressed a palm to your shoulder as if to give you a formal blessing. âCall us if you need anything,â she said. âWeâll schedule the first follow-up.â She was smiling in that professional, warm way that was both encouragement and an insistence that the world had systems for making fragile things well again.
You wheeled to the car slow and careful, every movement measured. A police SUV idled in the lotânot a threat now but a visible perimeter of the worldâs permission to keep going. You felt the presence like a small, useful weight. The officer who had been posted at your parentsâ house nodded once at your father as if to confirm a plan: checks at dusk and dawn, a visible car at the curb for a while longer. The choreography of protection felt clumsy and comforting in the same breath. When you eased into the backseat, Nozomi pressed into your chest with the steady rhythm of life learning how to be. Your mother buckled in opposite you, fingers trembling as she adjusted the blanket, and your father got behind the wheel. Choso lingered at the window until your father started the engine; then he leaned in as if to give instruction and something like care.
âCall if you need anything,â he said again, more quietly this time. âAndââ his voice softened in a way that made the sentence feel like a private offeringââlet me know when youâd like me to bring the crate I found at the house. Itâs little things, but I thoughtââ He didnât finish; the trailing off was a way of not overstepping. The crate was practicalâbaby blankets, a small hand-knit hatâbut it was also an anchor in the tiny, surgically-rebuilt world you were entering. You nodded. You couldnât, not exactly, promise more than the small things you knew you could do: a text, a call, a visit when you felt steady. You had been taught to be silent; now silence felt more like armor than obligation. You found you liked the idea of someone being near without being insistent.
As the car eased away the moment felt small and enormous at once. Choso watched until the lot swallowed the vehicleâs tail lights; then he let his hands drop to his sides like a man allowing himself to breathe. Sukuna stood at his shoulder, a companionable shadow. âSleep,â Choso said at last to Sukuna, though it read like an instruction to himself more than to the other detective. âThen we file. Then we close. Then we pretend we slept.â Sukunaâs mouth made a dry sound that might have been agreement. âIâll make the yard boring,â he said again, more solemn than joking now. âWeâll make sure their mail still gets there.â
Choso did not stay to watch the car out of the lot; he turned back toward the hospital and toward the boxes of evidence that would be cataloged and the paperwork that would follow. He carried the small, clean weight of the dayâs promises in his pocket like the paper with his number, a thing he intended to honor.
Inside the car, your mother reached across and took your handâcareful, reverentâwithout smothering. You closed your eyes for a beat as the vehicle hummed into motion and let the minute, steady breaths of your child lead you back to the long project of reclaiming a life. The map ahead was messyâcustody questions, court appointments, protection plans, therapyâbut for now you had a wooden crib on the way, a drawer of new clothes, the number of a detective rolled into your cardigan like a talisman.
You rested your head against the seat and watched the hedgerow pass like a slow film. Nozomiâs tiny fist bumped once against your collarbone, then curled into a sleep so small and untroubled it had to be caused by miracle or luck. You thought of the list of names youâd made across hospital nights and felt the word Nozomi settle into youânot as a solution to everything but as a small sharp truth: wish. Hope. A thing to answer when the world asked both mercy and reckoning.
The car sped into the ribbon of road that led back to a house set against a field, and with each passing mile the house seemed less like a prison and more like a place where you would learn to live again. The detectives would do their work. The city would do its slow, bureaucratic repair. You would teach a child to name the world. It was a fragile planâand that fragility felt like the first honest thing youâd been offered in months.
A/N: GUYS HOLY SHIT IâM ACTUALLY SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW đđ SO! I edit on both my phone and laptop, and the draft got deleted on my phone like I said yesterday but I forgot I still had it open on my laptop!! So I panicked, copied and pasted it into a new doc in another window right before refreshing and OMFGGG I SAVED IT JUST IN TIME AAAA IâM SO THANKFUL!!! THATâS THE ASK I TOOK A PICTURE OF SO YâALL COULD KNOW THE THEME OF THIS REQUEST BTW!!!
The original A/N before all this bullshit happened: Hi, thank you!! I made reader a bit less problematic than Tamsy because since theyâre suspicious of him, I imagine reader to side with Rudo if they knew of Tam Tamâs plans, even if it was just for entertainment and not genuine worry. Itâs really just mind games at the end of the day
The mission had ended hours ago, yet the base still buzzed faintly with the hum of power lines and echoing footsteps. You were supposed to be filling out your report, but instead you sat alone in the corner of the Cleanersâ briefing hall, pretending to write while really just watching Tamsy.
He was across the room, perched casually on the edge of a desk, long fingers looping a spool of thread around his knuckles like he was toying with something alive. He looked calm. Per usual. That smile of his was all surface, but youâd seen the way his eyes never rested, the quiet awareness behind every movement.
You tapped your pen against the page, thinking. There was something about him that didnât add up. Something a little too perfect in the way he fit into the team, like he was always performing.
Well, hypocrite. You werenât exactly innocent either.
Youâd learned to hide your own sharper edges behind a lazy smile and easy tone. Nobody needed to know the things that really made your blood raceâ the messier urges, the curiosity toward the darker side of people.
So when you caught Tamsy watching you back, something deep inside you thrummed.
He stood up first, straightening his tie and walking over with that smooth, confident gait. âYouâve been pretending to fill that page for twenty minutes,â he said lightly, stopping in front of your desk. âYou planning to submit a blank report?â
You raised a brow, tapping your pen once more. âUmmm, maybe Iâm just waiting for the inspiration to hit.â
âOh?â He leaned a little closer, clasping his hands behind his back. âYou donât strike me as the âwait for it to come to youâ type.â
You met his gaze; unflinching, curious. âYouâd be surprised what I think, Tamsy.â
He smiled at that, but it didnât quite reach his eyes. âI donât think much surprises me anymore, dear.â
âHmm...you must be boring,â you said, tilting your head. You wanted a reaction.
For a second, his composure crackedâ a tiny, amused laugh slipped through. âTouchĂŠ...â
You watched as he stood up straight, the threads slide between his fingers, the metallic spool flashing under the light. âWhy are you fiddling with it?â
âIt helps me think.â
âAbout what?â
He looked up, and the room felt smaller all of a sudden. âAbout people.â It'smyintstrumentdon'tquestionmebitchwhyhaven'tIhungyouyet Inner Tamsy responded. He hates being questioned.
You set your pen down slowly. âYou spend a lot of time thinking about people, huh?â Just itching for any reaction other than nonchalance from this bird man.
âI like to understand them,â he said, voice quiet now, âwhat moves them. What possibly, hm...breaks them. Ah, their weakness I mean.â
That made you smileâ slow, deliberate. âSee, that sounds like youâre hiding something.â After all, you understood.
He chuckled softly. âEveryone is, my dear.â
The silence that followed wasnât awkward. It was heavy. A slow-burning tension that neither of you tried to break.
Your eyes still locked on his. âYou might do a lot of studying on people, but you look like someone whoâs been studied too.â Because you're not special bitch, there are always others watching you watch others. Like Corvus, like me, Inner you responded.
His expression flickeredâ quick, but you caught it. âIn that case, perhaps Iâm both.â
You grinned. âSo Iâm right about you then.â
âRight about what?â
âThat youâve got something strange going on underneath all that calm.â
He tilted his head, the smile on his face sharpening just slightly. âFunny. I was about to say the same thing about you.â
You laughed quietly, shaking your head. âY'know, weâd make terrible poker partners.â
âOr perfect ones.â
He said it with such certainty that your heartbeat skipped. For all his polished composure, there was something in his toneâ something that sounded like recognition. Like he saw the same shadows you kept carefully hidden behind your own simper.
You stood, pushing your chair back just enough to create a challenge in the movement. âI guess we'll never know.â
His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second â not out of shyness, but calculation. âSo you're plotting?" Tamsy could relate.
âMaybe I am,â you said, stepping past him, brushing just close enough for him to smell the faint trace of metal and smoke on you. âOr maybe Iâm just simply testing a theory.â
âAnd what theory is that?â
âThat youâre not half as good at hiding what you are as you think you are.â
Oh but I am, he thought in his head. How else could I have gotten past Semiu who sees you for who you are? Ah right, he thought with playful sarcasm. âthe watchman book. Had to clear her memory and create a fake one after she seen the real me.
You left him standing there, still smiling to himself in a weird wayâ but the look in his eyes wasnât amusement anymore. It was something else.
Later that night, as you walked the dimly lit hall toward your quarters, you could feel that he was watching you again.
Unbeknownst to you, it was just his string puppet he crafted a long while ago. Not to stalk you, no no. Just to watch over you. Like an ang e l..-.....â
And somewhere in the dark, Tamsy smiled to himself.
SoâŚthey noticed.
He wasnât sure if that excited himâ or if it hindered his plans. Rest assured, he had absolutely no issue getting rid of a problem.
â
Tamsyâs coat brushed your arm for the fifth time. Fifth. You didnât even bother pretending it was an accident anymore.
âStop. Youâre doing that on purpose,â you muttered, scribbling notes onto the mission log.
He leaned down just enough for his breath to skim your ear. âDoing what?â
That calm toneâthat âIâm innocentâ actâhad your jaw tightening. Nobody is innocent, stop this shit. You slid his chair leg out with your foot just as he leaned back.
CLACK.
He barely caught himself, one hand on the desk, his eyes cutting toward you with a spark that was way too amused.
âYouâre childish,â he said, brushing dust from his sleeve.
âOkay, and youâre in my personal space.â
âMaybe I just like the view from here...â
âThen enjoy it from the floor,â you said, kicking the chair leg again.
He didnât fallâhe caught your ankle mid-swing, fingers curling around your boot with infuriating gentleness. The kind that screamed control.
He smiled, all teeth and quiet mockery. âBe. Careful.â
âOr what?â I mean, what?
His fingers caressed your ankle for a mere second before he let go, smirk widening as you shoved your chair back. You hated that your heartbeat jumped.
â
Tamsy was all composure again the next day, sparring calmly with Delmon until he noticed you by the door. Then, without warning, he switched targets.
âNeed a warm-up?â he asked, tone sugary sweet. Of course it was, he had to keep up the facade with everyone else.
"TAMSY COME BACK! YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SWITCH OPPONENTS!" Delmon shouted. "HI Y/N!" He added.
You waved, before stepping in the room. Tamsy was always calm before he did something chaotic.
"Sorry Delmon. I have to take my chances," was all Tamsy said before you stood before him while Delmon grunted and left the room.
The match started slowâtoo slowâuntil you realized he was deliberately aiming his attacks to mess up your stance. Every hit of the ropes just close enough to make you stumble, never actually connecting.
âOh, so weâre playing that game,â you muttered.
He tilted his head. âHmm? What game?â Inner Tamsy cackled, having the time of his life.
You grabbed his coat collar and used his momentum to flip himâexcept he twisted at the last second, hooking your leg with the rope and pulling you down with him.
Now you were both on the floor, breathing hard, staring each other down from inches apart.
He grinned like heâd just won the lottery. You shoved his face away. âYouâre extremely annoying, you know this right.â
âWoooow,â he said, still holding on to you rather tightly. âI have the same opinion about you!â
You hit him in the ribs. Lightly. Maybe.
He coughed a laugh, rubbing his side. They're insane, he thought, eyes flicking over you like he wasnât sure whether to strangle you or kiss you. Perfect.
A red mark was left on your leg that day.
â
By the time the third incident rolled around, everyone had learned to not leave you two alone.
Unfortunately, Enjin did. Of course he did. The man would rather hookup with women than do a simple task. So he left it to you two.
You and Tamsy had been told to organize mission files. Innocent enoughâuntil he started âaccidentallyâ mixing the stacks youâd just sorted.
You snapped your head toward him. âOnce again, youâre doing this on purpose. Why are you like this?â
He didnât even look up. âAm I?â
You stepped closer. âYes.â
He kept moving files, so you reached over and swiped one from his hand.
That got his attention. He slowly leaned up, gaze dropping from your face to the file you were holding hostage. âYou really want to start this?â
You backed up toward the shelves, smirking. âGuess so.â
First, he steadily walked your direction. As if giving you a chance to simply return it to him. You didn'tyoudidyoudidn'tyoudid know this particular file was Rudo's. But then, he lunged for it. You dodged. The two of you danced between shelves, the sound of footsteps echoing like a chase scene thatâd gone too far.
You ducked around a corner, but he caught you by the wrist, pinning you lightly against the shelf. Not roughâjust controlled. Annoyingly so.
The silence stretched. The only sound was your breathing and the creak of paper files shifting.
âYouâre not good at following orders,â he said softly. BooootomatotomatoIhaaaaaatepeoplewhodon'tdowhatIsay, Inner Tamsy complained as he sat forward in his chair with his arms on his thighs.
You met his eyes, defiant. âNeither are you, so now what.â
Something flickered in his expressionâsomething intense, slightly amused, and a little too dark.
He leaned close enough to distract you with his yellow pupils that had no soul, then took the file from your hand so slowly it felt deliberate.
âDon't do that again dear,â he murmured, turning away like nothing happened.
You stood there, jaw tight, watching him go. âUnbelievable,â you muttered under your breath.
Behind you, he smiled. Manic and giddy. Got them.
â
The next few days were simply unbearable. Every mission, every briefing, every shared hallwayâ you could feel him there, that same silent tension pulling at your nerves like wire.
Then, one night, you walked into the supply room. And there he was. Sitting down, his jacket draped against the chair. One of his shirt sleeves was rolled up as he bandaged a cut on his arm. Gosh, is he gonna have yet another scar?
He looked up when you entered, and you froze.
âNeed something?â he asked, like nothing was wrong.
You crossed your arms. âNo. Justâdidnât know you were here.â Liar
He shrugged, then hissed when the bandage slipped. You sighed, walking over before you could stop yourself. âYouâre doing it wrong.â
âHm. Then fix it.â
You snatched the roll from his hand and started wrapping it, tighter than necessary. He flinched but didnât stop you.
âHappy now?â you said.
He looked at the bandage, then back at you. âNot really.â
Before you could respond, his hand shot up, grabbing your wrist. Then his other hand caught your jaw, thumb resting near your mouth.
You froze again.
âIâm tired of this,â he said, voice low. âYour games.â
You glared up at him. âThen stop.â
He smiledâ small, humorless. âI believe it was you who started this..." his thumb traced your cheek. ââso you first.â
You hated how close his breath felt. It smelt like he had cake recently. He probably did. There were quite a few times heâs returned with cake either for himself or for Rudo. Never for any of the other kids....whatever though.
You hated that you didnât want to step back.
âFine,â you muttered, leaning in just enough for your nose to brush his. âGame over...â you muttered, looking into his endless yellow eyes.
For one second, neither of you moved. Just silence, heavy and warm.
Then you pulled backâ too fast, and he laughed under his breath like he couldnât believe you did that.
âWell. Looks like it was a tie,â he murmured.
You smacked his shoulder, hard enough to make him grunt. âYou wish.â You two still havenât discovered each otherâs intentions yet after all.
He caught your wrist again, this time slower, more deliberate. âNo,â he said, eyes narrowing just slightly. âIt was a tie.â
Inside, you smiled. Alright, alright. Letâs play again.
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