#(Not in the usual way and only a mention but...Better safe than sorry)

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part two]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, dry humping, blindfolding, grinding, soft dom vibes reader, soft sub vibes bucky, bucky is touch starved, clothed ejaculation, vague mentions of previous sa, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, kissing, bucky barnes needs a hug, if you squint, there's some plot, fluff, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey depressed, mentions of past violence, death and war, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.6k

A/N: hey guys, i'm literally so nervous posting this... it's been sitting in my drafts for like a month now and i finally worked up the courage to post after spending a couple hours editing :( i'm literally scheduling this to post at like 3am my time so i'm not awake when it goes live i'm so anxious bahaha. the start of this part is a bit slow, pls hold on because theres some light smut and angst at the end. i have plans for further parts that'll look more into the other avengers finding out and the development between bucky and readers relationship and their shared healing. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

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It was only on rare occasions that the full team of Avengers (and co.) were in the same room. A momentous historical moment, in fact, normally reserved for two particular occasions:

The world was ending (in some gloriously diabolical way that usually involved aliens, interdimensional warlords, or some ancient, forgotten god with a vendetta) or

Tony Stark was throwing another one of his famously exclusive penthouse parties (which, despite being ‘exclusive,’ still managed to include half of New York—most of whom showed up just to gawk at the Avengers like a travelling circus act sent to entertain them personally.)

Today, it seemed, was neither of those occasions. Thor and the rest of the Asgardians—Bruce Banner included, oddly enough—were busy rebuilding after the destruction of Asgard. Wanda and Vision were off playing happy family elsewhere, and Clint was busy with his own quickly expanding family. The others, agents, specialists, the people whose names you never bothered to remember, were preoccupied with their own missions. Which left you here, filed neatly into the elusive extra category. Not quite an Avenger. Too valuable to be let loose, too unpredictable to be fully trusted.

You leant back in your chair, only half-listening to the conversation beside you. The skin around your thumbnail was raw. You picked at it absentmindedly, peeling back the edge where it had already started to flake, a sting flaring along the nail. You were thinking—too much, maybe—so you let them talk, let yourself disappear as they debated which bar had the strongest drinks and the least pathetic men.

The three of you were early. By some miracle, morning training had ended ahead of schedule. Natasha had wiped the floor with you, to the point where it probably would’ve been more productive to stay on the mat rather than waste your energy hauling yourself back up.

“What do you think?” It took you a second to realise Yelena was talking to you, elbows propped on the table, chin resting in her hand. She was watching you expectantly, sharp eyes narrowed.

You didn’t look up. “I’m not coming.”

She sighed dramatically. “You never hang out with us.” She leant back in her chair with an exaggerated huff, muttering under her breath, “So mysterious and cool. You think you’re better than us?” 

Natasha watched on amused, the redhead poised as always. “She doesn’t want to drink in front of us in case she spills her secrets.”

You scoffed. “What secrets?”

“I don’t know.” Natasha leant forward, watching you a little too closely now, like she was gauging your reaction. “How about how that mission went with Barnes?”

Ever since the gala mission, the two had been trying to get you alone, a few drinks in, hoping for something—a slip, an offhanded remark, anything that would confirm whatever hunches they had. You knew what they were fishing for. They weren’t subtle.

You just weren’t playing.

Neither you nor Bucky had said a word about it.

That, apparently, was suspicious.

“She is right, you know. Neither of you will say a word about it. I’m beginning to think something happened—” Yelena cut over her sister with a grin.

“Nothing happened,” you interrupted smoothly, finally lifting your eyes from the wreckage of your thumbnail. “You keep asking, but you’re not going to uncover some dirty secret. Sorry to disappoint."

“Then why the silence? No one would care if you fucked him, you could just plead innocence, overcome by playing the perfect, doting wife—”

You shot her a look, one withering enough to turn bone to dust and ego to rubble. 

“I mean… maybe people would care, but I wouldn’t judge you! Super soldier, metal arm… so hot, or whatever.” Yelena prattled on, and you ignored her, exhaling through your nose.

"I think he’s just mortified that people assume something did happen. He’s got enough brooding energy as it is." You muttered. 

“I just don’t believe nothing happened, trapped in that hotel room together for a week. Apparently, you were convincing enough to keep the targets off your scent, and we all know Barnes’ acting is as stiff as a cadaver on ice—”

Your face twisted into a look of exasperation before you could control yourself, straightening in your seat. “God, you two really are like vultures, picking around for the slightest bit of gossip—”

“Wow, defensive—” 

“Isn’t that the joy in life? Digging for gossip?” Natasha cut back in with a sharp smirk.

“You two are insufferable!” You interrupted, slapping your palms onto your thighs. "I think I’ll keep my secrets. I’ll leave the both of you to continue plotting this fantastical mystery you’ve created in your minds—”

“It’s only fun because you get so worked up about it,” Natasha cut back with a grin you could only describe as predatory. “Plus, I do love watching Rogers squirm listening to all the theories."

“You know,” Yelena mused, swirling the thought around before letting it slip, “I don’t think Steve is as innocent as we think he is. I’m pretty sure I heard him and Sharon—”

She cut herself off just as the door swung open, and the rest of the team filtered in.

You schooled your reaction, easily slipping back into the picture of nonchalance. Bucky’s blue eyes flickered towards yours for a split second before darting away. It had been two weeks since your first ‘lesson’. Two weeks of carefully measured distance, of subtle glances that never lasted too long, of conversations that stayed just professional enough to not raise questions.

Bucky had been doing well—shockingly well, actually. He was receptive to your touch, followed your guidance with careful precision, and was beginning to trust you, bit by bit. You hadn’t gone much further than heated make-out sessions that usually ended with him finishing in his pants, but you weren’t in a rush. You were still feeling out his comfort zones, making sure he never felt cornered or overwhelmed. There wasn’t exactly a handbook for this kind of arrangement.

You slumped in your seat even further, shaking off the feeling. It was fine. No one knew.

Still, the way Bucky avoided looking in your direction made something prickle under your skin.

You were certain the super soldier would combust on the spot if any of his coworkers caught wind of what the two of you had been up to. Hell, he turned red enough just having you perched in his lap during lessons, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. And yet, during meetings, training, or any moment the two of you were forced into the same orbit, you couldn’t help but wonder—did he think about those moments? Did his mind drift back to the ghost of your touch the same way yours did?

You weren’t usually the sentimental type. Nostalgia was a luxury, a foolish indulgence you had long since trained yourself out of. But there was something about him—his quiet hesitance, his wary but willing surrender—that stuck with you. It was a service, nothing more. A transaction in which you gained no tangible benefit, so why did you linger on it? Why did the thought of his gaze meeting yours send a sharp thrill through your chest? Was it because he treated you like a person instead of a tool? Because he understood pieces of you no one else even tried to?

He wasn’t like the others. Never cruel, never greedy. He never reached for more than you offered, never treated you like something to be taken. Maybe that was why you kept coming back. Maybe, for once, you liked the control. Liked the feeling of choosing, of being wanted on your own terms. Of knowing that, for once, you weren’t a marionette dancing on someone else’s strings.

You swallowed the thought down and let your gaze flicker to him. Bucky sat curled in on himself, as if trying to shrink into nothing despite the broadness of his frame. He looked like a wounded animal—no, worse. He looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes had deepened, his hair unwashed and slightly greasy at the roots. He wasn’t sleeping. He wasn’t taking care of himself. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure that out.

He stared blankly at the grain of the wooden table, shoulders hunched between Steve and Sam, who were deep in conversation about something you didn’t care enough to eavesdrop on. And for reasons you weren’t ready to name, that quiet, hollow stillness of his sat uneasily in your chest.

You had… concerns for Bucky after what he had confessed to you. But you weren’t sure what to do with those concerns. Or those confessions. You held them close to your chest, unwilling to betray his trust, but understanding instead. You knew it was probably irresponsible of you to sit on them, but you didn’t want to overstep. Besides, Steve and Sam didn’t know you. You’d had maybe three conversations with each of them, most of them mission-related. To them, you were just Natasha and Yelena’s friend—Red Room collateral. You weren’t social, you weren’t a part of their circle, and you sure as hell weren’t someone they trusted.

And if they knew about your arrangement with Bucky… well, you didn’t want to think about what conclusions they’d draw—

“Hi!”

The sudden, chirpy voice nearly startled you out of your seat.

Kate Bishop had arrived—loud, bright, and effortlessly excitable, like a golden retriever in human form. She had that kind of energy that made you suspicious. No one was that happy all the time. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, messy strands framing her face. She was dressed in casual, slightly dishevelled layers, looking like she had just come from sparring but didn’t have the same dead-in-the-eyes exhaustion you did after a training session.

“I’m Kate!” she announced, beaming at you like you were about to be best friends. She pushed her hand out. “Kate Bishop.”

You blinked at her, ignoring her outstretched offer. “I know.”

Her grin didn’t waver, and she coolly withdrew her hand.

“You’re Clint and Yelena’s pet project.” You spoke again, your tone perhaps a little more hostile than necessary. 

“It’s apprentice, actually.” Yelena cut in before Kate could argue. “You know, you’re starting to hurt my feelings. Stark has an apprentice, so why are you always giving me shit—”

“Oh yes, Stark’s pet project.” You gave an exaggerated sigh. “What was his name? Paxton, Peyton, or was it Parker?”

“Did I ask for your opinion, K.G.B. Barbie?” Tony Stark’s voice cut in lazily as he walked past, sitting at the head of the table like he owned the place—which, unfortunately for you, he did. As usual, he didn’t look pleased to see you, and the scent of entitlement wafted off of him in waves.

You met his gaze evenly. "No, but I was under the impression that unsolicited opinions were your love language, considering the amount your hand out.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Remind me why we let you sit at the big kids’ table again?”

"You don’t." You glanced at Stark, unimpressed. "But I was invited, shockingly enough. Or are you reckless enough to ignore Fury’s instructions now?"

There it was. That smirk. He smirked at you, and you knew in your heart he had the foulest, most cutting rebuke to lay upon you. He hadn’t even opened his mouth, and you were already grinding your teeth in frustration as you stared back at him, eyes locked onto his smug face—

Kate cleared her throat, stepping in before you and Stark could escalate any further. “So, what do you do?”

Stark held his tongue, so in return, you slid your gaze back over to a nervous Kate. And in that moment, you knew you couldn’t help yourself. Natasha had already shot you a warning look, but the redhead's trained patience for the playboy Stark had unfortunately never extended to you. 

"Infiltration, espionage, recon." You shrugged, expression carefully neutral. "I gather information, and then the big boys get to swoop in, throw a few punches, and take all the credit. Isn’t that right, Stark?"

Maybe you had woken up grouchier than usual—not that you could even call the few hours of restless tossing and turning sleep. Or perhaps it was the fact that you’d spent the morning eating the training mat, then had to suffer through Natasha and Yelena’s constant interrogations that had soured your mood. Either way, you weren’t exactly in the best headspace to deal with him.

Truthfully, you thought Stark was a prick, and unfortunately, you had never been exactly shy about that opinion. You and Stark had just never really clicked. Not in the way he had with the others, not in the way Natasha had seamlessly folded herself into the team, or the way Yelena had bulldozed her way in, loud and brash. You existed somewhere in between, tolerated but always lingering on the outside. It wasn’t that you didn’t get along with them. You could banter with Sam, hold an easy conversation with Steve when necessary and trade dry humour with Clint in a way that made you feel almost at home. Even Stark, for all his grating personality, wasn’t always intolerable. But there was always something between you and them—an unspoken distance, a careful line you never crossed. They didn’t entirely trust you yet, and you never gave them a reason to try.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because trust had never been a luxury you could afford.

Your job was reading people—analysing, dissecting, and manipulating. You understood them better than they understood themselves, saw the cracks in their foundations and knew precisely where to apply pressure. It made you valuable. Indispensable even, but it also made people wary. The team knew what you were, even if they didn’t know the full extent of what you had been. But deep down, you knew they were smart enough to assemble the pieces.

So you kept yourself at arm’s length. You wanted to believe you could have that feeling—belonging. But wanting and trusting were two very different things that you did not dare confuse.

Kate’s eyes lit up. “That’s so cool.”

“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Stark interjected, leaning against the desk. “She’s just a pretty face we send in to distract while the rest of us do the actual work.”

There it was.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t rise to the bait. This was your hubris. You could already hear Natasha’s scolding—You really shouldn’t egg him on like that. The two of you are as bad as each other, always trying to get under each other's skin. A bunch of alleycats fighting it’s ridiculous—

Somewhere across the table, Bucky’s eyes had shot up. The movement startled you, and your eyes met briefly. It was milliseconds, maybe not even that, but as soon as you registered your brief exchange, Bucky shied away like a spooked animal.

And when you looked back at Kate, Natasha and Yelena, you found that Natasha had been watching the whole thing. She didn’t speak, didn’t even react. There wasn’t the slightest twitch in her brow or twinge in her lips. She stared like some kind of omnipotent god, and deep down, you knew. You knew she knew. 

Maybe she didn’t know the full extent, but the way she stared… it made you shudder.

Fuck.

Kate, however, frowned, turning back to you. “That’s not true, right?”

“Of course not,” you deadpanned, not letting the dread pooling in your stomach let you miss a beat. “I do much more than look pretty. Sometimes I get to torture people—”

Kate’s face pale, then through several stages of grief, trying to figure out if you were joking. 

You weren’t about to help her.

“Relax, Kate Bishop, she is messing with you,” Yelena said with an amused grin, though it was tight. A silent warning behind her eyes told you to keep your mouth shut.

Kate still looked mildly concerned, but she shook it off quickly. “Okay, but—so you can fight?”

“Of course.”

“Not as well as me,” Yelena cut in before you could elaborate, grinning smugly. “Don’t worry, Kate. You’re being trained by the best of the best. Me? I am the best. You know this.”

You rolled your eyes, and Kate beamed. That girl was too fucking cute for her own good.

The door swung open before anyone could respond to Yelena. Fury stepped inside, long coat sweeping behind him, his boots heavy against the floor. His usual expression—somewhere between perpetually pissed off and quietly judgmental—was firmly in place beneath the shadow of his eyepatch.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," Fury said, his voice edged with dry amusement, though his gaze flicked between you all with razor-sharp scrutiny.

"No, sir," Steve said, back straightening. Natasha, ever composed, merely leaned back in her chair. Stark didn’t even spare a glance.

“First off, I’d like to extend my deepest, most heartfelt gratitude for your attendance,” Fury began, spreading his arms in a broad, insincere gesture, his tone so dry it could have turned the room to dust. “I know how much of a hardship it is, taking an hour out of your busy lives to sit in a comfortable chair and listen to me talk.”

Sam snorted. Yelena smirked. Bucky, as usual, remained unreadable.

Fury’s eye landed on you and Bucky before he tossed a slim tablet onto the table, the display already flashing with the text of a mission report you hardly cared to examine in detail.

“Congratulations are in order. The gala infiltration went exceptionally well despite the odds stacked against you.”

You dipped your head in acknowledgement, catching movement out of the corner of your eye—Sam begrudgingly sliding Fury what seemed to be a twenty-dollar bill. Asshole.

Fury tapped the screen embedded in the table, replacing the mission debrief with a new set of images. An aerial view of a club, snippets of surveillance footage, a grainy close-up of a man slipping out of a side entrance, bodyguards in tow.

“And thanks to that intel recovered,” Fury continued, “we now have a location on our next target. Dmitry Karpin. Friend to H.Y.D.R.A. Dealt in smuggling high-profile weapons in and out of Soviet countries for a time, but now he’s taken to smuggling drugs. Serums, to be specific.”

Across the table, Bucky had gone still. Tension coiled in his shoulders, his hands resting stiffly on the surface, knuckles taut. H.Y.D.R.A. Serum. The words alone were enough to suffocate the room when Bucky or Steve were around. You didn’t let your eyes linger on him long nor allow your frown to deepen. 

Fury didn’t acknowledge the shift—maybe he was used to it by now, or perhaps he just didn’t care. His voice remained steady, rolling over the tension in the room as if he were reciting lines from a well-rehearsed script. Karpin’s security detail. The club’s weak points. Entry and exit strategies. The words blurred together, dissolving into background noise beneath the low hum of static in your head. It was hard to focus when you could feel Bucky sitting across from you, motionless, barely even breathing, his whole body locked up like a loaded fucking gun. And the worst part? He probably thought he was doing a good job hiding it.

You didn’t stare, didn’t let your concern show. Instead, you leant back in your chair, tilting your head just enough to feign disinterest. “So, just another fun-filled evening of chatting up sweaty old men for me? Sounds like a dream.” Your voice came out dry, with just enough sarcasm to mask any wobbles. 

Fury didn’t spare you a glance. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself,” he said, tapping the screen again. More grainy footage. More blueprints. The details kept coming, but you barely registered them.

You picked at your thumbnail hard enough that the cuticle began to bleed.

Eventually, the meeting drew to a close. Chairs scraped against the floor as the team rose, murmuring amongst themselves as they filed out. You stood, ready to follow, but—

“You two, stick around,” Fury instructed.

You hesitated, glancing at him, then at Bucky, who had also stalled mid-step. Natasha and Yelena exchanged a knowing look, their amusement not at all subtle. You ignored their barely concealed grins as they disappeared through the door.

Fury exhaled, hands bracing against the table as he surveyed the two of you. 

“I’ll be honest,” he said finally. “I wasn’t convinced it would work when I paired you two. Thought maybe you’d kill each other before you got anything done.”

Bucky scoffed quietly, gaze flicking away.

“But you proved me wrong.” His good eye narrowed as he continued. “The mission was a success. You handled yourselves well.”

A beat of silence. Then, just as flatly, “I want to know if you’d be open to working together again. Similar style of operation.”

Your eyes slid over to Bucky, gauging his reaction. You didn’t want to appear too eager or give any more credence to the stories Yelena and Natasha were spinning, but most of all, you didn’t want to put words into Bucky’s mouth. You weren’t in the business of pressuring him in or out of the bedroom. 

Bucky was quiet as if silently working through some thoughts before deciding. Finally, he offered a dismissive “Sure.”

You nodded slowly, offering Fury a nonchalant shrug. “I’m fine with that.”

Fury’s lips twitched. Not quite a smirk.

“Well, that’s the most enthusiasm I’ve heard all day,” he deadpanned before shaking his head. “Damn, you two are depressing. Sitting there all broody, staring at me like I shot your goddamn dog.” 

Neither you nor Bucky reacted, which was met by a low chuckle from Fury. “Regardless, I appreciate the hard work. You made me a nice chunk of money winning some bets.”

Your brow furrowed. “You bet on us?”

Fury raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Course I did. Had to make it interesting. Half the team thought you’d get caught or kill each other before the first day was up.”

You blinked. “...Who bet against us?”

“Stark.” Fury’s lips twitched again. “He didn’t think you’d make it past security.”

Of course he did. Prick. 

—

"Alright, I’m in position."

You blinked. Bucky sat there like he was awaiting orders, his posture rigid as if he were about to breach enemy lines.  His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure where to put them like touching you required the same level of strategic planning as a high-stakes extraction mission.

You stared, straddling his hips, your fingers ghosting over his collarbone, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin. He didn’t quite meet your eyes, his gaze fixed somewhere just past your shoulder as if making direct contact might detonate something neither of you were ready for. For a split second, you half expected him to press a finger to an earpiece and murmur something about securing the perimeter.

In the dim glow of his bedroom, he looked every bit like a man being held hostage rather than one about to receive a very generous favour.

Lately… something felt off. The signs had been subtle at first, the way he always seemed a beat too calculated, his hands found the same places every time, and he would grow still like he was waiting for a command. 

And now, looking at him, so wound-up he might actually vibrate, it finally clicked.

Every touch and kiss was executed with the precision of a soldier running a drill rather than a man lost in the moment. It was methodical. He was analysing a strategy rather than experiencing pleasure. You half expected to glance down and see him taking notes—touch here, kiss there, don’t forget to do this. The thought horrified you, but if you were honest… it also amused you. 

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

“…Bucky, are you seriously treating this like a mission?”

He stiffened beneath you, his reaction just a fraction too quick, too defensive.

“What’d you mean?” His voice was steady, but there was an edge. He was already on guard, bracing for imaginary discipline. 

“The way you’re…” You trailed off, head inclining as you studied him. His jaw was clenched, brows drawn tight, the creased skin between them betraying him entirely. One could mistake him for a soldier behind enemy lines, waiting for the crack of a rifle. There were dark smudges under his eyes, no worse than usual. You knew he didn’t sleep well. Nightmares haunted him and left him running on fumes more often than not. You recognised the signs, and it was like you were looking into a mirror. 

“It’s like you have a mental checklist,” you murmured, watching for his reaction. “Like every move you make is planned like you’re running through a strategy in your head instead of just… feeling it.”

Bucky remained silent, his lips pressing into a firm line.

Gently, you squeezed his shoulder, fingertips pressing into hard muscle. He was tense—too tense. “You’re not clearing a building, Bucky. You’re not scanning for threats. You’re here with me. Just relax a little, won’t you?”

“I am relaxed.” He bit the words out, though neither his voice nor expression were even remotely convincing.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “I appreciate the attempt to lie, but when I can feel the fucking tension in your body, it’s a little, well, very obvious.” Your hands traced along his shoulders, fingers kneading into the tight knots beneath the fabric of his shirt. His muscles were rock-solid, never fully uncoiled. His body had forgotten how to rest.

“See?” You gave a pointed squeeze. “This is not ‘relaxed,’ Bucky. This is as solid as a goddamn steel beam.”

Bucky scoffed a tiny huff of air through his nose. “Those are my muscles. I work out. Don’t you?”

You gasped in mock delight, lips parting in exaggerated shock. “Oh my God. Did you just make a joke? Bucky, was that a joke?”

Something flickered in his expression for the first time, a sliver of amusement breaking through the ever-present brooding. He finally met your gaze, eyes crinkling just slightly at the corners, and the sight sent a flicker of warmth through your chest.

You grinned. “Well, isn’t that a first? Guess I should mark the calendar.”

His smirk was brief, fleeting—but it was there.

You softened, your voice dropping just a little. “But seriously, you need to loosen up.” Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, slow and deliberate.“Attraction, desire… sex. It’s messy, it’s unplanned. It’s not a mission. This isn’t the army.” 

You didn’t dare say the following words in your mind aloud. 

This isn’t H.Y.D.R.A. 

But you knew that was where his thoughts drifted, that unspoken trouble that plagued you both. Your fingers ghosted along the silver chain at his throat, the faint jingle of his dog tags barely audible under the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t have to follow orders. You can just be.”

“I know.” The words came low, rough, frayed at the edges. You could feel yourself losing him, his eyes growing foggy as if pulled away to a place you couldn’t quite reach to drag him out from.

“I just…” Another breath, deeper this time, as though steadying himself. “They used me. For so long, they used me as a weapon. I don’t know if I can ever be anything different than that. I don’t want to lose control—what happens if I lose—”

“Hey.” Your hands framed his face now, thumbs brushing against the sharp angles of his cheekbones, anchoring him. “Hey, look at me.”

His eyes lifted, hesitant, guarded.

“You are more than that.” The words were gentle but unwavering, as steady as your hands on him. “We are more than that, okay? You’re Bucky. Just Bucky. And you are in control. Say it.”

His fingers curled against your thighs, knuckles pressing into the cotton fabric of your shorts. He was quiet momentarily as though testing the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I’m in control.”

“You’re in control.” You echoed, smoothing your thumb over the faint stubble on his cheek. “And you still want to do this?”

His breath was slow, deliberate. “Yes.”

Your fingers had drifted higher, threading into his hair, the strands silky and cool beneath your touch. You swept a loose lock from his forehead, letting your fingertips linger against his temple. “And if you don’t want this at any point, what do you say?”

“Stop.”

“And what will happen if you say that?”

“You’ll stop. We’ll stop.”

“Good.” You praised him, your smile widening as you felt him squirm beneath you. There was a subtle hitch in his breath as your hands began to trail lower, palms smoothing down to his chest. The pulse at his throat fluttered beneath your fingertips, quick and uneven, betraying the calm he was trying to hold onto. You leant closer, your breath warm against his skin as you pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple. Then lower—to the sharp line of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, and finally to the hollow of his throat. A shudder ran through him, his grip on your hips tightening just a fraction. “Is this okay?”

“Yes.” He uttered after a thick, audible swallow.

You pulled back just enough to study him, to see how his lips parted slightly as though chasing the warmth of your touch. A quiet, almost reluctant noise rumbled in his chest, just shy of a whine. You traced your fingers along his jaw before tilting your head, considering him. “I want to try something.” You hummed to him. “You can say no if it’s too much, but I think it might help you.”

His brows furrowed. “Yeah?”

“I want to blindfold you—”

“You want to what?” He went rigid beneath you, every muscle tightening again as if you’d flipped a switch and snapped him back into defence mode.

“Hold on, just let me finish.” You held up your hand, hoping to counteract his immediate, instinctive reaction.

He huffed, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the response, but said nothing. 

“I want to blindfold you,” you repeated, slower this time, words deliberate. “And I want to kiss you. And touch you. I want you to focus on feeling good rather than anticipating something bad. I want you to just… be here with me. Not thinking about what comes next, not waiting for an attack. Just focusing on feeling. That’s all.”

His expression was cautious before turning to contemplation—as though weighing the idea against everything instinct told him.

“You can say no,” you reminded him gently.

“No, I—” He hesitated, his fingers twitching against your hips.

You shifted back just a little, offering him the space to decide. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do it.”

“No, I—shit—” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I mean—no, I want to. Yes. I want to try that.”

Your gaze searched his. “You’re sure?”

His lips pressed together, and then he nodded once, firmly. “Yes.”

You grinned, pressing a sloppy, lingering kiss to his temple before slipping off his lap with ease and rolling onto the bed beside him. “Do you have something we could use?”

“Uh, I don’t—”

“Like a tie, maybe? You wear suits, right? Or does Stark demand them back the second you step foot in the compound?”

Bucky let out a huff, eyes narrowing. “I don’t want to talk about Stark right now.”

You shot him a knowing look, but before you could tease him further, your gaze flickered downward—and you smirked. Even through the soft material of his sweatpants, you could see he was already half-hard. “Sure.”

A faint flush crept up his neck, staining his ears and cheeks pink. He cleared his throat, voice rough. “Top drawer. In the wardrobe.”

You were on your feet before he could finish, slipping into his walk-in wardrobe. Every apartment in the compound had one, though Bucky’s was noticeably bare. His clothes were monochrome, muted shades of grey, navy, and black. No bursts of colour. No sign of impulse. It was not a lack of wealth. You knew that for sure. No, this was intentional—a desire to blend in, to disappear.

You’d always known he was the type who preferred the shadows, slipping between crowds unnoticed. No wonder he hated the tailored suits Stark and Fury forced him into—arm issues aside. For some reason, S.H.I.E.L.D. were determined to parade him around. Look, the Winter Soldier. He’s a good boy now. He plays nice. Nothing to fear anymore. You were unsure how he felt about such displays, but you were sure it wasn’t too far off from how you felt about it. You had once been in his shoes, though more in the eye candy territory. A doll to dress up and play with, to smile and play the part.

Powerful men enjoyed degrading that which they knew to be dangerous, enjoyed playing with fire, and enjoyed the illusion of control. 

Shaking off the thought, you pulled open the top drawer, sifting through a few neatly folded ties. You selected a smooth black silk, running the cool fabric over your palm before returning to the bedroom.

Bucky was still seated at the edge of the bed, stiff as a board. His hands curled into fists atop his thighs, knuckles taut. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

You slowed, holding the tie between your fingers like approaching a spooked animal. Visible to inspect and assess. No threat.

“Yes?” you asked, giving him another chance to change his mind.

His jaw tightened, but he gave a short nod. “Yes.”

You smiled softly. “Just breathe, yeah? Like we always do.” You inhaled deeply through your nose, then exhaled slowly and steadily through your mouth.

After a beat, Bucky mirrored you, chest rising and falling with measured breaths.

You moved behind him, settling onto the bed. He sat still, poised for an attack. Carefully, you draped the silk tie over his eyes, looping it around his head and securing it with a loose knot. It wasn’t tight—one purposeful tug and it would slip free.

You could feel the tension radiating from him. Even blindfolded, he was hyper-aware, attuned to every rustle of the sheets, every shift of your weight. His breathing had turned shallower, the serum sharpening every sound, every sensation.

“If you need to stop for any reason, just say so.”

He jolted slightly at your voice, caught off guard in the quiet. “O-okay.” His voice wavered, and then he cursed low under his breath in Russian.

You grinned. Some habits died hard.

“I’m going to touch you now.” You crept closer, lifting onto your knees behind him. “Just focus on me and how it feels. Nothing else. Can you do that?”

He gave a slow, hesitant nod.

You started at his shoulders, palms skimming over firm muscle, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. Every dip and ridge, every knot of tension. Your hands slid to his collarbone, then across the joint where flesh met metal, mapping out the contrast between warm skin and the smooth, cold vibranium.

He was solid beneath your touch, every muscle taut and solid as it stretched across the bone.

You had noticed the way his shoulders gave him grief. The slight tilt of his frame and the way his left arm always sat heavier. It was incorrect weight distribution; the metal limb was too heavy compared to its flesh counterpart. S.H.I.E.L.D had surely offered him physical therapy—massages, treatment plans—but you doubted he had ever taken them up on it. He didn’t like to be touched by strangers. Too wary. Too untrusting. 

“Can I take off your shirt?” you asked softly.

He stilled.

“I don’t—” His voice was lower now, rougher. “My scars. They’re not—”

“I don’t care about that.”

He swallowed hard. “You don’t?”

“No,” you said firmly. “Why would I?” 

Without a word, his hand reached behind his head, gripping the collar of his shirt. He yanked it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing the fabric to the floor. You adjusted the blindfold where it had shifted, then let your gaze drift over the broad expanse of his back.

His shoulders were massive, sculpted with muscle. The scars on his left shoulder were brutal—jagged lines of gnarled tissue where the vibranium met flesh. It might have been seamless after the amputation. Painless even. But it had been H.Y.D.R.A who had ruined him, left scars so deep even the Wakandans couldn’t erase.

And H.Y.D.R.A didn’t care for comfort. They cared for necessity. Likely, you suspected, they had wanted him to suffer.

An endless reminder of their ownership.

You swallowed, then placed your hands on his shoulders again, thumbs pressing gently into the base of his neck. You started slow, careful, massaging along the muscle, working your way down. His skin was warm beneath your palms, the mass taut and unyielding at first, like stone beneath your fingers. But you took your time, applying gradual pressure, thumbs circling into the knots built over time.

Beneath your hands, Bucky let out a low, guttural sound—a half-growl, half-sigh of approval. His head dipped forward slightly, chin brushing his chest, an unspoken invitation to continue.

You kept going, kneading deep into the knots in his shoulders, feeling the tension resist before you coaxed it loose. With each press and roll of your fingers, the stiffness unravelled like a cord being undone, thread by thread. You worked methodically, digging your thumbs along the curve where his neck met his shoulders, pressing firmly enough to elicit another low, unconscious groan from him.

You bit back a smile as you felt him lean into you just a little.

Trailing downward, you traced the slope of his shoulder blades, following the ridges of tendons and old wounds. The scars on his left side were tougher, the tissue uneven where flesh met metal, but you didn’t hesitate. Your fingers brushed the seam between the vibranium and skin, then continued downward, thumbs pressing slow, firm circles along the fuse.

Bucky shuddered.

His breath hitched as you dug into the deep-seated strain along his spine. A sharp inhale, a low exhale—he was losing himself to the sensation, surrendering to your touch. You didn’t rush. You worked him slowly, thoroughly, feeling him yield with each measured stroke. When you reached the dip of his lower back, you flattened your hands, smoothing over the tightness that lingered. He was warm now, his skin melting like wax beneath your fingers.

Satisfied, you finally pulled back, smoothing your hands along his spine one last time before shifting your position.

Rising onto your knees, you moved around him, hands trailing over his shoulders as you slid into his lap. His breath stuttered, but he didn’t pull away. You settled against him, straddling his lap, your arms draping lazily over his shoulders. The blindfold was still secure, and he looked… calmer now. Less wound up, his jaw no longer locked so tightly.

“You okay?” You murmured.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Good,” you hummed, tilting your head, lips just inches from his ear. “I think you needed that.”

Bucky exhaled a breathy, almost disbelieving laugh, but he didn’t deny it.

Your fingers trailed up the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly against the short hairs, and you felt him shiver beneath you. You leaned in, lips brushing over his cheekbone, just at the edge of the blindfold, before trailing downward. You kissed along his jaw, soft and teasing, pressing your lips into the warm skin beneath his ear, down the column of his throat.

His hands fidgeted at his sides, tightening around the sheets. Then, as if giving in to some internal battle, they rose—hesitant but desperate. His fingers found your waist, sliding over the curve of your hips before gripping tight.

You grinned against his skin.

“There you go,” you murmured, voice a breath of silk against his throat.

A sharp exhale left him, his fingers tightening, pressing you closer, holding you in place. You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky groaned into the kiss.

It was soft at first, your mouth moving against his, teasing, coaxing him deeper. But it wasn’t long before he cracked. The tension he had held onto for so long—his control, his restraint—it frayed at the edges with every pass of your lips against his. You pressed closer, shifting in his lap, and the moment your hips rolled against him, his breath stuttered.

A broken sound escaped him, part groan, part whimper.

You did it again just to hear it.

His hands flexed against your sides, his hold firm, frantic, but he didn’t stop you. He only breathed harder, his forehead falling against yours as you peppered kisses along his lips, his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

Then you moved again, grinding against him slowly, carefully, and Bucky outright whimpered.

He made no effort to stop you—no attempt to control the rhythm, no resistance left in him. His mind was no longer caught in the tangle of right and wrong, of what he should or shouldn’t do.

He only felt.

Only responded.

You kissed him again, deeper, fiercer this time, and he met you with equal hunger.

Bucky’s hands roamed, sliding up your back. Then, his vibranium hand found your face, cradling it between cool, unyielding metal, and you shivered at the contrast—the bite of cold against your flushed skin, the sheer strength in his hold, barely restrained.

He kissed you like he was starving.

You sighed into his mouth, rolling your hips down to meet his, and he groaned—deep and guttural as his body jerked beneath you. He was fully hard now, the evidence pressing against you through his sweatpants, and you couldn't help the soft, breathy giggle that escaped between kisses.

Bucky growled, his grip tightening, his body chasing yours as you rocked against him.

Your hand trailed down, slipping between your bodies, fingers teasing along the waistband of his sweatpants. You could feel the heat of him, the way his breath hitched as your fingertips ghosted lower—

Then he flinched, catching your wrist in a shaky grip.

“Too much,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but the strain was evident.

Immediately, you withdrew, pulling your hand away without hesitation. “I’m sorry. Do you want to stop—”

“No.” he replied quickly, breathlessly.

You cupped his jaw, kissing him slowly, tenderly, as he shuddered beneath you. His hands flexed where they held you, his body still trembling with need, but he didn’t pull away. You kept your movements soft and gentle, pressing your forehead against his, letting him breathe as you kissed him repeatedly. 

“Is this better?” you checked in between kisses, voice warm, reassuring.

“Yes.” He muttered against your lips.

You kissed him deeper, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip and into his mouth.

His body convulsed beneath you, hips twitching up to meet yours, his breath turning shallow and erratic. You could feel the tremors coursing through him, his muscles tensed, his restraint crumbling with every slow, dragging roll of your hips.

Then, with a choked groan, he stiffened.

A broken moan tore from his throat as he came, his body shuddering beneath you. His breath hitched, then stilled, his head falling back onto the bed as he panted heavily, completely spent.

You smiled, watching his chest rise and fall, his body finally wholly relaxed.

You let him catch his breath, your hands smoothing over his chest in slow, soothing strokes. His eyes were still covered, the black silk of the tie snug against his skin, and for a moment, you just watched him—his expression relaxed in a way it so rarely was, his lips parted as he inhaled deep, steadying himself.

Reaching up, you brushed your fingers over his jaw before carefully undoing the knot at the back of his head. The tie slipped away with ease, and his eyes fluttered open, blinking as he adjusted to the room's dim light. His pupils were blown, irises hazy, but there was something else. Softness. An openness you didn’t often see.

“Hey,” you whispered.

His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “Hey.”

You leant down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before shifting off of him, allowing him to breathe. He hesitated momentarily before sitting up, his movements slow, almost reluctant. His sweatpants were clinging damply to his skin, and he grimaced slightly before rubbing a hand over his face.

“I should, uh—” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be right back.”

You nodded, watching as he climbed off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. The soft sound of running water followed soon after. You stayed where you were, fingers idly playing with the silk tie as you listened, giving him the space to clean up and gather himself.

When he returned, his sweatpants had been swapped for a fresh pair, the fabric hanging loose around his hips. His hair was damp in uneven patches where he’d raked wet fingers through it, a lazy attempt at tidying up. He lingered in the doorway, weight shifting from one foot to the other, eyes flickering over you like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You patted the empty space beside you. “Come here.”

His shoulders loosened just a fraction before he climbed back onto the bed, settling beside you with a quiet sigh. He was warm—solid and steady. Without thinking, you nestled closer, resting your head against his chest. His arm came around you automatically, like muscle memory, pulling you in and holding you there.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, barely above a whisper, you asked, “Did you like it?”

Bucky exhaled a deep, slow breath. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice lower than usual, like he wasn’t used to saying it. “I did.”

You smiled, tracing absentminded circles against his chest. “What did you like about it?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers toying with the hem of your shirt. When he finally spoke, his voice was careful.

“It made it easier,” he murmured. “Not seeing. I could just… feel. Focus on what was happening instead of everything else.” His thumb brushed lightly against your side. “Didn’t have to worry about if I was doing something wrong.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. “Bucky, you’ve never done anything wrong.”

“I know,” he said, but his voice was tight, a shadow crossing his expression. “It’s just—” He stopped, mouth pressing into a thin line.

You reached up, smoothing a hand over his cheek. “Talk to me.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, so quietly you almost missed it, he said, “I’m scared of it sometimes.”

Your brows furrowed. “Scared of what?”

“Pleasure.”

His fingers tightened slightly against your side like he was bracing himself, but he didn’t look away from you.

“I was taught…” He inhaled sharply. “That it could only be taken. Taken from me. That it was never given freely.” His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “That it wasn’t mine to have.”

Slowly, carefully, you sat up, shifting so you were fully facing him. He looked at you, expression guarded, but there was something vulnerable beneath it, something fragile in the way he held himself.

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Those people, the ones who taught you that, they were trying to hurt you, degrade you,” you told him firmly. “Pleasure is to be shared equally. It’s something you deserve.” You squeezed his hand, your voice softening.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came.

“I want you to know that you don’t have to do anything to earn it,” you whispered.

He swallowed hard, his grip on your hand tightening. His voice was barely above a breath when he said, “I don’t know if I know how.”

You smiled softly. “That’s okay. We have time.”

You lifted his hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to his knuckles before settling back down beside him. His warmth seeped into you, but the ache in your chest remained—persistent, lingering. It had nothing to do with exhaustion, the tension in your muscles, or even the way your body still hummed with remnants of touch. No, this ache came from somewhere deeper, from the thoughts unravelling in your mind like a loose thread tugged too far, too fast as you contemplated his confession. 

You had always been a giver. That was your role, your purpose. You gave and gave until there was nothing left. Until you were hollow inside. And yet, the world kept asking for more. You wondered if, over time, it had chipped away at your soul, piece by piece, until there was nothing left.

The words left your lips before you could stop them, before you had the chance to weigh whether you truly wanted to say them aloud.

“Do you ever feel like you’re not… whole?”

Bucky turned his head slightly, his brows furrowing in the low light, lids heavy as he blinked his dark lashes. He didn’t press or demand, didn’t look at you as if he needed clarification. He just waited, silently, like he knew you weren’t finished.

So you kept going.

“Like with every mission, every fight, every demand, you lose something? A tiny piece of yourself, given away without even realising it?” Your voice dropped lower. Bucky was still beside you, completely still, only his breath tickling your cheek with each slow rise and fall of his chest.

“I don’t even know if I’m still the person I was when I was born or if I’ve just been rebuilt from borrowed parts. Pieces given to me, made for me, shaped to fit what I was supposed to become.” You exhaled a sharp breath. “Or maybe… what they wanted me to become.”

The words were bitter on your tongue, and yet they kept coming.

“And I think… maybe I’m afraid that if I ever showed the real me, the world would reject me. That they’d be disgusted by my soul. By everything I have done.”

A shaky breath left your lips, your voice barely more than a whisper now.

“Because sometimes… sometimes I think the only way people will keep me around is if I give them something in return.”

Silence.

You turned your head toward him, searching his face, waiting for something—anything—that would tell you what he was thinking. You hoped for a look, a breath, a word to ground you. But as your gaze swept over him, you realised his breathing had evened out, his lashes fluttering softly against his cheeks. The sharp furrow of his brow had smoothed, his lips slightly parted in a way that spoke of exhaustion finally pulling him under.

Asleep.

Your words had been lost to him.

You weren’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment.

Maybe it was for the best. He needed the rest, the peace of slumber more than you did. Even now, in the soft glow of the room, dark circles remained etched beneath his eyes.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling momentarily before carefully slipping out of bed. You moved with quiet precision, gathering your things without making a sound. When you reached the door, you hesitated, glancing back.

For a second, a small, selfish part of you wished he had—wished he had heard you, had held you, had given you something, anything, to quiet the storm inside your chest. But he hadn’t.

And maybe that meant you could take the words back.

Tuck them away for another time.

Or hold onto them forever, maybe all you had needed was to say them aloud, even if only silence itself was listening.

Bucky didn’t stir from his slumber, not even when the door clicked shut behind you.

PART THREE

---

taglist: @civilbucky @buckysbbydoll @rosegarbage @fleurenoir @oikarma @blackstabbath6 @kcbug1128 @ellesbellswrites @thaynarajejheje @wunder-blunder @oceanaroma @dyscalculiaaa @murdocklvrr @pursuedbyamemoryy @fantasyheroine @chronicallybubbly @nikkinss @maryevm @doilooklikeagiveafrack (sorry if it didn't tag anyone properly)

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 25: June 2024 - Part 6

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was quiet. Soft. Safe.

It always felt that way here — a small haven away from the noise of circuits and media storms, from the sharp edges of being forgotten and the new weight of suddenly being seen. The window let in filtered afternoon light, and Simone’s office smelled faintly of lavender and old books.

Belle sat curled in her usual corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, hands wrapped around a mug of peppermint tea she hadn’t yet touched.

Simone sat across from her with her notebook closed, eyes kind, waiting.

“I think the worst part,” Belle said softly, after a long pause, “is that I didn’t expect it to feel so loud.”

Simone tilted her head slightly. “The public knowing?”

Belle nodded. “It was quiet for so long. Just ours. Just… safe. But now—one photo, and suddenly everyone’s watching.”

“Does it feel like a loss of control?” Simone asked gently.

“Yes. And no.” Belle looked down at her mug. “I wanted people to know. Eventually. I chose to walk into the paddock. I chose to kiss him. I posted the photo. It wasn’t an accident. But now everyone has an opinion. People I’ve never met are dissecting my life like it’s a press release.”

Simone let the silence settle for a moment, then asked, “What grounded you when it started to feel overwhelming?”

Belle smiled faintly. “Max. He always knows when I’m spiraling — even before I do. He’ll just take my hand or touch my back and everything feels quieter.”

There was a pause.

“I told Arthur,” Belle said, voice softer now.

Simone’s brows lifted slightly. “How did that feel?”

“Better than I expected,” Belle admitted. “He didn’t defend Charles. He didn’t make excuses. He just showed up. And he listened.”

“That’s progress,” Simone said gently.

Belle nodded. “But it’s only him. I haven’t spoken to anyone else.”

“Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet for a long time. Then: “I don’t know.”

Simone didn’t press her. Just waited.

“I think part of me still wants them to reach out. To say sorry without being prompted. To see me on their own. Not because they’re embarrassed or because the media caught on. Just… because they miss me.” Her voice cracked just slightly on that last word.

Simone’s tone was careful, but warm. “It’s okay to want that.”

“I know. I just don’t know if they’re capable of it.”

“And if they’re not?” Simone asked gently.

Belle looked up. “Then I move forward without them.”

Another pause.

“Can I offer a thought?” Simone asked.

Belle nodded.

“If you do choose to let them in again — not now, not even soon, but eventually — it might be helpful to bring those conversations into a neutral space. Somewhere safe.”

Belle’s gaze flicked toward her. “Like here?”

Simone gave a small smile. “Like family therapy. With boundaries. With someone to help hold the structure while you explore whether rebuilding is even possible.”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t want to excuse what they did,” she said. “Or pretend everything’s fine because I married someone famous and suddenly they care.”

“I would never ask you to,” Simone replied gently. “You’ve already built a life. A marriage. Soon a family of your own. The question is whether you want to let them try to earn a place in it.��

Belle’s eyes shimmered, but she blinked them clear. “I think I might be open to the idea.”

“That’s enough for today.”

Belle let out a slow breath.

And for the first time since the Parc Fermé kiss and the global chaos that followed, the silence in her chest didn’t feel like pressure.

It felt like peace.

***

It started with a dress.

Just a simple, pale blue linen one — a favorite of hers. Soft. Easy. Forgiving in the waist. She’d worn it to coffee with Emilie two weeks ago and felt fine in it. Pretty, even.

Now, it wouldn’t zip.

Belle stood in the center of the bedroom, barefoot on the rug, hair still damp from the shower, the zipper stuck halfway up her back as she twisted and strained and tried not to cry.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a flood of hormones and tears and shouting. It was quiet.

A soft, sharp ache of realization.

Her body had changed overnight.

She turned slowly toward the mirror. Pressed a hand to her stomach. What had once been the faintest suggestion now had shape. Curve. Weight. Not enough to scream pregnant to the world, but more than enough to make her clothes sit wrong. To make her feel like a stranger in her own skin.

The zipper finally gave up entirely, and Belle stepped out of the dress with more frustration than grace.

She tried another — a black cotton shift. Still no. Then a flowy skirt — fine at the hips, but suddenly too snug at the waist. A button-down she’d always liked? The buttons across her chest strained so badly it looked like they were preparing for launch.

One by one, the pieces fell to the floor around her.

When she finally dropped into the edge of the bed, she was surrounded by the soft wreckage of what used to fit. A fabric battlefield. Her hands rested on her knees, her breath shallow, her chest tight.

She hadn’t expected to feel sad.

This was supposed to be beautiful — the beginning of something. The miracle. The glow.

But all she could think was: Nothing fits anymore.

And Max wasn’t there.

He’d left for the race two days ago — a back-to-back weekend with media, meetings, track walks. He’d kissed her forehead before leaving, pressed a palm gently over her belly, whispered something about texting her after every session.

But he wasn’t here.

Not now, when her body had changed without warning and she didn’t know how to dress it. Not now, when she just wanted someone to look at her and say, you’re still you.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it without hope — then saw his name.

Max: Morning, Schatje. I just got out of briefing. I miss you. How’s our co-pilot today?

Belle’s throat tightened. Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second before she typed back.

Belle: I miss you too. Co-Pilot seems to be growing faster than expected. Nothing fits. At all. It’s ridiculous. I feel like a puffed pastry with a heart rate.

The reply came almost instantly.

Max: That is the most adorable description of pregnancy I’ve ever heard. And also: please stop being mean to my wife. You’re beautiful. You’re growing our baby. I’m buying you stretchy things. All the stretchy things.

Belle let out a quiet, helpless laugh — one that cracked right through the tightness in her chest.

Another message came in:

Max: Also I demand a photo. Even if you’re in my hoodie with no pants. Especially then, actually.

Belle shook her head, smiling through the sting in her eyes.

She stood, padded over to the wardrobe again, and pulled out one of Max’s hoodies. It swallowed her whole, but it didn’t pinch. It didn’t judge. It just fit — in the way that mattered.

She took the photo. Hair damp. No makeup. Hoodie halfway down her thighs. The bump was there. Soft. Round. Theirs.

She sent it to him with one line:

Belle: This is what “nothing fits” looks like.

A minute passed.

Then Max replied:

Max: That’s my favorite person with my favorite future inside her. Perfect. P.S. I’m coming home the second this race is over.

And somehow, in that moment, even with her body unfamiliar and her closet defeated…

Belle didn’t feel alone anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Belle: Slightly odd question. Do you remember what you wore when you were trying to hide your pregnancies?

Victoria: Hahaha Has the bump arrived?

Belle: It ambushed me. Overnight. I woke up and suddenly nothing zips and my jeans are threatening to report me to the authorities.

Victoria: God, I remember that phase. I once cried in a Zara changing room because a wrap dress betrayed me. So yes. I remember it well.

Victoria: Okay. Hiding-the-bump tips from a three-time pro:

Flowy dresses

Button-downs + high-waisted trousers unbuttoned and safety pinned

Distracting accessories (big earrings = nobody’s looking at your belly)

Never underestimate a good scarf

Belle: You’re terrifyingly prepared. I love you.

Victoria: We all cope in our own ways. Mine is emotional support designer handbag. Also. You’re glowing.

Belle: I’m sweating and panicked.

Victoria: That’s pregnancy, darling. And when in doubt, steal Max’s clothes, throw on lipstick, and pretend you’re doing it on purpose.

Belle: I’m texting you before every outfit now.

Victoria: I expect nothing less.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: Everything I own has turned against me. I just tried on five dresses. None of them fit. One popped a button and hit me in the face.

Emilie: i’m sorry but this is the funniest tragedy i’ve ever read

Belle: I’m going to have to start wearing Max’s hoodies exclusively. Like some sort of tiny, emotionally unstable Formula 1 driver.

Emilie: you say that like it’s not THE aesthetic of the season also: pls send a pic immediately

Belle: No makeup. Wet hair. Hoodie down to my knees. I look like if depression bought a scented candle.

Emilie: okay that’s going in your baby book "week 16: mother described herself as a sad candle in sportswear" you’re glowing, aren't you?

Belle: No. I’m sweating and mildly offended by cotton. But thank you.

Emilie: you are perfect and your body is doing literal magic and i will be there tomorrow with snacks, tissues, and an emergency haul of ethically-sourced maternity leggings

Belle: I don’t deserve you.

Emilie: no but you’re stuck with me anyway

***

The house was glowing.

Not literally — though the late afternoon sun poured golden light through the open shutters like a blessing — but in the way old homes do when they’ve been cared for. When someone’s loved them back into themselves.

Belle stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a pencil tucked behind one ear, as Daniel and Jules stepped inside.

“Mon Dieu,” Daniel breathed. “It’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

Jules let out a soft, stunned sound and turned in a slow circle, eyes catching every detail — the reclaimed beams overhead, the soft plaster walls in a mineral-washed hue, the original tile floor gently cleaned and sealed instead of replaced.

“I can’t believe this is the same house,” Jules said.

“I can,” Daniel murmured. “Because she did it.”

Belle smiled, cheeks warm. “It’s almost done. A few details left — hardware, window treatments, the stone for the kitchen counters is coming Tuesday.”

“Don’t rush,” Jules said. “We’d sleep on the floor if we had to.”

“No need,” Belle said, leading them deeper into the space. “The guest room is fully dressed. Just in case.”

They passed through the arch into the main living room. The old fireplace had been restored, the stone gently cleaned but still mottled with history. Belle had designed built-in shelves on either side — painted in a soft green-grey that picked up the light without swallowing it — and filled them with old books and ceramics she’d sourced from local artisans.

“Belle,” Daniel said softly. “This is… art.”

She smiled at that. Not flustered. Just pleased.

They moved into the kitchen, where Belle had reimagined the space entirely without losing a single antique tile. A large farmhouse sink had been inset into a custom cabinet she’d designed herself, and the walls were finished in limewash — textured, tactile, alive.

The wide French doors at the back opened onto the courtyard. Once crumbling, it was now a soft, green heart of the home. The old fig tree remained, but Belle had added lavender, herbs, and climbing jasmine that was already threatening to devour the wall.

Jules stepped outside. “You saved the soul of this place.”

“I didn’t want to change it,” Belle said. “Just… listen to it.”

Daniel glanced over at her, smiling. “It’s rare. What you do. Most people walk into old houses and want to erase the past. You made it feel like time had layered into the house instead of over it.”

Belle blinked. Something caught behind her ribs — not pride, exactly, but something deeper. Recognition.

“It’s the first full project I did under my name,” she said quietly. “No firm. No partners. Just me.”

“And it shows,” Daniel said. “There’s nothing generic here. Every choice feels personal. Considered.”

“There are still a few finishing touches. Light fixtures in the guest room, and one of the shutters needs repair. But everything else is… as planned,” Belle explained.

Jules looked around again — eyes slightly glassy now. “It’s more than we imagined.”

Daniel stepped beside Belle and nudged her gently. “You didn’t just design this. You gave it a soul.”

Belle swallowed around the sudden ache in her throat.

“I just listened,” she said. “To what the house wanted to be. And to what you needed it to hold.”

“You do realize this is what great designers say when they’re being modest,” Daniel said dryly.

But Jules only smiled and took Belle’s hands in his. “You made us a home.”

And somehow, that landed more than any award ever could.

As they sat down at the table with lemonade and cheese and fresh bread Jules had insisted on bringing from their favorite bakery, Belle let herself relax into the moment.

The laughter was easy. The compliments genuine. There was no shadow of someone else’s name over her work, no sense of borrowed validation.

Just sunlight, and two clients-turned-friends, and a house that now breathed.

And for the first time in her career, Belle didn’t feel like she was working to prove anything.

She had already done it.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: wanna tell me what the actual FUCK that was between max and lando????

Belle: Define “that.”

Emilie: THE AGGRESSIVE WHEEL-TO-WHEEL “ARE WE ENEMIES NOW” SLAP FIGHT THE DEATH STARES THE POST-RACE NON-HANDSHAKE I’M SORRY, IS THE BRO MANCE DEAD??

Belle: Ah. That.

Emilie: YES. THAT. YOUR HUSBAND WENT FULL FINAL BOSS MODE AND LANDO LOOKED LIKE HE WAS ABOUT TO BITE HIM

Belle: They’ll talk. Eventually.

Emilie: ARE THEY BREAKING UP DO I NEED TO GET THE DIVORCE LAWYERS DO I GET YOU IN THE CUSTODY BATTLE DOES LANDO GET VISITATION WITH THE BABY

Belle: 😂 You are so dramatic. And yes, obviously. 

Emilie: you joke but i’m FUMING i just spent six months convincing myself they were soft-launch brothers-in-arms and now max overtakes like that and lando’s giving “you were supposed to love me” after the race

Belle: It’s called racing, Em.

Emilie: it’s called betrayal he made him crash he gave him a puncture he RUINED HIM i’ve read enemies-to-lovers with less sexual tension than that post-race stare

Belle: Do you want me to ask Max for his side?

Emilie: no

Belle:For the record: Max says he “defended hard” And Lando “should’ve backed out sooner.” He also muttered something about “this is why I don’t have friends.”

Emilie: tell him that’s the most dramatic thing he’s said since “I’m not here to make friends” in 2015

Belle: He is the drama

Emilie: and you married him god i’m proud of you

Belle: Would you and Lando like to come for dinner tomorrow?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME??

Belle: Max is sulking. Lando is brooding. You’re screaming in all caps. I’m fixing it.

Emilie: YOU THINK A CHICKEN PARM IS GONNA FIX A BROKEN BROMANCE

Belle: Yes. That and a homemade lemon tart. Also, you’re bringing wine.

Emilie: oh my god you’re staging a peace summit this is monaco-based diplomacy you’re literally brokering a ceasefire

Belle: We’ve avoided a Red Bull–McLaren cold war so far. I’d like to keep it that way. Also Max gets weird when Lando’s mad at him.

Emilie: i’m bringing rosé and a truce playlist

Belle: Perfect. Tomorrow. 7 PM. We’re serving forgiveness with a side of grilled vegetables.

Emilie: you’re a queen a legend a domestic diplomat

Belle: Good. See you tomorrow. Also, if they refuse to make eye contact, we’re putting on a two-player Mario Kart match and leaving the room.

Emilie: excellent. passive-aggressive gaming therapy. you’re a genius

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Congratulations on the podium 🧡 You were phenomenal today. Clean, calm, clinical. (And you looked very smug on the podium. It suited you.)

Oscar: Thank you 😊 It’s always nice when Max and Lando are too busy crashing into each other to notice I exist.

Belle: Speaking of which... Care to tell me what that was?

Oscar: Which part? The wheel-to-wheel drama? The parc ferme tension? The complete emotional collapse of an F1 friendship?

Belle: All of it. I’m trying to prep for tomorrow’s “spaghetti and feelings” dinner.

Oscar: I’d recommend garlic bread. And helmets.

Belle: Are they talking?

Oscar: Define “talking.” Max said “he’ll get over it.” Lando said “he can bite me.” So, no.

Belle: Excellent. Nothing like emotional maturity from two men who drive at 300km/h for a living.

Oscar: Incredible athletes. Emotionally 14.

Belle: We’ve having dinner tomorrow. I’m staging a ceasefire over lemon tart.

Oscar: Bold of you Godspeed Let me know if I need to be on standby for emotional support 

Belle: You might. If they refuse to speak, they’re playing Mario Kart until one of them cries.

Oscar: So, normal Verstappen conflict resolution. Got it 👍

Belle: Exactly.

***

Belle pulled the lemon tart out of the fridge at exactly 6:58 PM.

It was perfect. Glazed, golden, topped with thin slices of candied lemon and just enough powdered sugar to look effortless without trying too hard. Not unlike her strategy for this entire dinner.

She heard Max pacing somewhere near the front hallway again. That made lap four. Five, if she counted the loop past the cat bowls.

“Max,” she called gently. “It’s dinner. Not an FIA hearing.”

“They’re late,” he muttered, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

“They’re two minutes late.”

Max crossed his arms, expression unreadable. “Maybe we should cancel.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Because Lando didn’t arrive early to apologize like a teenager with flowers and a mixtape?”

Max looked away. Belle handed him the salad tongs.

“Go toss the greens and remember you’re a grown man with three world championship titles and a mortgage,” she said sweetly.

He muttered something in Dutch and obeyed.

The buzzer rang at 7:03.

Belle opened the door to find Emilie in her best peacekeeping sundress, holding a bottle of rosé in one hand and a smug smile on her face. Lando trailed behind her, suspiciously quiet, clutching a bakery box like it was a bomb.

“We brought peach galette,” Emilie announced. “And emotional tension.”

Belle stepped aside. “We already have both.”

Dinner began civilly enough.

The pasta was well-timed. The wine poured freely. The cats were temporarily bribed into not launching themselves onto the table.

Max and Lando, however, exchanged exactly four words in the first twenty minutes:

“Hi.” “Hi.” “Water?” “Sure.”

The eye contact was brief. The fork clinking was aggressive.

Belle and Emilie carried the conversation like diplomats on a sinking cruise ship. They talked about weather, Monaco construction permits, the absurdity of a $400 baby monitor Belle had returned on principle. They laughed. They smiled.

The boys sulked.

At one point, Max stabbed a roasted carrot like it had insulted his ancestors. Lando sighed in a way that could've shattered glass.

Belle met Emilie’s gaze across the table.

Time for the nuclear option.

“Okay,” Belle said, standing up. “Dessert in a bit. But first—living room.”

Lando blinked. “What?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“Because,” Belle said, already walking, “I’m not hosting a three-course cold war.”

Emilie followed with the wine glasses. “We’re resolving this like adults.”

“In Mario Kart,” Belle added.

Max groaned. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m married to you. I’ve never been more serious.”

Lando slumped onto the couch. “This is ridiculous.”

Belle handed him a controller. “And yet you’re already holding the remote.”

Max hesitated—just long enough for Belle to raise an eyebrow. “Afraid to lose?”

He sat down next to Lando like she’d physically shoved him. “I’ve beaten him in real life. I’ll survive Rainbow Road.”

“Your funeral,” Lando muttered.

By the second race, Max had stopped muttering under his breath.

By the fourth, he and Lando were arguing about blue shell etiquette.

By the sixth, Belle and Emilie had abandoned the couch entirely and were watching from the kitchen doorway, with Emilie sipping rosé and Belle snacking on lemon tart, like it was theatre.

“I give it ten more minutes before they forget they were mad,” Emilie whispered.

“Seven,” Belle said, just as Lando shouted, “That’s what you get for punting me off in Austria!”

Max howled. “YOU STARTED IT.”

Belle smiled. “And… there it is.”

By the time dessert hit the table, Lando was retelling the story of Max drunk in a night club and accidentally running into a wall while sneezing. Max was defending himself with increasing indignation. Emilie was crying with laughter. And Belle?

Belle sat back in her chair, hand resting gently over her stomach, watching her husband finally laugh again.

And she thought — this is what peacekeeping looks like.

A lemon tart. A glass of wine. A video game and a well-timed eye roll.

And love.

Always, love.

***

Max hadn’t meant to wake up early.

The apartment was still hushed in the pale-blue light of morning, curtains shifting faintly with the breeze from the balcony doors. Monaco always felt quieter before eight — like even the yachts were still asleep.

He stretched, one arm blindly reaching for Belle’s side of the bed.

Empty.

The faint sound of running water met his ears, and then the rustle of a drawer, a closet door sliding open.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his hand over his face, and padded barefoot into the hallway.

What he saw stopped him completely.

Belle stood in front of the mirror in the closet, turned slightly sideways, her back to the door. She was barefoot, her hair in a loose braid, wearing nothing but a pair of soft cotton shorts and one of his white tank tops — the thin kind she always stole from his drawer without asking.

And her bump — their bump — was there. Real. Rounded. Glowing in the soft morning light.

Max felt something in his chest shift.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her. Watched the way she ran her fingers over her stomach, gently, reverently, like she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Like it had finally hit her, too.

Belle caught his reflection in the mirror and startled. “God, Max—say something before you scare me to death.”

But she didn’t move to hide.

Didn’t reach for a robe or yank down the hem of the tank top.

And Max… Max couldn’t look away.

“I didn’t know it was like this already,” he said quietly.

Belle turned toward him, one hand resting low on her belly. “It kind of… popped overnight.”

He crossed the room slowly, his eyes never leaving her. When he stopped in front of her, his hands came up automatically — one to her cheek, the other hovering just above her bump.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Belle nodded, her eyes warm.

He placed his hand against her skin. Warm. Soft. Alive.

A small intake of breath escaped him — almost a laugh, but softer. “You’re really in there,” he murmured.

Belle smiled, tired and radiant all at once. “Surprise.”

He kissed her, slow and steady, his hand never leaving her stomach.

When he pulled back, his voice was a little rougher. “How long until you can’t hide it anymore?”

She exhaled. “A few weeks, maybe. Less if they keeps growing like this.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then: “Do you want to keep hiding it?”

Belle leaned into his chest, resting her forehead there. “I don’t know. Part of me likes having it just for us. But… part of me wants to stop hiding. Stop pretending nothing’s changed when everything has.”

Max nodded slowly. “We don’t have to post anything. Not unless you want to.”

She looked up at him. “Would you be okay with the media knowing? With the fans knowing?”

“I’m okay with them knowing we’re building a life together,” he said simply. “They’ll say things. They always do. But they don’t get to have this. Only see it. And only what we give them.”

Belle’s throat tightened. “What if they say I’m just—what if they think this is why we got married? That it wasn’t about us?”

“They can think whatever they want,” Max said firmly. “But I know. You know. And this baby—” he pressed his hand gently to her stomach again, “—will grow up knowing they were born from love. Not gossip.”

Belle nodded, slow and quiet. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I think…” She paused. “I think when it feels right, I want to share it. I just want to do it our way. Not through a headline. Not through some PR leak. Just… something honest. Something small.”

Max smiled. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

She leaned into him again, and he held her there — the two of them wrapped in early morning quiet, one heartbeat becoming three.

***

He didn’t mean to play for hours.

But his hands moved without thought, without permission — soft notes tumbling out one after another, half-finished melodies bleeding into each other, no structure, no rhythm. Just the ache in his chest, transposed into minor keys.

Charles stared at the keys without really seeing them.

Everything since the Spanish Grand Prix had felt like that. Blurred. Half-lit. Shame washing over him in waves until it was hard to tell what day it was.

Fred’s voice still rang in his head.

"He’s not just beating you on track. He’s beating you in every other way that matters."

It should’ve made him angry. Months ago, maybe it would have. But now?

Now it just made him tired.

The front door clicked open quietly.

Charles didn’t stop playing.

Alexandra stepped into the room, keys in hand, sunglasses pushed into her hair. She paused just beyond the piano, watching him. Listening.

He shifted into something sadder without realizing it.

She said nothing for a long time. Just let him play.

Finally: “That’s new.”

Charles nodded, fingers barely brushing the keys. “I didn’t write it down. I won’t remember it.”

Alexandra sat on the armrest of the couch across from him. “That bad, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Alexandra watched him a beat longer. Then: “You haven’t said anything since Fred tore into you.”

“He was right.”

That surprised her.

Charles didn’t look up. “He was right about everything. About Belle. About Max. About me.”

Alexandra folded her arms, softening slightly. “Charles—”

“I forgot her birthday,” he said, voice flat. “I forgot where she lived. I didn’t know she moved. I didn’t know she quit her job. And I found out she was married with the rest of the world.”

A pause.

“I used to be the person she told everything to.”

His voice cracked on used to.

Alexandra shifted closer. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.” His hands stilled. “And I don’t blame her.”

“She’s your sister.”

“I forgot how to act like her brother.”

It wasn’t said for sympathy. It was just… fact.

He pressed a key. Dissonant. Hollow.

Alexandra exhaled. “You know what I think?”

Charles didn’t answer, but his silence invited it.

“I think you’re not upset she married Max,” she said gently. “You’re upset she didn’t tell you. Because it forced you to realize how far away you let her drift.”

That landed deep.

Charles looked at the keys like they might offer him absolution.

“She stopped waiting for me,” he said, barely a whisper.

“She had to stop,” Alexandra replied. “You never showed up.”

He didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Charles admitted.

“You can’t,” Alexandra said, standing. “Not completely. But you can start by owning that it’s not about you. Not her silence. Not her love. Not Max. You don’t get to demand a place in her life just because you regret not earning it before.”

That hurt more than Fred’s words.

Because it was the truth.

Alexandra stepped forward and kissed the top of his head, just briefly.

“Let her choose if you belong,” she said softly. “But maybe, for once, don’t try to race your way back in.”

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

Charles sat at the piano, still and quiet, and let the silence press in around him like a tide.

He looked down at his hands.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure they knew how to fix anything anymore.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Arthur Leclerc

Arthur: hey just wanted to check in how are you?

Belle: Hi That’s a surprise A nice one

Arthur: yeah well i figured it was my turn to show up you always did that for me even when i didn’t deserve it

Arthur: so you okay?

Belle: I’m good. Quiet days. Work. Sleep. Max. He’s home this week, which helps. I’ve been reading again.

Arthur: you always read when you feel safe i remember that

Belle: I do. Books are still better than people sometimes.

Arthur: not going to argue there i just wanted you to know i think about you a lot even when i don’t say anything

Belle: I know. I think about you too.

Arthur: and I’m sorry for forgetting the little things for thinking you’d always be there whether I showed up or not I hate that it took losing you to notice how much I missed

Belle: You didn’t lose me. You just stopped looking. But you’re here now. That counts for something.

Arthur: thanks for giving me the chance to do better i won’t waste it

Belle: I hope you don’t. Because I missed my little brother.

Arthur: still here still annoying just a bit slower to grow up

Belle: You’re getting there One awkward text at a time

Arthur: baby steps

Belle: 😉

***

They were sitting at the dining table, Belle with her laptop open and a very stubborn government website loading at glacial speed. The overhead lights were low, the cats were asleep on the windowsill, and the apple tart from dinner was reduced to a pair of crumbs and a fork that Max kept stealing bites with.

“I need to go to the town hall next week,” Belle said, frowning at her screen. “It’s ridiculous how many steps it takes to change a last name. I have to book an appointment just to show them I’m legally married.”

Max looked up from where he was balancing a spoon on his finger. “Want me to come with you?”

She smiled. “I think I can survive bureaucracy alone.”

“I don’t know,” he said, mock-serious. “You’re pregnant and emotionally allergic to slow websites.”

“Barely showing and mildly inconvenienced is not the same thing,” Belle replied, nudging his foot under the table.

He grinned, then leaned back in his chair. “We should change your credit card too. It still says Leclerc.”

She groaned. “One paperwork nightmare at a time.”

Max tilted his head, thoughtful now. “And we should probably set up a meeting with our lawyers.”

Belle paused mid-keystroke. “Why?”

He shrugged, casual. “Just to go over everything.”

“Max,” she said gently. “What kind of everything?”

He didn’t answer right away.

His fingers were still playing with the fork, but his gaze had drifted — focused, serious in that quiet way he got when he was thinking too far ahead.

“I want to make sure things are in place,” he said eventually. “For you. For the baby. If something happens to me.”

Belle’s heart pulled.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” she said softly.

“If something happens to me — if I crash or something stupid happens off-track — I want everything set up. No grey areas. No questions.”

Belle set the mug she was holding down carefully on the table and turned fully toward him.

“Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m not planning on dying,” Max said, managing a half-smile. “But I also know how this works. I’ve seen it happen to other drivers. One second, you’re invincible. The next…” He trailed off. “I don’t want you or the baby in limbo if the worst happens.”

She reached out slowly, threading her fingers through his. “You think about that?”

“Every time I get in the car now,” he admitted. “Not in a panicked way. But it’s there. You changed the way I calculate risk.”

“I’m not planning to die,” he added, a wry smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “I’m just planning in case. I want to make sure you’re protected. That the house is in your name too. That there’s no confusion. That if I can’t speak for myself, you can. Not my father. Not my mother. You.”

Belle sat very still.

Not because she was scared. But because it hit her, suddenly and all at once, how much he was already carrying — not just the weight of fame and expectation and fatherhood, but this fierce, unspoken drive to shield her from the storm.

“I married you because I love you,” Max said. “But I also married you because you’re my person. And I want to make sure you’re not left sorting through a legal mess if the worst ever happens.”

Belle nodded, throat tight. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

She reached across the table and took his hand. “Let’s make the appointment.”

Max exhaled — a little like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.

And Belle, looking at the man who had been so many things to the world — champion, rival, myth — realized that this version of him, the one quietly planning a will while stealing bites of lemon tart, was the one she loved most.

The one who knew the risks. And stayed anyway.

The one who chose her. And kept choosing her.

Even in the fine print.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Lorenzo: We need to get ahead of this before she cuts us out completely. We’ve let it go on too long.

Charles: What do you want me to do, Lorenzo? I said I wanted to talk to her. She doesn’t answer.

Arthur: Because she’s not ready. You don’t get to demand a timeline for forgiveness.

Pascale: I sent her a long message last week. I said I missed her. She didn’t even react to it.

Arthur: Because she’s hurt. Because for years, we made her feel like she didn’t matter until she disappeared.

Charles: I’m trying to make it right.

Arthur: You’re trying to make it comfortable for you. Not better for her.

Lorenzo: Okay, enough. We need to approach this like adults. Arthur, you said she talked to you?

Arthur: Yeah. Because I apologized without making excuses. Because I didn’t act like she owed me anything.

Charles: So what, we just do nothing? Sit around and hope she decides to forgive us?

Arthur: Or we ask her what she needs instead of assuming we know best. Maybe try that.

Pascale: If she’d just sit down with us—if we could talk properly—I know we could fix it.

Charles: She won’t even look at me in the paddock.

Arthur: You yelled about her being married like the whole grid personally betrayed you.

Charles: Well it felt like that.

Pascale: Can we not assign blame? We all made mistakes. I sent a message. She didn’t respond.

Lorenzo: Because your message said, “I meant to text you, but I sent it to Charles instead.” Which we all know is a lie.

Pascale: It was a white lie. I didn’t want her to feel worse.

Lorenzo: She didn’t need you to protect her feelings, Maman. She needed you to show up. That’s what none of us did.

Charles: I’m trying. But every time I think about texting her, I hear Fred’s voice telling me I don’t deserve to.

Arthur: That’s because he’s right.

Pascale: So what do we do? Invite her to dinner? Send another letter?

Charles: I could try calling again.

Lorenzo: No. No more performing care. She’s not stupid. She sees through all of it.

Pascale: We have to fix this. She’s our family.

Isabelle:  You could start by remembering I’m in this group chat.

Isabelle:  I’ve seen every message. Every strategy. Every “how do we make her forgive us” as if forgiveness is a button to push, not something earned.

Isabelle: Arthur apologized. He listened. He didn’t make excuses. That’s why I’m speaking to him. Not because he said the right thing. Because he meant it.

Isabelle: The rest of you? You keep asking how to fix me. You never once asked what I need.

Isabelle: So here it is: If you want a relationship with me again, we start with family therapy. With a neutral third party. No justifications. No guilt-tripping. No “but we’re your family.” Just honesty. Hard conversations. Boundaries.

Isabelle: You want me back? You come sit in a room and prove it. Not with flowers or dinners. With work.

Isabelle: I am not your emotional support sibling. I’m not your afterthought. And I’m not going to pretend this didn’t hurt just because it’s inconvenient for you.

Isabelle: Therapy. Or nothing.

Arthur: …I told you.

Lorenzo: Family therapy it is.

***

[plethorawrites]

How I think the Batboys + Clark would respond to you asking them to "dress up" in some capacity for them in the bedroom like you always do for them.

"I'm always the one in lingerie, why don't you dress up for me for a change?"

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Bruce: Will go for the most petty response possible, by keeping his tie on the next time you're intimate. Which, he meant mostly as a sarcastic joke, but found himself enjoying. You also seemed to be incredibly fond of it, tugging it in between your teeth or biting at it around his neck. When it was covered in your spit from all the biting, it eventually slipped off his neck and got wrapped around your wrists, tightened to keep you in place. And when you resisted it after a bit (lovingly, of course) he untied it, pushing it back into your mouth to muffle your sounds. Who knew a tie was so versatile?

---

Dick: Has no problem with complying when you ask him to dress up. None. You make a fair point and it's only fair he puts in some effort and he's secure enough in his masculinity to do anything you ask. This is the same man who went as discowing for a while, after all. A garter? You're foaming at your mouth. You want him to wear some sort of dress or actual lingerie? He'll have to buy it since yours definitely wouldn't fit, but he'll absolutely get something flattering. A bit of roleplay, to fit, if it was something themed? It's a given. How could he not fully commit?

---

Jason: Would roll his eyes, not because he's annoyed but because he thinks he'd look ridiculous and he cares more about worshipping you than letting you take care of him. That said, If you wanted something different, he'd do something different. The next time he comes home from patrol, instead of taking his stuff off and changing, he stays in it, making you take it off. The leather of his gloves twirling your hair as you unbuckled things, the feeling of your hands tugging his jacket off, is enticing for both of you. And by the time he's nearly fully undressed, you're both desperate. The helmet is the last to go. And it only does after he whispers a few things he knew you'd like in your ear.

---

Tim: Has no idea what that even means, honestly. It could be a joke, maybe. But better safe than sorry if not. Since he didn't quite know, he went with the safest option that could still qualify and wore a see through button up under his jacket, with his slacks for an event, letting you see it later that night. You seemed happy, if not a little frustrated for him having it on all night without knowing. Probably because if you'd seen him in a sheer black top, showing off his chest and stomach, you'd pull him into the bathroom and take it off right there.

---

(Aged up) Damian: Isn't entirely unused to flamboyancy in one way or another. He wore plenty of nice robes and wraps for the League of Assassins, not to mention suits for his father's events. But that was a normal thing, he supposed. So, if you wanted something different, he'd have to think outside of the box. He's always liked art, ever since he was young and even considered making love to be an art in itself, in a way. So, the next time you're in his room, tugging off his clothes, you're surprised when he's covered in henna, little swirls, dots, even flowers. It had taken hours, but was absolutely worth it for the look on your face.

---

Clark: Was befuddled, like he often was when you said that. He had no idea how to dress up for you, or even why you'd want him to. But when you guys spend a weekend at the farm and he catches your eyes lingering when he's working in the yard, he figures it out. When you're home, several days after the visit ended, you find him in overalls and nothing else, except for a cowboy hat, he usually wore to keep the sun out of his eyes. And it was fun, he'll admit, seeing you get excited. The hat looked much better on you, though.

[hannieboyd]

ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ & ꜱᴡᴇᴇᴛ.

pairings: tutor!jisung x fem!reader | collage au

contains: +18, unprotected sex (be safe!!), Sub!jisung, slight mommy kink (used once), dom!reader like wow WE NEED MORE DOM READERS, dry humping, strangers to lovers(?) , real nerdy jisung with a big N, perverted on both sides lowkey (mostly Han), college sex

word count: 3,329

extras: first attempt of a full english fic, I procrastinated and crammed it into one night aswell lol.. please excuse any mistakes!

Tutor!jisung who’d never go out of his way to talk to girls, hell, he barely even left his dorm. but when he saw you enter the class, rolled up sleeves, nearly see through top and a short uniform skirt he wasn’t sure where to look. it was even worse when he saw how your thighs slowly press down against the chair as you sat down, wishing it was him instead. His eyes trailed you down as you sat in front of him, whether it was just writing your name down or checking your phone to see if your boyfriend texted you, he was watching. He already had a hard time paying attention in this class, and now it became impossible with you there.

Even when the teacher called on him he stared at you.

He’d actually known of you for a while. You guys even went to high school together but you knew his friends more than you knew of him. In all honesty you thought he hated women the way you never saw him with them. He was always so quiet, pushing his glasses up to see better, usually on his phone even if he was with his friends, he was kind of..a dork. In a cute way though. Sure he might’ve been an anime nerd…and a gaming nerd..and well, a nerd. He was actually really attractive. Many people tend to see through that though because of his shy nature which was pretty unfortunate. Despite that, you found him pretty Intriguing.

So when you saw him in your class in the beginning of the semester you were pretty excited to see a familiar face. However it was different, it had only been a couple months and something about him had changed. It seemed he grew into his features overtime and surprisingly looked pretty attractive, But you had a boyfriend, Not to mention he seemed so infatuated with his studies and his own self it was dumb to get involved with him at all.

The weeks seemed to pass by fast.

Slowly but surely he found himself growing a crush on you—just alittle one though. Yeah he only started showing up to see you, but the class was hard to get through so a little pick me up was needed regardless. Eventually he even started to wonder how you were, what you did before coming and what you were going to do after the class was done. It was confusing on why. He’s had crushes in the past, yeah, but for some reason it’s like somethings drawing him to you. He was so fixated on you he even knew that during the time you’d been in the class, you have actually had quite a hard time. When you had gotten your first exam back last week with a 20/60 and a big red circle written on it he went home later and fisted himself to the thought of you on your knees, blouse open ever so slightly but still enough to show a bit of your pink bra peaking out, sucking his dick, while thanking him for tutoring you over his moans. So when Professor Lee suggested him tutor you he was quick to agree.

And when you came up to him smiling, holding your phone out to him to put his number into while also thanking him for agreeing to tutor you he couldn’t move. not a muscle. It was until you asked if he was okay he snapped back into reality.

“oh, sorry.. i’m okay. and your welcome..” he said quietly while holding eye contact with the floor.

you chuckled at his nervousness

“I’ll see you later then, jisung!” you said while waving goodbye. “yeah..later.”

It had been a couple days since your guys last encounter and since then Han had checked his phone about 5 times per minute. It was until he finally got a text he let out a sigh. not a bad sigh, but it wasn’t necessarily a good one either. “Hey, i know it’s been a couple days but I’m available around 6 if that works for you 🙂” The text was simple, but Han was unsure how to respond. He’s never texted a girl before, other than his mom and sister, he was basically a shut in. women repellent if you will.

After a quick exchange with his friends he decided to go he decided on a casual response that said, “sure. that works fine for me”

“cool! see you then jisung”

He nearly threw his phone across the room. he probably would of if he didn’t have expensive figures all over it. He eventually calmed himself down and decided to tidy up around the dorm. after all, sharing with 2 other men was, to put this bluntly, fucking disgusting. To go boxes everywhere, dirty clothes, and it didn’t help that Jeongin and Felix liked to bring their one night stands there because now he was stuck picking up condoms with rubber gloves on.

when he finished 6pm had already rolled around so now all he waited to do was wait, so he did. He fidgeted with his fingers as he did so nervously looking around the room. Was the tv too dusty? the window too dirty? Maybe the looked disorganized.. would you even talk to him? All this thought came to an end when he heard the doorbell ring. He walked towards the door and opened it for you.

And there you were.

Standing at his doorstep Smiling innocently as you thanked him for agreeing to tutor you. It was just as he imagined. You wearing your school uniform, with that short skirt and a hint of pink lace showing through your shirt. “Thank you so much, i hope it wasn’t any trouble..” For a second he couldn’t move. You were here, in front of him, thanking him even. Snapping out of it he shuffled himself aside, letting you in. “ah.. it’s no problem..”

his eyes trailed over you.

You stepped inside, eyes scanning the small place. Surprisingly, It seemed pretty clean for a dorm shared by 4 boys. “uh—this way,” he mumbled before leading you down the short hallway to his room. Walking behind him you saw a peak of his room. Figures from multiple shows, games, and movies appeared, aswell as what seemed to be a poster from who knows where. “sorry, it’s kind of a mess.” He said while leading you inside the room, knowing it really wasn’t. He lowered himself onto a cushion sitting on the floor next to a table. He had already set the materials on the table for you, incase you might have forgotten something, he didn’t want you to leave. After briefly scanning the room you joined him on the pillow next to him.

“So, what are you struggling with?”

“Basically everything.” you said trying to bring some humor into the room. “ah.. i see..” he chuckled weakly, lowering his head to the table. “well calculus can be hard for some people, especially since the class isn’t exactly.. exciting.”

you nodded in agreement, “I know, right?” he looked up at you, eyes flicking up and then quickly away again. “w-well let’s just start with the basics then, is that alright?”

You hummed in approval, grabbing your notebook from your bag as he adjusted his posture to look more put together than he felt.

still, could see it all over him. How his face flushed and avoided contact from yours. How his pen seemed to stay touched even when he wasn’t using it. He’d clearly never had anyone else here before, and it was cute.

He cleared his voice— “Okay, so derivatives..”Youd been at the same thing for around 40 minutes and you checked out about 20 minutes ago. Math was never your forte to be fair. And when your tutor clearly cant keep his eyes off from everywhere but your face it was harder. “So what are those?” you blanked out. “Uhh.. equations?..” He blinked like his brain had been frozen.

“wait, seriously?” he asked with a mix of confusion and disbelief in his voice (maybe a little judgement too..) “We’ve been on this subject for like 40 minutes now, y/n” tone slightly raising

“Well it’s not exactly easy to pay attention when my tutor cant even look me in the eyes to teach me-“ you said teasing, but bit back on the last part before it came out to sharp. looking at jisung expecting a laugh or a sarcastic response, Instead his face went pale. You meant it as a joke, but it seemed he didn’t get the jist of it. “W-what” stammering on his words, finally locking eyes for more than a second. “i don’t-” you cut him off with a laugh “lighten up jisung it was only a joke”

He let out a breath, somewhere between relief and panic. As you leaned back on your hands, stretching just enough for your shirt to ride up slightly. You caught him looking.

“Besides,” You added, voice going softer with each word you spoke “you wouldn’t want me here all night?”

Another joke.

He was still in shock, but his gaze dropped—too quick to be casual, too obvious to ignore. You looked back at him with a smug look, and then just like that, flustered, he subtly shifted. bringing his hand over his lap, he tried to play it off.

He cleared his throat. “Not sure what you mean..”

You teased, pushing him a bit harder. “Sure you don’t.” He glared at you. “We should get back to the session.” You groaned. “How if I cant even figure out what a dergabagaba is.” leaning into your hand stubbornly, “A derivative. And maybe we could.. play a game?” you laughed. “A math game, seriously, how fun for us!”

“Don’t laugh, it was just a suggestion..” he looked away in embarrassment. So much for putting ideas out there I guess. “Fine.” you folded, “And if it doesn’t work?” “I fear you’ll have to stay here all night till i make you understand.” you let out a surprised laugh, “Guess who grew a pair”

“I didn’t mean it like that” he rolled his eyes, hand still covering his crotch.

You both decided to play some sort of Guessing game—He’d asked, you’d answered. that was the whole point of it. After about 15 questions (10 of which you actually got right) you started to really like it. For once, you weren’t just staring blankly at a worksheet before giving up and deciding to let it rot in your backpack. Things were clicking, you found yourself actually comprehending what he was teaching you (and liking it?).

He pushed his middle finger up against the bridge of his glasses. sweat trailed down his forehead as doing so. you couldn’t help but smirk.

It had gotten warmer in the room without you realizing, suddenly you could feel the heat on the back of your neck, the air feeling heavier, thicker, however it started to seem to just be from the temperature.

you both kept going with the game, determined to get the last answer right.

“Alright, last one,” He said while adjusting his collar out of warmth, “whats the derivative of 5(x) = 5x³?”

you paused for a moment, then smiled confidently. “That’s 15x².” He blinked, pleasantly surprised. “Correct.” You grinned, feeling a rush of pride. “See? i’m totally not hopeless.” He gave you a smile, clearly impressed. You leaned back, adjusting your collar and noticing how warm it had gotten in the room.

“wow, its like burning in here” fidgeting with your tie, contemplating whether or not to take it off.

“yeah, i guess so, huh.” you both looked around the room. Finally finishing the math game, both unsure what to do now, it fell silent. Seeing as you two warmed up to each other for a bit during then, you stuck a conversation.

“Hey how about we switch it up, truth or dare?” He blinked surprised, but nodded slowly. “Okay..”

you smiled softly, “Okay, truth or dare?” He gave some time to think about it before answering. “Truth..” You leaned in just a little, eyes warm but playful. You knew he was a little shy, but how could you not have a little fun with him, after all its 7pm on a Friday night and your boyfriend didn’t seem to have problems teasing around either other girls either. you let loose. “Have you ever kissed a girl before?” his cheeks flushed with warmth. “No…”

He looked up at you carefully, then asked quietly. “Uh, Truth or dare?” You nodded smiling, “Truth” he rubbed his arm to call him down. He wanted to match your energy, he really did, he was just unsure on how. He swallowed nervously before asking hoping the question wouldn’t chase you away. “What…. whats something you like about me?”

You smiled wider. “Hmm.. your nervousness. It’s kinda cute.”

he laughed softly, easing the tension a bit. “Alright, truth or dare?” He hesitated. “Dare.” You grinned, tilting your head a bit. “I dare you to kiss me on the cheek.” He stiffened once again. “Now?-”

“Well, unless you’re scared.” You shifted towards him. “So, what’ll it be?” He was stuck. He’d never imagine this. not in his wildest dreams would he had thought he’d be here with you clearly pulling yourself onto him. He just stared while the tent in his pants continued to grow, and his mind filled with crazy fantasies. Eventually he pulled your hair behind your ears and leaned in slowly, lips barely brushing your cheek, and over much too quickly. You felt the heat crawl up to your neck, yet you weren’t satisfied. Greediness had taken over and you needed to see him shut down under your touch, completely gone.

He pulled back a little, eyes glistening but nervous, then asked quietly, “Truth or dare?” Caught up in the heat of the moment you grinned. “Dare.” While holding eye contact with him, clearly wanting more out of him.

He felt conflicted. He didn’t know whether to ask you a simple question or not. Either way he knew you were gonna test him until he gave out. But it wasn’t fair—why did you get to say all those things while he basically remained a hermit crab stuck in his shell, unable to say anything outside his usual vocabulary?

starting to grow tension, he finally asked, voice higher than normal, “Okay… kiss me.” you were taken by surprised, your brows lifting slightly as your gaze dropped to his lips. Did he really say that?

A smug smile tugged at your mouth. “But i did so good during the game,” you said, voice dropping playfully, almost like a pout. “shouldn’t i get one from you?”

His face nearly turned the color of the apple on his nightstand, clearly not expecting you to flip that onto him. “I-I mean, you’ve been testing me all night..” he mumbled, barely able to look at you. “Messing with me..” You tilted your head and scooted closer to him, your thigh brushing his. “Mhm. But I think I earned it.” Your hand slid gently onto his leg, fingers barely moving, thumb brushing his inner thigh just enough to make his whole body tense up. “Don’t you?” His breath hitched. He looked down at you, eyes catching the slight pout in your lips along with the soft curve of your expression. Just enough to make his mind fog up.

“..Fine.” he breathed, voice barely holding itself together. But he didn’t move—not right away. The word hung between you guys, unsure of if he even meant to say it. Until he turned over slightly, grabbing the back of ur head. You gasped into the kiss, startled by his sudden movement. He sucked at your lips as if he wanted to inhale you altogether, he was desperate, like he’d been holding this in for years. and honestly, maybe he had. You matched him his energy, laying your arms onto his shoulder as you snuck your tongue into his mouth, making his breath stutter, his body jult, and a soft, choked up whimper escaped him. “f-fuck..” his hips started to roll against yours,

you couldn’t take it.

The way he fell apart under your touch, nearly crumbling like stone under your lips, you needed more. You needed to see him beg under you, pleading for you, crying that you’ll be a good boy for him if he let you do what you wanted to him. anything.

Then your hand drifted lower, fingers brushing against the bulge in his jeans in circular motion. This time, he didn’t flinch away,

Didn’t stop you,

Didn’t even breathe.

Your palm pressed down, grazing the length of him through the sweats, and you felt his whole body tense up. He pulled back from the kiss, panting against your mouth, eyes wide and glassy.

“You’re such a-” he started, but didn’t get the chance to finish.

Because your hand began fisting him through his pants, dragging the pressure along the shape of him until his hips twitched up into your palm. A low moan spilled from his throat, he was ashamed of how easy he fell for you.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers tightening like he needed something to hold onto before he lost it completely. And then he pulled you onto his lap, fast and a little clumsy, like if he didn’t do it now, he would’ve gone crazy

You didn’t fight it. You just sank into him, thighs straddling his, the heat between you unbearable now. The second you ground your hips into his, he gasped. “s-shit”

You rolled your hips down against him, with just enough pressure to make him jolt beneath you. His head fell back against the bed behind him, mouth parted, eyes shut and biting his bottom lip.

“F-fuck,” he breathed, barely audible.

Your hands were planted on his chest, steadying yourself as you moved faster. You could feel how hard he was. straining against the fabric, twitching every time you rolled your hips just right. His hands had slipped under your shirt now, trembling slightly, but too caught up in the moment to stop him. To stop anything. Your lips made its way to his ear. “You like that, ji?” He let out a broken moan. “Y-yeah—making me feel so good mo...-” he stopped before he could finish that sentence. his face heated up. He tried to cover it up with added groans but you knew what he wanted to say, and who were you to deny him that? so you inched closer to his face “its okay, let it out ji.”

His eyes rolled at the words. “Fuck.. y-yes mommy..”

You rocked your hips again. He bucked up into you, completely helpless with his hands gripping your waist like you were gonna run away. His breath hitched, eyes half open and glassy like he was seconds from breaking apart right under you. you pushed his limit.

“w-wait, I—”

But you didn’t. You leaned in, lips brushing against his again,

“Let it out, Ji.”

That did it.

His whole body tensed—fingers gripping to your hips so hard you were positive it would leave a mark. He gasped, choked on a moan, and stilled underneath you, eyes rolling back just the slightest bit.

“shit..—” he stuttered, hips bucking once, twice before falling still again. his face flushed deep pink as you felt the warmth spread between you. You watched him come undone in front of you. His lips trembled, fingers twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. Like he couldn’t believe what just happened, moaning your name like it was a spell. A soft laugh escaped your lips as you brushed some hair out of his face. “Already?”

He looked done, completely out of it. attempting to blink himself back into existence. “Im sorry.. I didn’t mean to—”

You kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I was just joking, ji”.

AN: Hii, thank you so much for reading my first fic on this account! I apologize it’s so disorganized, english isn’t my first language so there is probably many mistakes. Also had mad writers block during this, haha. reqs are open 24/7:)

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ Softer, Softest ♡

♡ Pairing: mafia!boss!san x stripper!chubby!fem!reader

♡ Genre: smut/angst/fluff

♡ Summary: A fun night of stripping takes a turn when an encounter with a particularly unpleasant customer leaves you in tears, running to your boss seeking comfort and protection. Both things he’s more than willing to give.

♡ Word Count: 3.6k-ish

♡ Warnings: explores themes of body insecurities, reader has her arm grabbed (nothing violent but brutal violence against the person who grabbed it), mentions of blood/injuries (not yours, babes), kissing, heavy body worship, san’s obsessed with you, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), clit sucking, nipple pinching, a lil manhandling, hair pulling, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, cream pie, low key mirror sex, pet names (baby, pretty).

♡ A/N: Hello my loves, I wrote this little fic for any of my chubby darlings out there who might not know or might need reminding that their bodies are gorgeous, worth loving, and desirable. I also really love myself a hot criminal and who better than San? K, let me shut up now. Just know I love you. Your body’s amazing. Never forget that ❤️

Midnight. Friday. The back alley of a strip club. The best in town. The strip club, not the alley. It’s a dark, starless night. The smell of fresh rain hangs in the air, the aftermath of a sudden downpour that left the ground slick with rain. Music from inside the club bleeds through the cracks of a heavy steel door. A neon red EXIT sign hangs overhead. The door creaks on its hinges as it swings open, sending the music blaring out into the night and with it comes a body. The blur of one at first, flying through the air, and then the weight of it. The heavy thud of bruised flesh and cracked bone colliding with the asphalt. 

The man on the ground is unremarkable, nothing about him worth noting except the mangled nose that gushes blood down his face, leaking into the cavernous gash that is his busted lip. He said the wrong thing to the wrong person and now he can’t speak at all, only mumble. A brushed leather Dolce and Gabbana shoe collides with his cheek. His blood splashes scarlet against the pitch black soles, a horrible crack emitting from his jaw as more pressure’s applied. Now this man? He’s remarkable. He’s muscular, defined in every way so that, even through his black dress shirt, you can read the broadness of his shoulders. His features are sharp and intense. The kind you either fall for or fall victim to. There’s no in between. He’s a handsome devil but a devil all the same. 

“You look like shit” San sighs, effortlessly kicking the man onto his back. He rolls his sleeves up, kneeling beside the man like a hunter inspecting its fallen prey. He stares down at him, emotionless, void of anything close to that thing we call remorse.  

The man heaves in a breath of air before coughing it back out. “Mmm s-s-sorry” he croaks, “I didn’t know she was anyone fucking special.” 

San grips the man’s face, grinning in a way that isn’t the least bit friendly. He squeezes tightly, forcing jagged teeth to press into the soft flesh of the man’s cheeks. “Well now you do.”

This is your boss and you, tucked away safe and warm in his office, are something special. But a part of you knew this already. You downplay it when the other girls point it out. You pretend not to notice the clear signs of favoritism but they’re there in even the smallest interaction between the two of you. Since day one San’s been your protector, your admirer. You’ve denied it a million times, convincing yourself you’re simply making more of things than what’s there. Still, after everything happened you couldn’t fathom running into the arms of anyone else. 

You were dancing like any other night—working your section and getting your tips—when some asshole grabbed you by the arm, demanding your presence in one of the private rooms. Usually you could count on security to drag him out but on weekends the club gets packed and things slip through the cracks. Sadly tonight you were one of them so, like a proper lady, you told him to kiss your ass and sent the tip of your stiletto crashing into his balls. You might be a stripper but that doesn’t mean you’re some thing that men can treat however they wish. It’s a lesson he had to learn the hard way and you were happy to teach it to him. Two shots past drunk and embarrassed by your rejection he snapped, spewing the most vile things you’ve ever heard about yourself—about your body. 

It isn’t news to you that you’re one of the bigger girls here. San says that’s what makes you special, why customers come in to blow a check on you and you alone. He’s right, your bank account says so. The customers love you, they eat up every inch of your plush body. By all means you should feel like the baddest bitch in this building, simply because you are, but in that moment his words had reduced you to nothing. A few seconds ago you were twirling around the pole like a goddess now you found yourself scurrying back to the dressing room with tears in your eyes. 

At least that’s where you intended to go. Somewhere along the way you changed course, riding the velvet lined elevator to the third floor where San’s office sits at the end of a long hallway. At the time you hadn’t considered how much this might escalate the situation because, quite honestly, you didn’t care. More than feeling hurt, you were pissed the fuck off. Your tears were of anger and, whether you felt it at the time or not, you wanted that motherfucker to pay for it. 

This place you work at. There’s more to it than what’s on the surface. It’s easy to get so distracted by the luxury and the lights and the pretty girls dancing that you miss the truth of it all. In fact, that’s the point, but you know a mafia front when you see one. You aren’t oblivious. You know what this is, who San is, and maybe that’s exactly why you were tapping at his door. A damsel in distress in black lace lingerie.

San’s heart dropped when he saw his favorite girl in tears. He stopped everything, sending his men away so he could place all of his focus on you. Resting his jacket over your shoulders, he gently cradled your cheeks, brushing the tears away to ask quite simply, “Who did it?” 

You explained everything, how that asshole grabbed you and the things he said, and San’s anger grew quietly, simmering beneath a surface of calm. He took a seat at his desk, setting you down comfortably in his lap, and pulled up the security cameras. “Tell me when you see him, okay, baby?” he instructed sweetly, his palm massaging the smoothness of your thigh.

You nodded, struggling to focus on the screen with his hand on your thigh and him calling you “baby”. San touching you wasn’t a rare occasion but it was always something light. A hand on the small of your back or fingertips grazing your arm. Never this purposeful—this intimate. You couldn’t help imagining how it might feel if he gripped a little harder, moved a little higher. You felt your heart begin to race, your temperature rising the longer you sat there in his lap.

“That’s him” you sniffled, spotting that familiar face on the screen. San studied the screen a moment before turning back to you. “I’ll take care of it” he promised, his hand riding your thigh and coming to rest at the gentle curve of your hip. “And no more crying, baby. You’re too pretty to cry.” Too pretty to cry? Oh, but you were crying, absolutely weeping, only between your thighs this time. 

San disappeared from the office, leaving you too lost in the lingering haze of his touch to even think about your insecurities, but that only lasted so long. Alone in the quiet of his office, the self doubt began to creep back in. You tried to distract yourself by exploring your surroundings—the impressive collection of vintage whiskey, the gorgeously framed art hanging from the walls—but nothing could distract you from how uncomfortable you’d become in your own skin. It didn’t help that the office was lined with mirrors, reflecting glimpses of your figure with every turn.

At last out of distractions, you turn to face the mirrored image of yourself, letting San’s jacket slip to the floor. You strike a pose, a half hearted copy of something cute you might do on stage, and watch the way the fat of your body squishes together here or there. You strike another then another then another but they’re there in every pose. Your face, your belly, your sides, your thighs. Your weight shows in all of them. Pinching your lower belly you think of how the other girls have had work done. Maybe if you got some done yourself…

“I left him out back. Clean him up before someone sees” San says, pushing through the door, his phone pressed to his ear. 

You jump a bit at his arrival, scrambling to grab the jacket, but San slips in behind you, closing his arms around your waist before you can retrieve your safety blanket. You tense at first but find yourself settling into his embrace as if it’s the most natural place for you to be. 

“So, what was that?” he asks, resting his chin on your shoulder. His breath tickles your neck as he inhales your perfume and the sweet scent of honey and jasmine fills his lungs. You smell as beautiful as you are, as beautiful as everything about you is. 

“How’d everything go?” you press, quick to change the subject. Noticing a series of tiny red scrapes on the knuckles of his right hand, you carefully take it into yours, assessing the damage. 

San shrugs it off like it’s nothing. It still stings but it’s far from the worst pain he’s ever felt. “I said I’d take care of it. It’s been taken care of.” 

You giggle at the contrast of something so menacing being spoken by someone so regal. “San, you make it sound like you killed him.” 

He leans into your neck, his lips grazing your skin on their way up to your ear. You shiver at the contact and his hold on you tightens, your bodies pressed flush against each other so that you can feel his bulge pressed into the plush of your ass. 

“Killed him? Almost” he whispers, “I answered your question so it’s only fair you answer mine, isn’t it? What were you doing? I came in and you were…” San pinches your belly, his fingertips planting adoration where there was once doubt. 

“I…uh…I was…” you stutter, searching your brain for a believable lie but you can’t find a single one.“There’s this doctor, a few of the girls have gone to him to get some work done, and I was just thinking, I don’t know, maybe...why am I even telling you this? You don’t care and anyway, it’s silly.”

“It is silly” he agrees, notes of that quiet, controlled anger you witnessed earlier resurfacing, “But you’re wrong to say that I don’t care. I care about how you feel about yourself, I care about you. You must know that.”

“I mean, I know you care about me. You care about all of the girls” you say, hesitant to accept this as a profession of anything in particular. 

San spins you around, pinning you between the warmth of his body and the cool mahogany of the desk. “I don’t care for any other woman the way I do you.” 

There it is, a profession of something very particular. He’d hoped that you’d seen it by now. He wonders if he didn’t do a good enough job of showing you. It’s been so long before you, years even, that he had feelings like this for anyone. The world he operates in doesn’t allow for soft spots. Soft spots are how you make mistakes and when mistakes are life or death you can’t afford to make them but he couldn’t help himself with you. You caught his eye the day you walked in for your audition and you’re all he’s been able to see since. You’re so delicate, so beautiful, a perfect contrast to the toughness of his life. It’s why he protects you—why he always will. 

“Your body…” he says, his palms racing up and down your curves, “It’s perfect. There’s nothing about it that needs fixing. If you let that doctor touch you I’ll break both of his hands.” San’s gaze is heavy with lust, months of longing just begging to be satisfied. It burns him up inside, sets fire to his very being, and being kissed by the flames of that need is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

“Is that the way you romance women? With threats of violence?” you tease, draping your arms across his shoulders.

“Sometimes but usually it’s like this” he whispers, pressing his lips to yours. His tongue parts your lips, twining around yours to deepen the kiss. His movements are careful and deliberate. The kiss intoxicatingly slow. 

San grabs you by the hips, lifting you onto the desk and you let out a little squeak of surprise as he sets you down. “You’re so fucking cute” he grins, spreading your thighs to fit perfectly between them. 

“You think so?” you say so innocently it only makes him want to ravage you more. 

Tangling his fingers in your hair, he tilts your head to look back at the mirror, “Don’t you?” 

An unexpected wetness soaks the lace of your panties at the sight of your shared reflection. Nothing has changed about your body. It’s the same one you were picking apart, the same one you were doubting, and San loves everything about it. He praises it with his hands, with his fingertips, with whispered confessions of everything your body needs to hear. 

”I watch you sometimes when you’re dancing” he says, effortlessly doing away with your bra, “I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself when you look the way you do. It’s like you’ve put a spell on me. My little witch.”

San captures one of your breasts, kneading the plump flesh in the palm of his hand. He pinches your bud between his fingers, tugging at it just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

“But I don’t have any magic” you whimper, tugging at the buttons of his shirt. They pop open one by one, revealing a body that had to be sculpted by some divine feminine deity. You push the fabric away, your fingertips delighting in the perfection of her creation. 

San’s free hand reaches between you, stroking your clit through your panties. He groans at how soaked you are, your juices leaking through the lace to coat his fingers in your juices. “You do have magic, baby” he whispers, tucking your panties to the side, “It’s right here.”

“Aah, Sannie” you moan, your hands sliding down his abs as his fingers stretch you open. 

Your body falls back, a sharp chill coursing through you as your bare back hits the desk. San sinks his fingers deeper into your core, his cock stiffening at the sight of your body moving as hypnotically as it does on the pole. Only now it’s for him and only him. This is how San likes it, how he’s always wanted it to be. Him with his fingers buried deep into the warmth of your pussy, your walls greedily clenching around them, and you spread out across his desk, your gorgeous body on full display and your lips spilling out moans meant for his ears alone. 

Kneeling between your legs he pulls your panties aside harder this time, nearly tearing the fabric as he knots it in his fist. He brings his thumb to your clit, toying with it just to see how your body twitches with every touch. “How can a girl be this perfect?” he says, nearly salivating, “Even your pussy’s gorgeous.” There’s an audible wet sound, another sweet whimper escaping your throat, as his fingers slip out of your core and his tongue takes its place.

“San, wait…” you beg, grabbing at his hair, but you’re too late. Your attempt at pacing yourself is useless. His tongue’s already filling the space between your walls, wiggling and curling against your sweet spot. His dark hair knots around your fingers, your hips raising to ride every wave his tongue sends washing over you. 

San drags his tongue up through your petal soft folds, swirling it around your clit before diving into you again. He suckles at your clit, gently at first then faster, more ravenous. His gaze flicks up to you, taking in the way your belly jiggles and your breasts bounce. He’s drunk on your juices, already addicted to the way you coat his tongue. You taste like heaven and look like it too. It takes all of the self control he has to pry his mouth free of your pussy, snatching your panties down as he does. 

Standing back up, he grips your thighs, spreading you open to watch the arousal drip from your pussy, leaving pretty little drops on his desk. Your eyes are glued to him as he unzips his pants, letting his cock fall right between your legs. The swollen tip throbs against your lower belly, leaking precum, warm and sticky, on your skin. You rock your hips, clenching around air, craving friction from that deliciously veiny cock of his. 

“You want it, baby?” San teases, tapping the head of his cock against your clit. His length slips between your folds. They’re so smooth, so slick. Toying with your pussy’s like splashing in a lake. You’re wet enough to drown in.

“I want it, Sannie, aah, fuck…” you moan, your eyes widening at the realization that his tip’s pressed to your entrance now, stretching you the faintest bit. 

“Then tell me how perfect your body is. Tell me you love it.” He pushes in an inch more, stopping to leave your hole spread wide around his cock, still needy and deprived. 

The stretch has the room spinning, a single taste of him already making you want more. “My body’s, mmph, beautiful” you manage as he gradually feeds you more of him, “I love it.”

“Don’t stop. Keep telling me. Make me believe you” San demands, thrusting into you so hard that he bottoms out. 

You cry out at the force of the thrust, your lashes fluttering away tears, “I love, aah, my body. I love my body. It’s beautiful. It’s…it’s…”

Tucking his hands behind your knees, San pushes them to your chest, snapping his hips against you hard enough that your thighs jiggle around him. All of you does. Every stroke of his cock makes you tremble and he’s hardly able to keep still himself. You’re so tightly wound around his cock that he can feel all the finer details of your walls. They’re glued to him, sucking him in every time he even thinks about pulling back. 

Through heavy lids you watch the man you’ve only ever known to be a mountain crumble to pieces all because of you. San’s muscles are slick with sweat and a glossy haze dances over his eyes. His fingers are digging into your thighs, completely devouring them. He does what he can to swallow his moans but it’s impossible when you’re making him feel like his entire soul’s being snatched from his body. 

“You feel so fucking good” he grunts, planting breathless kisses up your leg, “Come here.”

San props your ankles up on his shoulders, hooking an arm around you and sitting you up so that you’re close enough to kiss. He grinds against your sweet spot, forcing his tongue down your throat so that every moan you set free echoes between his cheeks. Gripping the back of your neck, he slams into you, harder, faster, forcing your body to give into him. He fucks you until your eyes are rolling back, your mind too blank to recall anything that happened before this moment. There’s no thought of the incident, no thought of your insecurities. High on euphoria, your body feels beautiful, every inch of it. 

“S-San…” you whine, a familiar pressure building behind your belly. Your fingers begin to tingle as they cling to his muscles, searching for any stability they can reach. 

“You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he coos, not letting up on you, not even for a second.

Pulling his arm away he lets you fall back on the desk. With one hand cupping your breast and the other circling your clit, he watches you fall apart in the palms of his hands. For so long he’s had to watch you from afar, pretending that he wasn’t utterly obsessed with you, but now you’re all his. His pretty, moaning, teary eyed girl pouring your cum down his cock while you repeat his name like it’s the only word you know. He’s so singularly focused on watching you hit your high that his own takes him by surprise. 

Grabbing him by the wrist, you lock eyes, a weak smile forming on your lips. “Fill me up, Sannie” you whisper, your voice sexy even in its brokenness.

San’s body shudders and you feel a new fullness inside of you. The warmth pools deep within you at first, cascading down your walls the more he empties himself into you. “Fuck, baby” he pants, catching himself before his body doubles over. He came so hard his ears are ringing and holding onto you is all he can do not to fall. You sit up to stroke his cheek and he kisses your wrist lovingly. You stare into each other’s eyes for a minute that lasts an eternity, letting yourselves get lost in one another’s gaze. 

San breaks the trance with a kiss, holding you like one would the most precious thing they own. “Tell me, baby, how do you feel now?” 

You contemplate his question, your attention drifting back to the reflection in the mirror. It’s all there. Your face, your belly, your sides, your thighs, and San looking at you like you’re the prettiest girl in the world. You turn back to him with a smile, “Beautiful.”

[melodead]

you know from experience that hungry students will go through many, many lengths to sate that hunger—and that’s why you’ve decided to hike a mountain on a school night.

you take a cutting of berries and slide them into the glass jar. hopefully, these aren’t poisonous. they’ll need to be checked by professor crewel first, obviously, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. grim might survive eating poison. you, on the other hand? not so much. a specialist would need to vet them first.

“i wouldn’t recommend eating those, if that’s what you’re planning.”

or a very knowledgeable student.

you turn your head. jade leech smiles politely at you from the long shadow of a tree, his usual suspicious demeanor offset by a knitted yellow cap and several layers of hiking gear. his lantern casts a soft glow across his face. you wonder why he has it out at all. the sun has only just begun to set, after all.

you must be staring too much, because jade steps out of the shadow and crouches down next to you, setting the lamp on the ground. “it’s good to have one in case of any delays. the mountains can be rather perilous, as you must be aware by now,” he explains. “one reckless act, and nature’s bounty can prove fatal,”—he taps your jar—“such as these.”

you blink at him slowly. his yellow eye almost glows in the dying light of day, but they are not predatory. not today.

“right. thank you for the notice.” you screw the lid back on, put it into your basket, and push yourself from the ground. he begins to do the same. “i’ll be leaving now. i don’t want to inconvenience you any further.” yes, he did just get here. no, you will not be acknowledging that.

“not at all. on the contrary, it is lovely to see you, prefect, especially on such a pleasant day. ah, but that reminds me,”—oh, sevens. please don’t say what i think you’re going to say—“seeing as we’re both here, perhaps you wouldn’t mind a bit of a hike to the peak? the sunset is beautiful this time of year.”

you swear. internally, of course, but the idea is the same.

you really hoped to avoid octavinelle after azul’s incident. it was one thing to be riddle or leona; they hadn’t targeted you personally. moreover, riddle has relaxed on some of his rules, and leona doesn’t bother you any more than he talks to you (which is very rarely). you got over it.

octavinelle, though, had contracted your friends into forced labor (it was mostly their own fault), stolen your house (you willingly agreed to hand it over), and sabotaged you in getting it back (in a deal you knew was sketchy). it was, it was—!

oh, who are you kidding? you feel hurt. that’s the long and short of it. it is juvenile and illogical and out of character for you and you hate it, but there is no time to unpack that, and the consequences for purposeful ignorance are little to none. jade leech couldn’t possibly have cared anyways.

“-efect? prefect?” he taps you gently. “are you alright?”

but you must have forgotten how entertaining the students find you.

you step back, hands gripping the strap of your bag. “i don’t think that’s a good idea. if i went with you, the sun would be gone by the time we got there. we’ll be better off going our separate ways.”

“i beg to differ.” his eyes glance at your bag. several jars clink emptily. “you’re foraging, yes? there happens to be a berry hedge on the trail down. i could lead you there, if you so wish.”

“that’s okay. it’ll be dark.”

“then i could accompany you on the way down,” he offers, “if the dark is what worries you.”

“i’ve faced worse—and i really should be getting back to ramshackle soon. grim will be hungry.” not to mention the three other teenage boys who might be ransacking the place.

“even so, you can never be too careful.” 

you cut the pleasantries. “and what would you get out of it?”

“pardon?”

“what are you getting in return?” your eyes bore into his. “i don’t have anything to give you, but frankly, i’m not interested in any kind of exchange if that’s what you have in mind. you won’t get anything from me.”

jade leech blinks at you twice in rapid succession, eyebrows raised, before his features school themselves into something neutral. concealed, even. you’re almost comforted by the sight of normal jade.

key word: almost.

“is that what you think of me?”

“how else am i supposed to think?” your eyebrows furrow. “i could never tell with you before, but i knew you weren’t malicious at the very least. i don’t have a clue where we stand now.” excuses. truths. you hold your basket closer. “does it matter, anyways? i don’t have any business with you.”

the sun is lower on the horizon now. the lamplight flickers.

jade leech sighs—sighs!—so inaudible you might’ve thought it was the wind. his eyes fall shut for a moment. when they open again, his left one shines gold. “you’re still nursing injuries, are you not? as vice housewarden of octavinelle, it would be remiss of me to ignore someone personally hurt by the actions of our dorm. i’ll ensure your safety against anything on the way down.” his gaze meets yours. “an eye for an eye, yes?”

you scrunch your face. “i don’t want your eye. i don’t want anyone’s eyes.”

jade blinks at you—(wow, that makes it, what, three times now?)—before unexpectedly giving into chuckles. it’s breathy, and true, and a whole host of other adjectives you wouldn’t normally assign him. that must be the floyd in him, you think as you stand there awkwardly. you wonder if you should just leave.

jade gets a hold of himself soon enough though, and he ushers you down the mountain under the guise of benevolence and whatever else he tries to sell to you on the way. you ignore it the best you can.

what you don’t see is the lingering grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, the entire trip down.

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[clockwayswrites]

So far this file is called 'birdritch'. Those of you who follow my art tumblr might know where this is going. I needed something light to write, been a low day. There has been zero editing or reading through and it is past 2am, sorry and enjoy! (Don't need any typos pointed out, ty.)

---

“You are supposed to be home.”

Danny blinked up from his work to find Lucius Fox standing in the doorway of the lab. The man had the sport of expression one wore around a child who had just done something disappointing.

(Danny was used to the look, even if it had been a long time since he'd been a kid. Or seen his parents, for that mater.)

“Okay, but,” Danny started, “we agreed that I could start at ten and take my eight hours and one for lunch—”

“A mandatory one hour for lunch away from your desk,” Lucius interrupted.

“Yes, yes, I’ve been doing that! I’ve been eating out on the rooftop garden or even leaving the building and eating out or taking lunch to the park. I’ve been behaving, Lucius, I promise.”

Lucius raised a judgmental brow. “It’s after eight, Danny.”

“What? No. I have an alarm on my phone and everything… okay, well, that only works if my phone is charged.” Danny jabbed uselessly at his phone screen. He followed the charger, which was plugged in, all the way to the wall. He resisted the urge to let his head fall against the wall. “I guess Leslie fried the outlet again or something. I’m sorry, Lucius.”

“It’s fine, Danny,” Lucius said, “but only because, one, I know you have been trying, and two, I am going to buy you the most embarrassing alarm clock I can find and mount it to something in this lab. Now it is late and I am going home and so are you, Mr. Fenton.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Fox,” Danny said and made an exaggerate show of packing up his backpack, dead phone and all.

Lucius gave a little snort at the antics, but left with a ‘get home safe, Danny’. After his boss was gone, Danny took the time to actually make sure everything was in his bag and secure. He still didn’t get why he couldn’t just work late, but apparently WE had something of an insistence of work life balance. According to Lucius, Danny crossed the line too often and so was being kept in line. (Danny didn’t think mention he didn’t have much of a life, literally and otherwise, would help his case.)

Still, Danny mused as he stepped inside the empty elevator, the rules did keep him from becoming his parents. And that was a very, very good thing! Being a mad scientist in Gotham usually ended up landing someone in Arkham. It was just that after the chaos that Danny grew up with, going back to his empty apartment was depressing. It wasn’t as if Danny never got out and did things, it was just that all those things were mostly on the weekend. Most days he just didn’t have a reason to go back to his place.

There was no getting out of it tonight, the great and powerful Fox had spoken and Danny knew better than to try and sneak back up. He lifted his hands over his head, stretching as the elevator descended the last few floors. Oh well, at least it was before ten. He could still grab something on the way home and have a full, warm meal to take his pain meds on. By the pull along his forearm he would need them.

“Night, Bill,” Danny said as he passed the security guard who was on the evening shift. He got another ‘get home safe’ in response and gave a little wave in reply over his shoulder.

Even after the few years in Gotham, it still amused Danny how much everyone wished everyone else some sort of safe travels here. As much as Gotham was a city of hardened realists, there still was so much hope about it. Hope people got home safely, that the Bats would get where they were need in time, that the city would rebuild again and again and again. The undercurrent of hope was so strong that Danny could practically feel it moving through the city like a river.

It had been one of the reasons Danny had taken the job.

He could use hope.

He also had been very careful not to look too closely into it all. While Danny’s early life may have been dominated by the occult, he tried to stay away from it these days outside of the necessary visits to the Realm for his health. As much as the Far Frozen was full of ghost yetis, Frostbite was still a being of science and being there felt more like a cold vacation to his weird relatives than anything else those days.

Danny was actually worried that he was getting close to needing another visit. He shouldn’t, not yet. He wasn’t actually due back for another three months, but the thought of visiting Frostbite had been pulling at the back of Danny’s mind. The most annoying part of it all, is that there wasn’t any concrete reason that Danny felt he needed to go, just a lot of little things: the ache was deeper in his bones, he’d been missing noticing little things, his near constant vertigo was worse, and, oddest of all, he had been feeling chilled.

Maybe he should just take a long weekend and go for a quick visit.

Lucius would undoubtedly approve of the break.

Tomorrow, Danny would ask tomorrow.

(As long as he remembered.)

[pineconepie]

oooo how about vincent with reader and one of his parties gone wrong? maybe reader gets hurt or almost dies?

Here you go!! <3

TW: Near-death experience (for Reader), mentions of murder, attempted murder, poisoned Reader, hospitals

"Stay close by me," Vincent reminds you once again, squeezing your hand tighter in his own gloved one. "You don't have permission to talk to strangers or leave my sight."

You almost scoff. As if you ever have permission.

Its been at least three months since you've started living with him. Despite being constantly monitored, you don't necessarily hate living with him. After getting used to his treatment of you, it's pretty comforting.

Being able to depend on somebody and not worry about things is nice. Other than a few rules, you can basically do whatever you want as long as it doesn't involve running away, hurting anyone or yourself, or disrespecting Vincent.

Overall, it could be way worse.

Vincent looks at you for confirmation.

"I know," you mumble. "No going near strangers or leaving your sight. I'm not stupid."

The blond chuckles softly, brushing his thumb against your knuckles. "No, you're certainly not dumb, pumpkin, but sometimes it takes more than smarts to keep safe. Remember what we said? The world is dangerous." He ruffles your hair gently. "And hey, if you don't wanna stay for long, we don't have to. Just need to make appearances, all that good stuff."

You nod. "Okay."

Honestly, if you had a choice, you wouldn't attend this gala whatsoever. It was a meeting between members of Cryo, but not like their usual monthly one.

Instead, this was actual an annual thing hosted in order to show off Cryo's successes over the year and hopefully find prospective members.

Vincent was reluctant when you told him you wanted to go, since apparently these galas were usually rather boring and weren't suited for "babies" like you (in Vincent's words). Plus, there'd be plenty of alcohol, gambling, and lots of "grown-up conversations."

But you managed to convince him with your puppy dog eyes and pleading. He's weak for those, you've noticed. Always wants to please you.

He had gotten you the nicest dress/suit, even though you already had at least five ones to choose from. He donned a black suit with a purple tie and matching slacks. His gloves were also black and leather, as well as his belt and shoes. He finished the look off with cufflinks shaped like golden bullets and a matching broach on his suit.

"You nervous, kiddo?" he asks in concern, squeezing your hand tighter.

"A little bit," you admit. "Just want people to like me."

Vincent frowns at you. "Well, if they're mean to you, they'll end up six feet under, so no need to worry about that."

"I don't want people to die either," you grumble. "Especially just because of me."

Vincent pinches your cheeks. "They can either be respectful to you, or dead. Their choices, doesn't seem like a hard one, either."

You swat at his hand, and he laughs. Soon enough, the two of you reach a large, extravagant looking building, lit up brightly despite the late night.

He guides you towards the entrance, and you enter into a massive hall filled with hundreds of people, most likely part of Cryo. Its quite loud inside. There's music playing somewhere nearby as well.

Everyone seems dressed formally. Suits and dresses abound. Several waiters walk by holding trays piled high with hors d'oeuvres and wine glasses.

Vincent continues to guide you towards a specific spot—where the guests are gathering to greet one another. As soon as he shows up, everyone greets him. Some of them eye you suspiciously or curiously, but they seem to know better than to outright approach you.

And you notice they only acknowledge your existence briefly before turning away and continuing their conversations with him or each other.

He notices you staring. "(Y/n), want me to introduce you?" he murmurs, patting your back.

You shake your head, and instead hide yourself behind him.

"Sorry, folks, my kid is a bit shy right now," Vincent laughs. "How bout we save introductions for later when they're in a better mood?"

The people shrug and agree, seeming content with that answer.

So that's how things continue. Vincent occasionally lets go of your hand to perform a handshake with somebody new, or wrap an arm around your shoulders, but never once truly leaves your side.

Occasionally, he offers to grab you food and drinks, making sure to only feed you things he knows are safe. Knowing the crowd here, for once you don't blame him for being extra vigilant.

A lot of small talk goes on. You zone out a bit as you hear talks about trade deals, weapons manufacturing, smuggling operations, assassinations... The typical mob business. You already know most of the details thanks to Vincent's constant chatter anyways.

Once it seems like the two of you have met every single person attending, he brings you to a quieter part of the gala, where they seem to have an open bar.

A couple people are milling around the area. A few seated on barstools and chatting with bartenders, others standing nearby watching. Vincent guides you to one of the seats, helping you onto the stool before sitting next to you.

"Want some juice, kiddo? We've got lemonade, grape juice, orange juice..." Vincent says. "I personally get a root beer float most of the time."

"Don't you drink?" you ask. Now that you think about it, you've never seen him drink in your presence.

"Not as often anymore. Not when I got someone young and innocent depending on me! Gotta be sober to watch you properly," Vincent says. "Besides, I'd never live it down if I became a bad influence for you."

You almost laugh. Funny he out of all people is saying that. "I guess I'll have what you're having, then."

Vincent grins and flags down one of the nearby servers.

"What can I get you, Mr. Brewer?"

"Two root beer floats for us, please."

She nods and rushes away.

While waiting, the two of you idly chat and watch everyone else. You notice a tall man with short brown hair and brown eyes approach, eyes fixed on Vincent. Something about his wide smile throws you off. He looks friendly, yes, but also a bit too enthusiastic, even more so than others who met you earlier.

He seems different than the other people here, and not in a good way.

"Hey, Boss," the man greets. His voice is slightly on the higher-pitched side. "Haven't seen you since your trip to Budapest. I heard you adopted a kid." He smiles at you.

"Yep," Vincent confirms, though he sounds a bit annoyed. "If you attended more meetings, that wouldn't have become a problem. Phoenix tried to contact you several times, we all thought you were dead."

The guy scratches the back of his neck nervously. "Sorry... Things got busy on my end..."

Vincent looks angry, but holds himself back from yelling. For your sake, that much is obvious. You see his fingers twitching subtly. "You should make an effort to stay available whenever possible. You have a job, Sullivan. This isn't some side-gig you can just show up to when you want. If your uncle weren't contributing so much to Cryo, you'd be out of here in a heartbeat. I can still make that happen."

Sullivan sighs. "Yeah. I'll try to do better next time. Sorry again, really." He sits next to Vincent, eyeing both of your root beer floats, both in fancy wine glasses. "So, uh, (Y/n), was it? Nice to meet you."

"Yeah... nice to meet you too," you say politely, sipping your drink.

Vincent's eye twitches. He shifts his chair so it's angled closer to you protectively. Almost like a shield separating you and Sullivan apart. "Is there something else you needed?" Vincent questions, clearly getting impatient. He puts his drink down, right next to yours.

"Nah, just wanted to see you and apologize for being such trouble recently." Sullivan wedges himself between you two, arms outstretched on both of your shoulders, and both of you looking at him in confusion. Vincent's confused look turns into a sour one. "What? Just wanted to be affectionate, sorry. You're awfully grumpy today."

"Are you drunk?" Vincent sneers.

"Just a little!" Sullivan snorts and pulls away.

You're a little fearful for the guy's life, judging by the way Vincent is staring him down. You grab your drink and take a sip from it, not noticing Sullivan's brief look of panic.

"Uh, well, gotta go! I'm sure Trent's gonna wanna catch up with me," Sullivan nervously says, walking away quicker than Vincent has ever seen him go.

The blond only scoffs. "If I see him again tonight, I'll shoot him in the head myself," he grumbles.

"What happened to wanting to be a good influence?" you laugh.

Vincent flicks your nose. "Hey, if someone were bothering you who you wanted to shoot, I'd fully support it. I think the world would be a much better place if we got rid of all the people who were bothering my beloved kiddo." He ruffles your hair. "And hey, did you take my root beer float? Mine had the purple straw! Brat." His tone is playful, of course.

You pull back to look at the nearly fully-consumed drink, seeing the green straw. "Oops, must've mixed 'em up... too late, it's mine now."

He shakes his head in mock disappointment. "My kiddo... so mean. But it's fine, because yours had more in it, anyway! So ha-ha." As if proving a point, he begins loudly slurping yours. You laugh at the silliness. If only everyone knew that Vincent was a fool.

"That guy was kind of weird," you murmur, changing the subject onto Sullivan. "Have you known him for long?"

"Unfortunately," Vincent mutters. "Ever since his uncle joined Cryo, he felt entitled enough to get a job from us. Honestly, I'd much rather fire him, but since he's family with a high ranking member, I'd rather not cause any unnecessary conflict. Don't really trust him, though."

"Sounds like you really hate him," you chuckle.

"Me? Hate someone? Pfft, never. I'm a saint." Vincent nudges your shoulder with his own. "Yeah, I'm kidding. I kinda hate him. And I especially hate anyone who makes you uncomfortable, which I can tell he was doing. If not for his uncle..." He doesn't need to finish that sentence.

You finish your root beer float, and put the empty glass to the side. He wraps an arm around your shoulders while he pulls out his phone.

You see it's Quinn, and that he's telling her to keep an eye on him. You continue reading what he's texting, but then it gets harder to, the words growing blurrier and blurrier.

That's when you realize everything is getting blurry. Even the man next to you.

"Dad," you mutter. Your tongue feels like lead.

"Not now. Give Dad one sec." He keeps typing on his phone.

"Dad." More urgently.

"Be patient, kiddo. Quinn can barely type properly as is."

"I feel really bad," you rasp. "Dizzy."

Vincent looks up from his phone quickly. "(Y/n)?" His eyes widen as he sees your pained expression and sweat dripping down your face.

He drops his phone immediately as he catches you right before you fall off the stool. He runs a hand across your forehead. "(Y/n)? Hey, baby, shh, calm down. What hurts?" Panic seeps through his tone, yanking off one of his gloves with his teeth to feel your pulse, putting two fingers to your neck. Its rapid-fire.

"E-everything," you whimper. It's hard to even form words anymore. Your vision is getting darker and darker, and you can no longer breathe.

You begin to cough, holding onto his shirt for comfort as you feel the edges of your conscious slipping. Your throat feels blocked up. Every attempt to speak results in a strained wheeze and a coughing fit.

Vincent lets out a rare, strangled noise. The fear of losing you is the one thing keeping him grounded.

He lifts you up easily, bridal-style, into his arms, resting your head against his chest. He maneuvers past the crowds, calling for someone to get a stretcher for you.

You can't tell what he's saying anymore, only that he's yelling. Is he mad? Upset?

Or terrified, maybe. Maybe that's why his voice is shaky and cracked.

"Baby, come on, just breathe for Dad, alright? Just focus on my voice, sweetie," he begs, rubbing circles in your chest, as if he can coax air into your lungs. "Breathe with me. Please."

Your breath stutters and comes out shallowly. There's nothing you can do.

No way to obey him. You can't breathe. Why can't you breathe? You're trying so hard, just like he asked you to, but it's like your lungs refuse to expand, refusing to cooperate.

Vincent tries his best to coach you into breathing right, talking in soothing tones and soft coos, encouraging you to calm down and copy him.

Even if everything didn't sound muffled, you couldn't understand him anyway from the way he's speaking, on the verge of hyperventilating. He's trying so hard to act okay for you.

Everything starts to become dim. Blackness creeps into the corners of your vision, slowly overtaking your sight entirely. No matter how hard you struggle, fighting to stay awake and alive, your body gives into the poison and shuts down, leaving you limp in his arms.

The last thing you hear before darkness consumes your consciousness is Vincent screaming louder than you've ever heard him before.

...

Vincent paces back and forth as he waits in the hospital hallway outside of the ER.

"Vincent," Trenton greets sympathetically. It's rare he ever refers to his boss with his first name, but it's not something Vincent minds usually, especially not now. His mind is too preoccupied. "We found the perpetrator—"

"Sullivan," Vincent snarls, finishing for him. "I already figured."

"R-right," Trenton sighs. "We caught him attempting to run. He was already prepared for flight. Uh, it seems like the strychnine was meant for you, but either mixed them up or you got your drinks mixed up."

Vincent nods. "That damn traitor... you have him in custody, right?" Trenton nods. "Good. Keep him alive. I want to kill him myself."

"Understood. Do you want us to torture him first?" Trent asks. He's usually not this brutal, but he loves you like a sibling, after all.

"No. I'm saving that pleasure for myself." The door opens and a doctor steps out. Vincent's most trusted doctor, Dr. Fredericks. "(Y/n)! Let me see them now!" He doesn't even bother asking if you're alive; he simply refuses to even consider that outcome. That's the only thing that's been stopping him from absolutely losing it.

"Okay, but they're very much out of it," she tells him, leading him down the hallway into your room.

She's right.

You're on a hospital bed with the covers pulled over your chest. An oxygen mask is secured over your mouth and nose, and several monitors hooked to various machines beep quietly, tracking your vitals. There's an IV drip attached to your wrist.

As promised, you are awake, but clearly unable to do anything beyond that. Your eyes are drooping and you're blinking slowly, struggling to stay alert.

"(Y/n)," Vincent breathes, rushing over and grabbing your hand. He crouches beside the bed so that he's level with you. "Sweetie? Can you hear me?" He kisses your temple gently. He brushes your hair away from your forehead, pressing his cheek against yours.

You try to move your hand weakly towards his voice.

The blond nods quickly. "Hi, baby. Yeah, its Dad. I'm here. Everything is gonna be okay now." He presses kisses all over your face—anywhere he can reach without disturbing the oxygen mask.

"Poisoned," you manage to rasp.

"I know, lovebug. But it'll be okay." Tears threaten to spill down Vincent's cheeks.

"Scary," you say next.

"I know," Vincent whispers again, his voice cracking. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching closely enough. Shouldn't have let him anywhere near us. I won't make that same mistake again, I promise." Not after he turns that bastard to dust. Slowly.

"Not y'r fault," you slur.

"It is. I should've protected you. That's my job, sweetie." He kisses your hand repeatedly. "Don't speak anymore, okay? I just want you to rest. At least until this comes off." He taps the clear oxygen mask. "And then we'll talk aaaall you want. Doesn't that sound nice?"

You shift positions as much as the wires will allow, and you pat the small space on the mattress, motioning for him to join you.

He chuckles and shakes his head fondly. "Aww, buddy. I don't wanna crush you."

When you continue to persistently slap the bed sheets, he finally concedes. He slips his shoes off and climbs onto the bed with you, helping you lay on top of his chest.

He makes sure all wires are in place as they were moments ago. "Comfy?" You hum in confirmation. Vincent plays with your hair. "Get some sleep, honey. Dad's not going anywhere."

Your eyelids flutter shut as you listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat, grounding you and lulling you to a peaceful, safe sleep.

Normally Vincent would be awake, hyper-vigilant as ever, but the exhaustion from running around in a frenzy and pure terror takes its toll on him too. His eyes close and sleep follows soon after.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

ethereal - spencer reid x fem!reader

upon spencer's long-awaited return from a case, reader dresses up just for him and he gives her a new first

genre: smut wc: 1.8k warnings: soft dom!spencer, sub!reader, reader wears lingerie, mentioned masturbation (f), fingering, praise, squirting a/n: this is two anon requests i decided to put into one! --ty @spencerreidsrightsock for helping me brainstorm<3

It’s not like you to be doing so much for a man. You think of it as silly because it is. If a man really likes you, then you shouldn’t need to dress up for him.

But you really like dressing up anyways.

So here you are. In a see-through negligee that covers only your chest and ends at mid thigh. Below the bust line it’s completely sheer fabric, floating out like a princess’ nightgown only with fully visible panties. The colour white–usually symbolizing purity–makes you seem anything but.

You fear it’s appropriate for the occasion.

Because Spencer rarely is away this long. Usually it’s days–no more than five. This time, it’s been ten.

You know, you know, it’s a tough case, a tricky situation. But you’re needy. You haven’t been this long without him since you started dating. Sure, you could take matters into your own hands like most grown women do, but where’s the fun in that? Besides, he does it better. You can picture it, relive it, but it’ll never be the same. It’ll never beat the feeling of his fingers curling inside you. You’ll never be able to replicate that perfect rhythm he seems to find every damn time.

So you’re worse than usual. The moment the text came through that he was coming home in a few short hours, you essentially rushed to his apartment, but not before remembering the lingerie you purchased after a night of drinking with friends. You slipped it on and couldn’t help but admire yourself. Applause was surely in order for your tipsy self.

It’s not strange for you to be in his apartment when he’s not. Sometimes he’ll text, asking you to meet him at home. It typically means that he wants to see you in his bed as soon as possible. Since you came into the picture, he allowed sex to become a form of stress relief with the added bonus of being close to you. Spencer finds solace in giving you all the pleasure you could ever ask for. You assured him time and time again that being used by him was also pleasing, but he still insists on giving you as many orgasms as you can take.

Your lips freshly glossed, you fix your hair intently. When you hear his key enter the lock, your legs move quicker than it’s safe. The carpet in front of his desk makes for a perfect runway.

Your hands become fists on your hips as you attempt a pose to show off the lingerie he’s never had a chance to see.

“Sorry I’m so late, Emily had to talk to us about a case we’re consulting…” and then he sees you, eyes making their way over every dip of your body and every ripple in the fabric, “is that–uh–new?”

Spencer’s Adam's apple bobs around a gulp as your cheeks heat up. “I ordered it a few months ago.”

“Nice.” The word comes out in a higher pitch than usual, making him clear his throat after.

A few short steps bring him close enough to touch. His hands find the chiffon over your hips. The eyes you love–the ones that you find have memorized you several times over–come down to meet yours. “You look… ethereal.”

It’s definitely demeaning how you look up at him. Doe-ish, wide and sparkling like shimmering glitter. The compliments he loves to shower you in never fail to turn you into nothing. You’re unnecessarily sensitive to his praise.

“Really?” you whisper bashfully, lips curled into a grin.

“Really.”

Your arms wrap loosely around his neck as you lift yourself higher, standing on the tips of your toes to transfer some of the pink gloss from your lips to his. “Do you want to go to bed?” you ask gently.

Spencer nods and lays a kiss to the top of your head. “Go ahead, I’ll be right in.”

As if he commanded you to run as fast as you can, you pad into the bedroom, your bare feet bringing you to the soft mattress so you can climb onto it. You sit on your knees, the bed sinking beneath your weight. Only a few moments later, after shedding his coat and his bag, he finds you. His shoes come off before he’s mirroring your position on the mattress and his mouth connects with yours.

A hand tugs on your hair just enough to make you whine while the other reaches under the negligee to rest on the small of your back. His hand is warm, the rough skin of his thumb making passes as his lips part against yours.

“I missed you,” he mumbles, placing you gently on the pillows. Of their own volition, your knees open to give him room to start lavishing your neck with kisses.

“I missed you, too.” Your hand comes to his head, using his curls as leverage to bring him back up for a kiss. Hot and messy, your tongues collide, ragged breaths coming from both of you.

An insistent but reverent grip lands on your inner thigh. Spencer pushes your leg up, allowing you to hook it around his waist. In-between open-mouthed kisses moving swiftly down your chest, he murmurs a gentle, “you’re so, so pretty.”

Again, you’ve never said you’re strong. A moan desperately falls from your lips. You watch carefully as his eyes glide over your white panties or, more specifically, the small bow on the front of them. As they then lift to meet your starry ones, his fingers find the fabric covering your core.

“Is this okay?”

And you nod.

Any other day, he’d be hellbent on making you say it aloud but, for right now, after so long without you, a simple nod will suffice.

He moves the fabric to the side and gathers the surprising amount of wetness on his fingertips only to drag it upwards and start circling your clit. A buck of your hips makes him grin.

“What do you want?” Spencer asks gently, fingers speeding up, effectively rendering you speechless.

“Uh–fingers?”

He nods, letting two digits slip inside your entrance. The tips of his fingers hit your sweet spot on the first curl, making you whine and clench. “Good girl,” he praises while his other hand strokes the outside of your thigh soothingly.

The slight stretch turns into a throbbing sensation that makes your head spin. With every thrust, his palm hits your sensitive clit. You drip into his hand while whines leave your mouth.

His eyes never once leave your red face. He revels in how your lips part in a silent cry. This moment was only just a part of his reverie when he was away, the lonely hotel room being kept tolerable by every memory he’s accumulated of you since you met. Now that you’re wrapped around him outside of some petulant daydream, he can say everything is perfect.

In a fit of absolute need, your hips grind against his hand. His voice comes in a delicate whisper in your ear, “that’s it… you need more?”

A whine and an eager nod brings upon an instantly quicker pace. Driving into your G-spot, he makes sure to keep a consistent pace that makes your legs shake. It’s this pace that makes you embarrassingly close to coming already.

Your thighs clamp around his hand with force. You babble, barely coherent, “Spencer– I–I can’t… can’t–”

But it seems he couldn’t care at all less because he simply shushes you and places a sticky peck to your mouth. “Yes, you can, you’re doing so good.”

Breathing becomes difficult as his thrusts never once falter. The repeated bruising force against your most sensitive and sweetest point is quick to force you into a suspended state of fog and brain-curdling bliss. You’re uncertain on what the reason is as to why you desperately try to stop his motions but you’re glad he doesn’t let you. Because the moment he hits that spot one more time, you’re severely gone.

His lips leave gentle kisses all over your face as he patiently waits for your high to fall. And when it does, he’s right there to kiss you properly, as if communicating his love for you in a way you’ll understand in your haze.

“Do you think you can give me one more?” he mutters in a question, still pressing sickeningly sweet pecks down your neck.

As tired as your body is from only one orgasm, you crave impossibly more from him. So, you sigh, “yeah.”

Your underwear–the unnecessary barrier it is–is pulled down your legs slowly. After it’s been discarded on the floor, Spencer moves to your side, pulling your leg over his lap. He pulls the negligee further up your stomach before returning his hand to its rightful place between your thighs.

The embarrassing amount of wetness is collected by his fingers and spread over you teasingly. How sensitive you are is obvious by the whimpers slipping out of you uncontrolled. So, when his two digits make contact with your swollen clit, you turn your head and moan into his chest.

“Spencer, please,” you whine.

His free hand rubs circles into your waist. “I got you, baby,” he coos, “it’s okay.”

With no resistance, his fingers slip inside you again, your walls accommodating him immediately. This time, you can already tell, you won’t last long at all. Of course, he presses against your G-spot, but now, without any mercy.

Your core clenches with every rough thrust inside you. His shirt makes for something to muffle your cries.

“Fuck, S–Spencer, I’m gonna come again,” you mumble rapidly against him.

“Yeah?”

An eager nod against his chest seems to make him want to delay your impending orgasm. He takes his fingers out of you to toy with your clit instead. Although a minor setback that makes you whimper, his quickly moving hand moves in circles that bring that pleasure back even more intense.

It builds fast in your lower stomach, so fast your eyes roll back and your hips try to get away. But he’s too consistent. Your walls flutter around nothing as your second orgasm of the evening hits you hard. Spencer’s fingers work you through as you contract against them. A stream of fluid gushes out of your center, successfully soaking the sheets. It’s unfamiliar and something you never knew you were capable of.

The gentle circles he makes on your clit after you come dissipate into nothing as he looks down at you.

You mumble, voice laced with exasperation, “I’ve never done that… before.”

He knew, of course, that you’ve yet to do that with him but he is surprised that this time had been the first in your life.

“No?”

“I’m sorry.”

A surprised and honestly affectionate laugh leaves him. “Why?”

“I made a mess.”

“A mess that can be cleaned. Right now, that’s not something you need to think about.”

You look down at the lingerie you put on for him and smile bashfully, “you really like it?”And he does nothing but nod. “I love it.”

[qwimblenorrisstan]

(im back, christmas break is here!!)

tw: mentions of abuse, violence, sexism (but secondary gender), omegaverse dynamics, crying, heavy angst no aftercare (again)

The uncomfortable tension in the room was palpable as they all sat in their usual debriefing room. Usually, the nest was a place for such a personal and volatile topic such as this, but none of them felt worthy of being there now. Not with how they’d treated you.

Soap was tapping his foot against the floor, the pattern uneven and sporadic, until Gaz snapped at him.

“Could you quit it, mate?” It had come out harsher than he’d meant. Soap huffed through his nose but obliged. They were all tense and on edge, their usually oh-so-controlled scents now sour and bitter with unease and anxiety.

In the field, they had their skills and weapons to fix problems, to take out the enemy. But here, back home? They had absolutely nothing in this fight. No amount of backup or fights could win this for them. In this fight, they were the enemy, and the only way to win this was by fixing the sacred little strand keeping you together that they had so carelessly unwound until it had snapped.

Ghost looked to Price. His hand was in his beard, thoughtfully running through the hair, stressed as Ghost has ever seen him. A sour pang of guilt shot through him. If he hadn’t tried forcing you to his scent gland, then you wouldn’t be in this position, and he wouldn’t have messed everything up, again—

“Y’re thinking too much.”

Price muttered, Simon’s feelings clear through the thick scent that somehow seemed to overpower everyone else’s in the air. He swallowed thickly. They needed a plan of action, some way to fix this, and the only way Price saw things being mended was by a lot of time and effort.

Gaz let the silence simmer for a moment, before speaking up.

“Cane Baker Syndrome, I looked it up yesterday night, it’s just like the med’ said. PTSD. Do you think…?”

An alpha being abused wasn’t as commonplace as it had used to be. Only 50 years ago, if you’d stepped into the common era, you’d see alpha’s being forced to work for a family they’d been forced into providing, their protective instincts abused. Among the more insane practices had been scratching out an alpha’s scent gland, so they couldn’t scent or get attached to their offspring, meaning the omega got the child all to themselves.

Awful things such as that had been outlawed years ago, but still happened in little forgotten corners of the world where loopholes existed.

“We can’t know for sure, but based on their reaction, I’d say we have a safe assumption. When they’re in a better….state of mind, we can ask a few questions.”

Price answered, voice heavy with an edge of guilt that seemed to grow richer by the second. Soap’s incessant tapping started up again, anxiety clearly chewing away at him. He couldn’t defuse you or the situation they’d created so easily like any other bomb he might during a mission.

“Could we get a background check on them?”

He asked, a hint of desperation in his tone. All he wanted was for you to be better again, for things to go back to normal, for a second chance.

But as they all split up, and he went to the nest, usually all so warm and comfortable and smelling of their sweet, rich scents combined, all he found was isolation among his team, sour scents mingling with rotten ones, a few sniffles and the salty scent of tears, he knew one thing.

They’d made their bed. Now they had to lie in it.

(sorry for the short part I’ve been playing cod bo6 multiplayer a lot and I’m kinda addicted + depressive episode, but there’ll be more soon I promise!!)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

[a-writer-on-elm-street]

Hi I didn't know who else to ask but I like your blog alot and was wondering If you could do Slashers with a lover who in their sleep subconsciously pats their back repeatedly like a baby while hugging them with brahms, Thomas hewitt, and the sinclair brothers included please🩷

a/n: thank you so much and thank you for the request <3 i'm sorry that it took so long, i've just had A LOT going on over the last year and have had barely any time for writing. and since i've been gone for so long, i will admit i'm a bit out of practice so i apologise in advance if this isn't to the standard you were hoping for

mentioned: brahms heelshire, thomas hewitt, bo sinclair, vincent sinclair, lester sinclair

brahms heelshire

brahms has always liked to cuddle with you at night. in fact, before you both started routinely sleeping together, he would sneak into your room at night and simply hold onto you for comfort

he knows that you're not against cuddling, so when he wakes up with your arms locked around him, he isn't surprised

but he is slightly surprised to find that you're patting him on the back as though he were a baby

in all the time that you've been sleeping together, not once have you ever done such a thing

it's a nice surprise, because brahms loves nothing more than physical comfort. your palm lightly tapping against his back calms him, eventually lulling him back to sleep

thomas hewitt

thomas has always enjoyed any form of physical contact with you. since he rarely speaks, physical contact is the only form of affection he can rely on

when he wakes up with your limbs tangled around his body, the first thing he notices is your hand gently patting his back. he can tell that you're asleep from your usual deep breathing so he doesn't have to check whether you're awake

althought this is a new thing that he knows you definitely haven't done before, he doesn't think much of it

instead, he welcomes it and simply allows himself to fall back to sleep, your hand patting his back bringing him nothing but comfort

bo sinclair

when you and bo first started out, he wouldn't so much as let you sleep in the same room as him, so when he feels your hand gently patting his back one night, it's safe to say he's in a state of both annoyance and shock

he knows you know not to be too intimate with him when you're in bed together, so why the hell are you currently patting his back like he's a damn baby?

your face is buried in his chest so he can't tell if you're awake or not so he decides to carefully untangle your limbs from him to get a better look. and to his surprise, you're asleep

he isn't sure what to do, because although he's uncomfortable with it, he also finds it to be oddly comforting. and you're not exactly conscious so it isn't like there's any reason for him to feel awkward, you don't know what you're doing, you don't even know that he knows

in the end, after A LOT of unnecessary deliberation, bo finally decides to just allow you to keep patting his back with your arms locked around his body

he enjoys it, although there is no way he will ever tell you that

vincent sinclair

when vincent wakes up to you patting his back one night, he's confused. especially because a lot of the time, the closest the two of you get when sleeping is when he holds you from behind

so when he wakes up with your face crushed against his chest and your limbs wrapped around his body, his immediate response is to feel a little uncomfortable

he isn't sure if you know that you're currently patting him on the back like he's a baby but he doesn't want to check either in case you're asleep

so he just lays there for a long moment, painfully aware of your hand against his back

he isn't sure whether he likes it, he also doesn't want to stop you

in the end, he decides to just ignore it and go back to sleep

he'll decide if he liked it in the morning

lester sinclair

when lester wakes up to find you're gently patting him on the back, he doesn't even have to think about it before deciding that he loves it and would love for you to do it more often

lester had never really experienced much physical affection before you, so he could care less that your body is currently wrapped around his, with your palm gently beating against his back. he'll take whatever he can get

he loves you and he loves being as close to you as possible so he lets you keep patting his back and eventually drifts back to sleep, content with the fact that you're both so close, in every sense of the word

[Main Masterlist]

[sacr1ficialang3l]

I knew it was love, when I rode home crying⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: angst. canon-typical violence. mentions of injuries and bleeding. references to physical abuse. john winchester's A+ parenting. blink-and-you-miss-it mention of cunnilingus. fluff (I promise). dean winchester is bad at feelings but he is trying his best, okay? 4.9k

You usually love rainy days.

Yes, they can be hellish in the summer because of the humidity. But it’s early November, and the rain is cold and the sky is gloomy—and you’ve never felt more understood by nature.

With your heart as heavy as the charged clouds and your brain as foggy as the woods, you walk into the usual corner store to buy supplies for the night. It rained all night, and even if you’ve been granted a break for now, a storm is expected that evening, and there’s talk of a blizzard. You have enough to survive for a few days, but better safe than sorry.

You have no idea how much time has passed since you last saw Dean. You know you ended up skipping graduation, and the summer went by. Your birthday passed, and the leaves have started to change color. But has it been weeks? No, it has to be months. Still, you’re pretty sure it’s been less than a year, right?

When you spend every day locked in your room or the bookstore, time warps. Even at your job, sorting and shelving books in the library, you still feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare that just won’t end.

You try your best, you really do—getting out of bed in the mornings, forcing yourself to swallow food, attempting conversation with the librarian or Bobby when you run into him—but an imminent sense of doom clings to your bones like a child clings to their mother’s arms.

At least, you assume. You’d never felt your mother’s touch unless it was to drag her away before she drowned in a pool of her own vomit.

You look down at your basket—three packs of cigarettes, a single tangerine, two packs of instant hot chocolate, and a lonely box of mac 'n' cheese.

What a sad fucking sight.

You decide to at least add a carton of eggs and some milk, just so the cashier won’t stare at you like you’re headed for the stake. So you turn around, the same old headphones placed firmly on your head—and then you stumble into someone’s chest.

You startle, blinking slowly at the purple shirt staring back at you. You tilt your head up and catch sight of a dog stamp on the shirt. You tilt your head further and still only meet the guy’s Adam’s apple.

Finally, you tilt your head almost all the way up, headphones falling down to your neck, and find a familiar pair of hazel puppy eyes blinking down at you with the exact same stupor.

Dean hadn’t lied about the freaky growth spurt, then.

Sam Winchester—the boy on whose head you could once rest your elbow—now towers over you. He’s grown out of his childhood round cheeks and lanky arms, but then he smiles—dimples showing and bangs still falling over his eyes—and he turns back into that kid you once bought marshmallow nachos for.

He murmurs your name so sweetly you could cry. “It’s been so long!”

Yeah, it has.

“Sam,” you whisper, voice rough with nostalgia. For the first time in a long time, a genuine smile parts your lips. You can’t help the way you immediately take a step forward, your body acting without your permission. You wrap your arms around Sam’s middle, hugging him close.

For all his hugeness, he seems to shrink in your hold. He stays still for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do, but then he clumsily wraps his arms around your shoulders and seems to deflate.

That same instinct that flared inside you that first night at the drive-in—that same softness that breaks through your rotten flesh and spills out at the sight of this way-too-gentle, way-too-like-you boy—runs you over like a truck. “It’s so nice to see you, Sam.”

It isn’t until after you pay for your things—eggs and milk forgotten as Sam talks about school and how he has been thinking of college—that you realize that if Sam is here, his brother must not be too far away. Still, Sam is very careful not to mention him, which only makes the sudden uneasiness spreading through you worse.

You had thought about seeing Dean again. Daydreamed about him calling, offering an explanation. You dreamed of him coming back, of him having a good enough excuse. You also knew it was unrealistic, and that if Dean ever showed back up, it would be just like last time. No apology, no reason, just him expecting you to take him back.

You weren’t sure you’d be able to say no.

But now, faced with the imminent probability of crossing paths with him one more time, you can’t feel anything. You feel numb, cold, like you’re under freezing water.

Sam and you walk out of the store, and you look up at him just in time to catch the slight hint of panic that crosses his face as he looks behind you.

“Uhm—” His voice is high-pitched, strange even for a teenage boy. “You want me to walk you home?” He nervously points behind himself, away from whatever he is trying to hide from you.

Dread washes all over you, thick and heavy, but you still turn around.

Dean looks just like he did the last time you saw him, including the teasing smirk on his lips. He is leaning back on the Impala, cigarette between his teeth, eyes sparkling with mischief. But this time, he is not looking at you.

There’s a girl in front of him, you think you recognize her from the cheer team—she graduated a year before you, just like Dean. She is giggling, hand on his arm, blonde hair in the same ponytail she wore back then, only missing the bow in the school’s colors. They look like they know each other, and she is probably asking about his sudden disappearance from school all those moons ago.

Sam says something, but it’s as if you're suddenly being pulled out of the icy lake you had been submerged in. Static in your ears, desperate attempts to breathe through the water in your lungs, panic cursing through you.

Not panic, you realize. It is pure fucking rage.

Dean looks away from the girl, but before his eyes meet yours, you’re turning around and walking away.

Always flight, never fight.

Sam says something else, but you ignore him. You can’t do this, not right now.

The cold air hits your face, and the rain puddles splash with the heavy stomps of your boots. Somewhere in the sky, a storm brews. Thunder roars, but you barely hear it over the roaring of your blood burning.

A hand wraps around your arm, familiar and warm, but this time you smack it away.

Dean looks like a kicked puppy when you turn around to face him, but you don’t let the sight soften you up. He makes another attempt at stepping closer, and you recoil so hard that he flinches like he has just been shot.

He whispers your name, and your breath hitches. You don’t know if it’s anger or desire or longing or hatred, but you ignore it as you clench your jaw and stay silent. Clear drops slide down his face, and for a moment you think he’s crying. But then you look up and find that it has started raining again.

“Look—I know, okay? I know.” His voice is broken, lacking the confidence it always carries. He looks pathetic, almost. Hair stuck to his forehead from the water that slowly drenches the two of you, his shoulder hunched, his smirk gone. “I—I can explain.”

But he doesn’t sound very convinced, and his eyes hold a darkness you hadn’t seen in him yet.

Your hands tremble, and you know that your copy of The Metamorphosis must be getting soaked where it rests in the back pocket of your jeans, but you stay.

“Then do, Dean.” You fight to keep the begging out of your tone because you won’t beg for an explanation. Still, you will welcome it if it comes. “And you better do it right.”

Dean’s lips part, and he looks like he could drop to his knees and thank every god out there. Slowly, you start to soften up. Because it’s Dean, and you had never considered yourself tough, not for him.

But then his phone rings, and as soon as his eyes meet the contact name, all emotion drains from his face. Once again, you witness Dean Winchester go from the boy you grew up admiring to the well-trained soldier you had only seen a few times.

He picks up the call, and bitterness flows through your veins like venom.

“Dad.” He doesn’t look at you, eyes focused on his own biker boots. “Right now? But—yes, sir. Okay, I will. B—” His father hangs up before Dean can even say goodbye.

You wait for a few seconds, bangs sticking to the sides of your face and mascara about to start running from the increasing rain. Dean doesn’t meet your eyes, and you still wait for that explanation, even if deep inside of you, you know it won’t come.

“I gotta go.”

Your laugh cuts through the air like the thunder in the sky. Even Dean looks surprised by it, the sound poisonous and griefful.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” It’s a kind of anger you have never exteriorized, the kind that you always swallow down and suppress, the kind that you carefully keep out of your words and actions, the one that only comes out when you are alone in your room.

You turn around, ready to leave again. Because you’re tired, and hurt, and furious. Because you can’t look at Dean for one more second without breaking down. Because right now, you can’t find it in yourself to be empathetic, to be understanding, to mutter a small “I get it” and keep waiting.

Right now, all you know is that this boy stole your soul and body, buried himself so deep inside of you that you won’t ever be able to erase his mark, and you still are not worth prioritizing.

The story of your life.

So you start walking home, trying to hold yourself together for just a little longer. Dean yells your name, but you don’t stop. There are quick steps behind you, and his hand wraps around your arm once again.

Your fist hits his face with a dull thud, his teeth scraping the skin. You’re pretty sure it hurts you more than it does him—your knuckles throbbing and bloody, while Dean barely twists his face.

It is the first time you throw a punch.

Another first taken by him.

You don’t stop to watch Dean’s reaction, you don’t give him a second glance, you simply run home and crawl into your bed.

Once again, you are left bleeding, crying, and heartbroken.

You are cleaning Marigold of any new cobwebs when you hear knocking at your door.

It is late at night, and you’re listening to music on your mom’s old radio. Your Walkman—already old and barely functional before today—had been completely ruined by the pouring rain. You cry over it, but you know it’s not about the cassette player at all.

You had always been aware of the fact that Dean had been with other girls, but you had never witnessed it. Now, the image of him giving that blonde the same smile he gave you that night is engraved in your brain.

Knock knock.

You pause, trying to figure out if you heard right. And there it is, once again.

You quickly move to grab your pistol from your bedside table, thinking about grabbing the silver dagger too.

“It’s just in case you need to defend yourself.”

Out of pure spite, you leave it under your bed where you pretend it’s discarded instead of carefully placed. You keep your steps light and quiet as you make your way to the front door, just like you do when you forage through the woods.

The click of the safety being switched off echoes through the hallway, and you carefully lean in to look through the peephole as you place your finger over the trigger of the pistol. Outside, a shadow stands tall and too dark to make out. You’re about to retreat and hide in your room when a voice filters through the wooden door.

“Sweetheart, I know you’re mad—but please open the door.”

It’s only the edge of pain in his voice that makes you follow his request.

You had seen Dean bleeding before—that day he came back to Bobby’s hurt, and occasionally when he got in a fight in school—but never like this.

His eyebrow is dripping with an unstoppable crimson river, forcing him to close his right eye. His leather jacket is gone, even though it’s still raining outside and the temperature is dropping steadily, and there’s a slowly expanding stain of blood spreading across his shirt. There’s a long gash running down his arm, his lip is busted, and he holds his side like something’s broken.

“Look, I know you don’t wanna see me right now—”

He doesn’t get to finish, because you drop the pistol to the floor and grab his uninjured arm, pulling him inside the house. His teeth are chattering, and you’re sure he’s one minute away from pneumonia.

Without saying a word, you drag him to the living room and make him sit on one of the couches, careful not to let him touch the one your mother died in. You wrap a blanket around his shoulders firmly, not caring if it gets stained with blood.

“What happened?” you ask urgently as Dean sets down a duffel bag you hadn’t noticed he was carrying. “Dean, what the fuck happened?”

Your voice resonates around the silent house, and it’s the first time in your life you demand something. The first order you’ve ever given, the first time your voice doesn’t hesitate. Because Dean is hurt, and your anger would never surpass how much you—care about him.

“A hunt went wrong.” It’s the only explanation you get, mumbled and low. But his shirt is slowly soaking through with blood, and you don’t have time for this.

“A hunt? You went hunting?” In all the time you’ve known Dean, he had never spoken about hunting. Maybe he knew better than to admit he enjoyed killing deer and bunnies in front of you, since you always made a point about the difference between foraging for the bones of already deceased animals and killing them.

Dean’s teeth stop chattering, so you pull the blanket away and yank his shirt off, trying to assess the damage. He winces when you move his slashed arm, but you’re too busy staring at the hole on his shoulder to notice.

“I got shot.” Dean’s voice feels distant, almost like it’s coming from another realm. You pull yourself back to reality when you see more blood gushing from the wound.

“You got—” Your eyes scan his body frantically: the scratch on his arm, the wounds on his face, the purple bruise blooming over his ribs. He didn’t just get shot. “What the fuck.”

You’ve patched up torn knuckles and scraped knees before, a few accidental cuts from your knife while practicing—some not so accidental—but never scratches the size of your forearm or bullet wounds.

More blood dribbles down, and you spring into action. You run to the bathroom where you always keep a first aid kit, recalling everything you know about bullet wounds from books and movies.

Back by Dean’s side in seconds, you kneel on the rug next to the couch and set the kit beside you. His face is growing paler. A sharp, sudden pain grips you—like a heart attack. But it’s just fear, you realize.

Don’t leave me.

“I—It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, though your hands tremble. Blood doesn’t scare you, you’re all too familiar with it. It’s the thought of Dean bleeding out that makes you nauseous. “I—I’m gonna clean the wound. You’ll be okay.”

You grab the sterile saline solution from the kit, tearing the cap off with your teeth. Straightening up, you take a deep breath and study the wound. It’s stopped bleeding, and you force your hands to steady—one wrapping around his bicep, the other holding the neck of the bottle close to torn skin.

“This’ll sting,” you warn.

Dean laughs.

It throws you off, and for a moment, the panic inside you twists into confusion.

“I’ve been through worse, sweetheart.” You look up at him, dumbfounded. “I’ve been here before. You don’t have to be gentle. Just get it over with.”

Yeah, salesman’s kid, your ass.

But it’s not time to argue, so your eyes return to his shoulder and you tilt the bottle forward. Dean hisses as the cold liquid floods the open wound, and a sick part of you feels a little satisfaction. Yeah, he deserves a little pain after everything.

You repeat the process on the exit wound, carefully washing away any debris. When Dean notices you’re hesitating, he instructs you to clean around the wound with some wipes, his voice strained but steady. You follow his orders carefully.

You’re gentle as you apply antiseptic to the edges of the skin, slowly growing more confident. Dean stays conscious, the bleeding stops, and you start to accept that he’s not going to die.

Your voice trembles when you reluctantly ask if he needs you to suture the wound, but he just laughs again and shakes his head, almost calling you adorable before biting back the words. Something else inside you aches then, but it’s different—burning, almost—like your whole body is on fire.

You follow his instructions for bandaging the wound, and it’s only when your palms press firmly against his chest that you actually realize he’s shirtless. You’ve seen Dean shirtless before, but always in the dim light and tight space of a car. Now, under the bright glow of the ceiling lamp, you can actually see.

Scars cover him—on his sides, along his collarbone, in the small of his back, over his heart. Big ones, tiny ones. Some pale and faded, others thick and angry-red. One definitely looks like a bite, another like—wolf claws?

What the fuck, actually.

It isn’t until you’re done bandaging the scratch on his arm and moving to his face that you speak again. It’s been complete silence until now—Dean’s eyes glued to the fireplace, yours fixed on his ragged skin.

“Dean, what—” You look down at him as you clean the cut on his eyebrow, and at least this is familiar territory. Your other hand cups his jaw, your brain so scrambled you can’t even figure out what to ask first.

“I’ll explain,” he interrupts, finally looking up at you. He looks bare, raw, vulnerable. You swallow the urge to reassure him, to comfort him, because your heart is still too broken. “But you have to listen to me, okay? You have to trust me.”

The words stab at your heart because you had trusted him. You trusted Dean with everything you had—you’d served your heart and body on a silver platter for him, given him every bit of you that mattered, trusted him to take care of it.

“I trusted you more than I trust anyone in this world, Dean,” you whisper, looking down as you finish cleaning the wounds on his face. “Even if you’ve proven I shouldn’t have.” You clench your jaw, trying to keep your voice steady. “You haven’t even fucking apologized, so how can you ask me to trust you?”

Now it’s him who looks stabbed. His fists clench, his eyes flick back to the flames as you retreat to grab some bandages. There’s a long silence, the kind only found at funerals, and you’re scared this might become one.

“Maybe you’re right.”

You force yourself not to cry as you dig through the first aid kit. Maybe you’re right, yeah. Maybe it is time to bury this along with all your other “could’ve been’s.”

“I’m out of butterfly bandages.” Your voice shakes, and you can almost hear Marigold scolding you.

“Why are you still patching him up?! Throw him out the door, girl.”

“I have some in my bag.” You nod and quietly kneel next to Dean’s duffel. You unzip it, and the first thing you see is blue.

The forget-me-nots fill the air with a sweet scent, contrasting with the smell of tragedy and decay that usually occupies it. It’s a bouquet, way bigger than the one you left on the Impala, and definitely store-bought. The flowers are a little wilted and bruised, a few petals falling to the floor, but they still make you melt.

Beneath the blossoms, there’s something else. A white box, also a little battered, with big, thick letters on top: Discman.

“Oh.” Comes from behind you, but your eyes stay fixed on the objects in your hands. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore, but I meant to give you those earlier.”

You’re frozen in place, barely hearing the defeated words over the arguing voices in your head. Part of you—the beast in your chest, the one awakened by that first gunshot when you were ten, the one insatiably hungry ever since—feels boneless because of the gifts, and wants to crawl back to Dean and offer itself as a sacrifice to the gods of his pain.

The other part—the one that had to accept that your mother didn’t love you, the one that fought every day to stay alive, the one that had to glue you back together twice because of Dean—wants to throw the flowers in the fire and throw him out into the freezing rain.

“I know your Walkman’s been slowly dying forever, and I thought you’d like to modernize a little. They were supposed to—” His pain-soaked laughter rumbles through the room. “They were supposed to be apology gifts, I guess.”

The flowers and cardboard box hit the rug with a quiet thump, and you’re up and walking before you can even think about what you’re doing. Dean looks ready to take another punch, and his gasp is loud and desperate when, instead, your lips smash against his.

Like a lamb naively approaching a butcher, you climb onto his lap.

You cup his jaw, licking over his lips and tasting the blood still on them. Dean hisses at the contact, but you relish the metallic taste. It awakens something in you—a hunger so primal and instinctual it goes beyond the physical.

It’s spiritual, carnal, all at once. Religious.

You lean back, and Dean chases your lips. You tug harshly on his hair, and he whines.

“You will explain everything.” Your voice is just as low as always—spectral, ethereal—but now there’s a power behind it that hadn’t been there before. It has Dean looking up at you with hazy eyes, nodding dumbly. “No more lying. I want the truth.”

You lean in again, trapping his chapped lips in a slow kiss, biting the soft flesh almost hard enough to break.

“And then,” you whisper, “I’m gonna eat you.”

“I’m scared you mean that literally,” he says, but his voice is breathless, and his hands have already found their place at your waist.

“Guess you’ll have to find out.”

“My dad’s a monster hunter.”

Out of everything you had expected—drug dealer, exotic animal trafficker, maybe even some kind of paramilitary nut—that is the last thing you could’ve imagined.

Dean goes on to explain the gist of it: living on the road, working cases, the research, the fighting, the aftermath.

Saving people. Hunting things. The family business.

There’s a long stretch of stillness after he finishes, only the crackling of the fire and the ticking clock breaking the silence. Dean looks ready to bolt, like he’s expecting you to call him insane and throw him out.

Instead, your gaze drifts to the living room window, where snow has started piling on the outer sill. You sit with it—let your thoughts spiral and try to piece it all together.

The brothers’ training. The sudden disappearances. The markings in Dean’s bed. The silver dagger. Bobby’s obsession with the mythology section at the library. Dean refusing to touch a Ouija board that one time you begged him to. The night you heard something strange when you were alone at Bobby’s, and Dean reached for the salt, not a knife.

“So… ghosts?” you ask, looking up at him—and catch the way his face lights up when he’s met not with anger or disbelief, but curiosity.

“Spirits. Werewolves. Demons. Shapeshifters. Witches.” He shrugs. “Most things you can imagine? There’s probably a hunter that’s killed one.”

You blink once. Then twice. Then again.

And again, there’s that battle in your head. Believe or not believe. You’ve never been one to fear the supernatural—fear the living, not the dead kind of thing—but Dean wouldn’t lie about something like this.

Sure, maybe he’s broken your heart more than once.

But he’s also the boy who saw you when no one else did. The boy who listened to you ramble about your favorite books, even when it bored him out of his mind. The boy who broke a guy’s nose for grabbing you in the hallway. The boy who listened, really listened, when you talked about your deepest fears—And offered small, aching pieces of himself in return.

“What happened today?”

Dean sighs, shoulders hunching where he sits in the same spot on the couch—now in dry, clean clothes from his bag, sipping the hot chocolate you bought earlier that day. You curl up next to him, trying to process everything without getting distracted by the firelight making his eyes shine like gemstones.

“Skinwalker.” 

Right, of course. Skinwalker.

“Dad was handling it alone, but the pack was bigger than expected, so he called,” he continues, oblivious to the slow crashing of your brain. “One of the mutts scratched me, I got thrown around a bit.” The casual tone in his voice might be more confusing than the words themselves.

“There was one left. I should’ve seen it.” His voice is bitter, angry. “But I didn’t, and the son of a bitch jumped me—almost bit me. Dad shot it, but he accidentally got me too.”

Your eyes widen. That last part is somehow worse than the idea of monsters roaming the world. For a second, you think maybe Dean’s finally had enough, that he’s angry at his dad. But then you see the way his nails dig into his palm, how he won’t meet your gaze.

He’s angry at himself.

“I should’ve seen it,” he repeats, and your throat tightens like it’s swallowing broken glass. “Dad was mad, of course. He…” Dean pauses, debating what to say. “Dropped me off at Bobby’s and left, but he wasn’t home.”

But the way his hand unconsciously travels to his lip, fingers just grazing the busted skin, tells you what he didn’t say. That injury didn’t come from the skinwalker—and suddenly, you start to wonder how many of Dean’s bruises came from monsters, and how many came from his dad.

“So you came here.”

It’s the first thing you’ve said since Dean started explaining the whole mess, and he finally turns to face you.

“I fucked up, I know I fucked up,” he says, voice trembling slightly. “But—” he whispers your name like a prayer, “—you have to know that leaving you that night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Dad had gone off on a solo hunt, Sam was alone in some cabin, and he was freaking out because Dad wasn’t answering his phone and I’m not supposed to tell people about hunting and—”

You stop his rambling with a kiss. It’s gentle, tender, soft in ways you didn’t know you were capable of. And Dean melts. He leans into your warmth like he’s been freezing for years—like a soldier finally returning to a home he thought he’d never see again.

God. The Winchester boys might be even more deprived of gentleness than you.

Slowly, the two of you rise from the couch.

Dean glances out the window, at the moonlight glinting blue across the snow, then back to you—standing beneath the orange glow of the fireplace, bouquet of delicate forget-me-nots in hand—and he makes a decision.

The two of you crawl into your bed, hand in hand, bodies intertwining like two pieces of the same thing that had finally found each other. You tell him about your mother’s death; he tells you about his. He talks about taking care of Sam while their dad was off on hunts, about stealing food from corner stores, about the first time he fired a gun. You tell him about scrubbing vomit out of the carpet, about climbing onto the roof to escape the reek of stale vodka, about how you used to shoplift books.

It’s easier than you expected, to open up to Dean. You think it’s because you are the same in so many ways. Because the pain in him recognizes the pain in you. Because he’s just as rotten as you are. Because the rough touch of his calloused skin feels like heaven when it presses down on your tender flesh.

Because now, when he opens you up slowly, it doesn’t hurt. Because when he buries his face between your thighs and eats like a man starving, you scream for him and wish he’d crawl inside you and stay there. Because when you finally collapse—limp, slick, wrecked—he wraps himself around you and holds you through the snowy night.

Because when you wake up the next morning, Dean is still there.

PREVIOUS PART | NEXT PART

NOTES: i'm backkkk, this time with the second-to-last part of this lovely series. i know not everyone believes that john ever physically hurt the boys, but i was watching spn the other day, and when a sheriff mentioned that a missing kid was known to be beaten by his father, dean flinched so hard that i felt sick—so i had to include it.

I seriously cannot stop marveling at all the love you have given me and my art. it fills my soul with so much warmth. It breaks my heart to think that the next part is the last one, but i'm also so excited for my angels to be happy! (or will they?) anyways,I love you all, hope you liked it!!!

TAGS: @littlesoulshine @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @anxiety-prime-max @southernimpala @ohmykwonsoonyoung @mimiimmii @thanosisadilf @iamaslytherin0 @youroldfashioned @luvrgirls @faeriexxmoon @iluvchr1s @beelzebzb @taylor-will-be-the-death-of-me @rxouxcesss @yup-its-dez @n0t-vzin1s @tendertulip @halleybagel @melancholysanatomy @dollyfetti @5oftkitty @cupidzbunny @arcanehastakenovermysoul @kermits-bitch @zenoxl @hollywoodxrose @bitchykittenconnoisseur @sherlockstrangewolf @urfav-tz @risefallrise @darling-loki-01 @dina-winchester @zyra-7<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[yvaineseleneposts]

Not like that... right?

A/N: Sorry about the late post. Yesterday I was watching Eurovision... I don't know why either but that means I had to upload on a Sunday. Have a nice week!

Requested: no

Pairing: Jack Hughes x reader

Words: 3k

Warning(s): none

You’ve known Jack since he was just the lanky kid next door who couldn’t sit still to save his life. Summers were filled with scraped knees and melting popsicles, and winters were battles on frozen ponds where he insisted he was a better skater than you. (He was. You’d never admit it.)

Years later, not much had changed—except everything had. Now, he played for the Devils. You were working your first real job in Jersey. And even though life had grown up, Jack? He still made fart noises with his armpit when he thought no one was watching.

You were watching. All the time, lately.

You two had stayed close through the years. Texts during off-seasons turned into calls. Then weekend visits. Then him dragging you to games, even though you claimed you didn't understand hockey (you understood enough to yell when someone hit him too hard).

Now, it was late. You were sitting on his couch, both of you in hoodies and socks, a Marvel movie playing low in the background. You weren’t watching it.

Jack was halfway through telling a story about Luke forgetting his skates when his eyes flicked to you. “You okay?”

You blink. “Yeah. Just… long day.”

“You’ve had a lot of those lately.”

There’s something about the way he says it—soft, careful—that makes you look at him. His hair's tousled. His sweatshirt is too big on his lean frame, sleeves bunched at the wrists. His gaze lingers a second too long.

You shift. “Work’s been chaos.”

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

And you do. You always have. But that’s the problem. Because lately when you talk to Jack, your heart does this annoying flutter thing, like it’s trying to tell you something you’re not ready to hear.

So instead, you nod and lean your head against his shoulder. It's familiar. Safe.

Jack doesn’t say anything. Just lifts his arm so you can curl into him a little closer. His hand rests lightly against your arm, fingers tapping a rhythm against your sleeve like he’s thinking.

You let your eyes close. You pretend not to notice how long he sits there like that, silent and still, like he’s afraid to move. Like something’s changed.

You don’t talk about the night on the couch.

Not because it was awkward—Jack never let things get awkward between you—but because something about it felt fragile. Like if either of you mentioned how close you sat or how his hand eventually slipped into yours like it belonged there, it would break the spell.

So you said nothing. He didn’t either.

Instead, you fell back into the usual rhythm. Sort of. You still came over after work, but now you stayed later. You still teased him about his hair, but now he leaned into your touch when you smoothed it back. It was the same friendship, only softer around the edges. Tighter. Warmer.

You were sitting at his kitchen island one Saturday, elbows on the counter while Jack made the world's most chaotic smoothie. He was wearing a backwards cap, an oversized t-shirt that read “LUKE’S BIGGEST FAN,” and shorts that definitely belonged to someone else.

“Why do you even have spinach if you’re just going to pretend it doesn't exist?” you ask, eyeing the untouched bag.

Jack shrugs, dumping in an unhealthy amount of peanut butter. “Optics.”

You laugh. “For who? Me?”

He glances up. There’s something unreadable in his face for half a second. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes and steal a sip from his smoothie before he can stop you.

“Hey! You don’t even like banana!”

“Exactly. You deserve consequences.”

He grins, stepping closer to try to take it back, but you pull the glass away and hop off the stool. He catches your wrist mid-dodge, just playfully, but then—

You’re close. Like really close.

His fingers stay around your wrist longer than they need to. Your eyes meet. There’s that flicker again. The one that makes your stomach turn traitor.

“I, uh—” You pull back too fast. The smoothie sloshes onto the floor. “Oh no.”

Jack just stares for a second, like he forgot what the hell a smoothie even is. Then he blinks, shakes it off, and grabs a paper towel.

“Classic you,” he says with a soft chuckle. “Chaos in human form.”

You grin, but your heart is doing somersaults. Because you saw it. That moment. You weren’t imagining it, were you?

Later, when you leave for the night, Jack stands at the door a beat longer than usual. His voice is quiet.

“Hey.”

You pause. Turn.

“I’m glad you’re here. Just… always.”

Your chest tightens.

“Me too,” you say. Then you smile, because it’s easier than asking what he really meant.

And what you’re too scared to hope.

Jack invites you to one of his games. Again.

But this time, it’s different. This time, when you arrive at the Prudential Center, your seats aren’t just good—they’re insanely good. As in: “How the hell did you pull this off?” good.

You don’t ask. He grins when you text him a selfie from the glass and tells you to “cheer extra loud or else.” You do. You always do.

You wait for him afterward, standing near the hallway that leads to the locker rooms. You scroll through your phone, trying to look busy, when someone stops beside you.

“Hey,” a voice says. “You here for Jack?”

You look up. A tall guy in a suit, probably some PR rep or staffer, smiles at you in a way that makes your stomach churn—not in the good way. He’s charming. Overly confident.

“Yeah,” you say cautiously. “I’m a friend.”

“You his girlfriend?”

You blink. “No. Just—friends.”

He grins like that’s an invitation. You’re saved—mercifully—by the sound of Jack’s laugh, familiar and bright as he rounds the corner, still in a zip-up warm-up jacket. His expression shifts the second he sees the guy.

“Hey,” he says to you, smile faltering only slightly. “Ready?”

The guy claps Jack on the shoulder, too friendly. “Didn’t know you had such pretty friends hanging around.”

Jack stiffens. You feel it.

“That’s enough,” Jack says, light but sharp.

The guy raises his hands like it’s a joke, mutters something about heading out, and disappears.

You exhale. “Well, that wasn’t gross at all.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just walks beside you, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, jaw tight.

“You okay?”

He glances down. “He was out of line.”

“I’m fine, Jack. He’s just a creep.”

“Still,” Jack mutters. “I didn’t like it.”

You slow your steps. “Why?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Then: “I just didn’t, alright?”

But there’s something in the way he says it. Something hot underneath all that quiet.

You don’t push. You can’t. Not when your heart is already hammering because when he looked at you—really looked at you—right after that guy walked away?

It wasn’t nothing. And maybe he knows it, too. Because when he drops you off at your place later that night, Jack lingers in the doorway.

You look up at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Jack?”

He swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth. And linger. But he steps back.

“Night,” he says. “Text me when you’re in.”

And just like that, the door closes.

But the feeling? The question he didn’t ask?

That stays.

It starts with rain.

Like, actual biblical levels of rain. Sheets of it crashing against your window, the sky split open by lightning. You’re curled up in bed, phone in hand, texting Jack about how the storm is making your lights flicker when he calls instead.

“Are you good?” His voice is laced with concern, soft and sleepy.

“Yeah. Cozy. Creeped out. Classic horror movie vibes.”

“Want me to come get you?”

You laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “I’d rather you be here.”

You’re already slipping on your hoodie.

You show up at his apartment soaked through and slightly breathless. He opens the door with a blanket slung around his shoulders like a cape and a mug in one hand.

“Wow,” you say, smirking. “Chivalry and hot chocolate?”

He grins. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

You are. Deeply. Disastrously.

Later, you’re both on the couch again, the storm pounding against the windows while a rerun of The Office plays on mute. Jack is beside you, blanket pulled over both your legs. His arm brushes yours. His thigh is warm against yours. Neither of you move.

“You can stay,” he says, voice quiet.

You glance over. “What?”

“Tonight. I mean. If you don’t want to drive back. You can take the bed, obviously.”

“Or we could just—” you pause, immediately regretting it, “—share it.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you. Really looks.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Okay.”

It’s late when you finally climb into his bed, backs turned like two people pretending they’re not pretending. You can hear his breathing. Slow. Uneven. Neither of you speak. Then, in the dark:

“Remember that summer I broke my wrist?” Jack murmurs.

You smile against the pillow. “You refused to stop playing mini sticks with Luke even though your cast smelled like death.”

“I remember you signed it,” he says. “You wrote: ‘Don’t be dumb, idiot.’”

You laugh softly. “Classic me.”

There’s a long pause.

“I think about stuff like that a lot,” Jack says. “How easy it always was. With you.”

Your heart thuds. “It still is.”

He shifts, like he might turn to face you, but doesn’t. “Sometimes I feel like something’s… different.”

You hold your breath. You want to say, Me too. But instead, you whisper, “What do you mean?”

He exhales, voice just above a whisper. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Goodnight.”

But it does matter. And you both know it.

You lie there for a long time, eyes open in the dark, feeling the space between you shrink with every unspoken word.

And just before sleep claims you, you feel it—Jack’s hand, reaching quietly for yours under the blanket. You let him hold it. No one says a word.

You wake up before him.

It’s early—the light through the blinds is soft, golden, too gentle to be real. For a moment, you forget where you are. Then you remember the warm weight of a hand still clasped in yours. Jack. You’re in his bed. Facing him. You don’t dare move.

He’s asleep, mouth slightly parted, lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, and the blanket has slipped down his shoulder. He looks impossibly peaceful. And so close.

Your hands are still tangled beneath the covers. You hadn’t let go. Neither had he. Eventually, his eyes flutter open. He blinks once. Twice. Then he sees you. For a beat, neither of you says a word.

“Morning,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“Morning.”

Silence.

“I didn’t mean to—” he starts.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you interrupt.

Jack studies you, the way your hair’s a mess, how your cheek is creased from the pillow. You wonder what he sees. You wonder if he feels it too.

“Last night,” he says, “felt... different.”

“It was.”

More silence. Charged this time. The kind that hums between bodies that know exactly how near they are. Your fingers are still brushing.

He sits up slowly, running a hand through his hair. You follow, mirroring him, the blanket slipping down your back.

You’re both sitting now, legs crossed, knees nearly touching.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, not looking at you.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He finally turns. “If I’d kissed you last night… would that have been okay?”

Your breath catches. Your heart kicks into gear like it’s running a marathon.

You swallow. “Yeah. It would've.”

Jack’s eyes fall to your mouth. Just briefly. Then back up.

His hand finds yours again—nervous now. Tighter. He leans in, just enough that you can feel the shift in the air.

You tilt toward him. Everything slows.

You feel the warmth of his breath, the brush of his knee against yours. He’s right there. One inch. Maybe less.

Then—

His phone buzzes. Loud. Insistent. A jarring, stupid sound that shatters the moment. You both flinch.

He pulls back, swearing under his breath, reaching for it.

It’s Luke.

You turn away, heart pounding, trying not to look crushed.

Jack answers, mutters a quick “yeah, I’ll call you back,” and hangs up.

When he turns to you again, you’re already slipping out of bed, grabbing your sweatshirt off the chair.

“Sorry,” he says. “That wasn’t—”

“It’s okay,” you lie, forcing a smile. “We should probably eat something.”

Jack stands too, watching you like you might disappear.

He doesn’t say what you’re both thinking. Neither do you. But the almost hangs in the air like smoke. And it’s not going away.

It happens three days later.

You’ve been dodging each other ever since the almost kiss. Not on purpose—just in the way people do when everything’s changed and no one’s brave enough to say it out loud.

The texts are shorter. Calls end sooner. You still talk, but not like before.

So when Jack texts:

“You free?” “Come over?”

You hesitate but you go.

He opens the door, hoodie on, jaw tight, like he hasn’t slept right in days. You step inside, the silence heavy around you. Neither of you says hi. He doesn’t even ask if you want something to drink, which means this isn’t about small talk.

Jack stands there for a second. Hands in his hoodie pocket. Bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s trying to find the right words and keeps missing.

Then, finally:

“You’ve been weird.”

You blink. “I’ve been weird?”

He stares at you, frustrated—more at himself than at you.

“Yeah. And me. I know. I just—I need to say something and if I don’t do it now, I might never—”

“Jack—”

“No. Just—let me.”

You stop. Let him breathe. His voice is low when he speaks again.

“That night? In bed? I should’ve kissed you.”

You stare at him.

“I wanted to. I still want to. I’ve been wanting to for… I don’t even know how long. But I didn’t. Because I didn’t know if it would ruin everything.”

Your chest is tight. “It wouldn’t have.”

He exhales sharply, like hearing it out loud floors him.

“Then I guess I’ve been an idiot,” he says. “Because I keep looking at you like I don’t know how to stop. And I think you know that. And I think you keep looking back.”

You take a step closer. “I do.”

He looks at you. Really looks.

“You can’t keep looking at me like that,” he says, barely above a whisper, “if you don’t want this too.”

“I do.”

It’s all he needs to hear.

Jack closes the space between you in two steps. His hand comes up to your cheek, tentative, like he still doesn’t believe this is happening. Like you might pull away. You don’t.

And when he kisses you, it’s not hesitant. It’s everything the silence has been screaming—months, years of unsaid feelings poured into one kiss that feels like coming home and setting fire to it at the same time.

When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, you’re both breathless.

“That was real,” he says.

You nod.

“It always was.”

It starts where the last kiss ended—still standing in the living room, his breath hot against your lips, your pulse hammering in your throat.

Jack’s hand is still cradling your face, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you in with just enough pressure to make your stomach flutter.

Your hands find his hoodie—fists curling in the soft cotton, tugging him closer.

And then he kisses you again. Deeper this time. Slower. Like he’s been dying to do it and now that he’s allowed to, he’s going to take his time.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only to breathe against your mouth. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You rest your forehead against his. “I might.”

Jack chuckles softly, but there’s nothing funny in the way his hands slide down your sides, settling at your hips.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“That you wanted this too.”

You press your lips to his again, lingering. “I want this, Jack.”

He exhales like it’s the first full breath he’s taken in months.

The air between you changes. Thickens. He walks you backward slowly, deliberately, until the backs of your legs hit the couch.

You fall into it together—messy, clumsy in the best way. He’s on top of you, weight warm, his mouth finding your neck, then your jaw, then your collarbone.

Your hands slip under the hem of his hoodie. He freezes for just a second—just long enough to whisper against your skin, “You sure?”

You answer by pulling it over his head.

Jack grins, breathless, and then he’s kissing you again, hands everywhere but still somehow gentle. Worshipful. Like he’s afraid to go too far but can't stop himself from trying.

He kisses your shoulder. Your wrist. Your sternum. Everywhere but where your body is aching for him, teasing like it’s a game he already knows he’s won.

“Jack—” you gasp, fingers digging into his back.

He looks up, eyes dark, voice wrecked. “Don’t look at me like that unless you want me to lose it.”

You smirk. “Maybe I want you to.”

That’s the last straw. The rest of the night unfolds in quiet moans and laughter between kisses, long pauses where you just stare at each other like, How did we wait this long?

He touches you like he’s not in a rush. Like he wants to make sure every moment is something you'll remember when you're tangled up in his sheets, heart still racing, breath still catching.

And when it's over—when you're tucked under the same blanket, legs tangled, his arm looped around your waist—he presses a kiss to your temple and whispers:

“This wasn’t just something that had to happen.”

You look up at him.

“It’s something I want again. And again.”

And the way he says it makes you believe that maybe this—you and Jack—was always going to end up here.

Right where you belong.

[justagalwhowrites]

Curse and Comfort - A Jackson!Joel Miller One Shot

You get your period when spending the night in Joel Miller's bed. He takes care of you through it. AKA I wanted a comfort fic for that time of the month so I wrote one. Now you can have it, too.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

CW: Reader gets her period so there's talk of blood and period stuff, brief mention of past sex but this isn't smutty (sorry), fluff fluff fluff all the fluff, hurt/comfort, bit of an age gap (reader is in her mid to late 40s, Joel is newly in Jackson so 56-57), talk of pregnancy being possible in the future toward the end, Joel is just the best man because I'm convinced he would be, Joel settled in Jackson is the softest of Joels I will die on this hill, reader can borrow Joel's boxers and has hair of no specified length and can have a period but no description otherwise. Whole blog is hella smutty so Minors DNI 18+ only.

Length: 3.4k

A03 | Masterlist

The cramps and a sticky wetness between your legs woke you up. 

You were naked. You usually were when you shared a bed with Joel, the only exception when you went out on patrol together and might need to move quickly but couldn’t resist sleeping near each other, anyway. When you were home, safe and warm and comfortable in his bed or yours, clothes were far from your mind. 

That was usually a good thing. It meant you could feel the heat of his leg between yours when you hitched your knee over his thigh in your sleep. It meant you woke up with his skin everywhere around you. It meant that, sometimes, when you were both half asleep, you found him slipping inside of you with an unconscious, needy groan, his hips rocking into you just two or three times before stilling, like he couldn’t be close enough to you, even when he wasn’t awake. 

But as you woke up with the foreign yet strangely familiar feeling between your thighs and in your stomach, you realized that there was a downside to sleeping naked. 

You carefully, hesitantly, reached down to your slit and cautiously tucked two fingers inside yourself and confirmed what you already knew: it wasn’t come leaking out of you. 

“Fuck,” you whispered, looking behind you to find Joel nestled against your back, his sleepy breaths hot on your neck, one of his thick, heavy arms draped around your waist. 

You carefully disentangled yourself him and tiptoed to the bathroom with your thighs held as tightly together as you could manage. 

The light felt blinding when you turned it on and it took your eyes a moment to adjust enough that you could see the smears of red over your legs. 

“Shit,” you groaned quietly, sitting on the toilet, trying to figure out what to do, your cheeks getting hot as you realized that you’d probably bled all over the man who’d let you in his bed. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” 

If this had been 25 years ago when you were a college student and the world was still what it had once been, it wouldn’t be as big of a deal. You’d have tampons near by and plenty of clean clothes and sheets so if something got wrecked, throwing it away was hardly a tragedy. Hell, you’d even have a Snickers bar to help make you feel better about the whole bleeding on someone thing. 

But that was 25 years ago and this was now, more than two decades into the apocalypse. It had been years since you’d last had a period and, since you were well into your 40s, you’d assumed it was menopause. It hadn’t occurred to you that it might have been just another way your body tried to help you survive as the people you’d been with struggled to find food and were eventually nearly wiped out by raiders. That was how you’d come to be in Jackson to begin with. Joel’s brother, Tommy, found you a few miles away while on patrol as the threat of infected grew worse and you were alone. He convinced you to come back with him and you’d just stayed. 

You’d only been in Jackson about eight months, which both seemed like so much time and none at all. It was hard to remember what life had been like before this, it was hard to believe you’d been here any time at all. You and Joel and his would-be daughter, Ellie, had arrived just a few weeks apart. You’d wound up spending time with him out of convenience more than anything else. Everyone else in town already knew each other, you and Joel had naturally drifted together. It didn’t take long before you were fucking. 

You still weren’t entirely sure how it started or why it had kept going or how Joel actually felt about you beyond friendship. He wasn’t the most forthcoming man. He kept his hands to himself when others were around, he seemed to less seek you out more than just run into you as the cadence of your lives brought you together. It was like he just chose to move alongside you for a while before going his own way. When you were alone, it was different. The way he touched you, explored your body, moaned in your ear made you feel like it meant something. You hoped it meant something. You’d grown attached to him, more than you really wanted to admit to anyone, including yourself. Because what good was there in loving someone who didn’t love you back? It was the end of the world, you’d take whatever small pieces of kindness and pleasure and care you could get, you weren’t about to be greedy and ask for more. 

So you had Joel in his stoic, strong way of being, and you treasured that. But you weren’t together, not really. He didn’t have any reason to tolerate something like you fucking bleeding all over his bed with no warning. And the last time like this had happened, you’d been in your 20s and that guy had practically bitten your head off, pissed at you for not knowing you were about to start your period and wrecking his sheets. Why would you expect Joel to be any different? 

What were you supposed to do? It was the middle of the night, did you wake him up to check the sheets? Did you see if there was scrap cloth to put in your panties to soak up the blood? Did you use his shower and hope that you could get cleaned up without staining something else he owned? 

You weren’t sure when you’d last felt this mortified, tears stinging at your eyes. Why couldn’t this have happened when you were alone? Or at least in your own damn bed instead of his? 

You heard the creak of the floorboard only a second before the gentle knock at the door made you wince. 

“Baby?” Joel said, his voice thick with sleep. “Everythin’ alright?” 

“Fine,” you said, trying to keep your tone from sounding wet. It was easier said than done. 

“Don’t sound fine,” he said. “Can I come in?” 

“Um…” 

“Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before,” he said gently. “C’mon, baby. Lemme in.” 

You sighed and stretched to unlock the door before staring determinedly at your clasped hands as you sat, dripping blood into his toilet while it was still smeared and drying over your thighs. 

Joel had pulled on his flannel pajama pants before seeking you out and he leaned against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest as you felt his eyes on you. 

“You OK?” He asked after a moment. 

“Fine,” you sniffed, trying to get your shit together. You were a middle-aged woman, for fuck’s sake, you had no business crying over a goddamn period. You sat back and really looked at him for the first time since he’d come into the bathroom and watched as his face shifted when he saw your legs, blinking in shock for a moment. 

“Oh,” he said. “I thought you just weren’t feelin’ well…” 

“I’m really sorry,” you cut him off, your chest getting tight. “I can clean it up, I…” 

“S’OK,” he said quickly. “Just… uh… get yourself cleaned up.” 

He left before you had a chance to respond, closing the door behind him and you just sighed, leaning on your knees again, trying not to cry. 

***

Joel tried to not be too loud knocking on his brother’s door. He knew the baby would be asleep, the last thing he wanted to do was send the whole house into a tizzy. He wasn’t trying to be a problem, but it’s not like he had anywhere else to go. 

He knocked, hoping it was loud enough to rouse Tommy or Maria but let their child sleep. 

Just as he was going to knock again, the porch light flipped on and Tommy opened the door, squinting against the brightness of it as he glared at Joel. 

“It’s 3 a.m., Joel,” he said, his voice groggy. “You know what 3 a.m. means, right? It means people are fuckin’ sleeping…” 

“It’s an emergency,” Joel said. Tommy stood up straighter then, reaching behind him to grab his jacket but Joel shook his head. “Not that kind but… is Maria awake?” 

“She is now,” he muttered and then sighed. “Come in, I’ll get her. She’ll really love you after this…” 

Joel hovered in their living room, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets, thumbs drumming against his hips as his brother went to get his wife. 

It had been years since he’d had to worry about anything like this with a lover. Ellie, of course, had needed to keep up with a supply of tampons and they worked their way across the country and he’d gotten accustomed to looking for them any time they stopped somewhere to scavenge supplies but, since they’d come to Jackson and she’d been supplied with… some other solution Joel didn’t ask for details about, it had been far from his mind. 

As far as he knew, you didn’t have periods anymore. You hadn’t said as much but there were clues. You sure as hell weren’t worried about pregnancy. You’d told him as much after the third time the two of you had slept together and he lost control, not pulling out like he knew he should have, apologizing to you over and over as he cleaned you up. 

“It’s fine,” you’d laughed. “That’s not something I need to worry about.” 

He didn’t ask for details. He just relished the freedom and intense pleasure that came with coming in you all the goddamn time. He tried to remember, over the last six months, if there was a time where the two of you had gone more than just three days without sleeping together that he just hadn’t noticed but he couldn’t place one. 

“This had better be good,” Maria grumbled, shuffling into the room, her hair in a bonnet and her arms crossed over her robe. “Lucky you didn’t wake up my kid…” 

“Believe me, ain’t tryin’ to cause trouble,” Joel said. “And this is… it’s kinda awkward but… well… I… I got a… uh… lady friend…” 

“Jesus, everyone knows who you’re fucking, Joel,” she rolled her eyes.

He just blinked at her for a moment. 

“They… they do?” 

“It’s not like you spend time with anyone but her, Tommy and Ellie,” she said. “It’s obvious. Just get on with it so I can go back to bed.” 

“Right,” he said. “Well, she’s over and… uh… she started bleedin’…” 

“OK,” she looked at him incredulous and he just raised his eyebrows at her. It clicked into place then. “Oh! Oh. OK, and I take it she needs… supplies?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t know where else to go.” 

“No, you did the right thing,” she said. “Just… two minutes.” 

She left him standing there again, not gone long before she returned with a brown paper bag and a hot water bottle. 

“Give her this,” she said, handing him the bag. “It has what she’ll need, plus instructions. This,” she passed him the bottle, “you fill with hot water, it’ll help with the cramps.” 

Joel nodded, an odd sense of almost peace coming over him as he did. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Appreciate it. Sorry for waking you up…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” she smiled a little, reaching out and giving his bicep a small squeeze. “Go take care of your girl.” 

Joel smiled a little back. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

He went back across the street, looking up to the sea of stars for a moment as he did. 

In so many ways, Joel was still adjusting to life in Jackson. He’d been here the better part of a year now but it was so different than the lives he’d led over the last two decades it was still a strange reality for him. No more scrounging to survive, no more constant threat of death and misery, no more constant feeling hopelessness and dread. Life was different here. It made him want something different. 

It made him want you. 

He knew it was hard for you, too. You were new to this life, too, more used to the harsh and cruel realities of the world. Falling into you had been like gravity, a force beyond what he could really control pulling him in. He wanted connection here, he wanted understanding and there you were, so like him in so many ways. 

But it wasn’t just that. It was your beauty, your kindness, your passion that drew him in. He’d resisted at first, the lingering fear of what caring for someone would mean heavy inside him, but the safety of Jackson made it safe to care about you, too. Soon, he just did everything he could to be around you, seeking you out at every opportunity, finding a sense of security and contentment unlike anything he’d really known since the world ended every time he fell asleep with you in his arms. 

He just wasn’t sure how to say that or how you felt. He didn’t want to pressure you, he sure as hell didn’t want to scare you off, so he just kept the warm feeling you gave him in his chest where it belonged. You let him be close to you, he wasn’t about to ask for more, especially when he didn’t deserve it. 

This, though, was something different. It was oddly comforting, having a way to take care of you. He understood himself best, it seemed, when he was caring for someone. If he could protect them, provide for them, hold them when they needed it, he was doing his job. He’d just never had a way to do that for you. While it had been a long time since he’d had to worry about a period in this way, this was familiar territory. He loved you, it felt good to have the chance to look after you. 

The shower was running when he got home and he quickly filled the kettle and put it on the stove before heading to his room. He turned the lights on and pulled back the sheets, finding a bloodstain on the side of the bed that had become yours in the months you’d been together. He quickly stripped the bed - balling up the sheets and tucking them out of sight to wash once you weren’t in the shower - and put fresh bedding on before throwing a clean pair of his boxers over his shoulder and going back downstairs to fill the hot water bottle and make a cup of tea for you just as he heard the water shut off in the bathroom. 

Joel took everything - the paper bag, the boxers, the hot water bottle, the tea - and knocked softly on the bathroom door. 

“Sorry,” you called to him. It still sounded like you’d been crying. He frowned at that. “I’ll be out of your way in just a minute, I…” 

“Not worried about that,” he said, frown deepening. “It OK if I come in?” 

You sighed. 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

You had a towel over your front when he came in and your eyes were red but you were, at least, not actively crying. 

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “I haven’t… I had no idea that was going to happen, I’ll clean up whatever mess there is and…” 

“Why do you keep apologizin’?” He asked, setting the brown paper bag and the boxers on the edge of the sink, near the toilet. “You don’t have a damn thing to be sorry about, baby. Shit happens. I just want to make sure you got what you need and that you’re feeling alright.” 

You just looked at him for a moment, blinking in shock. 

“Really?” You asked, brows raised. 

“Course,” he said, nodding to the bag. “Ran out and grabbed… whatever that is. I’ll be honest, I ain’t sure, I didn’t look. But I got something to help with the cramps, made tea… just take care of what you need to in here and come back to bed, OK baby?”

You just nodded and he turned to go before thinking better of it. Instead, he leaned over and kissed your cheek, breathing in the smell of his soap on your skin before heading back to bed. 

It didn’t take you long before you came in, closing the door quietly behind you, wearing his boxers, your hair still wet. You seemed surprised when you saw that he was sitting up in bed, the lamp on his side of it on as he flipped idly through the book about space he was trying to work his way through so he could talk about it with Ellie. 

“You doing OK?” He asked, marking his place and setting the book aside. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. Your eyes weren’t red now but your arms were crossed over your chest protectively as you came over to the bed. He pulled the covers back and you froze for a moment. “You needed to change the sheets?” 

He shrugged but you didn’t climb in beside him. 

“I really am sorry,” you said, your hand on the bed. “If I knew that…” 

“Baby, I really need you to stop acting like you did somethin’ wrong here,” he said. “You think this is the first time I cleaned up some sheets or ran out and got tampons or whatever was in that bag in the middle of the night? I’ve loved women before, this ain’t new. Besides, you’re the one who has to deal with all the pain and shit. Think I can handle cleaning up some sheets now and then.” 

Your eyes met his then, an odd, almost misty expression on your face. 

“What?” He asked. 

“You love me?” You asked quietly. 

It was his turn to freeze then. He hadn’t meant to say that. He wasn’t sure how you felt, he didn’t want to pressure you or freak you out but… the way you were looking at him made it seem like that may not be a bad thing. 

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “I do. Is… Is that OK?” 

“Yeah,” you laughed, smiling for the first time since this whole thing had started. “Yeah, it is because I love you, too.” 

He smiled, too, something warm and comforting starting in chest and spreading over his whole self when you said it. You loved him, too. 

“Well, should get in bed with me then, woman,” he said and you laughed before climbing in. 

You snuggled against his side before putting the hot water bottle over your lower stomach and drinking your tea, Joel’s arm around your shoulders, fingers trailing over your bared skin. When you were done, he turned out the light and the two of you settled in, you on your back, Joel on his side, one arm below you, his other hand resting on the hot water bottle, holding it in place over your skin. 

“I haven’t had a period in forever,” you said quietly. “I thought all that was done for me.” 

“Place like Jackson can change a lot,” he said. “Having enough to eat makes a hell of a difference.” 

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Should probably… probably start being more careful now that… well, you know.” 

Joel was going to agree but something stopped him. 

He’d meant it when he’d said that a place like Jackson can change a lot. Before be came here, before Ellie, before you, he’d have agreed. He wouldn’t want to bring a child into this world, wouldn’t want to know what he could lose if he did. 

Now, things were different. There was still the twinge of fear at the thought of having a child, the same one he’d have if the world had never ended, especially given his age, but it wasn’t the same terror there would have been even just a year ago. 

“If that’s what you want,” he said instead. “But… I wouldn’t be against the other option.” 

“Really?” You said, turning your head to look at him in the dark. “You… you would want that?” 

“With you?” He smiled softly. “Yeah. I… I think I would.” 

You snuggled closer and he pressed his lips to your temple, his hand still holding the hot water bottle in place. 

Maybe your period wasn’t a bad thing after all. 

[softjeekies]

Waiting After The Rain

↳ chapter 3

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Pairing: ot8!stray kids x pregnant omega!reader

Synopsis: An omega pregnant and alone after being kicked out by their alpha stumbles upon a pack willing to take them in and care for both the omega and their pup as if they were their own, because now they are.

Genre: strangers to lovers, angsty but lots of fluff to even it out.

Warnings: a/b/o, past abuse physical and verbal, past sexual abuse(mentions of past non-con), mentions of past violence, trauma, self esteem issues, pregnancy, aftermath of abuse, panic attacks, anxiety, pack dynamics, angst but it will be okay, polyamory

A/N: please enjoy this chapter everyone, like i said before my asks are open for any questions or to chat!!

Chan closes the door behind him once he enters your room, where you and Felix sit together on the bed. He doesn’t make any moves to sit on the bed, making sure he keeps his distance. You can smell the fear in him; he’s terrified that one wrong move will ruin everything.

“Feeling better baby?” The alpha gives you a warm smile.

“My baby is fine.” You speak unsure of your words, confused why Chan would ask that. Why does he care?

“Oh, I’m happy to hear that but when I said baby, I kinda meant you.” He raises a hand to scratch his neck, his ears turning bright red, Was he wearing fake pheromones? How was this an alpha? Nonetheless, unconsciously you blush like a teenage girl with a dumb crush. You can’t help but scold yourself for the behavior, you don’t know these people get it together. You’re left even more confused, You could chalk Chan caring about the pup up to his instincts but you? Why you?

“Ah, I’m okay.” Short and to the point, that’s all he needs to hear, nothing more and nothing less.

“That’s good, really good. Seeing you get sick like that made us kinda anxious so I called the omega specialist Felix and Han went to and I was able to get you an appointment for tomorrow morning! Felix can’t drive so I’ll be driving you if that’s okay, I can also go in with you, the alphas usually do the same for the other omegas’ appointments, which eases us a lot. But please if you don’t want me to go in with you say it, I won’t be mad, I just want to make sure you two are healthy, I don’t want to get in the way of that-“ The omega sat next to you swiftly cuts off the alpha.

“Babe you’re rambling.”

“Right. Sorry! So what do you say?” Chan looks at you sweetly, but as you look deeper into his eyes you can see his plea, he would never say it out loud, not wanting to sway your decision. You can’t bring yourself to defy an alpha’s wants, all you can do is hope you don’t regret it.

“You can come with me to the appointment.” Before you can even blink the bed in front of you dips and there are big arms wrapped around your shoulders. You flinch, well a sad attempt at a flinch, the arms keeping you stilled. A weak growl that could only come from an omega omits from next to you and the arms immediately disappear allowing you to let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Chan hyung, what the hell was that?” Felix speaks sternly, and yeah you’d only know him for less than a day but you’d never imagine him speaking in such a manner, especially not to his alpha.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry I don’t know what came over me. I just got so happy that you want to let me be with you during such an important moment for you and your baby, that you’ll allow me to keep you both safe.” The alpha moves to kneel on the floor next to the bed laying his head on the edge of the bed, excited eyes looking up at you. His arm lies flat against the bed dangerously close to your leg, but you don’t move, no matter how much the hand calls to you. Your omega purrs loudly.

Alpha. Alpha protects us. Alpha loves our pup.

Your breath hitches at the thought and you pray nobody hears. This is the worst part of being an omega, these instincts that are simply just that, instincts, there’s no logic or thought behind them, just your biological need for an alpha to take care of you. Your instincts are what got you into this situation in the first place, you know better than anyone that your omega isn’t always right.

“When you came down for breakfast today it got so silent because we all felt this pull towards you. The three of us felt it last night, but it hit the others this morning when they got to see and smell you for the first time. I really think, fuck, I think you are meant to be here. And if you let us show you how true that is, we will go at whatever pace is comfortable for you, this is a promise from my pack to you. You are still free to leave, but I’d really prefer it if you didn’t.”

The silence is heavy and almost suffocating. His words were simple but they pulled on your heart in a way you’d never felt before. Your omega began to purr so loudly in your mind, it felt like your brain was vibrating. This was going to be a real problem. You were split, a part of you that you wanted to chalk up to instincts that felt the same pull to this pack, and the other part of you, beaten broken and bruised that wanted to run, so terrified that this was all a sham and they too would hurt you just the same as everyone before them had.

“I don’t know you people. Every single person I was supposed to trust ended up hurting me, Why would I trust strangers I just met?” The two pack members frown at your answer, they were determined to help you no matter what that looked like. This was just a bump in a larger road, and god was there a long road ahead.

“We get it. I wish we could take away all the pain you’ve ever felt, believe me. We will never push your boundaries or scare you okay. Having you here, it feels like we found something that was missing, it’s second nature to take care of you, like this is what we were meant to do. I know wolves are known for rushing into things because we can sense when someone is for us but we’ll hold back for you, like I said, we go at your pace.” The pack alpha continues to look up at you, never breaking eye contact, but it’s not a suffocating alpha eye contact, it’s almost submissive.

“I can’t lie and say I don’t feel something, but I’m scared. I’m really scared. Chan, I’m broken. The people who have been in my life have done a lot of damage and I can already tell there are a lot of things I’m going to have to unlearn and change. I don’t believe any of this is real, You guys treating me as kindly as you have is so foreign to me and it probably will be for a while. In the past less than 24 hours I have felt more love than I have ever felt in my life and I never want it to end but I have to keep my guard up, because I may deserve to be hurt but my baby does not, I have to protect them. If this is real and you guys can be patient with me, I’d be willing to try being a part of your pack.” You squeeze your eyes shut trying to hold back tears, keeping your head down terrified of what’s to come out of Chan’s mouth next.

“All eight of us will do everything in our power to get you to want to be here with us. You do not deserve any of the pain you’ve been caused and we will turn the earth upside down trying to prove that to you. That’s a promise.” You give a tearful smile and Chan doesn’t hesitate to give you one back. You look to your side to see a teary-eyed Felix.

“Y/N, he’s right, we’ll do anything for you.” He speaks, taking your hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“So, I have to head out to the studio soon and the other guys also have work but Seungmin will be staying back here with you and the other omegas okay? Felix will probably want to show you around the house and help get you settled in, hopefully you’ll find time to get to know Han and Seungmin, I already told Seungmin to be on his best behavior and he really is a sweetheart but if he bothers you, you have my full permission to put him in his place.” Chan moves over to the other side of the bed to place a kiss on Felix’s head and you couldn’t have known but he fights the urge to give you one as well, instead, he leaves with a gentle smile shot your way.

You lie down on the bed with a sigh, unsure of how to proceed, your mind is running a million miles a minute. Felix places and gentle hand on the curve of your shoulder and once again you don’t flinch at his touch. You can’t wrap your head around how easily he’s wormed his way into your space, Something about Felix is special, like everything is okay as long as he’s there. You lay there like that for a while, going over every possible outcome in your head before Felix interrupts you.

“If my nose doesn’t betray me it seems as though the alphas are gone for the day, we'll have free rein to explore the house and I’ll be sure to show you all the best spots!”

Felix gives you a big smile as he watches you get up off the bed gesturing for him to show you the way.

The house is huge. Each pack member has their own room, then there are guest rooms, and there’s an office that Felix lets you know that it’s mainly Chan’s office but the whole pack will use it here and there. There’s a massive fenced backyard that is surrounded by trees leading into the forest. You take note of the pool, you’ve never had a pool and have never learned how to swim, would the pack be annoyed by that? You shake your head at the thought and look at the deck, it’s pretty, littered with different flowers and plants, and tons of places to relax or eat. And all that doesn’t even include the large basement that has been turned into the pack den. Felix takes you down into the den and your mouth waters involuntarily. It’s perfect, the biggest nest you’ve ever seen lies on the floor, there’s a TV and a mini fridge. There’s lots of storage space, which you assume holds anything you could ever need for heats and ruts, and then even more stuff.

“You are free to come down here whenever you’d like, I’ll speak for Han here when I say we’d love your scent in our pack nest. A blush spreads across your face and in embarrassment, you face towards the door letting Felix know it’s time to move on.

The last place Felix takes you is in the large living room, where Han is sitting on the couch with his legs crossed under him watching something animated.

“And that’s the end of the tour! Is it okay if I leave you here to relax with Han while I make us some lunch?” You nod at Felix and as he leaves you take a seat on the couch leaving one cushion's worth of space between you and Han, not wanting to disturb him. You decide to watch along with him to pass the time before your skin begins to crawl with the feeling of a pair of eyes on you. You turn to see Han’s round brown eyes on you, and he jumps a little once you look at him.

“I’m sorry! It’s just, you’re, god you’re glowing! I know that’s cliché but it’s true! Can I ask you a question? You don’t have to answer.” He asks nervously and you take a deep breath before nodding.

“What’s it like? You know, being pregnant?” Han gives you a nervous yet curious look, his full attention on you and you can’t help but find it endearing. Your mouth falls open thinking of a response.

“I’m not that pregnant yet but it’s nice so far. It’s kinda like having a friend with you everywhere you go. I’m a little more tired all the time and I don’t like morning sickness though.” He lets out a soft laugh.

“I can’t wait to have my own pups one day, but for now I’d love to help you take care of yours.”

“I think, I think I’d really like that.” You speak softly, as if you said it too loud the wrong person would hear. But Han doesn’t judge, he doesn’t scoff or make a sly comment, no he gives you a warm smile. An unfamiliar feeling settles in your chest, not quite sure what it is but it feels good.

“Minho saved me too.” Han blurts out, and by the way his scent sours, you can tell he didn’t mean to. Your eyes go wide at the implication.

“What?”

“I come from a long line of alpha men, I think my parents knew I’d be an omega before I presented. I got called pretty boy and some meaner names growing up. Yet they were still so disappointed in me for presenting as an omega, they put me on intense blockers and rarely let me leave the house. Almost a year after I turned eighteen I made my escape, that’s where I found Minho. I showed up at his dance studio asking for a job, desk work, assistant, anything. I didn’t know this at the time but Minho doesn’t like omegas working for him, he doesn’t think omegas should have to work at all but he especially doesn’t want them to feel like he is above them as their boss, but he felt that pull, the same way we feel with you. He put together some bogus application for me to fill out and once he saw that I left the address line blank he didn’t ask or push he just offered me a bed at his apartment, no questions asked. He ended up basically paying me to sit at the front desk of the studio every day and look pretty. Months later, we met Chan and his pack and the rest is history.” Han smiled fondly at the memory. Your mouth was ajar, unsure how to respond to such a deep confession, Han trusted you with his story, and that meant more than he could ever know.

“Thank you for telling me that, I’m sorry you grew up like that.”

“Chan told us what you told him about your story. I hope you don’t mind, it’s good for us to know. I’m sorry that happened to you, but you’re safe now. Not all alphas are bad, especially not these big puppies in our pack.” Han giggles turning to face you, you both let out a contented sigh before Felix shouts that lunch is ready.

You’re sitting in the same seat you sat in during breakfast, Felix taking his spot next to you with Han and Seungmin across from you. You happily eat the food as the guys try their best to include you in their conversations. After the food is long gone and the other two have wandered off Felix leaves you in the kitchen for just a moment to use the bathroom. With nothing to distract your mind, it wanders as well. An internal fight between your logical human mind and your omega, unable to agree on what’s best for you in this situation. It’s all too much, you feel suffocated. So you find air, taking a step onto the deck outside, and taking a seat on the steps trying to catch your breath. The sound of the sliding glass door opening and closing rips you from your thoughts, and the smell of fresh laundry pierces your nose.

“Chan doesn’t like it when the omegas go outside alone.” It’s Seungmin.

“I’m fine.” Your voice is shaky, and you don’t even know why you tried to lie.

“I know you are. But Chan would kill me if anything happened to you or your pup so I will stay over here by the door until you’re ready.” You let out a shaken sigh, Great now he had to babysit you out here because you couldn’t even hold yourself together.

“I don’t mind, I like it outside.” It’s like he could hear your thoughts.

“You don’t have to lie, I know this sucks. I know I’m being annoying, I know I should leave and never look back so you guys can live your lives as normal.” Fat tears fall down your plush cheeks, you don’t dare look at Seungmin, nobody needs to see you like this, especially not a stranger.

“If we didn’t want you here you wouldn’t be here. As a pack, we are very territorial and we tend to stay with our pack except for necessities like work stuff. Us wanting you to be a part of our pack is a big deal.” He’s blunt, but maybe that’s what you need right now.

“And what if I don’t want to?” Your mouth moves faster than your brain, and your omega scolds you for your words.

“So leave. You’re free to go. But you won’t, because I know you feel the pull too.” Who the hell does he think he is? You could leave right now, it wouldn’t matter, none of this matters. And yet, you don’t move to leave the yard, you don’t run away. Instead, you get up and move past Seungmin into the house. Running head on into what you were so scared of.

[mononijikayu]

start a war — gojo satoru and nanami kento.

Satoru exhaled, tilting his head, a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips, but his voice was quieter than usual. "Be better, huh?" He let the words hang in the air before nodding, something unreadable in his eyes. "Alright, then. Guess I better not disappoint, huh?" There was a flicker of something in your expression. Perhaps it was relief, or maybe something gentler than that. But he didn’t care to know. Instead, he lets himself drown in the small, knowing smile you gave him. "No, I don’t think you will. After all, your eyes tell."

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: nsfw! (not safe for work), possibly triggering themes - please beware!, afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, unrequited romance (for now), fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, falling in love, long-term relationship, marriage, healing, age gap (reader is 12 years older than satoru), physical abuse, mental abuse, parental abuse, domestic violence, retaliation, violence, abuse, emotional abuse, emotional distress, injury, blood, bodily fluids, fighting, mental health issues, loss, hatred, resentment, trauma, depression, desperation, domestic life, confessions, distress, cheating, cutting off family members, escaping, profanity, toxic relationship, drama, depression, bitterness, children, mention of various forms of abuse, mention of violence, mention of blood, mention of bodily fluids, mention of trauma, depiction of various forms of abuse, depiction of violence, depiction of various forms of abuse, actor! nanami, actor! gojo, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 20k words

NOTE: it was hard to write this part of the series because satoru's life was really hard. i hope i was able to portray it well enough, and with good care to the sensitivity of the content. in some ways, the only wonderful thing in his life is his mother and reader. please beware. if you cannot read it yet, you can opt out from this part. your well-being is more important to me. i hope that if you can read this, please know that i love you. and if you are going through what these characters are going through, i just want you to know i'm here for you and i support you. i love you all so much, please keep safe!!! see you in the next one!!!

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taglist: @not-aya, @nanamin-chan, @qualitygiantshoepsychic, @funicidals, @zanzie, @poopooindamouf, @darlingken, @lillycore, @prosypepper, @sukioyakio, @harrie-fic-center, @yoonseokerist, @midnight-138;

TWENTY YEAR OLD GOJO SATORU THINKS HE’S USED TO IT. This was just his normal life, the accursed life he’s forced to live. He hated it, to be sure. And he thinks it's the worst outcome for any human being to live and breathe such suffering. Yet here he was, in the thick of it. He felt ever so abandoned by what god there exists on the other side.  

The beatings weren’t the worst of it when it came to his father, he thinks to himself. Gojo Satoru could take the blows, he’s known he could since he first felt the blow. He had learned how to brace for them, how to keep his face blank, how to shove the pain somewhere deep enough that it barely registered anymore.

But his poor, defenseless mother—she was the one who suffered the most. And she was too fragile to endure it, too weak to even shout or whimper or even to fight back at all. The illness had already made her frail, had stolen the color from her cheeks and the strength from her limbs. Yet destiny made her suffer more.

Satoru hated it.

He hated the way she still flinched whenever his father, drunk and staggering, raised a hand as if to strike. Hated the way her lips parted on instinct, whispering those same, rehearsed apologies—I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—for things that were never her fault.

Hated how she still, somehow, found the strength to step between them, shielding Satoru when he was the one who bore the brunt of the man's wrath, even when she could barely stand herself.

"Stay back," she would murmur, her voice trembling but her arms unwavering as she held them out in front of him. "Please, Satoru. Don't say anything."

But it was never that simple. It never was.

Because what Satoru hated most—more than the stench of liquor that clung to his father, more than the bruises he had long stopped counting—was the way his hands trembled. Not from fear. No, never from fear. It was rage. Hot, blinding, and useless.

His small fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. He wanted to strike back, wanted to scream, wanted to do something other than stand there, helpless. But he knew what would happen if he did. It would only get worse for her.

"Don't look at him like that, my son." she pleaded one night after their father had finally collapsed in a drunken heap. Satoru hadn't said a word, but she could see the fury simmering beneath his pale, glacial eyes. "You know what happens when you—"

"When I what?" he snapped, yanking himself away from her touch. "When I make him mad? When I make things worse? As if that bastard needs something to fuel the fire. As if he needs a reason!" His voice cracked, his breath coming out sharp and uneven.

"Satoru, please—"

"Stop telling me to let it go!" His vision blurred, his whole body shaking. He wanted to punch the walls, to scream until his throat was raw. "You let him do this! You always let him—"

Her slap wasn’t hard. It didn’t hurt. But it stunned him into silence.

For a long moment, she just stared at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears, hands trembling just as much as his were.

Then, in a voice so soft it was barely a whisper, she said, "What else am I supposed to do?"

Satoru had no answer.

And that was what he hated most.

Almost as much as he hated having to hide the bruises from Yaga Masamichi when he was still in high school.

That was when it was most prominent.

Satoru had always been strong—physically, mentally, in every way that mattered. But sometimes, no matter how much strength he had, the anger got the better of him. That’s why the bruises happened. That’s why, some days, he’d roll his shoulders and feel the ache buried deep beneath the skin, why he’d clench his fists just to remind himself that he could still fight, even if he didn’t. Even if he couldn’t.

But Yaga wasn’t stupid.

Satoru knew the man saw it—the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he moved, the occasional wince he couldn’t quite suppress when sparring. Maybe it was the way he sometimes showed up to class with a faint shadow of a bruise peeking out from under his collar, or the times he kept his sunglasses on longer than necessary, even indoors.

And yet, Yaga never pushed.

Never asked.

Not directly, anyway.

"What happened to your wrist?" Yaga had asked once, his tone casual but his sharp eyes betraying his concern.

Satoru barely spared him a glance, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Training accident, teach." he said easily. A half-lie, but a lie all the same. “Just held the baseball wrong. You know how it is.”

Yaga didn’t respond right away. Instead, he studied him, gaze heavy in a way that made Satoru’s skin itch. But still, he didn’t push. "Be more careful next time, Satoru." was all he said before walking away.

And that was how it always was. Because Yaga Masamichi knew. He wasn’t born yesterday. knew that Satoru wouldn’t tell him the truth, even if it was obvious. Knew that if he did push, Satoru would just deflect, turn it into a joke, act like it didn’t matter.

Even now, years later, long after graduation, Yaga still checks up on him, whether it be a phone call or a text. Although, sometimes he tries to go himself. But that doesn’t always happen. Still, he tries to do what he can.

"You and your mother are eating enough, right? If not, I’ll send over some food there."

"Don’t overwork yourself. I know you’re taking care of your mother, but take a rest."

"You know you can call if you need anything, right?"

Satoru would just grin, waving him off. "I’m not a kid anymore, Yaga. I’ve got it handled."

But some nights, when the past was a little too close, when the phantom ache of old wounds lingered longer than it should, he wasn’t sure if that was a lie. He wasn’t sure he was actually alright. He wasn’t actually sure that he didn’t need anyone.

Geto Suguru also always noticed. And he expected nothing less of him. He was his best friend after all. He knew him better than most people, even his mother, even Yaga. Even now, years later, when they hung out like nothing had changed, Suguru’s sharp purple eyes never missed a thing.

Satoru had always been good at hiding things, even when he was a kid. All of his pain. All of his anger. All of the bruises that littered his skin like evidence of a war he couldn’t fight back in. But Geto Suguru always noticed.

Satoru would catch him staring sometimes when they were kids, when they were still teenagers. He could feel the burning gaze at his wrists, at the faint marks barely visible beneath the cuff of his uniform. His expression would darken, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose.

"Let’s take him down, Satoru. You and me, we’ll get it done. You’ll be freed from the bastard." he’d say, voice low, simmering with conviction. "Let’s beat him together. Just tell me when and where. I’ll help you."

And good gods, Gojo Satoru wanted to.

He wanted so badly he could taste the urge on his tongue, could feel the violent, reckless need clawing up his throat. He wanted to see his father afraid for once. He wanted to watch him flinch like his mother does. He wants him to bleed like he does. He wants him to feel powerless, to feel like a wounded animal, to feel so weak that he begs for mercy.

But he couldn’t. Not without consequences. Not without leaving his mother in that house alone, with no one to protect her. Not without making things even worse. So he gritted his teeth, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and told Suguru those words he hated — No, not yet.

Geto Suguru never liked that answer. He never did.

"Not yet?" He clicked his tongue, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes—dark purple, burning with frustration completely bored into Satoru like he was the idiot in this situation. "And when, exactly, is ‘yet’? When he puts your mom in the hospital? When he finally does something you can’t fix?"

Satoru hated it when he talked like that. Hated how blunt Suguru was, how easily he put words to the thoughts that already haunted Satoru’s mind. Like he was saying something Satoru hadn’t already thought of a thousand times over. His hands clenched into fists in his pockets. His headache from the pressure of his own barely contained rage. 

"I said drop it, Suguru." he bit out, voice sharp, final. “Please.”

And for all that Suguru was stubborn, he did.

At least out loud.

But his silence was never truly silent.

It lingered in the way his jaw clenched, the way his fists curled tight at his sides, the way he always positioned himself just a little closer to Satoru than before, like if he couldn’t do anything yet, he’d at least be ready for when he could.

But his silence spoke louder than his words ever could. The way his jaw clenched, the way his hands curled into fists, the way he didn’t meet Satoru’s eyes—it said everything. He wanted to fight for Satoru in a way Satoru couldn’t fight for himself. But Satoru wouldn’t let him.

Couldn’t let him. Because Suguru had parents who loved him, a future ahead of him that didn’t have to be ruined by a single act of revenge. Gojo Satoru wasn’t about to take that from him. So he swallowed his pride and his rage and let things continue as they always had. Until the night they didn’t.

Until the night his father came home drunker than usual. Angrier than usual. Until the slurred curses turned into the sound of something shattering. Until he heard his mother’s voice. It was a tone too soft, ever still and trembling, barely a whisper beneath the fury. 

"Please… please don’t—"

Satoru was on his feet before he even realized it. The room spun around him as he moved, his vision tunneling, his pulse hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. His nails bit deep into his palms, his whole body rigid, every muscle locked in place as if his own rage was the only thing keeping him upright.

Not yet, he had told Suguru. Not yet, not yet, not yet.

But maybe ‘yet’ had just arrived. Maybe this was it, maybe this time, he can’t help it. Because he couldn’t let it go this time. Because he didn’t want another time. The floor felt too far away as he took his first step. The air in his lungs burned as he took his second. 

His father’s voice—deep and volatile—spat something cruel, something his mother didn’t deserve, something he didn’t fully hear over the roaring in his head. Then another crash. A gasp. A whimper. And that was it. The last thread of restraint snapped. Satoru moved.

He was down the hall before he could think. The door was already half-open, the dim light from the kitchen spilling into the hallway, casting long, warped shadows across the floor. The smell of alcohol was thick in the air. It was pungent, suffocating, clinging to everything.

And there he was. His father stood over his mother, his chest heaving, his broad shoulders rising and falling with every breath. She was curled against the cabinets, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders trembling. A broken plate lay in jagged shards near her knees. Her hands were thin, delicate. And they were shaking. Satoru immediately saw red.

"You bastard." His own voice barely sounded like his. It was low, seething, vibrating with something ugly and raw.

His father turned sluggishly, narrowing bloodshot eyes. "What did you just—"

Satoru didn’t let him finish. His fist connected before he could think. A sickening crack echoed in the air, and his father stumbled back, knocking into the dining table with a grunt of pain. But Satoru didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think.

He hit him again. And again. As hard as he could. He let himself push until his knuckles split, but he didn’t feel it one bit. The only thing he felt was the satisfaction of watching his father fall, of watching him struggle to push himself up, dazed, stunned.

"That feel good?" Satoru’s voice was almost a snarl. He barely recognized himself. "You like that? Huh?"

His father groaned, trying to sit up. "You—"

Satoru grabbed him by the collar and slammed him back down onto the floor. "Say it again." 

His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling so fast he thought he might explode. His hands were still trembling—just like his mother’s had been. "Say something else."

His father didn’t.

For the first time, he actually looked afraid.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t sure how long he would have stayed there, fists clenched, heart pounding, eyes burning with something violent and unforgiving. If not for his mother’s voice.

"Satoru… stop." Her hand wrapped around his wrist—small, fragile, barely a touch. But it cut through him sharper than anything else.

He turned, and she was looking at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears. She shook her head once. Not like this. Not yet. Satoru’s hands dropped. His father coughed, groaning as he pushed himself onto his elbows.Satoru forced himself to step back. To unclench his fists. To breathe.

His mother was already moving, kneeling down, pressing a cloth against his father’s bleeding lip with trembling fingers. And Satoru hated that. Hated how, even after everything, she still cared. He turned on his heel and walked out, fists still shaking.

Maybe 'yet' hadn’t arrived after all.

But it was close.

He was so close to the end of it all.

IT WAS A NICE DAY TO BE OUTSIDE. Perhaps that’s why Yaga Masamichi asked to meet today. The quaint little café was tucked away on a quiet street just outside Metropolitan Tokyo, the kind of place that had probably been there for decades. 

Faded wooden tables, the hum of an old espresso machine, the occasional clink of ceramic cups meeting saucers. It smelled of roasted beans and nostalgia, of things unchanged even as the world outside moved forward.

You arrived a few minutes early, slipping into a seat by the window, where the late afternoon sun slanted through the glass in golden streaks. The café was quiet, the kind of place where the scent of roasted coffee beans lingered in the air, where soft chatter mixed with the gentle clinking of porcelain cups against saucers.

You ordered a matcha latte and a croissant. The hunger from the long drive gnawed at your stomach, and the heat of the sun had left your throat parched. You figured Yaga wouldn’t mind. He was never one for small courtesies anyway. If anything, he’d probably just grunt in acknowledgment before ordering his own drink, something plain and bitter, like he always used to.

It had been years since you last saw Yaga Masamichi. The two of you had grown up in the same small town, running barefoot through the narrow streets as children, getting into scrapes, building forts out of old cardboard boxes. You lived just a few houses apart, the kind of proximity that turned familiarity into something close to kinship.

But life had a way of pulling people apart. He left for university in Kyoto. You stayed behind, tethered to the countryside, where the same roads led to the same places, where the seasons changed but everything else stayed the same. Well, that was until you had married Kento. 

Yet even then, you knew he was in Tokyo for a while before he moved back to the countryside to go and teach. Even then, you and him never talked again after that. There were no hard feelings, no dramatic goodbyes about all that. It was just a gradual drifting, like leaves floating down different streams. That was how it went sometimes.

Still, when he called out of the blue, his voice was exactly the same. Gruff. Familiar. Straight to the point. You thought to yourself that he hasn’t changed one bit. Perhaps that touched you quite a fair bit. At least one thing, someone from home didn’t change one bit.

"Can I meet you?" he had asked, no preamble, no idle pleasantries. "I have something to ask of you."

“What about?” You asked him in return.

“Just come meet me. I’ll ask you then.” He says, almost too bluntly. “It’s a matter that is too serious to express over the phone.”

There was something in his tone, something weighty, something that made you pause. Yaga Masamichi had never been the type to reach out unless he had a reason. He could have all these years. But he had now. Which means it must be that grave. 

So you agreed. And that’s why here you were. The matcha latte was warm in your hands, the foam swirling lazily on the surface. You took a sip, savoring the earthy sweetness, your gaze drifting out the window. A moment later, you hear the bell above the café door chimed.

You heard those heavy footsteps you could not recognize.  You didn’t need to turn to know it was him. Sometimes, there are just going to be people, no matter how many years pass, who still carry the same presence. 

You could feel the presence of a man who had seen too much, carried too much. He was broader than you remembered, the weight of responsibility settling into the set of his shoulders, the firm line of his mouth. But the moment he sat down, the tension in his posture told you this wasn’t just a casual reunion. Nor did he waste time with pleasantries.

“There’s a kid, [name].” Yaga said, folding his hands over the table. “His name is Satoru. I used to be his teacher in high school.”

“What does this have to do with me?” You gave him a confused look.

“It has everything to do with you.” He retorts, almost too gruffly. “I know it is.”

“I’m going to need more details about this, Yaga.” You sighed at him, leaning slightly into a slouch. “I didn’t drive all the way out here for nothing.”

“You didn’t drive here for nothing, I assure you.”

You gave him a sharp look. “Then start talking.”

“He’s got talent—unreal talent. The kind that only comes around once in a generation. If he had the chance, he could be something great.” He exhaled slowly. “But he doesn’t have that chance.”

You frowned. “Why?”

Yaga’s jaw tightened. “His home life is… bad. His father refuses to support him, and he’s abusive, to both mother and son. And Satoru won’t leave because of his mother. It’s been a year and a half since he finished high school, and he still hasn’t gone to college. He’s stuck, [name]. And I don’t know what to do.”

You leaned back, processing the information. A gifted kid, burdened by circumstances beyond his control. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard a story like this, but something about the way Yaga spoke. It was low, deliberate, with the weight of frustration and something close to guilt , it made this different.

“Why are you telling me this?” you asked.

Yaga met your gaze, his expression unreadable. “Because I think you’re the only one who can help him.”

You blinked. “Me?”

“I don’t know your husband Kento.” Yaga admitted. “I only knew you.”

His voice was quieter now, the weight of old memories pressing into the space between you. He exhaled through his nose, fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic cup in front of him, a steady, rhythmic sound. Like he was trying to piece together the right words.

“And if there’s anyone who can get through to that kid, who can guide him toward something better… it’s you.” His dark eyes met yours, unwavering. “You value education. I knew that since we were kids. And I know that because of what happened, you would want someone like this kid to succeed.”

What happened, huh. The words sat between you like a ghost, unspoken but present, heavy in the air. All the sudden those memories came crashing through to you, almost instantaneously did all those words, all those feelings, all those moments came to you in crashing waves that swallow you whole.

You purse your lips, leaning back slightly, fingers tightening around your own cup. “How would you know that?”

Yaga hesitated, just for a moment. Then, in a rare moment of quiet sincerity, he leaned in slightly. “Because I know you.”

“We haven’t met in nearly fifteen years, Yaga.”

“That doens’t mean you haven’t changed, about this especially. I know you don’t want this kid to be twenty forever and not have anything.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried. “I know you want someone else to have more.”

You felt it in your chest, in the space between your ribs, in the parts of you that had tried to move on from the past but never quite managed to. You took a deep breath, your hands unsteady as your eyes rose to meet his.

“I know you would want this kid to have something more than what you had, [name].” Yaga said to you, pleadingly. “So help me. Even just this once.”

And just like that, you understood why he had come to you. This wasn’t just about his student. It was about you. About the road you had walked alone, about the chances you never had, about the years spent trying to carve something out of nothing. Yaga knew that weight. He had seen it all those years ago, and now he was asking you to take that pain and turn it into something good.

He was asking you to give this kid a future. And the worst part of it,  you weren’t sure you could say no. You sighed once again, dragging a hand down your face. The café felt smaller all of a sudden, the air heavier. You glanced down at your untouched coffee, watching the steam curl and fade into nothing.

“You’re asking a lot of me, Yaga.” you murmured.

“I know.” He didn’t try to sugarcoat it. He never did. “But I have no one else to turn to. I know you are the only one who can make it happen.”

A part of you wanted to refuse. To walk away before this tangled you into something you weren’t prepared for. But Yaga knew you too well. He knew exactly where to press, which words to say to keep you in your seat.

You tapped a finger against the table, thinking. “Tell me more about him.”

A flicker of something crossed Yaga’s face, and you could only guess it to be some sense of relief or even perhaps gratitude. But it disappeared just as quickly, when he started to think about the student he cared so deeply about.

“As I said, his name is Satoru.” he started, leaning forward. “He’s already twenty years old. Supposed to go to college years ago, but his father gambled away his money to drink and other shit vices. And his mother’s a housewife. So, there’s no luck there. Doesn’t help that he tries to work, but it doesn’t help much when he’s too overprotective of his mother.” Your frown became prominent. “That’s horrible.”

“The kid’s too proud to ask for help.” Yaga sighed with exasperation. “He’s smart as hell, but he’s got no direction. I’ve done what I can, but he needs more than just a teacher looking out for him. He needs someone who understands.”

“Understands what?” you asked.

Yaga’s gaze was steady. “What it’s like to be left behind.”

The words landed like a stone in your chest. You clenched your jaw, looking away. The past had long since scarred over, but there were some wounds that never fully healed. You knew exactly what he was implying, and you hated that he was right.

Still, you forced out, “And you think I can do something for him?”

“I know you can.” Yaga’s voice was firm. “I know that if you meet him, you’ll see what I see. A kid who’s got everything he needs to make it but no one who’s willing to fight for him. I know maybe you could be that someone.”

You let out a slow breath. You weren’t sure if you wanted to get involved. But you also knew this—if you walked away now, you’d never stop thinking about it. “Where is he?” you asked, finally.

Yaga allowed himself the smallest smile. “In the countryside town I’m teaching in. I can try and convince him to meet you, if you want to. But it would take some time for me to convince him. I promise, though. I can make it happen.”

You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face. “I can’t meet him yet.” you say, voice quieter than before. “He might reject me and all of it outright. It’s best to rein him in slowly. So we don’t overwhelm him.”

Yaga doesn’t react. He just watches you, the way he always has—patient, steady, waiting for you to say more. But when you don’t, he nods once, accepting it for what it is. You exhale, reaching into your coat pocket and pulling out a pen. 

The napkin in front of you is thin, the paper rough under your fingertips as you begin to write. The ink bleeds slightly into the fibers, but you don’t stop. Numbers, details, instructions. It has everything Yaga needs to make sure that the young man has some options. When you’re done, you push it toward him.

“Arrange a meeting when the time is right, when you’ve reined him in.” you murmur. “But in the meantime, he’ll get this.” You nod toward the napkin. “This is for him.”

Yaga picks it up, scanning the details. He doesn’t speak, but his brows furrow slightly. You know the exact moment he realizes what he’s holding. “This is a lot of money,” he finally says, looking up at you.

You shrug. “It’s from the money I saved over the years by myself, before my marriage. Much of that is my investment. But I don’t need it…..you know my husband cares for me more than I can imagine. You can use this. I’ll talk to my accountant.”

“That’s not the point, [name].” Yaga says, voice edged with something unreadable. He sets the napkin down but doesn’t let go of it. His fingers press into the paper, thoughtful. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to.” Your voice is calm, but firm. “Besides, you were the one convincing me to help him, weren’t you? I doubt he’ll leave without his mother. This would be enough money to bring her with him. And for them to be comfortable for a while, until he could find some work to help with his day to day with his mother.”

Because it was never about Yaga’s student. Not really.

You weren’t thinking about some youngling in his twenty year of life, or how he was with too much potential and nowhere to go. You were thinking about yourself at that moment. You were thinking about your own young self, the echoes of grievous youth. You who were still waiting, still stuck, still waiting for something, anything, to change and happen. 

You lean back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest. Yaga is now watching you as you took your time, still collecting yourself. The café feels quieter now, like the weight of the past has settled into the walls, pressing against your ribs.

“I’m not saying he has to take it, Yaga.” you say after a moment, your fingers idly tracing the rim of your cup. “I’m just someone who helps. I can’t force it on him. That’s up to you. To him.”

Yaga says nothing, but you can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and scrutinizing. “....I know.”

“Give it however you see fit.” You lean back slightly, crossing your arms. “Tell him it’s a scholarship. Tell him it’s a loan. Hell, don’t even tell him where it came from if you think it’ll make him stubborn.” A small, knowing smirk flickers at the corner of your lips. “But if he’s as smart as you say he is, he won’t waste the opportunity.”

A pause. The café hums around you. There were still those muted conversations, the hiss of steaming milk, the faint clatter of dishes from behind the counter. Yaga doesn’t answer you right away. But that was understandable. And you did not care.

Instead, he stares down at the napkin. The one with the scribbled details, the promise of a future written in ink. His fingers curl around it, calloused and rough, before his eyes lift to meet yours. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something unspoken. Maybe he’s searching for a reason to say no. Or maybe he’s just trying to understand why you’re doing this. 

Finally, he exhales, slow and deliberate. His large hands moved carefully as he folds the napkin—not rushed, not careless. A deliberate gesture. When he tucks it into his pocket, it’s with the same quiet reverence as someone securing something fragile.

“…Thank you.”

The words are gruff, edged with hesitation, but sincere. You offer a small nod, a silent acknowledgment that you both understand. Neither of you says anything else. Some things don’t need to be spoken out loud.

“Now, are you hungry or not?”

“Why are you suddenly asking now?” Yaga snickered, leaning against the bench.

“Just order before I change my mind about paying.” You rolled your eyes, drinking your matcha drink.

“Alright, alright.”

HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY. Gojo Satoru sat across from Yaga, legs sprawled out, arms folded, the usual cocky glint in his eye replaced with something harder to place, something wary. His foot tapped against the leg of the chair, a steady rhythm, like he was keeping time with an unseen clock.

“So let me get this straight.” His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it, sharp and suspicious. “Some random person I’ve never met, who doesn’t even know me but someone who knows you, just up and decides to pay my way? Like, what, I won the lottery and no one told me?”

Yaga didn’t react. He just exhaled through his nose, already expecting this reaction. “Yes.”

Satoru snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. Thanks, Yaga. I needed the laugh.” 

He slumped back in his chair, kicking his feet up onto the edge of the desk, acting like this conversation was nothing more than an annoyance. “Alright, joke’s over. What’s the real reason you called me in?”

Yaga said nothing. Instead, he reached for the folder at the side of his desk, sliding it across the surface with a practiced patience that only made Satoru more irritated. He didn’t move to take it, just eyed it like it might bite him.

“I managed everything already, just like your benefactor asked me.” Yaga said, voice firm but calm. “Tuition, housing, living expenses—it’s all handled. All you have to do is decide what you want to do next.”

Satoru could not help but just stare blankly at the folder like it was a trick, like if he touched it, the illusion would break and the rug would be pulled out from under him. “This isn’t a joke, Satoru. I promise you.”

Something in Yaga Masamichi’s voice made him stop. The usual sarcasm sitting on Satoru’s tongue dissolved. Slowly, he sat up, planting his feet on the floor before dragging the folder toward him. His fingers drummed against the cover for a moment before flipping it open.

Inside, neatly arranged, were the details like Yaga said. All the bank transfers, the college exam forms, rent agreements, even a breakdown of potential career paths. It was all there, structured and waiting, like a road laid out ahead of him.

His throat felt dry. No one had ever done something like this for him before. Gojo Satoru wasn’t stupid. He knew how the world worked. Nobody gave something for free, not without expecting something in return. His grip on the folder tightened.

“Who?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

Yaga didn’t hesitate. “Someone who understands.”

Gojo Satoru could feel his jaw suddenly tense. That wasn’t an answer. But the way Yaga said it, the way he looked at him, Satoru knew he wasn’t going to get anything else. So he just lets it go for now. He frowns.

He clicked his tongue, snapping the folder shut. “And this benefactor, they don’t want anything back?”

“No.”

Satoru scoffed. “Bullshit.”

Yaga’s expression didn’t change. “Believe what you want.”

Satoru leaned back in his chair, spinning the folder between his fingers before tossing it onto the desk. Silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken. It wasn’t just about the money. It was about the fact that someone out there had seen him, had looked at his life, his struggles, and decided he was worth helping. That thought made his chest feel tight, like a weight pressing down on him.

He’d spent years clawing his way through life, telling himself he didn’t need anyone, that he could handle it on his own. And yet here it was—help, handed to him on a silver platter. No strings. No conditions. It pissed him off. Because it meant he had no excuse.

Satoru clicked his tongue again, running a hand through his hair. “So all I gotta do is choose, huh?”

Yaga nodded. “Yeah. Pick your university well.”

For a long time, Satoru just sat there, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers. He could feel Yaga watching him, waiting, but the older man said nothing. He had learned, over the years, that pushing Satoru never worked. Eventually, Satoru leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He tapped his fingers against the folder, once, twice, before exhaling sharply.

“You know what this feels like?” he asked, voice lighter than the tension in the room. “It feels like one of those scam emails. ‘Congratulations! A long-lost prince has left you a fortune! Click here to claim it!’” He gave Yaga a dry look. “Should I be worried about malware?”

Yaga didn’t smile. “No one’s scamming you, Satoru.”

Satoru hummed, glancing back at the folder like it might suddenly disappear. “That’s what a scammer would say.”

But the joke fell flat, and he knew it. Because the truth was, he didn’t want to look at this too closely. Didn’t want to pick it apart and realize it was real. Because if it was real, then he had no excuse not to take it. His fingers curled around the edges of the folder.

Yaga, always patient, spoke again, his voice steady. “You don’t have to decide today. I just wanted to tell you.”

Satoru let out a breath that almost sounded like relief. Almost. “I feel a but coming in here.”

But then Yaga added, “But you do have to decide, eventually. Don’t let this go to waste.”

And just like that, the relief was gone. Satoru tilted his head, expression unreadable. “And if I say no?”

Yaga shrugged. “Then you say no.”

Satoru narrowed his eyes. “You’re really just gonna let me walk away from all this?”

“If that’s what you choose, then yes.” Yaga said simply. “That’s what your benefactor said.”

That was the part that unsettled Satoru the most. His whole life, every choice had been made for him, by his father, by circumstance, by a world that didn’t care whether he sank or swam. And now, suddenly, he had control. He didn’t know what to do with it.

Satoru dragged a hand through his hair, sighing dramatically. “Man, I hate this.”

“Hate what?”

“This.” He waved vaguely at the folder, at Yaga, at the whole damn situation. “This whole ‘I get a say in my future’ thing. It’s stressful.”

Yaga’s lips twitched slightly. “You’ll get used to it.”

Satoru clicked his tongue, then stood abruptly, snatching the folder off the desk. He tucked it under his arm like it weighed nothing, like it wasn’t the single biggest decision of his life. He looked at his old teacher with complex eyes.

“I’ll think about it, Yaga.” he said, already turning toward the door. “I promise.”

Yaga nodded, as if he knew that was the best he was going to get. “Alright.”

But just as Satoru reached for the handle, he paused. “…This person.” he said, without turning around. “The one who did all this.”

Yaga waited. “Yes?”

Satoru’s grip on the folder tightened. “Are they gonna want to meet me?”

Yaga considered his answer carefully. “They’re leaving that up to you.”

Satoru let out a small scoff, shaking his head. “Figures.”

And with that, he walked out into the cold winds of the evening, the weight of the neatly pressed folder pressing against his side like a decision he wasn’t ready to make. Not yet. But maybe soon.

HE TOLD HIS MOTHER ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. In some ways, Satoru knew he couldn’t keep this from her. Something this big, how can you keep it to yourself? Someone else needed to know. And he knew his mother was that person.

The folder sat in the dim glow of the kitchen light, thick with opportunity. With a future. With escape. But his mother hadn’t touched it. Instead, she sat across from him, hands curled around a chipped ceramic mug, knuckles pressed white from how tightly she held it. She hadn’t taken a sip in minutes. The tea had gone cold.

“Satoru, my son….” she murmured, shaking her head, her voice brittle. “You don’t know these people.”

He had expected this. She had always been careful, wary of kindness, of luck. Of hope. “I know Yaga, though.” Satoru said, his voice controlled, steady. “And I know this is real.”

His mother exhaled, slow and tired. “For you, it is.” she whispered. “But to me, I’m still not sure.”

The words sank in like a blade between his ribs. Satoru sat still for a long moment, his heartbeat in his ears. For a while, he had told himself that if he ever got the chance to leave, he’d take it without hesitation. No second thoughts. No regrets.

But that was before he had something to lose. Before the idea of walking out of this house meant leaving her behind. Guilt curled in his stomach, sick and twisting. He had spent his entire life watching his mother weather the storm of his father’s anger. Taking the worst of it. Absorbing it so Satoru didn’t have to. He couldn’t pay her back for that. He couldn’t undo it.

But he could do this.

“Come with me, mom.” he said.

His mother’s head snapped up, startled. “What?”

Satoru met her eyes, clear and unwavering. “Come with me, to Tokyo or Kyoto. Wherever I end up going to school.” he repeated. “We don’t have to stay here.”

She blinked, like she hadn’t even considered it. “Satoru—”

“I mean it, mom.” he said, leaning forward. “You don’t have to stay with him.”

Her fingers trembled. “And go where?” she whispered.

Satoru swallowed. “Anywhere but here. There’s enough money for the both of us.”

She let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “It’s not that easy.”

His jaw clenched. “Maybe not, mom.” he admitted. “But staying here? That’s not easy either.” His voice dropped, lower now, pressing. “That’s never been easy.”

His mother flinched, looking away.

Satoru stared at her, his chest tight.

For years, he had tried to convince himself that his mother was fine. That his father’s anger had only ever been directed at him. That she could handle it. But he knew better. He had seen the bruises she covered with long sleeves in the summer. Heard the way her voice shrank in his father’s presence.

He had never asked why she stayed.

Because deep down, he already knew.

“You don’t understand, Satoru.” she whispered. “We can’t just—”

Satoru’s breath hitched. “Then make me understand.”

She exhaled shakily, pressing the heels of her palms against her forehead. “I don’t know how to leave.”

He reached across the table, his movements slow, deliberate, as if any sudden motion might scare her away. His fingers found hers, cold and trembling, and he covered her hand with his own. A silent reassurance. A plea.

"We’ll figure it out, Mom." His voice was softer than usual, a stark contrast to the steel in his grip. He needed her to believe him. Needed her to trust that there was a way out. "Just come with me."

She didn’t respond right away. Her fingers twitched beneath his, hesitant, unsure. He could feel the slight tremor in them, the way she curled them ever so slightly, as if she wanted to hold on but couldn’t quite bring herself to. Satoru swallowed hard. He knew what she was thinking. Knew that years of fear, of habit, of hope that things might still change were keeping her frozen in place. 

But she didn’t pull away. And that was something. For now, that was enough.  He squeezed her hand, just once. Gentle. Certain. A quiet promise. The quiet admission struck something deep inside him. Because he understood. For so long, he had felt like that, too.

His father had built a cage around them. One with invisible walls, lined with rules, punishments, expectations. They had learned to navigate it, to survive inside it. But now, for the first time, there was a door. And Satoru wasn’t walking through it alone.

He reached across the table, covering her hand with his own. “We’ll figure it out, mom.” he promised. “Just come with me.”

Her fingers curled slightly under his, hesitant, unsure.

But she didn’t pull away.

And for now, that was enough.

The night they left weeks later, the house felt heavier than usual. Like it knew it was being abandoned. Like it was trying to hold them back. Like it doesn’t want to be left empty with that crude, brutish and miserable man. But Satoru does not care. He does not want to be here anymore. 

Satoru stood in the dim hallway, bag slung over his shoulder, heart pounding like a drum in his chest. His mother was in front of him, clutching the strap of her own bag with white-knuckled hands. She hadn’t moved in minutes.

“We should go, mom.” he murmured.

His mother didn’t respond. She was staring at the walls, the floor, the furniture—like she was trying to memorize them. Like she was trying to convince herself she could step away from it all. Satoru swallowed hard. He understood.

Because for years, this house had been their whole world. Their cage, their battlefield, their suffocation. Every argument, every bruise, every silent dinner had seeped into the walls. This place had shaped them, broken them, kept them trapped. And now, they were about to leave it behind.

Satoru reached out, his hand hovering just above her shoulder. “Mom.”

She flinched, eyes darting at him. For a second, just a second, she looked terrified, she looked just as much exhausted. Not of him. Of the unknown. Of a life that is now going to be separated from the brutal one she had been forced to live.

“I don’t—” Her voice cracked, her throat working around the words. “Satoru, what if this is worse?”

Satoru inhaled sharply. That fear she felt, he knew had felt it too. The doubt. The what-ifs. The voice in the back of his head that told him maybe it was better to stay where things were familiar, even if familiar meant unbearable.

“Then we’ll deal with it, mom.” he said firmly.

His mother let out a shaky breath. “You don’t understand—”

“I do.” Satoru interrupted, stepping closer. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “I know what it’s like to be afraid of leaving. To think that maybe… maybe this is all we get. Maybe we just take it. Live with it.”

Her chin trembled. “I just….”

“But we don’t have to.” he whispered. “We don’t have to live like this.”

His mother looked away, blinking rapidly. “This is my home, my son.” she murmured. “This is all I knew.”

Satoru’s chest ached. “No, mom. It’s not your home.” he said quietly. “This is just a house where bad things happened. It was never your home.”

Her breath hitched. “.....It’s not my home?”

“No, mom. It’s not.” Satoru pressed on, voice soft but unwavering. “Home isn’t supposed to feel like this. It’s not supposed to hurt. We can find something better. We can make something better. We’ll build a home together.”

His mother squeezed her eyes shut, one hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright.  Tears were forming at the edges of her eyes, her body was shaking. He was losing her. Panic rose in his throat.

“Mom, please.” he begged, voice cracking now. “I can’t leave you here.”

She exhaled sharply, her entire body trembling. Then, slowly, she turned back to face him. And for the first time in years, there was something in her eyes other than resignation. Something fragile. Something afraid. Something hopeful.

Satoru reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers. “Come with me, mom.” he whispered. “I’m begging you.”

His mother’s grip was weak at first, hesitant.

Then, finally, her fingers tightened around his.

And she nodded back at him.

Satoru exhaled, something breaking inside him. Relief, gratitude, something bigger than all of that. He squeezed her hand once before letting go. She followed him to the door. She hesitated for only a second before stepping outside. And for the first time in years, she didn’t look back.

HE HAD A DIFFERENT PERCEPTION ABOUT THIS CITY. But it would seem that Tokyo city was quieter than Satoru expected. He thought the city would be overwhelming, suffocating with its neon lights and endless streams of people, but standing in the doorway of their new apartment, it was the silence that struck him first.

No shouting. No breaking glass. No heavy footsteps signaling trouble. Just the low hum of traffic outside and the soft creak of the floorboards as his mother hesitantly stepped inside. It didn’t feel real to him.

“Welcome home, you two.” Yaga said from behind them, setting a thick folder onto the kitchen counter. “I take it you’re getting along well with this apartment?”

“Yeah.” Satoru turned to him, still adjusting to the idea that this was happening. “I guess.”

He wasn’t dreaming, right? 

His father wasn’t about to yank him back with an iron grip, right?

 His mother lingered near the window, fingers ghosting over the curtains like she didn’t know if she was allowed to touch them. Like any second, someone would come and tell her this wasn’t hers to have. Yaga didn’t push her. He just motioned for Satoru to sit at the small, round dining table. Satoru hesitated before finally doing as he was told.

“Alright, let’s go over everything. Now that you got into Tokyo University.” Yaga exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. He flipped open the folder, tapping a few neatly stacked documents. “There’s quite a bit.”

“Looks like there’s quite a bit.” Satoru says, looking at the binder.

“Your tuition has been taken care of in full. All you have to do is choose your major and register for classes. Everything else, the apartment, utilities, and monthly expenses, and your mother’s health check ups….it’s also been covered. It surprisingly fits for one year from the money we got, so it’s going to be fine.”

Satoru’s hands clenched on his lap. “It still sounds like a scam, even when it's done already. It just still feels unreal.” he muttered.

Yaga snorted. “Yeah, well. I’d be suspicious too, if I wasn’t the one who pushed for this to happen.” He leaned back in his chair, studying him. “But don’t worry. Like I said, your benefactor doesn’t want anything from you, Satoru.”

Satoru frowned. “That also still doesn’t make sense.”

Yaga’s expression softened. “It does, knowing your benefactor, it truly fits.” he said. “Though your benefactor reminded me to tell you to study well, and take care of your mother.”

Satoru blinked, caught off guard. “That’s it?”

Yaga nodded. “And that you go to college, everyday. No classes missed.”

Satoru let out a sharp breath, disbelieving. “That’s really it?”

Yaga’s gaze was steady. “That’s really it.”

Satoru looked down at the folder, at the proof of everything Yaga was saying. His mind raced, trying to find the catch, the fine print, the part where this all fell apart. But there wasn’t one. There wasn’t anything that has been faulty throughout.

Someone—some ridiculous stranger—had decided to give him and his mother a way out. A fresh start. And all they asked in return was for Satoru to live. To be something more than what his father had tried to reduce him to. The realization settled into his bones, heavy and overwhelming.

His mother let out a shaky breath from the window. “I don’t know how to thank them.” she whispered. “This is just….”

Yaga gave a small, knowing smile. “Then don’t, Mrs. Gojo. Really.” he said simply. “Just live well. That’s enough of a thanks to the benefactor.”

Satoru swallowed past the lump in his throat. For the first time in a long time, he believed it. And for the first time in his life, he thought—maybe, just maybe—he had a future. One that was finally his own. 

The apartment felt too clean. Satoru wasn’t used to that. Everything in his life had been messy. Broken things that never got fixed, stains on the walls that told a story of fights and silent suffering. But here, the walls were smooth, the floors unscuffed, and the air smelled like citrus, like someone had actually cared enough to prepare this place for them.

His mother still stood by the window, staring out at the Tokyo skyline, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She looked so small against the view. Like she wasn’t sure if she belonged there.Satoru ran a hand through his hair and turned back to Yaga, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach.

“So what now?” he asked, his voice flat. “I just… start over?”

Yaga leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “That’s the plan.”

Satoru scoffed. “Yeah, because it’s just that easy.”

Yaga exhaled through his nose. “No, it’s not.” He met Satoru’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “But you’re not alone in this. You’ve got support now. You’ve got options.”

Satoru hated that word. Options. It had never applied to him before. It had always been one way, his father’s way, and if he fought against it, he got beat down, literally and figuratively. But now, he was standing in a place that wasn’t his father’s house. He had a bed that wasn’t covered in cigarette burns. A kitchen where nothing had been thrown in anger.

It was real. It was his. Satoru stared at the papers in front of him, his chest tight, his breath uneven. This wasn’t a dream, wasn’t some fleeting hope destined to slip through his fingers. It was happening. After everything, after years of feeling trapped, after nights of clenched fists and swallowed words—he was finally here.

This was the start. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white, tension coiled in his shoulders like he was bracing for a blow. For something to go wrong. For someone to suddenly take it all away. Because that’s how it had always been.

He had learned young that good things never lasted. That the rug was always waiting to be yanked from beneath him. That every step forward came with a price. But this time, there was nothing in his way. No one to stop him. No one told him he couldn’t.

He forced himself to exhale, to relax his fingers, to release the quiet fear clawing at his chest. Across the table, Yaga sighed, watching him with that same gruff patience he always had. He gestured toward the stack of documents, the official letterhead, the crisp edges that made it all feel so real.

"Your next step is to register for school and pick your classes," Yaga said, voice steady, even. Then, with a pointed look, he added, "Take your time picking what you want to do—just don’t waste this chance."

The words settled heavily in the air between them. Satoru swallowed, nodding once, fingers tightening over the papers like an anchor. No. He wouldn’t waste it. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t do anything like that. 

Satoru ran his fingers over the papers, the weight of them heavier than it should have been. His throat felt tight, but he forced out a scoff, masking the unease gnawing at him.

"Tch. You think I’d waste it?" He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head just slightly, forcing a smirk. "Come on, Yaga. Give me some credit."

Yaga didn't blink so much as blink. He simply crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed. "Credit is earned, not given." His tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "You might be smart, but that doesn’t mean you’ll do the work."

Satoru clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. "You sound like an old man."

"And you sound like a kid who doesn’t know what he’s getting into."

Satoru narrowed his bright blue eyes at him. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

Yaga exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Look. Just don’t screw this up. That’s all I’m saying."

Satoru glanced down at the papers again, his fingers tightening around the edges. "I won’t."

This time, he meant it.

EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS WAS UNREAL. Satoru never thought he would make it this far. The Tokyo University campus stretched around him, grand and sprawling, filled with students who looked like they had always belonged here. It felt strange to walk among them, knowing that just a year ago, this had been nothing but an impossible dream.

But it was real now.

He had passed.

He was here.

Satoru kept his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his fingers curling into the fabric as he walked alongside Yaga. It had been Yaga’s idea to come with him, but Satoru had wanted it too, though he wouldn’t admit it. He’d never been the type to need someone by his side, but maybe, just this once, he didn’t want to do this alone.

They walked in silence for a while all around the campus, the low hum of student chatter filling the air, the occasional bike rolling past on the paved paths. Then, the question that had been burning in his mind finally slipped out.

“Hey, Yaga.”

“Hm?”

They walked side by side, the hum of the campus life surrounding them. The air was warm, thick with the scent of pavement after rain, and the late afternoon sun stretched golden fingers across the rooftops.

Satoru shoved his hands into his pockets, his posture loose, but his mind wasn’t. Something had been gnawing at him ever since Yaga handed him those papers, ever since the weight of opportunity settled on his shoulders.

His voice was quieter than usual. "My benefactor—I gotta ask." He barely glanced over, keeping his tone casual, as if the answer didn’t matter. "Who is it?"

Yaga didn’t respond right away. Instead, he slowed to a stop, his gaze drifting toward an old stone wall covered in ivy. The thick vines sprawled across the surface, swallowing cracks and imperfections, twisting like they had been there forever. Satoru frowned, stopping a step ahead of him.

"Oi, what are you—"

Yaga let out a slow breath, like he was considering something. And then, finally, he smiles. "She’s your benefactor."

Satoru’s breath stilled.

He turned, following Yaga’s gaze.

And then he saw you.

You stood just past the wall, near the entrance of the university, bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. The light caught in your hair, casting a soft halo around you. You weren’t looking at him—not yet—but the moment Satoru’s eyes found you, something inside him went still. 

At twenty years old, for the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru thought he had seen an angel. 

But it wasn’t just that you were beautiful.

It was something else. The way you carried yourself—poised, yet approachable. The quiet kindness in your features. The steadiness in your stance, like you had already decided you would stand by him, no matter what.

And you had. Without even knowing him. A stranger had given him everything. The weight of it settled in his chest, unfamiliar and heavy. For the first time in his life, Satoru Gojo had no idea what to say. His fingers twitched. His breath came in slow and careful, like he was afraid that if he moved too suddenly, this moment would shatter.

You turned then, your eyes finally meeting his own, and something deep in his chest twisted. How was he supposed to look at you, someone who had saved him, someone who had believed in him when no one else had—and pretend this was normal?

For the first time in years, Gojo Satoru was completely, utterly speechless. And for the first time in his life, he didn’t know what to do with the emotions overwhelming him. Gratitude. Disbelief. Hope. It had been a long time since he had let himself hope for anything.

And yet, standing here, staring at you—he thought, maybe, just maybe, he could start. Silence settled between them like a held breath, thick with things unspoken. Satoru stood frozen, his mind caught in a whirlwind, unable to process the weight of Yaga’s words. 

She’s your benefactor.

You. The woman standing just a few steps away, the one who had made all of this possible, who had given him a chance at something better at freedom without ever meeting him. For the first time in a long time, Satoru didn’t know what to say.

Yaga let out a slow breath, watching him carefully before speaking again, this time with something unusual in his voice. A heaviness. A lament. “When we were kids, you know she was amazing.” Yaga said, his tone quieter than usual. “She was the smartest person I knew.”

Satoru blinked, caught off guard by the way Yaga’s voice softened, like he was speaking of something precious, something lost. “She studied here, years ago,” Yaga continued. “One of the brightest. The kind of student that professors remembered. The kind of person you just knew was going to change the world.”

Satoru’s eyes flickered to you, searching your face for something, for what, he didn’t know. But you didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, as if you had long made peace with the past Yaga was unraveling. “But she never got to graduate.”

Satoru frowned, his grip tightening in his pockets. “Why?”

Yaga hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. “She became a mother.”

The words landed like stones in Satoru’s chest. “What?”

“She became a wife.”

Satoru’s stomach twisted. There was something unspoken in Yaga’s words, something heavier than what was being said. A life that had been rerouted, rewritten. A future that had been sacrificed for something or someone else.

“She had dreams, y’know?” Yaga said, his gaze distant, like he was looking at something only he could see. “Dreams bigger than this place could even hold. But life had other plans.”

Satoru swallowed hard, a strange, unfamiliar ache settling in his throat. Yaga exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “And yet, even after all these years….” he said, looking at you now. “She's still the same.”

His voice grew firm, looking at you. “Still looking out for others before yourself. Still giving when you’ve already given too much. But how much is that a life, [name]?”

Satoru clenched his jaw, something tightening in his chest. “I….”

“She wants you to live, Satoru.” Yaga’s voice cut through the air like a quiet, unwavering truth.

“To become someone she couldn’t be.”

Satoru’s breath hitched. “Me?”

Yaga nodded at him. “Yes, you. She wants you to be free. In a way she couldn’t. So make everything count.”

That word. Free. It echoed in his mind, sharp and relentless, like it had been waiting for him to hear it all his life. He had never been free. Not from the weight of his family’s name. Not from the bruises hidden beneath his sleeves. Not from the suffocating feeling of being trapped in a life that had been dictated for him before he was even born.

Even now, even standing in this place, even holding proof that he had made it here, a part of him had still been waiting for it all to be taken away. Because nothing had ever truly been his. But then—there was you.

The woman who had given him a future, even when you had never met him.

The woman who had believed in him, even when no one else had.

The woman who had looked at his life—the one he had been struggling to survive in and decided he deserved something better. 

Satoru swallowed hard, his throat tight, his fingers twitching at his sides. He looked at you again, really looked at you this time. And in your eyes, he saw something he hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Hope. Not just for him, but for what he could be. You had given him a choice. A chance. A way out. A way forward. A freedom he had never known. And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid to take it.

HE HAD TO BE HONEST, IT STARTED WITH CURIOSITY. A passing thought, a simple question. Who was she? The woman who had saved him, a stranger who had given him everything without asking for anything in return. Yaga had said you were the smartest person he’d ever known. That you were meant for something great.

And Gojo Satoru, who had spent his life feeling like he was meant for nothing, couldn’t shake the thought. So he started searching. At first, it was just your name. A quick lookup on university records, old archives, things easily accessible. But what he found pulled him in deeper, past the point of idle interest, past the point of stopping.

Because you weren’t just smart.

You were a prodigy.

A force of nature they couldn’t handle.

Your name was everywhere, overwhelmingly so. There were the old scientific papers, articles praising your research, university newsletters featuring your achievements. There were awards, national recognitions, competitions where you had left everyone else in the dust.

Satoru scrolled through it all, page after page, eyes scanning through words that felt foreign to him. Chemical reactions, molecular structures, theories he didn’t even pretend to understand. But you had understood them. And not just understood them—you had mastered them.

He clicked on a video link without thinking.

And then—there you were.

Gojo Satoru sat back, stunned.

The screen flickered, grainy from age, but the image was clear enough. You were sitting in a brightly lit lecture hall, across from an interviewer, your hair tucked neatly behind your ear. You looked younger here, maybe barely twenty, but your eyes were sharp, your expression alive.

And when you spoke, Satoru stilled.

“This is what I love about science, you know?” you said, your voice confident, steady. “It’s everywhere. It explains the world. It connects everything—every living thing, every reaction, every change. It’s a miracle, it is life!”

You smiled, leaning forward slightly. “Isn’t that amazing?”

Something in Satoru’s chest twisted. He had never cared about chemistry. Had never cared about formulas or reactions or any of the things you were talking about. But watching you now, the way you lit up, the way you spoke like the world was something worth understanding, for the first time, he got it.

There were more videos. Clips of you working in the lab, hands steady, movements sure. Interviews where you spoke about research projects, your words quick, excited, spilling over each other in your enthusiasm. Moments where you laughed, bright and uninhibited, so full of life it made his breath catch.

You were dazzling. Not just beautiful, though you were, effortlessly so but brilliant in a way that made it impossible to look away. You were more than that. You were a diamond in the rough, among all these people. Among all mortals surrounding you, you looked like a passionate, genuine and wondrous goddess blessing all with your presence.

But then, the more he dug, the more he couldn’t find anything anymore. Everything, all of it had stopped. The records, the videos, the awards, all of it ended at a certain point. No graduation announcement. No further research. Just bitter cold silence.

Satoru sat there, staring at the screen, his fingers curled into his palms. Because he knew why. You have become a mother. And then horridly, a wife. And your future, the one that should have been limitless had been cut off, rerouted, swallowed by a life that wasn’t yours alone anymore.

Satoru exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, trying to ignore the strange weight in his chest. Who were you now? Did you still dream of the things you once wanted? Did you still love chemistry the way you had back then? Did you regret any of it? Or did you look at him—the boy you had chosen to help, the one you had given this second chance—and see something of yourself in him?

Satoru didn’t know. But for the first time in his life, he wanted to. And that realization hit him with startling clarity. This wasn’t just gratitude. It wasn’t just admiration. It was something deeper. Something consuming.

And Satoru, who had never cared much about anyone outside of himself, felt an unfamiliar pull toward the woman who had changed his life before he even knew her name. He didn’t think he could ignore it.

It didn’t stop after that first night. If anything, it only got worse. Satoru found himself thinking about you more often than he wanted to admit. At first, it was just curiosity. He told himself that. Curiosity was all well and dandy.

But curiosity didn’t explain why he kept going back, why he kept watching the same videos over and over, memorizing the way you spoke, the way your eyes lit up when you talked about something you loved.

Curiosity didn’t explain why he started reading about chemistry, things that had never interested him before. Just to understand the things you had once been passionate about. Just to know what your world looked like.

Curiosity didn’t explain why he noticed the way your voice softened when you spoke, the way you carried yourself with quiet grace, like someone who had spent too long in the shadows of what could have been.

It didn’t explain the way his stomach twisted when he thought about everything you had lost. The way it ached. The way he wanted to—Stop, Satoru, this is madness!

He cut the thought off before it could form, running a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. This was ridiculous. You weren’t some mystery to be solved. You weren’t a puzzle for him to piece together.

You were just a woman. A person. But the more he learned about you, the harder it became to see you as just that. Because you weren’t just anyone. You were someone who had been larger than life, someone meant for something extraordinary. And yet, when the world had taken that from you, you hadn’t broken. You hadn’t let it turn you bitter.

You had chosen to help him. And Satoru who had spent his life feeling like no one had ever truly seen him suddenly realized that he had never really seen anyone either. Well, until now. Until you. Until you haunted the narrative of his existence.

He didn’t know when it shifted, when the fascination became something else. Something deeper. Something sharper. But he knew it the moment he caught himself watching an old video of you late at night, long past the point of exhaustion, long past the point of excuses.

The screen flickered, your younger self smiling, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you explained something about chemical bonding. Satoru wasn’t even listening. He was watching your hands.

The delicate way you gestured, the way your fingers curled slightly when you were deep in thought. And he wondered, suddenly, what it would feel like to have those fingers traced against his skin.

His breath hitched. The thought came unbidden, slamming into him with the force of something undeniable. And that was when he knew he was in trouble. Because this wasn’t just admiration anymore. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was something more to him. It was something surely more consuming than any other drug in this world.

And Gojo Satoru, for the first time in his life, wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop it.

GOJO SATORU WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE. He wasn’t even supposed to be in this part of the university today, but his feet had carried him here, as if drawn by some invisible force. And then he saw you.

You stood near the entrance of the new science wing, speaking with one of the department heads. You weren’t smiling, but there was something almost wistful in your expression, something he hadn’t seen before.

For a moment, he just… watched. It had been one thing to see you in old interviews, to read about you, to trace the remnants of the brilliant woman you had been in the past. But here, now—he could see you in real time.

And you were even more mesmerizing than he had imagined.

Satoru had spent years perfecting the art of reading people. It was second nature to him, the way he could pick up on subtle tells, unspoken thoughts lingering in the way someone shifted, the way their eyes darted or their fingers curled.

And what he saw in you made his stomach twist. You looked like someone who had built a life out of moving forward, like someone who had made peace with the things they had lost. But deep down, buried beneath the layers of composure, he saw it.

The quiet grief. The remnants of a dream abandoned, tucked carefully behind the way you stood so still, the way your fingers brushed over the edge of a desk as if testing its reality. They were all there under the surface.

Something about it unsettled him. Because he knew that feeling. That hollow ache, that quiet longing for something just out of reach. And for the first time in his life, Satoru wanted to know what it would take to bring that spark back into your eyes. What it would take to make you look at him. So he stepped forward.

“You seem important here.” he said, voice light, teasing.

The words made you turn toward him, your gaze settling on him in a way that made his pulse stutter. For a moment, you simply studied him, bright blue eyes, white hair, a sharp grin that hid far more than it revealed.

He saw the way you hesitated when you looked at him for the first time, quietly searching his face as if trying to place him in a category of familiarity, but he knew you wouldn’t. Not yet. Not like this.

“Not at all.” you finally replied, shaking your head. “Just someone who used to study here.”

“Ah, I see.” he hummed. “So, an old-timer.”

You huffed out a quiet laugh. “Not that old.”

But Satoru had already noticed the way you shifted, the way your fingers curled slightly against your palm. You didn’t talk about the past much, did you? You didn’t let yourself linger in what had been. And yet, you were here. Still standing in the middle of a building you had helped fund. Still tracing the echoes of who you had once been.

“What’d you study?” he asked, though he already knew.

“Chemistry.”

“And did you love it?”

Your eyes flickered to him again, as if the question had caught you off guard. Satoru held your gaze, waiting. He wanted to hear you say it out loud. He wanted to know if it still burned somewhere inside you.

“I did, I suppose. I fought hard to get there.” you admitted, voice softer now. “It was my passion, once.”

Once.

Satoru didn’t like that word.

Didn’t like the way it tasted in his mouth.

Because passion wasn’t something that simply faded. It was something that lived inside you, something that clawed its way back to the surface, no matter how deeply you tried to bury it. And maybe that was why he was standing here now. Because, somehow, you had become his passion.

“Still passionate about it?” he pressed, tilting his head.

You hesitated. And then, after a moment, you exhaled. “Some passions never really fade.”

Something in him tightened, he couldn’t point out which. Gojo Satoru hadn’t been expecting you to say that. He hadn’t been expecting the way those words would settle inside him, threading into something deeper.

“Passion’s a funny thing.” Satoru murmured, his voice carrying a lazy sort of amusement, but there was something deeper beneath it. Something steady, something careful. “Sometimes, even if you try to leave it behind, it finds its way back to you.”

Your beautiful bright eyes flickered toward him, searching his face, as if trying to figure out why he had said that. Satoru held your gaze, refusing to look away. You purse your lips into a flat line, lowering your gaze.

For a moment, the world around him faded—the distant hum of students talking, the soft footsteps echoing down the hall, the chatter of professors discussing research grants and department budgets. None of it mattered.

Because right now, it was just you. And for the briefest second, he thought maybe you felt it too. That quiet pull. That strange, undeniable gravity between two people who, by all logic, should have never crossed paths—should have never been drawn toward each other.

And yet, maybe they always had been. Your fingers flexed slightly at your sides, a barely-there movement, but Satoru noticed. He noticed everything about you. The way your lips parted just slightly, as if you wanted to say something but weren’t sure if you should.

The way your eyes darkened with thought, with something unspoken, something he was suddenly desperate to know. It made his chest feel tight. You inhaled slowly, as if steadying yourself. And then, after a pause, you exhaled, offering him the smallest nod.

“Maybe you’re right, I suppose.” you murmured.

Satoru’s pulse jumped. Maybe he was. Maybe passion wasn’t something you could just let go of. Maybe, no matter how much you tried to bury it, itt would always find its way back. And as he stood there, watching you, he wondered if the same could be said about people.

If some people, no matter how different their worlds were, would always be pulled toward each other in the end. If you and him would be one of them. You let your serene face relax and echo towards him, a warm smile on your lips.

“You should keep doing well.” you told him, your voice soft but firm. “You should be better. Be what I couldn’t be.”

Satoru expected those words. He had heard them before. Albeit, it was all phrased differently, maybe, but the meaning was always the same. Be strong. Be smart. Be the best. But coming from you, they felt different.

They didn’t feel like there was a demand. They felt like a hope. And when he looked at you, he saw something in your eyes that made his breath catch. It was emotion, all too raw and unguarded, flickering behind the composed mask you always seemed to wear.

It was something he didn’t quite understand yet, but it made his chest feel tight, made his hands curl into fists at his sides. Because for a fleeting moment, he thought that maybe you wanted this for him. Not because of obligation. Not because of charity. But because you saw something in him. Something worth saving.

Satoru swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to ask why you were all about it. You would surely have all the answers. Why did you care? Why did it sound like you were speaking from experience? But he didn’t.

Instead, he just held your gaze, letting the moment stretch between you. Letting it settle in his bones. And for the first time in a long time, he thought that maybe he did want to be better. For you. He would do it for you.

Satoru exhaled, tilting his head, a lopsided smirk tugging at his lips, but his voice was quieter than usual. "Be better, huh?" He let the words hang in the air before nodding, something unreadable in his eyes. "Alright, then. Guess I better not disappoint, huh?"

There was a flicker of something in your expression. Perhaps it was relief, or maybe something gentler than that. But he didn’t care to know. Instead, he lets himself drown in the small, knowing smile you gave him. "No, I don’t think you will. After all, your eyes tell."

And Satoru didn’t know why, but those words settled deep in his chest, warm and steady. Like for the first time, someone believed in him. Really believed in him. And damn it all, he wasn’t about to let that go to waste.

Not when it was you.

HE WAS SMART, HE KNEW THAT MUCH. But Gojo Satoru never thought he would take this high level of academics seriously. School had always been something he coasted through, excelling without much effort, relying on his natural intelligence to get by. But after meeting you, something shifted.

He wanted to understand you. And what better way to do that than to follow the same path you once walked? So, when it was time to declare his major, he chose to do something in science like you once did.

He told himself it was logical to do so. After all, chemistry was the foundation of so many things, from medicine to engineering, and it held the promise of a stable future. But deep down, he knew the real reason.

He wanted to be closer to you. He wanted to see the world through your eyes, to grasp the passion that once burned inside you, the same passion that had led you to this university years before him.

He sat in the same lecture halls where your name was still spoken with admiration by professors who remembered you. He read the research papers that bore your name, tracing his fingers over the printed words, imagining you writing them.

And with every experiment, every late-night study session, every moment he spent poring over chemical equations, he felt like he was reaching for something greater than himself, it was like he was reaching for you. 

He excelled. Of course he did. 

When Satoru Gojo set his mind to something, there was no other outcome. His professors saw potential. His classmates envied his effortless brilliance. He passed every exam, aced every project, and by the time graduation came, he had done exactly what he had set out to do.

He had become someone worthy of your world.

But then, life had taken an unexpected turn.

It started as a simple favor for a friend. A photographer had been searching for someone striking, someone who could hold the camera’s gaze and make people stop and stare. Satoru just happened to fit the description.

He agreed to a photoshoot, thinking nothing of it. But then, the offers started coming in. Even his mother was surprised at the amount of calls their apartment would get in all hours of the day. It just didn’t feel real at all.

So many entertainment and modelling agencies started to reach out. Many other brands wanted his face. Directors saw something in him, something beyond just his looks. They saw presence. They saw charisma. A raw, untapped potential waiting to be shaped into magnificent talent.

One commercial turned into another. One guest appearance led to an audition. And before he even realized it, his life had changed. He was no longer just a graduate with a science degree. He was now a highly paid, well beloved actor and model.

The world had taken notice of him, and for the first time, he wasn’t just a shadow chasing after your past. He was someone people looked at. Someone people admired. And maybe this path would bring him even closer to you.

Because science had allowed him to understand the person you were before. But being in this world, it would give him a chance to be part of your world now. To stand in places you might see him.To become someone you might watch on a screen, unknowingly letting him into your life.

He wondered if you ever turned on the TV and saw his face. If you ever lingered for a moment, thinking he looked familiar. If, by some twist of fate, you’d be drawn to him the way he was to you. Maybe, you’ll see him and find him handsome too. 

Satoru had always been a genius. He knew that since he was young. And now, he had a new goal. One day, you’d see him. One day, you’d notice him. And this time, he wouldn’t be just another face in the crowd. He would be someone you couldn’t ignore.

IN SOME WAYS, HE KNEW HE WAS WHAT EVERYONE WANTS TO BE. That’s why Gojo Satoru had always thought the world revolved around him. Not in an arrogant, boastful way—no. To him, it was a simple fact. People noticed him. They always had. Whether it was his height, his striking looks, or the sheer force of his presence, he had been born to be seen.

And yet, for the past few years, there was only one person he had truly wanted to be seen by.

You.

Everything in his life, his choices, his career, his calculated steps forward, all of that had been made with you in mind. So it was ironic—cruel, even—that the first person to truly look at him and understand him in years wasn’t you.

It was Suguru Geto.

This is how it happened.

Gojo Satoru had only been in the entertainment industry for a short time. He had deviated from his modelling career to step into the realm of films and TV. So, when he found himself on the set of Jujutsu Kaisen, a high-budget, highly-anticipated TV project that had the entire industry buzzing.It was just something else entirely.

He had taken the role on a whim, after finishing a film he had just done, where he played the second lead. When this script came to him, it was an offer he couldn’t refuse,his agency said it would cement him as more than just a pretty face, that this was his ticket to becoming a household name in acting.

But the moment he stepped on set, he felt it. That eerie pull. 

That flicker of déjà vu. And then he heard the voice. Smooth. Familiar.

“Didn’t think I’d see your face here.” Satoru turned—and there he was. Geto Suguru.

It had been years. Years since they had last spoken, years since they had laughed together, plotted together, ruled their high school together. And now, here he was, standing in front of Satoru, dressed in costume, script in hand, just like him.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Satoru muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat.

Suguru smirked, tilting his head just slightly, the way he always did when he was amused. “What? You think you’re the only one who could make it big?”

Satoru rolled his bright blue eyes, but for the first time in a long time, he felt something unfamiliar clawing at his chest. Warmth. He had missed him. Even if he’d never admit it out loud. The past had never really let go of him, after all. And apparently, it never let go of Suguru either.

Satoru scoffed, shaking his head as he looked Suguru up and down. “Tch. Didn’t peg you for the acting type.”

Suguru’s smirk only grew, effortlessly slipping back into the same ease they once had, like no time had passed at all. “And I didn’t peg you for someone who follows directions, but here you are, holding a script.”

Satoru clicked his tongue, flicking the script in his hand. “Who says I’m following them?”

Suguru huffed out a quiet laugh, shoving his own script under his arm. “Some things never change.”

The words settled between them, heavier than they should have.

Because some things had changed.

Too much time had passed. Too many things had gone unsaid.

And yet, standing here now after years apart and now together face-to-face, Gojo Satoru felt the past pressing against his ribs, demanding to be acknowledged. But neither of them said it. Not yet. They knew better than to open those can of worms right now at work.

Instead, Suguru cocked a brow, shifting his weight onto one foot. “So? Are you in this for real, or are you just here to piss off whoever’s in charge?”

Satoru grinned, all sharp edges and mischief. “Can’t it be both?”

Suguru let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course.”

The tension of the past still hummed between them, but before Satoru could throw out another quip, a murmur rippled through the room. New voices. New energy. Satoru’s ears picked up on it before he fully registered what was happening as those whispers, low and curious, voices murmuring came just a little too eagerly.

"That guy’s here."

"You mean the veteran actor, high above on the cast list? Yeah, I heard he finally showed up."

"Took him long enough."

“I thought he wasn’t going to accept! Isn’t he too big of an actor?”

“Well, I heard his kids liked the manga. So he said yes.”

Gojo Satoru exchanged a glance with Suguru, the amusement in his friend’s lilac eyes shifting into curiosity. He didn’t know who this guy is, well at least because he hadn’t worked with him just yet. But then someone called out his name, and the second it reached Gojo Satoru’s ears, everything inside him stilled.

"Nanami Kento, yeah, that’s him!" someone else muttered. "You know, the one from 7/3 entertainment? The biggest in the country! The guy’s supposed to be a genius. No wasted effort, precise, focused—completely different from the usual loudmouths we get here."

Satoru clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes. “Oi, I can hear you, y’know.”

The group of staff whispering nearby stiffened, but one had the guts to glance at him and smirk. “Yeah, we know.”

“Maybe you should shut up before I report your behaviour as unprofessional.” Gojo says to them, quieting them down.

Suguru chuckled under his breath. “Sounds like you’ve already got competition.”

Satoru huffed, flipping his script open lazily. “Please. No one outshines me.”

Though it wasn’t obvious, Satoru could feel the blood rushing in his ears. That name he had only ever seen in passing, in small interviews, in articles that always started with the same words. He hated it. He hated him.

“He’s the husband of that famously well renowned scientific philanthropist!” One of the other staff, who was just walking in, was squealing. “I don’t know her name, but I know him! Guys, isn’t he handsome?”

He frowned at those words. He didn’t want to hear the rest of it. The world around him suddenly evaporated. All Satoru could feel in him was genuine grievance, his blood boiling. All he could see was the man standing a few feet away from him. His blue eyes narrowed.

Gojo Satoru barely registered the rest of the conversation people were making all around him. The voices around him became little more than background noise, a dull hum against the rush of blood in his ears. Nanami Kento.

The name alone had already irritated him, but that—husband—that word sent something hot and unpleasant curling in his chest. His fingers clenched tightly around the edges of his script, creasing the paper.

"I don’t know her name, but I know him!"

That sentence alone nearly made him scoff aloud. Of course they don’t know her name. Because that’s how people were. They saw what was convenient. They chose the parts of the story they wanted to acknowledge.

And apparently, the part where you had built your own legacy, where you had worked and sacrificed and given away more than you ever got in return, that didn’t matter as much as the man standing in front of him now.

A man Satoru already despised without even knowing him. 

Suguru, ever perceptive, must have noticed the shift in his expression because he leaned in slightly, voice low. "You good?"

Satoru didn’t answer.

His bright burning gaze was locked on Nanami, standing a few feet away, exuding that air of quiet composure that only made Satoru’s irritation flare hotter. Because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. How could it ever be fair?

You who had given so much to the world, you who had shaped his entire future, you who had stood by him when no one else had were now being reduced to a nameless mention in passing, a footnote in someone else’s story. A footnote in your husband’s story.

And Satoru hated it.

Hated everything about him.

Before he realized it, he was already moving.

Satoru held the handshake for a second longer than necessary, testing, searching. Just waiting for some kind of crack in Nanami Kento’s composure. But there was nothing. Just that same, steady gaze. Unbothered. Detached.

Like he wasn’t even worth reacting to. Satoru could feel his teeth grinding behind his ever-present smile. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like him. But he had played this game before, so he kept up the act, slipping effortlessly into the role of the easygoing junior.

“Man, it’s kinda crazy, huh?” He let out a breathy chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “I always figured we’d cross paths someday, but I didn’t think it’d be here.”

Nanami regarded him for a moment, expression unreadable. “You know of me?”

Oh, he was going to play it like that, huh?

Satoru clicked his tongue, withdrawing his hand as he stepped back. “What, you think I don’t read? You’re pretty famous, y’know. Brilliant actor. Great reputation.” He paused for a beat before adding, “Husband of a certain famous scientific philanthropist…..I think her name is [name] [last name], wasn’t it?”

Nanami looked at him, bewildered for a while. But he gathered himself and smiled. “My wife no longer uses her maiden name. But I’m glad you know of Mrs. Nanami’s endeavours.”

That irritated him a lot. “Oh, of course, who wouldn’t, Nanami–senpai! I attended Tokyo University like her. Same department too.”

“Is that so? That sounds good. I’m sure she will be happy to hear about it.”

“Of course, it would make her feel glad that your kouhai knows her efforts for the world.” He smiles at him, tighter than ever before.

For the first time, he saw something flicker in Nanami’s expression. It was brief, barely perceptible. But it was there. And Satoru felt something sharp twist in his chest. Because that meant Nanami knew.

He knew exactly who Satoru was talking about. He knew exactly what he had just implied. And still, he didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look uncomfortable. Instead, he simply adjusted the cuff of his sleeve and replied evenly. “I appreciate the compliment.”

Satoru’s fingers twitched. “Of course, Nanami–senpai. Send my regards to her.”

Nanami gave him the same smile he wore on his lips. “Of course, Gojo–san. I’m sorry if I must cut our conversation for a little while. I have to go meet the other staff.”

“Oh, by all means, Nanami–senpai.”

Suguru, watching from the sidelines, let out a low whistle. “Damn, he’s good.”

Satoru shot him a glare before plastering on another saccharine smile. “Well, let’s get along, yeah? Nanami–senpai.”

Nanami gave a polite nod. “Of course, Gojo–san. Let’s work well together.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. Gojo Satoru turned away first, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stalked toward Suguru, his fake smile dropping the moment Nanami was out of sight.

“I hate him.” he muttered under his breath.

Suguru smirked. “Yeah. I could tell.”

Satoru’s jaw ached from how hard he had been clenching it. The entire interaction had felt like a match, a careful spar between two people who knew exactly how to play the game—who knew exactly what wasn’t being said.

And Nanami Kento had won.

Effortlessly.

Satoru could still hear the measured tone of his voice, the practiced ease with which he had responded. There had been no cracks in his composure, no hesitation in his words. Even when Satoru had practically thrown her name between them like a live grenade, he had remained completely unshaken.

That pissed him off more than anything.

His fingers flexed at his sides before curling into fists again, his nails pressing into his palms.

Suguru, walking beside him, snorted under his breath. “Relax, Satoru. You’re about two seconds away from blowing a blood vessel.”

Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the tension. “He’s so fake.” he muttered, voice dripping with distaste. “Did you see that? The guy didn’t even blink.”

Suguru hummed in agreement, tilting his head slightly as he glanced back toward where Nanami had disappeared. “Yeah. That’s years of practice, man.” He smirked. “Gotta admit, though—he handled you better than most people do.”

Satoru scoffed. “Yeah? Let’s see how long he can keep it up.”

Suguru chuckled but didn’t comment. He knew Satoru too well.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

THIRTY SIX YEAR OLD ACTOR GOJO SATORU KNEW ALL ABOUT THE SECRETS. But so did everyone else. Everyone kept talking about it left and right. It was in hushed whispers at the bars, murmured conversations over coffee, and knowing glances exchanged in crowded rooms. The scandal had spread like wildfire, unstoppable and all-consuming.

But despite the way they all feigned shock, despite the polite gasps and the disapproving shakes of their heads, not a single one of them was truly surprised. Because they all knew. Behind those shocked faces they put on their faces, they all knew.

They had always known, in some way or another. Some had turned a blind eye, while others had carefully looked the other way, pretending not to see the cracks forming long before they splintered wide open. But they weren’t eager to say that shit out loud. Not because they cared about Nanami Kento, not because they thought it was a tragedy. No, because it would mean looking in the mirror and seeing their own sins reflected back at them.

They had their own affairs, their own secrets buried beneath perfectly polished lives. None of them were innocent. Behind all the kindness they showed in public, behind the poised smiles and well-mannered words, there was something ugly lurking beneath the surface. Self-preservation disguised as moral superiority. They condemned him in private but would never dare speak too loudly, lest their own skeletons rattle too close to the surface.

But Gojo Satoru, he didn’t give a damn about any of that.

Gojo Satoru had never been one for morality in the way others saw it. Right and wrong had always been concepts that bent to his will, things he decided for himself. If it came down to it, he would choose his people over everything else. And you, you were his person now.

He didn’t care whether the scandal ruined Nanami Kento. Whether the man’s reputation was torn apart, his name dragged through the mud until it was nothing but a whispered warning among society’s elite. He didn’t care if Nanami lost everything, if people looked at him with disdain, if his legacy turned into nothing more than a cautionary tale of betrayal and selfishness.

Nanami Kento could have burned for all Satoru cared.

What mattered to him, in the end, was you.

What mattered was whether the wreckage left behind would consume you whole, whether the weight of it would press down on you until you couldn’t breathe. Whether it would leave you broken in ways no one else could see.

And now, years later, it was all out.

The whispers had turned into full-blown conversations, the judgment had spread like wildfire, and you were caught in the center of it all—left to pick up the pieces of a life you no longer recognized.

Satoru saw it in the way you carried yourself. The exhaustion in your eyes, the way your shoulders curled inward, as if you were trying to make yourself smaller, as if you wanted to disappear altogether. He saw the way your fingers trembled slightly when you thought no one was looking, the way your breath hitched when the silence stretched too long.

You were hurting. 

That was unacceptable.

If it were up to him, he would have razed the world to the ground to keep you from feeling this way. He would have turned every judgmental whisper into a scream, made every onlooker regret ever daring to look at you with anything but reverence. He would have made sure that the world never dared to hurt you again.

He would start a war for you if it came down to it.

He would ruin everything if it meant that, in the end, you could smile again. That you could be happy again. Because the world had taken too much from you already. And if it refused to give back what it stole—then he would take it back himself.

And that’s what he has been doing for a while now.

The horrible scandal of Nanami Kento’s long-time affairs had finally come to light just a few months ago. But with the powder keg of the media lighting the way, the news spread like wildfire, and with it came the whispers, the stares, the quiet judgment that hung in the air like smoke.

You found yourself in a secluded park in Tokyo, far away from the murmurs of the city. The sky was grey, the air crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. You sat alone on a weathered wooden bench, arms wrapped around yourself as if to hold everything in place. But the weight of it all pressed too heavily against your chest, and before you realized it, silent tears had begun to slip down your face.

The crunch of approaching footsteps barely registered until a familiar presence settled beside you. A quiet moment passed before a handkerchief, white and neatly folded, appeared in your periphery. You hesitated before looking up, eyes red-rimmed and weary.

“Why are you here?” your voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

Gojo Satoru smiled, an expression that wasn’t quite teasing but not entirely gentle either. “I took a walk.”

A scoff left your lips weak and watery. You took the handkerchief from him and dabbed softly at your damp cheeks, the fabric soft against your skin. The sight of you crying and hurting broke him inside. 

“I’m sorry. This is just….” you murmured. “I was just—taking a walk, and then—” You gestured vaguely, at the empty space around you, at the quiet solitude you had craved until it swallowed you whole. “And now I’m crying.”

Satoru shook his head. “It’s fine. Take all the time you need.”

The wind rustled through the trees, sending a shower of golden leaves to the ground. You stared at them as they scattered across the pavement, as fleeting as everything else. Satoru didn’t say anything else, didn’t press or pry. He simply sat there beside you, watching the world turn as you slowly pieced yourself back together.

He watched you closely, the way your shoulders curled inward, the way your fingers clenched around the handkerchief as if trying to hold yourself together. He saw the exhaustion in your eyes, the weight pressing down on you, and it made something unfamiliar twist in his chest.

Satoru Gojo was not the kind of man who fixated on things like guilt or grief. But when he looked at you, he found himself caring in a way that unsettled him. He didn’t care about Nanami Kento’s downfall. He cared about making sure you didn’t fall with him. 

You inhaled shakily, the crisp autumn air filling your lungs. It felt sharp, grounding, but not enough to ease the weight pressing against your ribs. You tried to calm yourself down but you could feel everything overwhelm you over and over again.

“I should be angry all the time. I know I feel it deep inside me.” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I should be screaming, breaking things—something. But I’m just… tired.”

Satoru hummed in acknowledgment, tilting his head slightly. “Anger takes energy.” he said. “And you’ve spent too much of that just keeping yourself together.”

You let out a breathy laugh, humorless but not entirely empty. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The silence stretched between you again, but it wasn’t suffocating. It was steady, unhurried, like the wind threading through the trees. Gojo Satoru never rushed you. That was the thing about him. He was the strongest, the fastest, the sharpest from what you heard from everyone. 

And yet somehow, as he sat beside you, all you knew was that he knew how to slow down when it mattered. He knew how to feel the grief of someone who doesn’t know what to do at their own pace, while he sits there with them.

Your fingers smoothed over the handkerchief in your lap, tracing the embroidered edges. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?” you muttered, voice barely above the wind. “To grieve something that wasn’t even real.”

Satoru shifted, resting his forearms against his knees. He glanced at you, his usual smugness absent, replaced by something quieter. “It was real to you, [name]-san. I mean, twenty five years is a lot.” he said simply. “That’s enough. So don’t think its foolish for you to grieve.”

You swallowed, pressing your lips together to stop them from trembling. That was the cruel part, wasn’t it? It had been real to you. The version of Nanami Kento you had trusted, had believed in — he wasn’t there anymore. Because you knew he hadn’t been truly real.

And yet, he had been real in your mind all this time, in your memories for nearly twenty–five years of your life. And now, that version of him was gone, leaving behind nothing but the cold reality of what he had truly been.

You closed your eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply before exhaling through your nose. “How do you do it?”

Satoru raised a brow. “Do what?”

“Not let things get to you.” you said. “You act like nothing ever really touches you.”

For the first time since he sat beside you, Satoru looked away. His gaze flickered to the sky, to the golden leaves dancing in the breeze. “I don't,” he admitted. “I just don’t let people see it when it does.”

You turned to him fully now, surprised by his honesty. The world only ever saw Gojo Satoru as untouchable, a man who laughed in the face of pain, who carried his burdens with infuriating ease. But here, in this quiet little corner of Tokyo, you caught a glimpse of something else.

“Then why are you here?” you asked, your voice softer now.

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression shifted. “Because you let me see it.” he said simply. “And I figured I could do the same.”

The wind picked up again, a chill brushing against your skin. This time, Gojo Satoru moved . He was reaching out, hesitating for only a moment before pulling the scarf from around his neck and draping it over your shoulders. He hesitates for a moment before wrapping it on you.

“Take all the time you need.” he repeated. “But don’t do it alone.”

You looked down at the scarf, the warmth of it settling around you. Slowly, you pulled it tighter.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel quite so cold.

“I wanna take a walk.” You whispered to him.

“Then, I’ll join you.” He says to you, with a soft smile on his lips. “Come on.”

You eventually stood up from your position.

The two of you walked in silence, the rhythm of your steps uneven at first, but slowly syncing into something steady. The late afternoon light filtered through the thinning branches, casting dappled patterns on the pavement. A chill hung in the air, and you pulled your coat tighter around yourself, gripping the lapels as if to ward off more than just the cold.

Satoru walked beside you, hands in his pockets, his presence a quiet but constant force. “Do you want to talk about it?” he finally asked, his voice measured, free of expectation.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening around his handkerchief. The scandal had unraveled like a slow, agonizing wound. The world had always seen Nanami Kento as a man of honor, unwavering in his principles. But now, that image has shattered. Affairs. Years of them. All the women that go through those hotel doors.

Secrets hidden so well that even those closest to him had never suspected a thing. Yet you knew. And you had held it all together. He was your husband. He was all you knew. He was your only safe zone in a world that tries to thrust you forward into the wiles of danger.

You swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”

Satoru hummed, as if considering. “You don’t have to say anything, you know.”

But there was something in his voice, something knowing, as if he understood the words you couldn’t bring yourself to say. “I thought I knew him very well.” you admitted, your voice quieter now.

“Not all people show their true face.” Satoru huffs softly. “Sometimes it takes time to really know them.”

“All this time, I thought…” The sentence trailed off, unfinished, swallowed by the ache in your chest.

Satoru exhaled, tilting his head back slightly as he walked. “People aren’t always who we want them to be.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s a poetic way of saying I was an idiot.”

“Not an idiot. Never that. You’re too smart for that.” he corrected. “ But even smart people can lose with people they trusted.”

You stopped walking, your gaze fixed on the path ahead. Fallen leaves scattered at your feet, swept along by the wind. Slowly, you turned to look at Satoru. His usual carefree expression was absent, replaced by something softer.

“You don’t have to say that.” you said.

“I’m not.” His tone was firm. “I want to defend you. Even from the depths of your darkness.”

The words settled between you, heavier than the autumn air. A lump formed in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might cry again. But instead, you took a breath, deep and slow, and nodded. Satoru, ever patient, simply resumed walking. You followed.

“Where are we going?” you asked after a while.

He grinned, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “No clue. But I figure if we keep walking, we’ll end up somewhere.”

You shook your head, but for the first time in days, the corners of your lips lifted, just slightly. Maybe he was right. Maybe you didn’t have to know where you were going just yet. Maybe, for now, moving forward was enough.

And so, you walked.

The two of you wandered through the quiet streets, the city humming softly around you. Tokyo never truly slept, but here, away from the main roads and blaring lights, everything felt muted. It was like the world had given you a small pocket of peace.

The wind carried the scent of autumn, crisp and tinged with the faint aroma of street food from a distant stall. Your steps were slow, unhurried, as if neither of you wanted to break whatever fragile moment had settled between you.

After a while, Satoru spoke. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

You shot him a sidelong glance. “Says the guy who barely stops talking.”

He chuckled, unfazed. “Fair. But I mean it. You keep everything in here—” He tapped his temple lightly. “And in here.” His hand hovered over his chest.

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Not everything needs to be said.”

“Maybe. But sometimes, saying things out loud makes them a little less heavy.” He stretched his arms behind his head, tilting his face up toward the sky. “That’s why I talk so much. The words don’t pile up that way.”

You hummed, considering. You weren’t used to this at all. Someone trying to understand you, someone willing to sit in your silence without pushing too hard. Then, without warning, Satoru stopped in front of a small vending machine tucked into the corner of an alleyway.

He turned to you, expression unreadable. “Pick something.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Pick something.” he repeated, gesturing toward the machine. “Doesn’t matter what. Just choose.”

You frowned but stepped forward anyway, scanning the rows of drinks. It was full of those massive cans of coffee, bottles of tea, fruit juice in bright packaging. You hovered over a random selection and pressed the button. The machine whirred, and a moment later, a small can of hot milk tea dropped into the slot below.

Satoru went ahead and carefully retrieved it for you, the warmth seeping through his fingers as he handed it over to you with a small smile on his face. Then, he pressed a button himself, and a second can clattered into the tray.

“You’re being weird about this.” you muttered, accepting the drink.

“I’m always weird.” He cracked his open with a quiet pop. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He took a slow sip, then met your gaze. “You didn’t think about it.” he said simply. “You just chose.”

You frowned, staring at the can in your hands. “And?”

“And…..” he continued as he closed his drink with its cap. “Sometimes, that’s all you need to do. You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You don’t have to know where you’re going, or what’s next. Just—” He gestured at the vending machine. “Pick something. Keep moving. One thing at a time.”

You looked at him then, at the way his usual arrogance had softened into something quieter, something just for you. And for the first time in days, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d be okay. You would be alright again.

You popped open the can and took a sip. 

It was warm. Sweet. Comforting.

Satoru grinned. “See? Not so bad.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered.

You stared down at the can of milk tea in your hands, the warmth seeping into your fingers. A thought crossed your mind, and you huffed softly, shaking your head.

“I should’ve paid for all of this.” you muttered. “I’m older than you, after all.”

Satoru stopped mid-sip, blinking at you over the rim of his can before bursting into laughter. It was loud, unrestrained, the kind that made passing strangers glance your way. You frowned, watching him with mild irritation as he wiped at the corner of his brightly lit eye.

“What’s so funny?” you asked.

He grinned, rocking back on his heels. “You. Acting like that makes a difference.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” you argued. “Seniority matters.”

“Oh, come on.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Can you let me be a gentleman for once?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You? A gentleman?”

“Shocking, I know you’ve seen it on the TV.” he said, smirking. “But I have my moments.”

You stared at him, the teasing glint in his eyes, the effortless way he carried himself, and sighed. “Fine. Just this once.”

Satoru gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. “Oh no, what an honor! I’ll cherish this moment forever.”

You nudged him lightly with your elbow, but your lips twitched despite yourself. He was ridiculous, but in a way that made the weight in your chest just a little easier to bear. He bumped your shoulder in return, his grin softening. 

“See? It’s not so bad letting someone take care of you once in a while.”

You didn’t answer right away, instead looking down at the can in your hands. Maybe he was right. Maybe, for once, it was okay not to carry everything alone. “…Thanks.” you said quietly.

Satoru didn’t make a big deal out of it, didn’t tease or push. He just took another sip of his drink and smiled. “Anytime.”

“I appreciate that.” You whisper back to him. 

And so, you kept walking, the night stretching ahead of you, open and uncertain—but somehow, a little less lonely. But at the very least, it’s not a road that makes it hard for you to breathe. Instead, there was warmth. There was tenderness. And there was care.

After nearly half of your life, you found someone who understands.

You finally made a genuinely good friend.

“You’re my first friend in maybe twenty years, you know?” 

Satoru looked at you, surprised. “That’s how long it’s been?”

“Well, when you’re a mom and a wife, your life revolves around them.” You sighed, drinking your drink carefully. “I don’t think I’ve had a life in a very long time. Well, one that’s reflective of myself, at least.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet but heavy. "You're my first friend in maybe twenty years, you know?"

Satoru stilled, his usual playful demeanor momentarily giving way to something softer. He turned to you, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. “That’s how long it’s been?”

You let out a slow breath, staring down at the can in your hands, the condensation slick against your fingers. "Well, when you're a mom and a wife, your life revolves around them."

The confession sat between you, raw and unfiltered. You hadn't meant to say it, but now that you have, it felt like the most honest thing you'd spoken in a long time. It was like you hadn’t been yourself for a long time.

"I don’t think I’ve had a life in a very long time." You took a careful sip of your drink, the warmth grounding you. "Well, one that’s reflective of myself, at least."

Satoru didn’t speak right away, and for once, you were grateful. He didn’t offer meaningless platitudes or empty reassurances. He just listened. You exhaled, rubbing your thumb over the rigid aluminum of the can.

 “You spend so much time making sure everyone else is okay—your kid, your husband. You wake up every morning thinking about what they need, what will make them happy. And somewhere along the way, you forget that you had a life before them. That you were a whole person before you became someone’s wife, someone’s mother.”

Satoru hummed, tilting his head slightly. "And now?"

You hesitated. "Now… I don’t know." You gave a short, humorless laugh. "I’m still trying to remember who I was before all of this."

Satoru took a sip of his drink, watching you carefully. “Then maybe that’s the whole point.”

You raised an eyebrow. "What is?"

"Finding yourself again, like this." he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Not as a wife, not as a mom. Just… you.”

The thought settled deep in your chest, unfamiliar yet not entirely unwelcome.

Satoru nudged you lightly. "And lucky for you, you’ve got your first friend in twenty years to help."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Yeah, because you’re so qualified for the job."

“Hey, I’m an excellent friend,” he said, grinning. "And, as of today, your official bad-decision supervisor. So, if you ever want to do something a little reckless, a little fun—you know who to call."

You rolled your eyes but found yourself smiling despite everything. "Noted."

And just like that, the world felt a little less lonely.

Yet if you could have known, you would hear something else.

You would hear someone’s heart skipping a beat in joy.

epilogue

Nanami Kento wasn’t the kind of man to let emotions overtake him. He prided himself on restraint, on control. That’s what he always has been. Measured, precise. He liked thinking that he was a clear cut above the rest. That’s what allowed him to be what he was after all this time.

Even when the scandal broke, when his name was dragged through the mud, when the whispers turned to accusations and the life he had so carefully built came crashing down—he had endured it all with quiet resignation.

He had accepted that he was the villain in this story.

But nothing had prepared him for this.

The photo was simple, just an ordinary snapshot, but to him, it felt like a knife twisting in his gut. You, sitting on a park bench, looking at something out of frame with a quiet, almost hesitant smile. The late autumn afternoon sun caught the strands of your hair, casting a glow over your bright beautiful features. 

And beside you, Gojo Satoru, wearing that ever-present smirk, his body angled toward you as if he had been caught mid-conversation. His arm rested casually along the back of the bench, close but not too close. Just enough to make it clear that he was comfortable beside you.

Just enough to make Nanami Kento realize that he no longer had that privilege. At least not without you looking at him with such disgust. At least not without you pushing him away from you, caging him with the distance that never once existed in these past twenty–five years.

His breath felt shallow. He tried to convince himself it was just a coincidence. Just a fleeting moment captured in time. But the longer he stared, the harder it became to ignore the way his chest tightened.

He knew you. Knew the way your smiles had dimmed over the years, knew the exhaustion that had settled into your bones from carrying the weight of a life that had begun to feel more like a duty than a love story. He had seen the way you had started to shrink, piece by piece, until the person he fell in love with felt like a ghost within the home you once shared.

And yet, here you were, looking like someone he hadn’t seen in years. Someone lighter. Someone freer. Someone who no longer belonged to him. Someone who is slowly falling out of love with him.

His hand curled into a fist beside the phone, jaw tightening as a thousand memories flashed through his mind. The long nights he had spent making excuses. The lies. The guilt. The quiet moments where he had felt you slipping away and had done nothing to stop it.

And now, Satoru was the one beside you.

Nanami had always seen him as reckless, arrogant, a man who treated life like a game. And yet, in this single image, Satoru looked at peace. And worse—so did you.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He had no right to feel this way, but it didn’t stop the anguish from settling deep in his chest, pressing against his ribs like an unbearable weight. He exhaled shakily and turned the phone face down on the desk.

There was nothing he could do. No words he could say that would erase what had been done. No way to go back in time and fix what had already shattered. All he could do was sit there, alone in the silence, realizing that the thing he had feared most had finally come to pass.

You were learning to smile again.

And it’s not because of him.

It was all his fault, it was all his doing.

But he wasn’t going to just sit back and let it happen.

Nanami Kento had always believed himself to be a rational man, a man who weighed his choices carefully, a man who never let emotions dictate his actions. He had convinced himself that he was in control, that he could accept the consequences of his own mistakes with dignity.

But this was different. It was one thing to lose his reputation. One thing to become the subject of hushed conversations and pointed stares. He could endure all of that with the quiet resignation of a man who knew he had done wrong.

But losing you?

That was something else entirely.

He wasn’t going to let it happen.

His fingers clenched around the edge of his desk, the tension running through his knuckles, through his entire body. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He knew he had hurt you, but you were supposed to be his. You were supposed to be the one thing in his life that didn’t slip through his fingers.

And yet, there you were beside Gojo Satoru, smiling like you hadn’t smiled in years. Nanami gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t let it happen.

He had spent twenty-five years loving you. Building a life with you. Living a life where you both were content and happy with your children. His mistakes doesn’t mean he was going to lose you. You said it yourself, you would never leave him. You would only stay with him.

And if Gojo thought he could just step in and replace him, if he thought he could steal you away, that he could make you forget, then he was sorely mistaken. Nanami Kento had fought for a lot of things in his life. His career, his dignity, his carefully built reputation.

But none of it had ever mattered as much as you. And he would fight for you. Even if it meant tearing the world apart. Even if it meant going to war. Even if it meant becoming someone you could never forgive.

Because he could endure being hated by you. He could endure all of the silence, the grief, the suffering. He could endure your anger, your resentment, your rage. But he could not and would not ever endure losing you.

Not to Gojo Satoru.

Not to anyone.

Not ever in this life.

It was till death do part, after.