#Supposed to be supporting characters for a au... and yet...

[lancelotslair]

And now, aa message from our sponsers: Naval Captain Zafira [Dire Claw] and her pirate rival Captain Ice Fang

[cbeargyu]

跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.

warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

not yet.

[onlymingyus]

What's your favorite scary movie?

pairing; vernon chwe x f reader

genre; horror, smut (minor dni), angst, toxic

summary; The summer after graduating high school is supposed to be one last hurrah before you and your friends head off to college---none of you expected it to become a horror movie.

content warnings; PLEASE READ ALL OF THE WARNINGS! 90s au, multiple murders, police, alluding to self harm, drugs/alcohol (mentioned and usage), overdose, knives, blood -- detailed scenes of harm/murder, funeral/memorials, fighting, bullying/harassment, degrading names, "slut" shaming, mild alluding to sexual assault (past/present), self confidence/esteem issues, depression, alludes to other behavioral/mental problems being present, crying, stalking/spying, obsession, yandere!vernon. all main characters are adults -- just graduated high school (vernon & other svt cameos have been aged down). the reader has a classic small town suburbs nuclear family (mentions parents obviously), vernon's "mother" briefly mentioned. this fic is full of really horrible people.

smut warnings; virgin!reader, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), quick handjob, crying (pleasure), corruption/innocence kink, petnames, praise, pulling out, cum on skin -- aftercare, brief post-sex dysphoria.

w/c; 30k and some change  (870 extra words for patreon bonus) 

a/n; thank you to @junkissed for proofreading for me and giving me strength to push through and finish this despite all the shit that kept trying to knock me down. this fic is a lot, so please if you have made it this far in my notes make sure you read all the warnings -- keep in mind this is my halloween fic, so i didn't hold back. dark au mars is back strong.

before continuing remember reblogs are incredibly important and please read how to support me here

Trailing behind your friends, you laugh when your best friend Caitlin pulls at your arm, urging you towards the front of the group. “Y/N!” You roll your eyes as she whines your name, extending the last of it dramatically before laying her head on your shoulder and putting her arm through yours. “Can I sit between you and Christen this time? This movie is supposed to be hella scary.” 

Hearing his name, the self-appointed leader of your group, slows his strides to match yours and, in turn, Caitlin’s. “What about me?” 

You liked your friends but they could be a bit much. You had known Caitlin the longest. The two of you had been friends since middle school and she was the person you could rely on the most, but that all changed when the two of you went to high school and your bodies and personalities started to change. Boys started to pay attention to you more and Caitlin’s personality soured. 

Christen wasn’t the type of person that you ever saw yourself being friends with before. He was the most popular guy at school and the captain of the football team, but none of those things mattered anymore. After graduation this year, you thought all of those trivial things would fall by the wayside, that your friends would start acting a bit less like they were still in high school and yet it was like they never left. 

“Caitlin wants to sit between us for the movie. It’s supposed to be really scary. I don’t min—” 

“You know I like the end seat.” 

Furrowing your brows, you start to speak up again when Christen sighs and puts his hand around your waist, pulling you from Caitlin and causing the girl to scowl at you. “I like the end seat and you always have to piss like five times during a movie. Let’s keep the seats like we always do. That okay with you, Cat?” 

Staring at Christen, Caitlin wants to be mad and tell him no, but the moment he calls her by the nickname he had given her, she swoons and just nods. “Uh huh… sure, Christen.” 

“See.” Turning his attention back to you, Christen winks. “It’s all good, baby. Now, put a smile on that face; don’t be a buzzkill. If you get scared, you can just hold on to me.” Tugging you closer, he grins before finally letting you walk on your own. 

From the time that you had met him your sophomore year, Christen had never been shy about how he felt about you. You wouldn’t call it a crush. A crush was something sweet and something that, if you didn’t reciprocate, the other person might move on. What Christen felt for you was possessive and like you owed him something. You were like a target or an end prize and he hadn’t won just yet, but to him there were still plenty of levels left in the game. 

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you glance back at Caitlin as she scoffs at her "boyfriend,” Jae. You felt bad for him. It was so obvious how much he liked Caitlin. He would follow behind her like a puppy, buy her anything she wanted, and be at her beck and call even when she was drooling over another guy. You had watched as Caitlin had belittled Jae in front of others and refused to call him her boyfriend but then gotten angry if he didn’t refer to her as his girlfriend. It was a complicated situation that you honestly didn’t understand. 

“Just… Stop touching me. Did you bring money for candy?” Caitlin’s voice is sharp, still irritated from the interaction with Christen and now Jae was walking too close to her. In her mind, she always got second best while you did nothing and got first pick. You didn’t even act like you wanted Christen; it was devastating. 

“Yeah, of course I did. You can get anything you want, babe.” Jae’s voice is a bit defeated, but at least he was going to be able to sit next to Caitlin. He had gotten nervous when she had asked to switch seats. It wasn’t like he could tell her where to sit... he wasn’t like that. She was a strong-willed girl; she always had been, but that was one of the things he loved about her. 

Making a face at Jae’s words, Caitlin steps forward and sighs dramatically, not hearing the way Alanna and Juwon copy her just a few steps behind her. They were the lucky two out of the friend group in their own personal opinions. They knew exactly where they fit in the hierarchy. 

There was the king, Christian, and his would-be queen if only you would accept his hand. The princess who wants to be queen, Caitlin, and her dog turned prince, Jae. Meanwhile, Alanna and Juwon belonged in the court together. They were happy to cheer each of you on and laugh when you failed.��

They had been dating since freshman year and a day hadn’t gone by that someone was complaining about seeing Juwon’s tongue down Alanna’s throat. Another strong opinion that the two shared was that if you didn’t want to see them making out, you could look in the other direction. 

“Babeeeee!” Alanna whines mocking Caitlin as she pulls on Juwon’s arm, causing the boy laugh as he looks at her fondly. “Buy me candy?” Batting her lashes, Alanna blows a kiss in his direction that Juwon pretends to catch before reaching into his pocket to take out his wallet, handing it to her. 

“My money is your money, princess.” Another wave of laughter erupts from the back of the group as Alanna pushes Juwon’s wallet back towards him. Now the two have caught the attention of everyone. 

“The hell are you two doing? Are you high?” Christen’s voice is stern, but the layer of his own amusement only serves to make Juwon laugh as he shakes his head and pulls Alanna forward towards the doors of the theater. 

“Nope, not yet. Give me a few hours and I’ll be so fuckin’ chill I might not remember your name.” 

Smiling, you lift your fingers to your lips to hide it as Alanna pokes at your side when she passes by you, giving you a wink. For all their heavy PDA and following the leader's behavior, you got along with them well. They had been nice to you, even when your best friend hadn’t. 

“Ugh, as if. You can’t think now, Juwon. This is why you two are going to a community college. You’ve fucking rotted your brains with weed. It’s gross.” Caitlin watches as Alanna throws up her middle finger before blowing her a kiss and disappearing behind the theater door. “It is gross. I’m right, aren’t I, Y/N?” 

You tilt your head and struggle with what to say as you all get closer to the doors that your friends had just gone through. “I—well. It’s their choice.” Feeling bad that you can’t just tell Caitlin to shut up and to leave Juwon and Alanna alone, you find yourself muttering as she scoffs, turning her attention to Jae for support who gives it willingly. 

Feeling the weight of having to agree with Caitlin off your shoulders, you unzip your bag, the air conditioner hits you like a breeze when Christen opens the doors and steps inside. You purse your lips and fish out a five-dollar bill, not paying attention to what’s in front of you until you hear Christen’s and another guy’s voice. 

“Wassup, man? Still manning this place like a fucking loser?” 

“Still making money, so yeah, if that’s what you wanna call it. Just one?” 

“Nah, two. Me and Y/N.” 

Furrowing your brows, you lift your money up to show it to Christen just as you see who’s behind the ticket counter. Vernon Chwe, another member of your graduating class. You didn’t know him well, but as often as you and your friends came to the movies, you saw him in passing. He was always nice to you, and he was easy on the eyes. 

“Already paid for. See…” Reaching over the counter, Christen rips two tickets for himself before winking at Vernon and passing one to you. 

You can see the irritation written on Vernon’s face, but he manages to keep his cool. He wasn’t like Christen or anyone else in your group. He didn’t hang out in the commons area or at the mall like you did. You knew that he worked here and that he had a cool car. You found him intriguing. 

Moving towards Christen quickly, you take the ticket and look at Vernon apologetically. “I’m sorry. That was so rude.” Looking up at your friend, you whine, “That wasn’t cool, Christen...” 

Instead of offering his own apology to Vernon, Christen just laughs and taps you on the tip of your nose. “Whatever, baby. Don’t get mad about it. I’m just playin’ with Vern. Come on. Let me buy you a snack.” 

Vernon watches as Christen tries to take your hand but you manage to keep it from him. Tilting his head, he finds it curious. He didn’t know if you were dating the guy or not, but he didn’t like him; he never had. 

“Um, excuse me... Dodgy, loser, man? I need two tickets.” 

Turning his attention back towards Caitlin, Vernon sighs and rips off two tickets before taking $10 from Jae. “Enjoy the movie.” The moment she is out of earshot, Vernon adds, “Bitch.” 

He could hear you and your friends at the concession stand. It wasn’t a busy night and the theater wasn’t running a full staff. If it had been any other group, Vernon might have put a bit more pep in his step, making his way over from the counter, but he could already hear the bitchy girl complaining, so he took his time. 

“Oh, my god. Does this place not have anyone else working?” 

Muttering for Caitlin to hush, you rub your neck as Vernon sighs and moves to the middle of the concession stand before lifting his hands. “What can I get for you guys?” He didn’t really care; well, maybe he cared what you wanted. You had been kind to him and it wasn’t the first time. Every time he had seen you here or run into you at school, you were nice. You were also gorgeous, so that didn’t hurt your case either. 

“Two large cokes, a medium popcorn, and some M&Ms. Also, could you like... not take all night? The movie is supposed to start in thirty minutes.” Leaning on the counter, Caitlin watches as Vernon shifts his head to the side slightly before grabbing two large cups and filling them with ice. She remembered him from school and the other times they had been here. He was weird. She had a few classes with him and he had always sat in the back and avoided talking to people except when he had to. 

“Oh my god, Y/N, do you remember Miss Lewis’ calculus class from that last semester?” 

Taken aback by Caitlin’s question, you look from her back towards the counter before tilting your head. “I—yeah? What about it?” This was the type of thing that you hated about your friends. They lived in the past; every day was still a day of the glory of high school, whereas you were ready to move on. 

“This dude was in that class. We had that stupid ass icebreaker, remember? Like a weird fact about us? He said he was allergic to peanuts.” Cailtin snorts into a laugh as she meets Vernon’s eyes, his brow lifting to her memory. 

“Well—I, I remember—” 

“Man, that must fuckin’ suck. Can you eat anything? What happens if you eat a peanut? Would you die? Swell up like a fatass.” 

Juwon had been doing so well until that moment, but he was good at following the leader and at that moment Caitlin was playing her best queen bully bee role. Beside you, Christen laughs under his breath before leaning on the counter as Vernon tries to ignore them, fixing the rest of the order before giving the total to Jae, who slides over the money. 

“Anyone else want anything? I’d hate for you to miss the previews because you’re being assholes.” 

Surprised by Vernon’s words, the laughter dies off. No smiles are left except a slight one on your face. 

Christen doesn’t say anything before he reaches over to take a box of milk duds from the display showing them to Vernon and tossing a dollar bill on to the counter. “Thanks for nothing, bitch.” 

You try to stay; you want to apologize to Vernon for your friends one more time, but Christen’s hand wraps around your wrist, pulling you forward hard. “Let’s go, Y/N. You can share a drink with Caitlin. She didn’t need a fucking large anyway.” 

The movie theater didn’t have many others besides your group. After a few stragglers made their way in finding a seat, you tried to settle into your own and focus on the screen. You weren’t the biggest fan of scary movies, but there wasn’t much to do on a Thursday and you had already spent too many days staring at the same stores at the mall. 

When the lights go off completely and the screen lights up, you find yourself trying to make yourself smaller in your seat to keep your leg away from Christen’s hand when he stretches his fingers and smirks over at you. “Chill, are you scared already? It’s just the previews, baby.” 

You wished that you had the guts to tell him to stop calling you baby and that you weren’t scared. You just wished that he’d keep his fingers away from the end of your shorts. Shaking your head, you offer him a strained smile as you lean towards Caitlin, taking a few M&Ms she offers you before eating one of them. “Not scared, just a little cold.” 

“You want my jacket?” 

God, you couldn’t win, but maybe that would keep his hands off your skin. Nodding, you watch Christen stand up despite the groans from those behind you. Taking the jacket, you lay it over your legs and smile a bit wider at him. “Thanks, Christen.” 

Now Caitlin was regretting sharing anything with you. Tilting the box of candy away from you as she watches you tuck the jacket around your legs, Caitlin scoffs and takes a long sip of her drink. 

By the end of the movie, you find that you don’t have that much to be worried about. It wasn’t as much of a scary movie as you thought it would have been. The acting wasn’t great and the story had been predictable. You seemed to be the only one who seemed to think that way as the rest of your friends loudly discussed how good it was as you all moved through the theater lobby. 

Taking up the rear, you hold Christen’s jacket in your arms, waiting for the right moment to give it back to him until you see Vernon sweeping some popcorn off the floor near the concession stand. Maybe you could get in that apology now. Watching your friends for a moment longer, you let them keep going as you hang back and head in Vernon’s direction. 

“Hey… Vernon?” 

Furrowing his brows, Vernon lifts his head, sighing when he sees you standing in front of him. He hadn’t expected that, especially seeing you alone. Glancing around for your entourage, he’s surprised to see them closer to the front doors instead of right on your heels. “Yeah, what’s up? How was the movie?” 

Opening your mouth, you close it quickly, not sure how to answer him at first, but you shift on your feet and smile at him. “It was—it was okay. I mean, I think everyone could guess what they did last summer by how guilty they were acting.” Shaking your head, you sigh and glance down at your hands, gripping the jacket tighter in your hands. You weren’t sure why Vernon made you so nervous, his gaze making your cheeks heat up with how his smirk pulled up at the corner of his lips. 

“Yeah, not my favorite either, honestly.” Lowering his eyes to the jacket in your hands, Vernon takes a breath and shakes his head. He wasn’t an idiot; he had seen that jacket on Prince Charming—Christen, before the movie. “Did you need something, Y/N?” 

You weren’t sure that Vernon even knew your name so hearing him say it startles you, but of course he did. You had graduated together and probably had several classes together. It was silly of you to think he didn’t know your name; even Christen had said it before the movie. Maybe it was more that Vernon was saying it. Why did it matter? 

“Oh, no. Sorry, I know you are busy. I just—my friends, I’m so sorry. They aren’t always shitty.” Even you knew that was a lie, but that was what you did. You made excuses for them. You could see that Vernon knew it was a lie too, as he smiles and nods along with your words. 

“Sure, it’s whatever. Didn’t bother me—” 

“Y/N, what the hell are you doing?” Christen’s voice startles you with how close it is. Vernon watches how your body jerks in surprise and he furrows his brows, feeling a pang of anger taking over him at how someone could scare you so easily. 

“I—I was coming. I just—” You weren’t sure what to say to Christen, especially when you meet his eyes and see him glare at Vernon. You had made it worse. Turning towards your friend, you sigh and laugh but even you can tell it’s fake. “Let’s go. We were going to get froyo, right?” 

“What the fuck were you saying to her, freak?” Christen was fuming that you were talking to Vernon, but what pissed him off even more was that Vernon had been smiling at you. You had gone over to him by yourself and it looked like some loser was flirting with you. That wouldn’t happen, not while he was breathing. 

Pushing at Christen’s chest, you whine his name before glancing over at Vernon apologetically as he shakes his head and leans on his broom. How wasn’t he afraid of Christen? You were friends with Christen and you were afraid of him at times. 

The damage was done; the rest of your friends had made their way back over the concession stand, where the tension was growing thicker. Caitlin looked equal parts disgusted and amused as she watched Christen yell at Vernon. Jae stood behind her, confused look on his face as if he didn’t know if he wanted to be there or if he had to be there, and Alanna and Juwon were already laughing. That’s what they always did. They wanted to see a fight; that would be better than the movie to them. Meanwhile, you were horrified at the idea. 

“Please, can we just go?” Your voice is strained as you push at Christen, unable to get him to budge. 

His hand moves to grip your forearm, causing you to hiss in pain as he pulls you from in front of him and towards Caitlin, who wraps her arm around your waist, holding you closer to her and Jae. “I’m not leaving until I wipe this stupid smile off this freak’s face. I don’t like how he looks at you, Y/N. He’s a perv.” 

Nodding along with his words, Caitlin hums against your hair as she keeps you close to her even as you groan in annoyance. “Totally, he was staring at her the entire time. Made me wanna hurl. Like, seriously, loser? You think you can look at my best friend and it’s okay?” 

Now you were her best friend and she was protective of you? Only when she could make someone else miserable or make you miserable while doing it. Pulling from Cailtin, you tug on Christen’s shirt and beg for him to leave with you. “Please, can we go? You promised to buy me a snack and to get me home early.” Avoiding Vernon’s eyes as he grips his broom a bit tighter, his jaw clenched, you tug harder on Christen’s shirt. 

Smirking at Vernon, Christen takes a step back, putting up his hands as if he’s being the bigger man. He moves towards you and Cailtin so he can wrap his arm around you and this time you let him. Vernon can see the discomfort in your eyes, his brows furrowing slightly, but what you are doing seems to work as Christen takes his jacket from you and sighs happily as if he’s won the girl, leading you out of the theater. 

“You owe Vernon a night off.” 

Wen Junhui looked bored as he watched Lee Chan leaning far too close to the television in front of him as he gripped the Sega controller in his hands. Vernon just sighs and shakes his head, dismissing his friend’s comment. He knew what Jun was getting at, but he wasn’t worried about it. 

“I can work next week if you want me too.” Chan, or as he preferred to be called, Dino winces as his pixelated character is killed, taking him back to the beginning of the level. “What day were you thinking? I have an English paper due like Wednesday, so... if it could be after that—” 

“It’s fine, dude. You don’t have to worry about it.” 

“The fuck he doesn’t. Why didn’t you tell me those assholes were giving you so much shit, huh?” Jun knew that Vernon didn’t want to talk about what had happened at work, but he was getting tired of seeing his friend let people walk all over him because he was too nice. “Every single one of them is sketchy and I’m tempted to ask Seungcheol to get them banned.” 

Now Dino was paying attention, the controller was back on the table and the game paused, letting the menu music play on repeat as he listened to his friends. Jun was pissed and Vernon looked as calm as always until Jun implicated everyone. That caused him to sit up and shake his head as he reached for one of the cheap beers the three had been sharing over the past week. 

“Not all of them are assholes, alright? And I have it handled. I’m not fucking worried about Christen, his big ass ego or his little followers.” 

Vernon had said it himself, Christen’s little followers. To Jun, that was all of them, and Vernon wasn’t changing his mind any time soon. “Yeah, whatever. Next time they come in and pull something, come get me from the box. Don’t just let them push you around. I don’t care if you think that one chick is hot or not. She’s still his bitc—” 

“Hey!” There were very few times that Vernon raised his voice at either of his friends, so when he did it made the air in the room shift. “Just… Shut your damn mouth about her. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. Y/N… She was trying to apologize for the rest of them and then Christen—you know what? It doesn’t matter. Here.” 

Pushing the can towards Dino, Vernon stands when the youngest of their group takes the beer and puts it on the table, watching him pull on his leather jacket. Jun shakes his head and lets out a long sigh when Vernon picks up the keys to his car and searches for his beanie. 

“I didn’t mean to piss you off. I didn’t—look alright? Vernon, I didn’t know all of that. Ya, know, what Y/N did? I’m sorry I started to call her his bitch. I’m just… I’m done with them messing with you.” 

Pulling his black beanie over his hair, Vernon shrugs and shoves his keys into his jacket. “It’s fine. I’m not pissed; I’m just tired. I’m gonna get home; I’ll see y’all later.” 

Watching Vernon walk out of the room, Jun rubs the back of his neck, feeling a bit of regret wash over him. He knew he had pushed a bit too hard but Vernon had been acting off for months. He had known him since they were freshmen and neither of them had ever fit in, but they found their own way together. It was just lately Vernon was different; Jun felt like he didn’t know the person he called his best friend. 

Gripping the wheel of his 1989 Chevy Beretta, Vernon sighs as he leans his head back against the headrest hard. It was starting to get late, but he couldn’t seem to get himself to go home. Instead he kept turning on to familiar roads, his eyes scanning the houses. 

Vernon knew where he was. This was your street. The house on the right was yours, and the window with the light on, second floor… that was your room. Slowing down to a crawl, Vernon swallows hard as he leans to look at the curtains covering your window. He wished they weren’t there, as bad as that was. Sometimes he wished he could just get one glimpse of you instead of a shadow of you crossing in front of them, but he would take what he could get. 

Sighing loudly, Vernon pushes his foot down on the gas and takes a right, leaving your house behind. Tapping his thumb on his steering wheel, a smirk pulls at his lips as he eases by Caitlin’s house. He supposed this was why the two of you became friends. It was more a friendship of convenience living a street over from your best friend. Christen, however, didn’t live on the street. 

In fact, Vernon knew that Christen lived at least a fifteen-minute drive away in a gated community. So why was his car parked outside of Caitlin’s house? Wasn’t this the same guy who was threatening Vernon for daring to look at you and acting like you were his property? 

Narrowing his eyes at the only window with a light still on, Vernon lifts his brow when he sees Christen pull Caitlin back against him. He was seeing a lot more of her than he ever wanted to. It wasn’t like Vernon was shocked to find out that Christen was sleeping with Caitlin. That made more sense than Caitlin dating Jae, but it didn’t seem like they were even trying to hide it. Not from Jae and not from you. Did either one of you know? Now he was curious. 

Ten minutes later, Vernon puts his car in park and purses his lips as he looks around the street. There weren’t many cars for this to be an uppity part of town. Turning his attention towards the house he had stopped in front of, he starts to think that no one is at home until he sees a light on the third floor. It seemed that the person he wanted to see might just be home after all. 

Shoving his keys into his pocket, Vernon sniffs hard, the colder night air biting at his nose as he makes his way to the front door of the nice house. Pressing the doorbell, he waits for a few moments until the door opens and Jae gives him a confused look, tilting his head. 

“Uh, hey?” Jae was surprised to see Vernon at his front door. That had been the very last person he expected to see, especially this late at night. He knew Vernon better than anyone else in his circle of friends, but he would never admit it to any of them. Before he had been brought into the inner circle, he had been in a similar situation to Vernon’s; the major difference had been that his family had money and he could—and did—use it to climb the ranks. “‘Sup?” 

Nodding his head in Jae’s direction, Vernon glances behind him, scanning for anyone in the house, but it all seems quiet. It appeared that Jae was the only one at home. That was good. It was better for what Vernon needed to tell him. “Hey, can I come in? I, uh…” Rubbing at the back of his neck, he tries to smile a bit, but it seems as forced as it is. “Just wanna talk to you about something.” 

Was this about what had happened at the theater? Jae’s stomach was in his throat. He didn’t really want to deal with this, but he did feel a little shitty about how that had all gone down. He could have reigned Caitlin in a bit more, but... even he knew he was lying to himself. “Uh, sure. Yeah, come in. My parents are out of town so I’m not really supposed to have people over but—” Sighing to himself at how stupid he sounds, Jae shakes his head and gestures at the stairs for Vernon to go up. “Whatever, we can talk in my room. I’m on the third floor; my doors open.” 

Lifting his brows, Vernon smirks a bit as he lowers his head and moves through the door towards the staircase. Jae sounded like a kid who was breaking his parent’s rules, not like a recent graduate who was going to some Ivy League school in the fall. Vernon knew he shouldn’t find that as amusing as he did, but it was fitting with how Jae treated everything else in his life—including his girlfriend. 

“Cool, nice fucking place, man.” Jogging up the stairs, Vernon barely gives the house a second glance as he makes his way to the third floor and turns towards the open door. The room was decorated just as he thought it might be and yet it was still shocking. 

The bed was made perfectly, books lined pristine shelves, and there were pictures of Caitlin everywhere. What was even more interesting was that there were only two pictures in the entire room that included Jae and Caitlin. This wasn’t a room; it was a shrine to Jae’s cheating, whore girlfriend. 

Watching Vernon look around his room, Jae finds himself feeling a bit embarrassed and overwhelmed at having another person in his space. He wasn’t even used to having Caitlin in his room often. She didn’t come over much and when she did, it was more of a rare treat for Jae. 

"I—uh, what did you need to talk to me about? Is this—look if this is about what was said at the theater—”

“Nah, man. It’s fine.” Shaking his head, Vernon keeps moving around the room, picking up a picture of Jae standing behind Caitlin as she smiles brightly. What he notices the most about the picture is how they aren’t touching, not even his hand on her arm. “She’s a handful, huh?” 

Tilting his head slightly before straightening it, Jae looks at the picture in Vernon’s hand before crossing his arms. Where was this going? He was feeling more and more uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by, and he was wondering if he should regret letting Vernon in his house. 

“I—she’s, sure. Sometimes. What’s this about? You said you wanted to talk about something.” 

Putting the picture down, Vernon makes sure it is in the same place as it was before he rests back against the desk, his hands next to him on either side. “Yeah. You know, it’s funny. I drove past Cailin's. I was just driving around... You know how it is.” Tilting his head, Vernon meets Jae’s eyes as he sighs. “Anyway, it was funny ‘cause Christen’s car was at her house. I thought that was weird until I happened to see them in her bedroom window.” 

Jae scoffs, starting to feel not only embarrassed but defensive of his girlfriend’s honor. What was Vernon doing looking in her bedroom window in the first place? Taking a step forward, he drops his hands, making them into fists at his sides. “Hey—” 

“Not like she has up curtains. I wasn’t tryin’ to see your girl like that, scouts honor, but needless to say…” Moving his hands from the desk, Vernon puts them at his chest, cupping them like he would a girl’s breasts to make sure Jae understands, seeing the boy’s face flush. “Christen is banging your chick, dude. Just thought you’d wanna know.” 

Taking a step forward, Jae stops and pushes his lips together, trying to think of what to say. It wasn’t like he didn’t know, but it was more the fact that Vernon was at his house and telling him about it. “Shut the hell up, you freak. First you spy on my girlfriend and then—then you come here to what? Try to—I don’t know what you want!” 

“I don’t want anything, Jae. I was trying to help your stupid ass out.” Vernon’s voice is angry, a layer of malice the moment that Jae has the audacity to call him a freak. Everyone else had, but not Jae. The more that Vernon looked at him, the less he felt bad for him. Maybe he never had, how could you? He was pathetic. His room was a fucking shrine to a girl who probably only let him fuck her with his fingers so she could sit on another guy's cock. God… It was sickening, and yet he was the freak. 

“I don’t need your fucking help! I want you out of my house.” As if realizing something—a metaphorical lightbulb coming on above his head—Jae moves towards Vernon, who shifts away from him, causing the two to move to opposite sides of the room. Jae stares at Vernon in front of the open bedroom door as he feels the breeze from the open window behind him as he glares at the other man with disdain. “How the hell do you know where I live anyway? You fuckin’ stalking all of us, freak?” 

Vernon was seeing red; his jaw clenched tightly, he rolled his neck as a smirk pulled at his lips. His eyes move from Jae to the window behind him and all he can imagine is watching Jae fall out of it. How easy it would be to push him through the window and then the motherfucker wouldn’t call him a freak again. Taking a step forward, Vernon scoffs before speaking, his words quiet. “About that...” 

His hands meet Jae’s chest hard, a surprised gasp slipping from the smaller boy’s lips as he tries to push back only to feel the desk beside him bite into his hip. The picture of him and Caitlin falls with a crash, glass shattering on to the floor, drawing Jae’s attention away from Vernon just enough long enough for Vernon to push him again, this time even harder. 

Vernon listens to the strangled scream that leaves Jae’s mouth as the screen tears from the weight of his body before he falls through the window and three stories down. The deafening dull thud of his body hitting the pavement sends a shiver through his body even before Vernon leans out of the broken window frame to look down and see the blood pooling around Jae’s lifeless body. 

In that moment, he knows he should feel bad. He should be scared. He should feel something other than a rush of adrenaline, but Vernon doesn’t. Looking around Jae’s room once more, Vernon moves back down the steps and out the front door, not giving the body another look. Getting behind the wheel of his car, he sighs to himself as he drives away, finally feeling like he can go home.

You wake up to the sound of the phone ringing from your desk. It sounds like a nightmare because surely no one is calling you this early. Even through your curtains, you can tell the sun has barely started to rise. 

Groaning, you sit up with a groan as the phone rings again. Whoever was trying to reach you wasn’t giving up. Sliding out of bed, you sink down into your desk chair and pull the phone from the base, putting it to your ear with a sharp, “Hello?” If that didn’t make whoever was calling you regret it, you didn’t know what else would.

“Y/N!” 

Caitlin’s sobbing voice makes your heart drop into your stomach immediately and you feel horrible for picking up the phone angry. Shifting in the chair, you switch which shoulder you rest the phone on, your fingers twisting into the already ruined phone cord as you anxiously furrow your brows, almost afraid to speak. “Wha—” 

“He’s dead, Y/N! What the fuck? Like, seriously?” Sniffing hard, Caitlin rubs hard at her nose as she lays in her bed, her own phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. “The police said it could be an accident or he might have...” 

You could hear the way her lips were quivering as Caitlin tried to speak, but you still weren’t sure who she was talking about. “Who, Caitlin?” 

“Oh, my god! Jae! Jae’s dead!” Caitlin’s voice is shrill, causing you to pull the receiver away from your ear slightly as you swallow hard the reality of her words hitting you. “Why are you making me say it out loud? It’s already so hella depressing. I’m like a widow; it’s gross.” 

Glancing towards your bedroom door, you try not to feel anything negative about your best friend while she’s grieving, but she was going about it in a strange way. You knew that she didn’t care about Jae, not in any way that she could claim widow-like status. She treated him like shit most of the time, but you weren’t going to say that to her now. You weren’t that type of person. You were the person who coddled. “I’m so sorry, Caitlin. Do you want me to come over?” 

Whining, she nods before pouting into her words, hoping to make you feel even worse for her. “Yeah, could you? That would totally help me feel less shitty.” Before you can even reply, a single breath of a word starts to leave your mouth. Caitlin speaks over you. “Oh, and Y/N? Could you bring me Taco Bell?” 

You lean your head back; the urge to roll your eyes is so strong but you keep it at bay as you nod to yourself. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be there in like an hour.” 

Hanging the phone up, you close your eyes, your brows knitting together tightly once you can hear yourself think. Jae was dead? How? Caitlin had mentioned an accident, but you didn’t have any other details. You knew he didn’t like to drive, maybe something with one of his parents cars... Not wanting to picture anymore gruesome things, you force yourself to stand and move to your closet to get dressed. 

Vernon tilts his head as he watches you cross your arms, your keys dangling from your fingers as you wait in line in front of him. You looked beautiful. It was rare that he saw you out like this on a normal day, but lucky for him, he had been craving some food, and tacos seemed like a good choice. 

Taking a step towards you, Vernon takes in a deep breath and just enjoys the overwhelming scent of your perfume and body wash. He wished he had more courage to speak to you, to let you know how much he was into you, but you were the sun and he was like a dark cloud. Least that’s how it felt... 

“Hey, uh…” 

Vernon sighs as he listens to you place your order, your voice like the sweetest song on the radio. He'd play your voice on repeat if he could. Getting lost in listening to you, Vernon doesn’t realize you are done with your order until the boy at the register lifts his brows and hands in question. “You wanna order something, dude?” 

“Uh… yeah.” 

You knew that voice. Turning towards the source of it as you reach to take the cups in front of you, you can’t help the small smile that lifts at your lips as you see Vernon. You hadn’t realized he was behind you. It kind of made you sad that he was and hadn’t said anything, but it made sense after what had happened at the theater. You couldn’t blame him for being upset with you. 

Meeting Vernon’s eyes, your smile brightens slightly before you look away and move out of his way so he can get a cup as you move to the drink machine to fill your drinks. You can feel Vernon’s eyes on you even as you move, your fingers pressing down the buttons. The heat of his eyes makes you feel shy and warm as you listen to him move closer to you until he finally stands next to you, filling his own cup with soda. 

“Weird seeing you alone.” 

Vernon watches your cheeks push up towards your eyes before you glance towards him when he does speak to you. You shrug and take a step backwards towards the lids and straws, taking two of each and letting Vernon move towards you to do the same. 

“I do things alone sometimes. It’s weird to see you somewhere besides the movie theater. I almost started to think you lived there.” Keeping your eyes on Vernon, you bite subtly at your bottom lip as you move towards the counter to pick up your bag of food just as they put Vernon’s next to yours. 

“Mm, that’s fair. I don’t do much besides that, but in my defense, you don’t really know me, so…” With his own food in his hand, Vernon grins at you and you feel your heart beat hard in your chest. You aren’t sure you have ever seen him smile like that and you aren’t sure anyone’s smile has ever effected you in that way before. 

Vernon watches you look away, one drink in the crook of your elbow as you hold the other so you can hold the bag of food in your other hand. Gesturing towards the door, he takes a breath, letting it out slowly as if he’s gaining courage before speaking to you again. “I can help; you seem like you have your hands full. You, uh… Lunch for your family or something?” 

He was sweet; this was the most you had probably ever really talked to Vernon and he was being a gentleman. It was nice not to have your friends hovering around you and being assholes to him. Letting him hold the door open for you while you maneuver through it, you glance back at him and shake your head, letting out a soft sigh. “No, I’m going over to Caitlin’s.” 

Vernon notices how your words seem to fade off at the end and how your smile dulls. Following you to your car wanting to help you, he furrows his brows as he offers to take the food from your hands as you unlock your car, seeming to struggle with your words. “She’s—it’s a hard day. You know Jae, right? One of my friends?” 

Of course he did, but Vernon keeps his cool and just shrugs his shoulders, letting you continue. “Uh, Caitlin’s boyfriend. The one who was following her around last time.” Getting a nod from Vernon, you lean in your car to put the drinks into the cup holders before taking your food from him. “I guess something happened last night—an accident. He passed away. She’s super upset. So I’m gonna go spend the day with her.” 

You were a good friend, better than Caitlin deserved in Vernon’s opinion. He knew for a fact that Caitlin didn’t give a shit about Jae and the fact that he was dead. She was using this for attention, but you were giving into it because you were sweet and that was all you knew how to do. If he had his way, he’d take you away from it and give you attention. Shaking his head, Vernon furrows his brows, leaning against your car door, giving you a solemn look. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to help you?” 

It wasn’t lost on you that Vernon asked if he could help you and not Caitlin, but it still made your heart feel warm. He was such a good guy, so kind and soft. He didn’t deserve the treatment that the rest of your friends gave him. Shaking your head, you pout softly before letting it shift into a gentle smile. “No, I’m okay... I—this was really nice, Vernon. I like talking to you. Um…” 

Leaning into your car once again, you put the food down and reach into your purse as Vernon watches you carefully with a raised brow. He agreed, it was nice to talk to you. He was trying to be respectful, but you made it a bit difficult. Your shirt was riding up your back and you were so fucking pretty. He couldn’t help the way his eyes were moving along your skin as you searched for—

”Ah! I was looking for a pen. Can I give you my number? Maybe you could call me sometime.” 

You wanted him to call you? Vernon’s head was spinning. He must be in another dimension where he wasn’t a loser because you were looking at him expectantly as you held your cute purple pen. Nodding, Vernon smiles to one side, watching your smile grow in return as you reach for his hand, pulling it towards your stomach and turning his palm over. The pen tickles Vernon’s hand, but he can’t stop staring at your fingers and the way the pen glides over his skin as you put the numbers on his palm. 

“It’s my own line, so like, my family won’t pick it up. As long as I’m not using my computer, you can reach me there, okay?” Tilting your head, you trail your fingers from Vernon’s as his lips part with a soft breath. He was so handsome it was almost devastating to you. How had you never noticed him in school? You knew the answer to that, but you wished things had been different in that moment. 

“Yeah, I—sure. I’ll call you.” At least that’s what he was telling himself. Would he have the courage to actually do it? Vernon wasn’t sure in that moment, but he knew he wanted to. 

“Cool. Thanks for helping me get to my car, Vernon. I’ll talk to you later.” 

Standing there like an idiot for a moment longer, Vernon nods before taking a step back from your car as you slide behind the wheel, waving at him before backing out. Glancing down at his palm once more, he closes his fingers around your number and smiles to himself before turning on his heels towards his car with a bit more pep in his step. 

“I’m literally fucking starving. What took so long?” Taking the bags from your hand, Catiltin pouts at you as she sits with her legs crisscrossed in the center of her full-size bed.

You could tell she had been crying. Her eyes were a bit swollen, with slight circles under her eyes, but there was still something about the situation that made you fully aware that Caitlin wasn’t mourning Jae as much as she was her reputation. 

“I’m sorry, I got here as soon as I could. You know things are busier on Saturday.” Sliding on to the bed next to her, you furrow your brows before leaning in to hug Caitlin, feeling her shoulder’s drop. You were a good friend. Despite feeling and knowing what you did, you were still concerned about her. You hated that this had happened, and the truth of the matter was that you were sad. Jae was your friend. 

“Has—well… Did anyone say what happened?” 

Your voice is quiet and the question causes a new wave of tears to spill from Caitlin’s eyes as she chokes on her words, only managing to get out a couple before she’s cut off. 

“Splattered on the sidewalk under his window.” 

Horrified, you look over your shoulder towards the doorway where Christen leans against the frame. You didn’t even know he was there. Had he gotten to Caitlin’s before you? Just now? It didn’t matter, you supposed; you assumed everyone would end up here eventually. 

Your eyes follow Christen as he moves to the bed, taking the bag of tacos to take one for himself. You hadn’t bought them for him, but that had never mattered in the past and it doesn’t matter now. 

“You’re always so sweet, baby. Thinking ahead and getting lunch like this.” The bed dips at your side as Christen joins you both and Catiltin sniffles hard, getting the attention back on her as she opens her own food. 

“Could we like... I don’t know, not say splattered? It’s so gross, Christen.” 

Shrugging, the boy swallows a bite of food before sighing into his words. “Sorry, that’s what happens when you launch yourself out of a fuckin’ third-story window, babe.” 

Babe? Furrowing your brows, you let your eyes move from Caitlin to Christen as your best friend blanches slightly and puts her taco on the wrapper to the side. 

“He—that’s not what he did. The cops said it was an accident. He just fell somehow. Some freak accident—” 

“I’m sure it was an accident. Jae would never… you know.” Your voice is softer than Caitlin’s and Christen’s combined, but it manages to draw both of their attention to you. You couldn’t say what Christen thought happened; you couldn’t get that word out. Not just because it was too hard to even think, but also because it just didn’t make sense. Jae wasn’t depressed. He had a charmed life. 

“Sure, baby… But listen, you know Jake, the tight end?” Sighing softly, you tilt your head at Christen’s question. While you knew who he was talking about, you didn’t think it was important to label him as his position from the high school football team, but what was the point in arguing—so instead you just nodded. “Well, he’s lives across the street from Jae. Said the cops were out there all morning and he overheard one of them talking about some things that just didn’t add up with an accident—” 

“Christen! Do you, like, hate me? I’m a fucking widow now and you want people to think that my boyfriend killed—” Lowering her voice, Caitilin whines when Christen furrows his brows at her, only for them to soften when he sees the hurt in her eyes. “Just—this is scary, okay? What—did Jake say why they said that?” 

As much as you hated to admit it even to yourself, you were also curious as to what Jake had overheard. Shifting on the bed, you turn a bit more towards Christen, who straightens his back and lets a bit of a smirk pull at his lips, having so much attention focused on him. 

“Yeah, so just what he heard, okay? But he said Jae’s nails were fucked up and that there were scratches on his desk. Like, maybe he regretted it just before he—” Seeing the look on your face, Christen presses his lips together and tilts his head, changing his words. “Like he tried to stop himself from falling out the window. Oh, and uh...” Furrowing your brows, you see a nervous look spread across Christen’s face as he meets Caitlin’s eyes. “There was a broken picture or frame. Could’a been thrown on the floor.” 

“What picture?” Moving to sit on her feet, Caitlin’s eyes widen slightly, causing you to sit back a bit confused as she waits for Christen to explain. 

“I—he wasn’t sure. All the really said it was of a couple, but seeing as it was Jae’s room…” 

Even you didn’t need anymore explanation. You had never been in Jae’s room, but who else would be in the picture? Why would a picture of Jae and Caitlin be smashed? Your eyes move between your two friends as Caitlin falls back against the bed with a new wave of grief, as if she’s realized something. Christen, on the other hand, just sighs and reaches for your drink, taking a sip before meeting your eyes. 

“You look freaked, Y/N.” 

That was an understatement. Shaking your head, you rub your hands over your arms before scooting closer to Caitlin to rest your hand on her thigh, letting her know you were still close to her as she cries. “I’m just—this is really sad. It doesn’t make sense, and he was so excited about starting university. I feel really bad for his parents.” 

Nodding along with your words, Christen leans to put your drink on the nightstand before leaning back on the bed, letting his hand rest near your leg. “It fuckin’ sucks. I mean… It’s fucked up. Like the weak ones, man. Why do they gotta die before they get the chance to make something of themselves?” 

You stare at Christen as he speaks; his words are almost said as if he’s quoting something poetic or profound, though to you it’s heartless and ridiculous. 

Leaning against the end of his bed, Vernon runs his fingers over the fading numbers written on his palm. Hours had passed, the sun had gone down, and now the only thing left to remind him that he had actually seen you today was slowly dissolving into his skin. 

Jun and Dino were occupying the beanbag chairs in front of the TV as some movie played, something that Vernon had seen a hundred times. He knew he should be paying more attention to his friends, but instead he was trying to commit your phone number to memory. 

“During the matinee today.” 

“For real? Cops? What did they say?” 

Vernon’s brows lift, realizing he hadn’t been even listening to the conversation until cops were mentioned. Shifting on the floor, he sighs and lifts his eyes to watch Dino pass the bowl of popcorn over to Jun as he shrugs. 

“Were asking questions about that guy you all graduated with? I don’t remember his last name, uh—Jae, that’s his first name. He said he had a movie ticket in his pocket or something. Not sure why it mattered. They just—” 

“They what?” 

Vernon had been so quiet over the past hour that both of the boys had almost forgotten whose room they were in and that he was even there until he spoke up. Glancing back at him, Dino shakes his head and shifts in the chair, almost uncomfortable under Vernon’s gaze. Vernon could be intense sometimes; Jun might not notice it, but Dino always did. 

“Nothin’ really. Asked if he seemed like himself when he came by. I told them I didn’t know him that well and that I had been off that night. They said they would probably stop by and talk to you tomorrow. Is—why? That not okay?” 

Moving to his feet, Vernon shakes his head and shrugs. He didn’t like the idea of talking to the cops, but it didn’t seem like he had much of a choice. “It’s whatever. I didn’t know him either.” 

“That’s not true.” Shooting a look back at Jun as he speaks, Vernon scoffs even as Jun lifts his hands and sighs into his words. “I mean—not like you were friends with him, but you knew him a bit.” 

“Whatever, I didn’t hang out with him. I had a class or two with him and he came into the theater. Didn’t make me his best friend, Jun. Why the fuck does it matter anyway?” 

Jun furrows his brows and shakes his head. He watches Vernon reach for a pen, looking at his hand as he transfers something from it to a piece of paper, then tossing it on the desk. “I–well… It doesn’t, but you might have noticed if he was acting out of his head maybe. People are saying he fell out of his window, or—you know. Maybe he wanted to fall out of it.” 

Scoffing, Vernon turns to lean against his desk, an uncaring look on his face. “I mean, wouldn’t you if your chick was a lying whore? Not sure he ever acted like he knew what he was doing from the moment he started dating that girl. It was like putting one foot on a banana peel and his neck in a noos—” 

“Jesus Christ, Vernon.” Shivering, Jun cuts Vernon’s words off before he’s able to finish. He had heard Vernon be callous before. He had seen him uncaring and perhaps act like a dick, but never like this. “It was an accident. It’s tragic…” 

Nodding slowly, Vernon sighs as he tries to remember what he’s supposed to feel in a moment like this. He can see the look on Jun’s face—something akin to sadness. Dino, on the other hand, looked a little sick, horrified as he wrapped his arms around himself, trying to be smaller. 

“Yeah, it’s sad; you’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up with me. I’m just tired or something.” Shaking his head, Vernon moves back towards his friends, lowering himself back to the floor and offering them a smile that seems to soothe them both. “I saw Y/N earlier today; she seemed to be kinda tore up about it too. She was going over to—uh, Cailtin’s. She’s a good friend.” Gritting his teeth slightly, Vernon forces himself to say her name instead of anything else out of respect for you. In his head, Caitilin didn’t deserve anything but what she was going through. 

Tilting his head slightly, Jun watches Vernon talk about you. There was a stark difference in how he mentioned you compared to anyone else. While he knew that Vernon had a crush on you, if he was talking to you, maybe he was wanting more. More could be dangerous. 

“You saw her? Where? Was she alone?” 

Vernon knew why there was a barrage of questions, but it only served to annoy him. Leaning his head back, he sighs and nods along with each one. “Yes. Taco Bell. She was alone. Why the fuck does it matter?” 

“Because, Vernon. She's—look, I get it. She’s cute as fuck. She’s nice, but he’s got his claws in her. He’ll kill you if you try anything. Some ass isn’t worth it. I don’t care if the ass is prime—” 

Glaring at Jun, Vernon bites at his cheek until he snaps. “Why do you talk about her like that? Do you even know her? Have you spoken a single word to her?” Shaking his head, Vernon rubs hard at the numbers on his palm now. “Of course you haven’t because you are too fuckin’ judgmental and too chicken shit. Just think that because she’s standing next to Christen, she’s just like him. Well, newsfuckin’ flash, Junhui, you aren’t the genius you make yourself out to be.” 

Dino had been quiet—he always was, but he hated the tension and arguing between his friends. No one was worth putting a wedge between his best friends, especially some girl. “Hey! Stop it. Why are you two always doing this now? Every fucking week!” Staring up at Dino, Vernon swallows hard as the youngest stands up and points from Jun to him. “If he likes his girl, so what? Lay off! And you…” 

Swallowing hard, Dino falters for a moment as he meets Vernon’s eyes. It takes a deep breath to calm down before he can round his shoulders and speak up to Vernon. “Jun is your best friend and you’ve never been such an asshole before. If you need to get your dick wet, do it. If you need to get high or drunk, please... Just do it before you say something you can’t take back.” 

Vernon stared at his television for a long time after his friends had left, thinking about what Dino had said. To be a year younger than him, the boy was wise beyond his years and he had a point. He knew that he was wound up and he had been taking it out on Jun in particular for weeks. 

There had been some relief when Vernon had left Jae’s, but then he would be reminded about Christen and his bullshit and be right back where he had started. The anger was building until he felt like he might just snap. 

Glancing towards his desk, Vernon lifts his brow, seeing the piece of paper with your phone number written on it. It wasn’t incredibly late, but it was the weekend. There was a good chance you were still at Cailtin’s or worse... You could be out with the rest of them doing something, trying to take your minds off of Jae—but Vernon still wanted to try. 

Pulling the phone from the desk along with the piece of paper, Vernon sighs as he leans back against the side of his bed. He rests the receiver between his shoulder and ear before carefully dialing your number and waiting. You had said it was your own line, and somehow that didn’t stop Vernon from letting Jun’s words get the better of him for just a single moment. What if you gave him a fake number? What if Christen picked up? But neither of those things happened. 

“Hello?” 

Your voice is beautiful, a bit sad, and confused. Vernon has to take a deep breath to stop himself from hanging up the phone when you furrow your brows and listen to the sound of breathing on the other line. Clearly someone was there; it wouldn’t be the first time you had gotten a crank call, but today really wasn’t the day for it. 

“Hello? Look, seriously… I’m not in the mood—” 

“Y/N… Sorry, it’s me, Vernon.” Wincing to his own voice, Vernon pulls on the phone cord in his lap and weighs his regret as he listens to you take a deep breath in response. You had hoped that Vernon would call you, but you hadn’t expected it. He seemed so different from you and the rest of your friends that he was almost like a life preserver at the moment. 

“I—oh… Hey. I—I’m glad you called. I’m a little surprised.” Closing your eyes for a moment, you lean your head back, trying to think of how to salvage your conversation, thinking you might have ruined it before it started. “I promise I don’t always sound like a bitch when I answer the phone.” 

Vernon’s laugh brings a much-needed smile to your face and warmth to your chest. Shaking his head, he tries to picture you in a room he’s never seen besides a light behind a curtain. “You didn’t sound like a bitch. I—I didn’t exactly start speaking so I get why you said what you did. I’m not really like, you know, a great conversationalist.” 

And yet he had called you anyway. That wasn’t lost on you as you stood up from your desk and worked the cord for your phone around it so you could sit on your bed. Vernon listens to the sounds of you moving in your room and it brings a slight smile to his face. “How are you, by the way? You said you were going over to your friend’s house.” 

He remembered. Leaning your head back against your headboard, you bite your bottom lip and nod. “Yeah, I spent most of the day at Cailtin’s. It was honestly exhausting.” Sighing, you close your eyes, realizing how bad your words sound, causing you to shake your head. “But—I… You know, I’ll do it anytime. She’s going through a ton right now. I’m—” 

“Y/N… I didn’t ask about her. Sorry, that sounds really shitty, but I’d rather talk about you.” Vernon didn’t want to cut you off, but he couldn’t stand that you were spiraling because you felt bad for Caitlin. In his opinion, she didn’t deserve anything, much less you in her life. You were far too good for her, not that he could just say that out loud to you now. “Don’t get me wrong; it’s really nice of you to do what you did. Is it cool if we just talk about you?” 

That was almost a terrifying prospect—someone wanting to focus on just you. Christen did it in his own way, but it always led back to him. There was always an ulterior motive, and yet it didn’t seem like Vernon had one. Shifting on your bed, you rest the cradle to your phone next to you as you pull your knees towards your stomach. 

“Sorry, yeah… Yeah, we can do that, but only if we talk about you too. Is that okay?” 

You were apologizing again. That seemed to be something you did a lot and usually not for yourself. Shaking his head, Vernon smiles into a sigh before lifting his brows. “Yeah, that’s okay. I—I kinda wanna get to know you. God, that sounds so fuckin’ lame.” 

Warmth spreads along your cheeks at Vernon’s words and you are happy he’s just on the phone and not in front of you. Pressing your lips together, you swallow hard and bury a bit of a happy sound as you pull the phone from your ear briefly before calming yourself down and clearing your throat. “It’s not lame. Why would that be lame? I mean, I wanna get to know you too. I gave you my number for a reason... Like, obviously.” 

Listening to how your voice trails off with a bit of shyness to it, Vernon can’t help the grin that pulls at his lips. There was no way you were actually into him the way he was into you. You probably just wanted to be his friend, and if that was the case, he’d have to deal... But the tone of your voice—the cute little giggle to it—made his stomach tighten with intrigue. 

“Oh—oh, yeah?” Clearing his throat, Vernon lifts his hand to rub at his neck, feeling how hot it is under his touch. He knew if he were to look in the mirror, it would be red along with his ears. There would be no way he would have called you with Jun and Dino in the room; if he was this shy and embarrassed alone, he would have died in front of them. “Wha—what’s the reason?” 

Despite being new adults, fresh into the world, there was still a layer of that schoolgirl and boy whimsy layered in the conversation that made you kick your feet when Vernon stumbled over his questions. You had a feeling he knew the answers to his questions, but he was just wanting to hear them out loud. The real question was, would you be able to say it out loud? 

Whining Vernon’s name softly, you wrap your phone cord around your fingers and laugh under your breath, almost in disbelief. The sound of his smooth but shy laugh makes your stomach twist with that nervous new crush feeling and you feel almost like you could float off your bed. “I don’t know; it’s hard to say it out loud. You know what I mean... Don’t you?” 

Pulling his beanie from his hair, Vernon rakes his fingers through his hair and scoffs into a laugh as you dodge his question. You were being so cute and coy that it was driving him crazy. Sure, he had dated in high school. He had crushes, but none of them quite stood the test of time like this one. 

“Think I’d just rather hear it. This isn’t a conversation I’ve ever had before, Y/N.” Dropping the beanie on to the floor next to him, he bites at his lip and tilts his head, looking at the wall almost too intently as if it will give him the right words. “I—I mean, you know who I am. Let’s be honest, I’m not—I mean, fuck. I’m not Christen—” 

“Stop it. I don’t like Christen. I think—I mean, I thought that was obvious, at least to you. He—” Furrowing your brows as you speak over Vernon, cutting him off, you bite at your cheek, feeling the frustration rising in your chest. “He honestly makes me really...” 

Hearing how you seem unable to say the words, Vernon chews at his lips, feeling bad for bringing the other man up. It hadn’t been his intention to upset you, but he did feel inferior when it came to Christen in some ways, especially you. Now he wasn’t sure he should. Now Vernon could feel the same anger from before threatening to rise up as he taps his fingers against his leg and fills in the word for you. “Uncomfortable?” 

Nodding, you sniff back your emotions and sit up a bit on your bed, as if talking about Christen will make him manifest in front of you like a demon. “Yeah, so you not being him is a good thing.” Wanting to get the conversation off of Christen, you take a deep breath and shake your head as if clearing the fog from it before speaking again. “‘Sides, I do kinda know who you are; that’s why I—you know... It’s why I like you, Vernon.” 

Your words make Vernon feel like he’s stuck in a wind tunnel. He hears them, and yet they don’t seem real. “Me?” 

Laughing under your breath, you nod at his question as your brows knit together. There was no one else you were talking to and you had used his first name. “I—yeah. I mean, you know… If you don’t like me, that’s totally—” 

“Oh, my god... I do. I just—I’m a loser and I can’t even remember what else your friends called me.” 

“I don’t care what they think. I mean, I care what they say, and they are so fucking wrong.” You weren’t sure why it was so hard for Vernon to understand that you liked him, and while you were glad that he liked you back, it was difficult to hear him call himself a loser. That wasn’t how you saw him. You hated hearing your friends call anyone that, but especially Vernon. “I know I make a lot of excuses for them, but the things they said the other night... I really am so, so sorry. That was my fault.” 

Pushing his tongue against his cheek, Vernon lets out a breath as you once again apologize for your friends. It’s even worse when you take the blame for something that isn’t your responsibility. “Y/N, wh—no. I don’t blame you. Nothing that happened was your fault. Christen could have threw a punch at me and it still wouldn’t have been anything that you could have started or stopped.” 

The idea of Christen hurting Vernon makes your skin crawl. You knew that Christen was just waiting for the opportunity and what you were doing right now... Pursuing something with Vernon would only make it worse. Frowning a bit to yourself, you stretch the phone cord between your fingers and Vernon seems to notice how quiet you’ve become, your soft breath on the other side of the line being the only thing that lets him know you’re still there. 

“You thinkin’ hard about something? Wanna let me in on it?” Smiling a bit, Vernon shifts his legs, pulling his knees up a bit so he can rest his forearms on them as he leans his head back against his bed. “Or did you fall asleep?” 

“No—no, I’m here. I just—I know you said none of that was my fault, but it feels like it.” You can hear Vernon start to speak and you know he’s going to argue your point, but still having more to say, you keep going before he can. “It’s just—Christen, he’s like weirdly been obsessed with me for a while, right? He's just my friend, but it’s like I can’t get him to see that. It makes it hard to date, well, like anyone. I—” Laughing under your breath, it’s clear there is no humor to it as you roll your eyes. “Like I haven’t even had a boyfriend or been on a date since freshman year.” 

Letting your words sink in, Vernon tries to think about high school and when he first noticed you. It hadn’t been hard. You were beautiful from the first day, but he hadn’t been the only one who had noticed how much you changed over summer and that was when Christen had laid his claim. No wonder you hadn’t dated. Vernon could imagine that any guy that tried to get close to you was either scared away or knew you were off the table—even if you weren’t. 

“So… I’m just saying that because if this goes anywhere, and I’m not saying it has to... Christen might freak the fuck out. He already got mad that you were talking to me.” Your voice is sad and quiet. You sound repressed like you had at the theater, and it bites at Vernon, making him almost feel antsy in his room. He wants to get up and fix it for you; change your situation so that you don’t have to feel so small...

“I don’t give a fuck what he thinks, Y/N. I’m not afraid of him. All I care about is what you think and want.” Vernon presses his thumbnail into the tip of his pinky hard enough to leave a divot as he grits his teeth. He had to calm down; you weren’t his—not yet. Christen had already done enough damage by laying a freaky claim to you; Vernon was determined not to make you feel worse by doing the same. “I’ll only do what you want. Like I told you, I like you.” 

Unable to stop the smile from spreading on your lips, you bite at your lower lip and glance towards your window as the curtain moves with the wind. There was a huge difference in how Christen and Vernon made you feel. Christen terrified you and made you feel trapped in a box. Vernon, he made you feel almost free and desired. It was almost a bit dangerous the way you enjoyed that feeling, along with the smooth sound of his voice lulling you into a comfortable place. 

“Yeah?” Now your smile was even in your voice and Vernon could hear it over the phone. “I—yeah, I like you a lot. God, I sound like a teenager.” 

Smirking, Vernon looks down at his fingers and the red half moon on his pinky as he runs his tongue along his lips and tilts his head. “Well, I mean technically—” 

“Stop it, I’m not. We aren’t anymore. I let high school go, like forever.” Sliding down in your bed, you rest your head on the pillow, sighing into the phone, causing Vernon to have to close his eyes to the sound. “Another reason I like you so much. You don’t seem to dwell on it. High school is over, and we can start something new. Like this, right?” 

Fuck. Vernon has to pull the phone from his ear as his stomach tightens to the idea of you and the sigh you had made in his ear. You were so innocent to him and yet he wasn’t thinking completely with his brain at the moment. Nodding, he swallows hard and rubs his hand along his jeans to ground himself. “Hell, yeah.” 

Partying wasn’t really Vernon’s scene. It wasn’t even the fact that he wasn’t in the “cool” crowd; it was more that his personality didn’t mesh with how loud a party could be. Not just the music or the talking, but the atmosphere. It was all so loud and made Vernon’s head feel like it was in a vice that someone was constantly tightening the longer he stayed—and yet a party is where he found himself tonight. 

Jun loved to party. He liked the release of not having to think. He enjoyed the free beer and access to almost anything he might want to get his hands on. Jun didn’t go crazy, but if someone passed a joint, he wasn’t going to be rude and refuse a gift. 

“Dude, try to enjoy this.” 

Vernon rolls his eyes at Jun as he lifts his cup to his lips, nursing a stale beer he had picked up at the beginning of the night. Sometimes he wished he could be more like his friend. He did find watching people at parties interesting, even Jun. You could really see who someone was when they were wasted. Inhibitions were low and people’s true nature came out to play. 

“I have about fifty other things I could be doing.” Vernon wasn’t lying. It was rare that he and Jun both had a night off from the theater and he didn’t particularly want to be spending it in the house of someone who probably treated him like shit in high school. You were on Vernon’s mind, and he had been letting his eyes wander around the crowd just hoping you might show up—though this didn’t seem much like your scene. 

“Such a fuckin’ buzzkill, man. You gotta relax. That’s why I wanted you to come out with me. You gotta get out of your head. You’re spinnin’ your wheels.” Jun tried to focus on Vernon, but unlike him—who had taken the night slow, Jun had not. He was feeling just how he wanted to be feeling: light, cares were a thing of the past or a problem for tomorrow, and there was still plenty of shit to play with floating around this party. 

Shaking his head, Vernon can’t help the scoff that slips from his lips, though between Jun’s current mental state and the boom of the bass echoing off the walls, it went unheard. “I’m gonna top off.” 

Nodding, Jun turns his attention away from Vernon and towards the pretty girl with a joint resting between her fingers. Vernon, on the other hand, kept his head on a swivel as he moved into the kitchen and straight towards the keg to refill his beer. There was a mishmash of people he had gone to school with; a couple of kids he knew were still in school, but the two that caught his eye were leaned up against the farest wall. 

Vernon wasn’t sure how he hadn’t noticed Juwon and Alanna until now, but then again they had probably found a room in this godforsaken house and defiled it. Bringing the cup to his lips, Vernon furrows his brows as he follows the direction of the couple's eyes as they laugh between themselves. Jun—they were watching Jun. 

Everyone at this party was wasted—well, almost everyone, and it made no sense to Vernon why old habits had to die hard. Something you had said to him the night before was replaying in his mind as Vernon took a step back into the living room, carefully maneuvering through people as Juwon and Alanna made their way closer to Jun. 

“They just all are mentally stuck in high school. The glory days, you know?”

Well, this wasn’t fucking high school anymore. There weren’t glory days for anyone. Vernon had never gotten any, and Jun sure as hell hadn’t, so why should a group of assholes get them? 

“Thanks, fuckface.” Taking the joint from Jun’s fingers, Juwon passes it to Alanna as the girl who had given it to Jun in the first place shifts uncomfortably. “You living off scraps like a dog? Who invited you anyway?” 

Juwon had always had an issue with Jun for seemingly no problem on the surface. He had gone out of his way to make his life a living hell in high school, and it seemed that wasn’t stopping just because they had donned a cap and gown a couple of months ago. The real issue was that Jun had almost dated Alanna first. Juwon had almost lost the “great love of his life” to someone else, and now that he had her, he had to remind Jun at every given chance. 

Alanna eyes the girl sitting next to Jun harshly. She had no reason to, but she honestly didn’t like her so close to Jun. As much as she loved being at Juwon’s side and making sure that Jun remembered her as she egged the bullying on—she also enjoyed seeing him available. You just never knew if the wind would change. 

“Cut the shit out, Juwo—” 

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Wen? Walking up in this place like you belong.” 

Vernon was seething as he watched just a few feet away along with a small crowd of others. He wanted to give Jun a chance to defend himself, but he had seen this song and dance. Jun wasn’t a violent person; he wasn’t a confrontational person—and tonight he had been drinking and smoking. Juwon had an unfair advantage. 

The moment that Juwon starts to lay his hands on Jun is when Vernon can no longer just watch. Taking a couple of steps forward, he pulls Juwon back, and the anger he is feeling is evident in his eyes. Stepping in front of Jun, Vernon’s nose almost touching Juwon's, he tilts his head as he speaks just loud enough for the man to head. “Touch him again and see what happens. Take your little bitch, and get out of my face.” 

Juwon looks shocked at first, his eyes widening almost comically until a laugh bubbles in his throat. “Yo–you kiddin’? The fuck?” Alanna quickly joins in, her higher-pitched laugh grating at Vernon’s ears as the couple hangs off one another. “You’re a fuckin’ psychopath, Vernon. Almost had me scared for a minute. Shit… Seriously, you could almost pull off being a badass if everyone didn’t know you were a pussy.”

Juwon laughs again as he takes the joint from Alanna, the end of it burning orange as he smirks before inhaling deeply and blowing smoke into Vernon’s face as he pushes him out of his way. Vernon forces himself to keep his eyes open even as they burn from the smoke. He wasn’t going to let Juwon get the better of him, not tonight. Not while his nails were digging into his palms hard enough to break the skin. 

“Goodnight, ladies…” With his arm wrapped around Alanna, the last of the joint resting back between her lips, Juwon grins at Jun as he shifts uncomfortably on the arm of the couch. He had succeeded in doing what he had set out to do. Jun and Vernon had always been the outcasts in high school and at any party they went to, but now they were being looked at like they were diseased. The pretty girl who had been sitting next to Jun was long gone, and anyone else who had been seen talking to Jun before had found better company. 

“Fuck this party.” Vernon sighs, hearing how defeated Jun sounds. His eyes follow his friend as he quickly stands and moves past him, only to get a few feet before Vernon watches him fall flat on his face with a loud groan. 

Searching for the source, Vernon’s anger boils over when Juwon laughs loudly once again, throwing his hands up as he meets Vernon’s eyes. “Not my fuckin’ fault your girlfriend can’t walk. Maybe he’s too fucked up, Vern. Get him home safe; tuck him in. Kiss him goodnight for me?” 

Vernon tilts his head, refusing to respond to Juwon’s words as others around him laugh at the pathetic excuse for jokes. Instead he moves to Jun, trying to help him up, only to feel his hands get slapped away as Jun glares at him, his eyes quickly softening before he gets to his feet on his own. “I got it. I’m fine. I just want to get the fuck out of here.” 

Following Jun, doing his best to keep up, Vernon sighs as Jun tugs open the door to his car, sliding behind the wheel and wiping under his nose hard. Glancing down to the wet, sticky feeling of blood running from his nose, Jun rolls his eyes and leans his head back before meeting Vernon’s eyes and shaking his head. “I don’t wanna hear it.” 

“I wasn’t gonna say a damn thing.” That was the truth. Vernon didn’t have to say what Jun already knew. It had been a bad idea to come to this party. From the moment they had walked in, Vernon had felt it, and now Jun was bleeding because of it. “You want me to drive you home?” 

Grimacing, Jun shakes his head again and wipes under his nose, checking the heel of his hand for more blood. “No, I just—I appreciate the offer, but I wanna be alone. I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

Taking a step back, Vernon watches Jun shut his door,his eyes following the Toyota down the street until it turns the corner, leaving him alone as the sun starts to set. He knew that he should leave too. Logically, Vernon knew that it would be smart to get in his Beretta and drive off—leave all this bullshit behind, but then he hears the laughter from inside the house and logic is off the table. 

“Did you see his stupid fuckin’ face?” Juwon mimics Jun falling forward as Alanna tips back her beer, her eyes bright watching him getting attention from the small crowd around them. They weren’t Christen and you, but when it came to this scene—this is when they were King and Queen. 

Grinning as he slides his fingers along Alanna’s side, Juwon nods, agreeing to another drink as Jake slides off the couch, moving towards the kitchen to gather them for the group. “You having a good time, babe?” He knew she was; he could see that hazed, lazy look in her eyes. She was just high enough, just drunk enough, that the world didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was right in front of her, and that was how Alanna loved to exist. 

“Mmm—so fucking good. Only be better if—” Leaning in to whisper in to Juwon’s ear, Alanna drapes her leg over his thigh, causing him to groan not only to her dirty words but also to the weight of her knee over his crotch. “Know what I mean? Can’t do that here.” 

Juwon’s finger slid down further to grip at Alanna’s hip, her skirt sliding up slightly on her thigh, causing Jake to cough as he averted his eyes. “I—shit. Got more beers... I’ll leave ‘em here. Y’all wanna use my room or somethin’? Don’t fuck on my couch, alright?” 

Pushing his tongue against his teeth, Vernon leans against the wall in the dark hall next to the bathroom as he watches the scene in front of him carefully. It was interesting how much people would let themselves go when they thought they were amongst friends or those who worshipped them. Vernon also thought it was interesting what people left just lying around—or at least what they kept in their medicine cabinets. 

Jake’s mother had been in a car accident about a year ago. Vernon remembered when that had happened. It had been dramatic for the town. She was some important bigwig businesswoman that people thought others should give a fuck about, but Vernon didn’t even know her name until today. He had learned it when he had read her name on the medicine bottle before he had pocketed the pills inside of it. 

Vernon had never been a good chemistry student, but he did know that certain things shouldn’t be taken in large dosages. The human body wasn’t made to accept opioids at an accelerated rate in large quantities. While Vernon hadn’t been great in school, he had enjoyed watching people and realizing how little they watched him. Like how Jake hadn’t paid attention as Vernon added the crushed-up pills to Alanna and Juwon’s drinks before he handed them off to the couple.

It didn’t take long for the drinks to disappear and for the expressions on their faces to change. There was a difference between being high and what they were feeling now. Moving to his feet, Juwon holds his hand to his head as Alanna shakes out her hands, trying to get a grip on herself. “Com—come on, baby. Let’s get out o—outta here.” 

Nodding along with Juwon, Alanna moves to her feet, stumbling along side of him, finding herself holding him upright as the two make their way towards his car. Had they drunk that much? Trying to think back, Alanna blinks a few times as she counts the beers to herself before her attention is brought back to the present and to Juwon when he groans weakly, his legs giving out and pulling her down with him. 

“Juwon… Shit. Wha—baby!” The euphoric feeling of fun that had been running through Alanna’s body just an hour before was long gone as she lazily swiped Juwon’s hair back, feeling warm tears running down her cheeks. All she could feel now was fear mixed with horror as she watched his eyes roll back, his breaths becoming more like choked gasps. “Baby, wake up!” 

Tilting his head, Vernon took in a deep pull from his cigarette before letting it settle in his chest for a second and blowing it out into the wind. He knew that Alanna was trying to be loud enough that others from the party would hear and come to their aid, but she was exhausted and fading. 

Shaking Juwon as hard as she can manage, Alanna sobs, unable to tell if he is breathing—the choking sounds no longer reaching her ears. Leaning back against the side of the car, she tries to focus and to find anyone to help them, but the only person she sees makes her blood run cold. Vernon smirks, flicking the last of his cigarette from his fingers before blowing out another deep breath of smoke, his eyes never leaving Alanna’s. It’s only when the girl’s head falls forward, her body slumping over Juwon's, does Vernon slide behind the wheel of his car and drive down the street. 

At this point, you were becoming numb from going to funerals. It was two days after the morbid joint memorial that Juwon and Alanna’s family had held, and though you had cried—now you just felt numb. 

You had watched Christen pass a flask back and forth between himself, Caitlin, and a few other friends in the church—that had only served to put you in an even worse headspace. To you, this entire experience should be a reason for your friends to clean up their act. Two of your friends had overdosed, and yet the others felt the need to celebrate that by trying to follow in their footsteps. 

There had been a full day of you avoiding your phone and pager. You knew that Caitlin wanted you to spend time with her and that Christen would be right on your heels, but the numbness made it easy to say no, or at least nothing at all. It wasn’t until that second day when your parents had apologized for having to leave you alone for a few days that you felt like you could finally breathe. 

You knew you should want their company. You should want the hovering of your mother and the protective shield of your father, but all you wanted was space from the usual. So, when someone knocks at your door just a couple of hours after you had gotten that space, you find yourself almost willing to let them get tired of knocking as you lay on the couch. 

“Y/N?” 

Furrowing your brows at the sound of your name, you glance towards the front door before sitting up and wrapping your arms around yourself. You had expected either Christen or Caitlin to come demanding your attention, or even someone from the local church to visit with a casserole, but you hadn’t expected to hear Vernon’s voice. 

Opening the door slowly, you meet his eyes and Vernon’s soft smile almost makes you collapse at how easily he starts to seep through that numbness that had taken over your being. “Hi… Why—I mean… Do you wanna come in?”

Vernon isn’t surprised when you start to ask him why he’s there. He had tried to call you, but you weren’t picking up your phone. He could see the look on your face. You looked like you hadn’t slept well in a few days. He didn’t want to pity you, but there was something about that pout on your pretty lips that almost broke his heart. 

“Yeah—yes, I mean sure. If you want me to, I mean, you know if your parents won’t freak the fuck out.” Vernon watches you shake your head as you take a step back and open the door more for him. Moving past you, Vernon takes in a deep breath, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the idea of being inside your house. He had wanted this for so long; he knew that if he went up those stairs and to the right, the last door had to be your room. God, he wanted to see your room. 

“My parents aren’t here.” Sighing softly, you close the door, locking it behind you before watching Vernon as he looks around a bit. “They left this morning to go out of town. Should be back next week sometime.” 

Raising his brows, Vernon looks at a picture of your family—your mother sitting in a chair as you stand beside her and your father behind you both, his hands on either of your shoulders. It was such a classic family photo, and yet to him it looked so fucking fake. Vernon could see you that weren’t as happy as you pretended to be in the picture; there was a fakeness to the smile. He had seen a real smile from you, and he wanted to see it again. 

“Oh—that’s… They left you with all this shit going on? That’s kinda fucked—” Hissing under his breath, Vernon meets your eyes and lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry, it’s none of my business and I’m sure they have their reasons. I just worry about you in this big ass house alone with everything—this house seems lonely, Y/N.” 

You wrap your arms back around yourself, suddenly feeling cold at all that Vernon is pointing out. The house was too big for just you, and it was a bit lonely... Yet you were still enjoying that solitude—minus him. You liked him there. “It’s not so bad; I mean, you’re here. It’s not lonely now. I—and honestly, they were smothering me. I needed a break from them. I needed one from every—that sounds bad.” 

It didn’t sound bad to Vernon. That was something that he understood better than anyone. Sometimes you just needed a break from everyone and everything. If it wasn’t necessary, you had to rid yourself of it. He was finding out he was good at that—very good, in fact. 

Taking one step closer, Vernon smiles slightly, his lips pulling up at one side as he tries his luck a bit to be in your space. He wants to be less of a coward and reach out, take your hand or pull you into his arms, but the fear of pushing you away keeps him just far enough away that you tilt your head and give him that sweet smile that makes Vernon’s stomach twist up in knots. “It’s completely fucking fair, Y/N. I—look, I was hoping that I wasn’t bothering you. I wanted to check on you and… Fuck I don’t know what I was thinking. I missed you. I just wanted to see your pretty face, honestly.” 

Looking down, you press your lips together, trying to keep your reaction hidden. You feel the heat spread across your cheeks, and it only gets hotter as Vernon chuckles and takes one step closer to you. “Y/N?” Watching his hand tremble slightly, your lips pull up in a small smile as he works up the courage to lift his hand to your face, his fingers carefully tilting your head up so you will meet his eyes once again. 

“I’m listening.” You knew you probably shouldn’t let yourself enjoy the feeling of Vernon’s calloused fingers on your cheek, but you were. You should be sad right now, hidden in your room mourning the loss of your friends. But as you meet Vernon’s eyes, all you feel are the butterflies in your stomach. “I—would…” Taking a deep breath, you close the distance between yourself and Vernon, causing him to take a deep breath in return. “Could you hangout for a while? I don’t think I wanna be alone.” 

Vernon’s skin erupts with goosebumps as your fingers trace his forearm up to his rest, where you wrap your delicate hand around his wrist. He expects you to move his hand from your face, but instead you lean into his touch, your head tilted as you wait for him to answer you. Swallowing hard, he nods while tracing your cheekbone, feeling the soft skin under his thumb. “‘Course I will.” 

Listening to the sound of popcorn popping a room away, Vernon runs his fingers over the couch underneath him. It would be a lie to say he wasn’t nervous. You terrified him just as much as you enthralled him. Finally reaching for the small assortment of VHS tapes on the coffee table in front of them, Vernon reads over the titles, trying to make a decision. 

You had left the movie choice in Vernon’s hands, declaring that he would have the most expertise in that field while you would take care of snacks. Leaning against the kitchen counter, you tap your foot against the cold ceramic tiles as you gnaw at your thumb nail watching the popcorn bag spin in the microwave on the countertop in front of you. Your stomach was in knots. You wanted Vernon there, and yet there was that sense of breaking the rules hanging over your head. There was a looming air of risk weighing on you that made you feel like you were in another dimension as you thought about where the night could go—Vernon’s hand on your cheek, his lips on yours—BEEP BEEP BEEP! 

Gasping, you put your hand to your chest, your eyes closed as the microwave comes to a stop, pulling you out of your daydream and back to reality. Emptying the popcorn into a bowl, you balance it on your arm as you carry two cans of soda against your stomach with your other hand making your way back to the living room and Vernon. 

“If we want something to eat in a bit, I can order pizza. Jerry’s is open until 9 o'clock.” Putting the bowl onto the table, you smile at Vernon as he makes a sound, realizing you were so close. Letting him take the sodas from you, you sit on the couch near him, keeping a space between the two of you as you let out a sigh, your eyes moving over the tapes to see what he had picked. 

“Whatever you want... I can always eat, but this is great.” Popping a piece of popcorn into his mouth, Vernon glances at you first and then down to the marginal space between himself and you. It made sense; it wasn’t like the two of you were dating really. Things had been discussed, but being interested and wanting to see where things went didn’t mean it was official. Still, the space made Vernon furrow his brows and caused his stomach to tighten with anxiety. “Yo—you good, Y/N? Is Seven okay?” 

Smiling softly, you shift a bit on the couch, your fingers under your thighs, letting the end of your denim shorts catch between your fingers as you bite at your lips anxiously. “Mmm, yeah. I’m fine. I’ve never seen it; my dad buys most of the movies.” Moving back to your feet, you swipe the VHS from the table and kneel in front of the entertainment center as Vernon watches you carefully. “Is it really scary? I mean—it’s totally okay if it is. Brad Pitt is hot, so that makes up for my trauma.” 

Vernon grins watching you put the tape into the VCR, your head tilting as you sigh and press the rewind button, realizing that your dad hadn’t done it after his last watch of the movie. “It’s not too bad. More thriller and a bit gory. If you don’t like it, we can cut it off and try something else.” 

Getting back to your feet, you shake your head and move back towards Vernon, offering him the remote before taking your seat. “I’m not that much of a wuss. Besides, you won’t let the movie hurt me, right?” You knew it was a pathetic attempt at flirting, but the slight smile on Vernon’s lips and the flush running along his ears to his neck made you feel a bit better about how nervous you were. 

“Nah… never. Wouldn’t let anything hurt you, honestly.” Leaning back against the cushions, Vernon doesn’t see your expression change as he presses play and pops a few more kernels of popcorn into his mouth. He doesn’t seem to understand how much his words effect you and how your heart beats quicker in your chest. It doesn’t seem to dawn on him until you slide closer to him, your legs tucked up under you so that you can rest your shoulder against his arm. 

Struggling to watch the movie, Vernon stays in the same awkward position for the first forty-five minutes of the movie. His eyes move from the television to your face, the pout on your lips becoming more evident as time ticks by, until finally you sigh and reach forward to grab a handful of popcorn, letting Vernon take a much-needed breath. 

He leans his head back, cursing under his breath as you stay forward on your knees for what seems like an impossible amount of time, when in truth it’s only a few seconds—long enough to take a sip of your drink to wash down your popcorn. When you lean back, you gasp quietly under your breath before lifting your eyes towards Vernon, finding yourself tucked into his side. Now your cheeks were burning, and you could feel Vernon’s fingers brushing together against your shoulder as he took a deep breath, seeming to need it for courage as he kept his eyes forward with his arm behind you on the couch. 

You felt perfect against his side, and it was almost devastating to Vernon. You smelled sweet and just as warm as you felt; it was causing him to almost feel lightheaded. Lifting his free hand to his lips, Vernon rubs at them as he glances down at you, being careful not to move his head. God, you were so beautiful. He had looked at you so many times, and he had been close enough to look at you, but never this close. If he really wanted to, Vernon was almost convinced he could take the time to count your eyelashes or freckles while he admired your face. 

Grimacing at the movie, you whine, finding yourself tucking your body and head against Vernon, wanting to get away from the sight of blood and filth in front of you. “So gross…” Fingers brush over your hair and Vernon smiles behind his fingers, finally moving them as he meets your eyes, knowing he has your attention. 

“Is it too much?” 

Rubbing your lips together, you can’t help the way you take in a deep breath of Vernon’s cologne, letting it invade your senses. Looking from his eyes to his lips and back, you shyly smile before you shake your head. “It’s okay.” 

You were saying one thing, and your body language was telling Vernon something completely different—and yet the movie was beginning to not matter. Vernon could almost feel the path of your eyes as they move to his lips before his eyes take the same walk down your face and he feels your fingers gently trace the sleeve of his t-shirt where it sits on his bicep. Did you want him to kiss you? All signs were pointing to yes…

The feeling of Vernon’s fingers on your chin this time is almost electric as he gently keeps your head in place, leaning down to test the waters by brushing his lips against yours. Resting his nose along yours, he smiles when your fingers close against his arm, dragging your nails along his skin gently. “Y/N... is that what you want? I gotta know. I don’t wanna do anything you don’t want.” 

God, your head was spinning. For your entire high school existence and the short time you have had outside of it trying to navigate being a woman, you had never been asked what you wanted. Christen never asked. He told and took, or at least he tried. There had been so many times when he had almost taken things from you that you would have never been able to get back, and now as you clung to Vernon, his lips hovering over yours and that question on his lips—you yearned. 

“Please? Kiss me? I want it.” 

Vernon’s brows furrow tightly, almost painfully so at how needy you sound. His lips meet yours gently, but not without meaning. He doesn’t want to scare you, but he also doesn’t want to risk you slipping through his fingers as he tastes your lip balm on his tongue. 

To Vernon, you seem delicate, almost as if he were to hold you too tightly, he might break you. It’s almost frustrating to you when you whine into the most breathtaking kiss you had ever received and Vernon’s hand tightens on your hip only for him to shakily loosen his grip and move his hand as if he’s afraid of something. 

Shifting on the couch, you open your eyes, moving your leg slowly along Vernon’s thigh to see how he will react. You furrow your brows, feeling a rush of arousal, your panties beginning to stick to your folds when Vernon groans your name from deep in his throat to the feeling of the warmth between your legs against his jeans. 

“Shit—I… Y/N, I gotta—” Vernon leans his head back, his eyes searching the ceiling as you stay still, almost afraid to move based on his reaction and the feeling bubbling inside of you. Glancing over his face and down along his neck, you finally make up your mind, leaning forward to press your lips to the junction between Vernon’s jaw and his neck and listening to his breath quicken. 

Hands slide along your legs to the end of your shorts, where Vernon forces himself to stop and let his hands rest even as his fingers knead at your soft thighs. He could feel how hard he was getting from the feeling of your warmth against his leg and your soft, plush lips on his throat.  “Y/N…” 

Your name was starting to sound like a prayer on Vernon’s lips, as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded and sitting on the couch. “I like you, Vernon. Like a lot, if that isn’t clear.” Groaning in a mixture of frustration and pleasure, Vernon lifts one hand from your leg to run his fingers through his hair, tugging gently to bring himself back to reality. You were making it hard for him to keep his head clear as you traced the collar of his shirt and adjusted your leg over his. 

“I think it’s painfully obvious that I like you too.” Sighing, Vernon meets your eyes as you smile at him. Your face is so sweet, not a bit of malice or ill intent behind your eyes. There is something so innocent and pure about you that makes him equally excited and horrified. “I’m enjoying this. I’m ju—I’m enjoying it a little too much.” 

You weren’t stupid or completely naive. You could feel how hard Vernon was as you dared to slide your leg further up his, resting your knee dangerously close to his crotch. It wasn’t like you hadn’t made out with guys or that you had been around Christen when he had gotten too excited, but this was different. You wanted to be here. You wanted more with Vernon, and you knew what it meant and how it would change things. 

“That’s okay, right? It’s just—you know, just us here. Um, if we wanted to, you know.” 

Tilting his head, Vernon can’t stop the way his lips pull up in a soft, amused smile at your phrasing. Were you embarrassed to ask him for more, or were you afraid to say the words? Or was it something else? Were you even more pure than he thought? 

“Wanted to what, Y/N? Make out? We already were…” 

Whining at Vernon’s words, you shift even closer to him as you shake your head no firmly. “I—no, I mean yes. I want to kiss you so much. Keep kissing me, but more. I mean, if—if you want me like that.” 

The moment that your confidence seems to wane, Vernon’s brows furrow and his hand moves to your neck, pulling you closer for a deep kiss that once again takes your breath. Gasping into the kiss, you feel a rush of excitement run through your body as his other hand slips around to your ass, fingers slipping into your back pocket. 

“You got literally no fucking idea how much I want you like that or how long I’ve—God, baby.” The pet name slips off Vernon’s lips as a soft whine before he can stop himself. A rush of fear moves through him quickly, but when you smile on his lips and shift over his lap to sit on his thighs, Vernon’s anxiety melts away. “Are you sure?”

Nodding, you let your knees slide to either side of Vernon’s legs, a soft gasp escaping your lips when you finally feel the bulge of his cock press against the center of your legs. “Uh huh, I’m sure, but—god, it’s so embarrassing.” Lowering your head to press your face against Vernon’s neck, you only feel shame for a moment before his hand slides over your back to join the other on your ass, helping you gently grind down over his jeans. “Oh…” 

This had to be a dream—some perfect wet dream that Vernon would wake up from with his boxers sticky from cum. There was no way you were actually rolling your hips down over his cock, and those pretty little whines were real, but it all felt real. You were warm on his lap, your pussy almost hot even through your shorts. Your ass felt soft in his hands as Vernon tightened his fingers over the denim, trying to keep himself from throwing you down on the floor and fucking you right there in front of the family portrait over the fireplace. “Fuck—don’t be embarrassed in front of me, please? What’s wrong? Talk to me, baby.” 

Kissing gently at Vernon’s neck, you furrow your brows, feeling his fingers run over your head as he asks you to talk to him. Taking his hand when he moves it to your neck, you link your fingers with Vernon’s before nodding. “I’ve never done this before, Vernon. I wanna do it. I wanna—I want it with you, but I just don’t wanna fuck it up.” 

If there was a way for Vernon to die, go to heaven, and end up back on your couch in the span of seconds, it had happened. Staring up at you, he licks his lips, trying to come up with the right words before finally shaking his head and letting out a sigh. “You’re perfect. You couldn’t fuck up a single thing even if you tried.” 

Patting your thighs, Vernon helps you to your feet and offers you his hand as you give him a confused look. “I’m not doing this on your couch in your living room, Y/N. You deserve so much better than that.” Gently tugging at your hand, he leads you towards the staircase, and you find yourself enamored by Vernon as he leads you to your bedroom. 

While Vernon had thought being in your house was overwhelming, being in your bedroom was like being inside of his dreams. It was like being inside your head and learning how to understand you from the inside out. Dropping your hand for a moment, he moves to turn on your bedside lamp before turning back to you and offering you his hand as you tilt your head and laugh softly. “How did you know which room was mine?” 

You watch Vernon’s eyes shift to your window quickly before he laughs and shrugs into a sigh, his arms wrapping around you while he walks backwards towards your bed. “Lucky guess and I followed my nose. It smells like your perfume.” Vernon wasn’t going to tell you that he had counted your windows hundreds of times and that he had guessed the layout of your house, perhaps knowing it better than his own. No, he wasn’t going to fuck up the best thing that had ever happened to him as you looked up at him like he had hung the stars in the sky. 

“Oh… I bet I could find your room like that too. Your cologne smells so good; it’s my favorite thing.” Leaning forward, you rest your nose in the crook of Vernon’s neck, taking in a breath and Vernon thinks he could die right then and there. Yes, he liked you, but that wasn’t strong enough for the emotions that you made him feel—he loved you. 

“Jesus, Y/N… You don’t even fucking understand what you’re doing to me. I—here, lay down. Let me—I gotta take care of you, right? Make this matter.” Carefully turning with you in his arms, Vernon walks you backwards until your knees hit your bed. “I got you.” Resting his knee beside you, Vernon keeps his eyes locked on yours as he helps you lay back on your bed, a pillow under your head—another picture from a dream he’s had a hundred times. 

Trailing his fingers slowly along your side, Vernon shakes his head as you shift under him, squirming slightly in anticipation. “You’re telling me that no one else has touched you like this?” When you whine his name, Vernon smiles, the warm, soft feeling of your skin under his fingertips as he pushes your shirt up your torso towards your breasts, exposing your body to him... inch by inch. 

“It’s just a question. I just can’t believe I’m this fucking lucky. Crazy to me actually…” Vernon’s words make your cheeks heat up, but any complaints you have die on your tongue when his lips gently brush over your stomach. “But I’ll take care of you... Make you feel good, I promise.” 

You find yourself wondering how many people Vernon had been with before you, but before you can ask, a moan slips from your lips at the feeling of his warm breath and kisses moving along your skin. You knew this would feel good—having someone touch you, kissing you—but you had no idea it would be this good when he had just started. 

“Please… please? Can I see you? ‘M so nervous, Vernon... Don’t tease me.” 

Vernon could tell you were nervous. You were trembling under him. Every kiss brought out a new shiver and more goosebumps. He knew it wasn’t fear, because if he even for a moment thought you were afraid of him, Vernon would stop. That was his worst nightmare—a world where you weren’t safe and happy. 

“Not teasing, baby. I’m exploring… I’m—mm…” Chuckling against your skin, Vernon hisses, almost afraid to say what he wants to, but a glance up to meet your eyes gives him the confidence he needs. “I’m loving you. Lift your hips for me, angel.” 

Wiggling your hips from side to side, you grip at the bedding under you as Vernon works your jean shorts down your thighs and finally off your legs. In that moment, feeling Vernon’s hand running along your leg back towards your thigh, you find yourself happy that you had taken the time to shave your legs. The thought seems trivial and silly, but the feeling of his rougher hands on your soft skin is better than anything you’ve ever felt before. 

“You’re so beautiful. The most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my goddamn life, you know that?” Vernon grins as you let out a soft, happy sound to his words and also to the feeling of his lips against your knee. It was killing him to go so slowly, but it was what you deserved. He could just imagine Christen throwing you on the bed and shoving his cock in you. Some bastard who didn’t give a shit about anything other than getting his dick wet, watching you cry, not even from pleasure as he got his rocks off... No, Vernon wasn’t about to treat you like that. He would never treat you like that. 

“Can I?” Sucking in a breath as you feel the back of Vernon’s finger trace the lace around your thigh near the center of your legs, you glance down between your legs and whine. You could see how wet you were and there was no way that Vernon hadn’t noticed too. He was being so respectful, and you loved that he was asking. “Hm? Can I take these off too?” 

“Yeah…” Your voice is quieter than you mean for it to be so you nod, making sure that Vernon meets your eyes. Lifting your hips one more time, you quickly close your eyes when you feel air hit your wet folds and Vernon helps you lift your legs one at a time until your panties are discarded on the floor with your shorts. 

All Vernon wanted was for you to look at him, but the embarrassment was written on your face like a book. This was the first time anyone had seen you like this and he wasn’t going to push you. He was going to help you and ease you into feeling more comfortable. “Pretty girl, it’s just us. I want you to know that you are perfect. Everything about you, from your head to your toes.” 

Your quiet laugh causes Vernon’s lips to pull up in a smile. He loved that sound and he meant what he said. Slowly moving his hands along your legs, Vernon lets you decide when to spread your legs and he does his best to muffle his groan when he is able to take you in completely. “Shh—okay. Perfect, baby. You still okay?” 

Whimpering his name under your breath, you open your eyes to meet Vernon’s and wonder if that was a mistake when you find him watching you closely. Lifting your arm to put it over your eyes for a second before raising it over your arm, you nod and wiggle down in the bed towards Vernon as his breath quickens. “Yeah… Still wanna see you.” 

A scoff slips from between Vernon’s lips and he nods, forcing himself to pull his eyes away from you. It was difficult. You were every bit his wet dream a thousand times over as you lay on the bed naked from the waist down, your shirt bunched up under your perfect tits. “You can see me. Whatever you want.” 

Sitting up on your elbows, you bite your lips as you watch Vernon stand at the end of your bed. Your instinct is your move—to help him as he pulls his shirt over his head or as he undoes his belt, but instead you find yourself frozen in a trance. It isn’t until Vernon pushes his thumbs into the top of his boxers, his eyes meeting yours, that you glance away only to hear him laugh under his breath and whisper your name. 

“Don’t be so shy about it. Even if we just end up making out, I’m not gonna be disappointed, alright? You wanted to see me... Is that still true?” Nodding, you slowly move your eyes over Vernon’s body, letting out a deep breath. You felt childish, like you were still stuck in high school until the exact moment that Vernon’s boxers hit the ground and your eyes met his with want. 

Running his hand over his mouth, Vernon stiffles a groan at the look on your face and to the relief of pressure being off of his cock. He wanted more; he needed more... but this was a start. You were looking at him like he was a full-course meal and he wasn’t planning on making you wait much longer. 

“God, you can’t keep looking at me like that. Come ‘ere…” Helping you sit up more, Vernon meets your eyes with a smile before quickly pressing his lips to yours, his hands working your shirt over your chest. Humming against his lips, you lift your arms, letting him break the kiss to help you out of the shirt completely before his lips are right back on yours. 

Skin meets skin and you find your thighs brushing together at the feeling of Vernon’s cock resting on your lower stomach as his fingers work the clasp of your bra open at the middle of your back. “Oh my god... Please go faster, Vernon.” 

There was that want and need in your voice again. Vernon has already been leaking onto your skin, but with those words, he felt his cock jerk, a rush of pre-cum oozing along your stomach as he tugs your bra from your arms and tosses it over his head, not caring where it lands. 

“Fuck.” There wasn’t much more that Vernon could think to say as he looked at you now. Your lips bitten and swollen from his kisses, your breasts rising and falling quickly with each deep breath, and your knee running along his hip. The moment he feels your warm, wet folds on his thigh, Vernon thinks he’s died one more time. It wasn’t like he had fucked many other girls in his life. A couple of hookups at shitty parties, but none of them had mattered and none of them had made him feel like he was going to lose his fucking mind. He had always heard that your first time, the one who took your virginity was supposed to be the one that you remembered forever… Right now he couldn’t even remember her name, much less her face, as you looked up at him and ran your fingers along his jaw. 

“Are you gonna—” Swallowing hard, you struggle for the right word, but your cheeks bloom with heat and Vernon smiles. “Don’t make fun of me. It’s hard… I don’t know how to say it without sounding gross. I want you... Put it in.” 

God, Vernon felt like he could cum on the spot hearing you say something like that. He wanted to be inside of you, but that wasn’t how this should work. He watches how you pout, a full frown forming on your pretty lips when he shakes his head. Pressing a kiss to your lips, Vernon groans before working the kisses to your cheek and down your jaw to your neck as he speaks quietly. “I will, I promise... Just not yet. I’m not an asshole, baby. It’s not gonna feel good at first, no matter what I do, but I gotta make sure you're ready either way. You understand?” 

You weren’t a child; you had touched yourself plenty of times and Christen had tried to show you porn to see how embarrassed you would get. You knew what Vernon was talking about, but seeing and feeling was different. With a breath getting caught in your throat, you run your fingers through Vernon’s hair as he kisses the top of each of your breasts, glancing up at you to make sure you are okay before running his tongue around one of your nipples. Arching from the mattress, you moan behind tight lips, your brows furrowed as Vernon smiles against your skin, sucking the bud into his mouth gently. 

“Holy shit… That feels so good. Your mouth…” It all felt so dirty, like you shouldn’t be able to experience it, and yet as Vernon’s fingers caressed your stomach moving lower, your head just got clouded with arousal. The first pass of his thumb between your folds is like being shocked by a live wire. Any attempt you had at being quiet fails, your lips falling open in a breathy moan that has Vernon groaning against your soft breast as he repeats the motion. “Please, please, please...” 

Your pleads sound like a prayer—a song of worship sang by a true believer as you lift your hips and roll them towards Vernon’s fingers as he uses his knuckles and thumb to massage your clit. “You’re so wet, Y/N.” Vernon had said your name and he was talking about you, but you weren’t sure he was actually speaking to you. It was more that he was saying the words on his mind out loud in wonder as he finally eased his index finger into your tight hole, feeling you clench down around him like a vice. 

“Baby… Fuck—” Vernon’s voice gets caught in his throat as he rests his forehead against your chest, working his finger into you, feeling your arousal seeping around it. “Relax for me. Let me help you feel good, huh?” 

You were trying to relax, but Vernon’s finger was deep inside of you and you could feel every time he would bend his knuckle, raking the pad of his finger back towards your stomach. It was overwhelming how good it felt and how much you wanted more. To you, it made no sense how you could already feel so full and yet so empty. “Uh huh…” 

“That’s my girl.”

Vernon’s voice had dropped an octave and as if that wasn’t hot enough, he had called you his girl. God, you wanted to be his girl. You hadn’t realized how much you wanted that until he said it. You wanted to be his, only his for the rest of your life. You knew it was silly, that this was probably that first time euphoria taking over you, but looking into Vernon’s brown eyes as he smiled up at you sliding down further into the bed... You were falling in love with his boy. 

Using his other hand to separate your folds, Vernon groans under his breath as he glances from you back to what he is doing before leaning in to run his tongue from his finger to your clit. He hadn’t warned you, but being between your legs, his mouth level with your pussy should have told you everything you needed to know, in his opinion. Yet, when you practically scream his name, your mouth falling open in shock, Vernon just grins and latches on to your clit rendering you speechless. 

This was like nothing you had ever felt before. You had fingered yourself before, played with your clit... but having Vernon’s mouth on you? That was pushing you over the edge so fast that you couldn’t think straight. There were no intelligent thoughts in your brain; the only thing that was there was Vernon, Vernon, Vernon... 

Trying to lift your hips, you let out a choked moan when a second finger eases in to you next to the first. The feeling of being full and wet skyrockets you to the moon and back; your thighs shake on either side of Vernon’s head and before you can warn him, the coil that had been so quickly winding inside of you snaps. 

Closing his eyes, Vernon groans loudly, feeling your thighs close around his head as you cum. He knew it was coming. He could feel your walls squeezing his fingers—the way you were pushing your hips down over his hand trying to fuck yourself. When you finally let your legs fall to either side, apologies slipping from your lips, Vernon silences them by slowly slipping his fingers from you so he can replace them with his tongue. 

Fingers tightly grip at brown locks as you struggle to not trap Vernon’s head between your thighs once again. You sob out his name on a moan, tears running down your cheeks as your thighs begin to shake once again. “I can’t—oh, my god. It almost hurts, Vernon.” 

Furrowing his brows, Vernon groans at how good you taste, but your words make him find his restraint. Licking his lips, he takes a deep breath and meets your eyes with blown-out pupils, his hips pressed firmly into your comforter to keep himself from rutting against it. “‘M sorry, baby. You taste so good. I don’t want it to hurt; I just want you to feel good.” 

Vernon’s lips pull into a soft smile when you reach for him. Sliding up in the bed between your legs, he kisses your jaw and then your lips before gliding his tongue along yours, letting you taste yourself. Making a face, your brows knitting together, you pull back from Vernon to pout up at him and shake your head as his fingers lightly stroke your side. “Tastes awful… But I do feel good—so, so good. I—I want this. I want it all. Can I—you?” 

A laugh starts to leave Vernon’s mouth, along with a comeback about how you taste like candy to him when your hand wraps around his cock and nothing he was going to say is left in his head. Groaning, he rests his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath before wrapping his hand loosely over yours and guiding it over his shaft in a slow stroke from base to tip and back. 

“Tru—trust me… I want you to. I want so much with you, but fuck. If I let you do this or anything else…” A long groan of your name falls from Vernon’s lips as he meets your eyes, looking for mercy, when you break free from his hand and trace the slit in his head with your thumb, feeling pre-cum ooze around your finger. “Babe, I’ll cum before I can fuck you. I can’t bounce back as quickly as you and I really—don’t do this to me. Please, beautiful.” 

You could see yourself getting addicted to the power of having Vernon’s cock in your hand. You loved how you were reducing him to breathy moans and begging, but you wanted to feel him inside of you. You wanted him to be your first and you wanted it today. You didn’t want to wait anymore. Lightly scratching your nails along the underside of his shaft, you pull your fingers from Vernon, watching him choke on his breath, his arms shaking as he struggles to keep himself above you. “Okay, Vernon, but I wanna do this next time.” 

Next time. Those two words made Vernon feel like he was levitating. You didn’t want this to be a one-time thing. You wanted him in your life. Groaning deeply, Vernon nods, leaning down to capture your lips as he uses his left hand to pin your right wrist to the bed, keeping it away from his cock. “You can do whatever you want to me next time. I swear to god.” 

Silence takes over the room; only your shaky breaths are left as Vernon’s thumb strums at your pulse point over your wrist. You had asked for this, and now that it was going to happen, you found yourself once again so nervous that you felt like you could faint. Vernon could see it in your eyes, all those nerves racing through your mind. There was enough stress on you; this should take it away, not add more… He’d do what he had to in order to let you know this wasn’t scary. 

“Okay, baby? Rest your knee against my hip, keep your leg up... Should make it easier. I’ll go slow, and if you don’t like anything, you tell me right away. I’ll stop. I won’t be mad or sad.” Seeing the pout on your lips even as you move your leg like you were asked to do, Vernon copies it and shakes his head. “I like you so fucking much, Y/N. I liked you before we got in this bed and I’ll like you once we are out of it. This is a goddamn dream come true, angel.” 

It was almost like you could hear him telling you that he loved you, and while it scared you, it also made you relax under Vernon. The brush of his thumb over your warm cheek, his lips lazily moving over yours as he lined himself up with you and began to ease himself into you—it was all overwhelmingly perfect. 

Furrowing your brows to the stretch and then a stinging pain, you hiss on Vernon’s lips, causing him to look down at you as he finally bottoms out in you, feeling you clench around him. “Wait—” Nodding, Vernon bites at his lips, watching you closely as you seem to try to work out some internal problem, but as the pain starts to fade and your face relaxes so does his anxiety. “Okay, I’m okay. You can move.” 

He wanted to. Vernon’s brain was telling him to fuck you hard and fast, but his heart reminded him who you were and where he was so he kept it slow. Each thrust smooth and steady so he could keep his eyes on your pretty face, watching for any signs of discomfort, but the deeper and longer he went, he only saw bliss. “Is it good? You like it?” 

There weren’t words to describe how much you enjoyed the feeling of Vernon inside of you. It was as if you were made to be one and for you to feel this full, but as he kept his pace slow and his thrusts almost too shallow, you couldn’t explain the frustration building inside of you until it snapped. “Mmmhm, more? Can I have more?” 

Closing his eyes to hide how they were rolling back in his head from pleasure to your words, Vernon nods and buries his face in the crook of your neck. He was dying for more. He would have kept this pace for the entire time if it was what you wanted, but it would have been torture for him, but those words... and asking for more? 

“I’ll give you the fucking world. So, yeah, baby, I’ll give you more.” 

Vernon’s choice of words makes you smile, a bit giddy at how love struck he sounds but your moment is short lived because he stays true to his words. A loud gasping moan falls from your lips as Vernon’s hips meet yours hard, his cock buried in you so deep you wonder how you are possibly able to fit all of him. The drag of his tip as he pulls almost all the way out of you almost makes you cry in fear you are losing him but then he is back inside of you as if he never left, his hips rutting against yours harder and faster. 

“This what you wanted? More? Tell me it’s what you wanted.” 

Tears once again form in your eyes as you nod, feeling that familiar tightening in your stomach. You couldn’t believe how quickly Vernon could get you to your orgasm. There had been nights when you would lay on your back, your fingers working hard only to find no satisfaction. Yet Vernon was making you cry with how good he could make you feel. “Please, yes! So good… It’s what I want, Vernon. Don’t stop, please. I’m gonna—” 

You couldn’t even say that you were going to cum? God, you were perfect. Vernon’s perfect, pure little untainted rose that he was going to keep unsoiled by anyone else for the rest of his life if he had his way about it. Nipping at your jaw, Vernon groans loudly, feeling himself getting close to his own climax as your walls tighten and quiver around him. “Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby? Say it… Do it for me? I wanna hear you say it.” 

Pushing your head back against the pillow, you sob Vernon’s name as his fingers slip between your legs to rub at your clit as his cock fills you full, keeping you right on the edge. You find yourself wanting to give him exactly what he wants, even if it makes your entire body feel like it’s on fire and like you are going against every single moral thing you know. Biting your lips, you whimper, your words a whisper—yet Vernon smiles hearing each one. “I’m gonna cum for you.” 

A deep thrust, one that sends you towards the headboard as his fingers circle your clit without mercy, makes you do exactly that. Choking on your moans, you feel Vernon’s thumb wipe under your eyes pushing away your tears as he whispers your name and how good you are before he groans deep and pulls from you suddenly. 

Warm, sticky cum paints your stomach as Vernon’s hand strokes his cock quickly. Panting groans spill from between his lips as he sits back on his knees and lets his eyes move over your body to your face as you look up at him trying to catch your breath. 

“Fuck, babe…” Running his hand over his mouth, Vernon sighs, glancing down at the pool of cum on your stomach, running towards the top of your mound and he swears his cock could get hard again. “I—shit. Whi—which room is the bathroom? I’m gonna get a washcloth and clean this off you.”

Gesturing to the hall, you mutter across the hall, watching Vernon roll from your bed and towards your door. The more time that passes, even as you listen to the sound of water from a room over, you feel your chest get heavy—a deep sense of dread washing over you as tears once again threaten your eyes. This time when the tears spill over your cheeks, they aren’t from pleasure and you find yourself confused as to why you feel so upset after something that felt so good. 

Washcloth in hand, Vernon sighs only to stop in his tracks seeing you crying. “Wh—shit. No, what’s wrong?” Sitting on the bed beside of you, he runs his fingers through your hair while using his other hand to carefully clean your stomach. The moment he is back on your bed, his hands on you, the dread you had felt starts to fade, your chest feeling lighter. 

“I–” Swallowing hard, you shake your head and lean into Vernon’s touch as he slides down in the bed and pulls you into his arms, letting you curl up against him tightly. “I don’t know. I felt so alone all of a sudden and scared.” 

Shushing you, Vernon kisses your forehead, running his hand along your back as your fingers scratch lightly at his stomach, causing him to suck in a breath. “I’m—fuck… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you right after like that. I didn’t even think. That was so stupid. I just didn’t want all that shit to dry on your skin. I’m not gonna leave you, baby. I promise.” 

Promise. That word makes your heart jump and you wrap your arm around Vernon’s waist, pulling yourself even closer to him. You knew that there was a risk of falling in love with the person who took your virginity, but that wasn’t what this was. This was something more. This was more about who Vernon was and the type of person he was. 

Pressing a kiss to Vernon’s chest, you look up after to find him smiling down at you. It was taking everything in you not to say those three little words that he wanted to hear more than anything. 

Tapping his fingers against his steering wheel, Christen sighs loudly as he turns on to your street. He was annoyed. You hadn’t been answering your phone, and you had avoided him for two days. 

It wasn’t like he didn’t know what was going on. He was feeling some sort of way after going to the funeral too, but that didn’t mean he was going to be a bitch and cut people off from his life like you were. Clearly you were just dealing with shit and needed to be checked on. 

Pushing his tongue against his cheek, Christen stares at the car in your driveway as if it will disappear. There was no fucking way that car was in your driveway. Your parents cars weren’t there, but Vernon Chwe’s was? Something was fucked up and he was fuming. 

Slamming his car into park and leaning forward to look at your house, Christen narrows his eyes at what lights are on. Where could you and this freak be? What were you two doing? He wasn’t sure what pissed him off more. The fact that Vernon was at your house. The fact that he was at your house alone with you. Or the fact that your bedroom light was on while the rest of the house was dark. 

“Motherfucker—I should…” The words trail off Christen’s lips as his eyes fall back on the Beretta, his blood boiling. If Vernon could taint something precious that belonged to him, he would ruin something precious of his. 

Taking a deep breath, Vernon smiles when he realizes that you are in his arms. The smell of your shampoo and perfume almost overwhelms his senses even before he opens his eyes and pulls you a bit closer. He probably shouldn’t have stayed over, but after everything that happened, he couldn’t see himself leaving you—he didn’t want to leave you. 

You had been beautiful the night before, but in the morning light that could make it through your curtains, you were stunning. Vernon usually didn’t like the mornings. He preferred to sleep in until later in the day and spend his time out later at night, but for you—to see this, he’d get up at the crack of dawn. 

“Mmm…” Stretching against Vernon, you turn in his arms, nuzzling your nose against his chest. You were beginning to wake up, but everything around you still felt like the best dream ever. You were warm and safe in Vernon’s arms. Nothing bad could possibly happen to you ever again. There was nothing else besides what was in this room right now that mattered. 

Leaning to brush your hair from your forehead, Vernon smirks a bit to himself as your nose wrinkles a bit and you seem to try to hide from his touch and the light by burying your face even closer to his body. “Baby…” The word slips from Vernon’s tongue like candy and you smile against his skin, remembering how many times he had called you that the night before. “I gotta go home... least for a bit. Come on, don’t hide from me; let me see your pretty face for a bit.” 

Your smile fades at the idea of Vernon leaving you alone. You knew it wasn’t forever, but your mind was spiraling with the idea that he might not come back, so it took a lot of strength to meet his eyes and attempt not to look as sad as you felt. Though you tried to smile, Vernon could see the way your bottom lip was sticking out; he could see the concern in your eyes, and it almost broke his heart. 

“No… hey.” Sitting up, Vernon pulls you into his arms and cups your cheek, pressing his lips to yours and taking your breath away. You were melting against him. Vernon could feel how pliant you were in his hands and it was almost too much for him to handle. He knew without even having to ask that if he wanted to, he could lay you down and make love to you all over again… but he had to wait. “I’ll be back. You think I’m leavin’ you? I’m not an idiot. Got me for as long as you want me, Y/N.” 

It shouldn’t make you as happy as it does to hear Vernon pledge himself to you like he does after one night, but you can’t stop the smile that pulls at your lips even as you kiss him. “Promise? What if…” Laughing sweetly, you bite at your lip and give him a teasing look as he sighs, meeting your eyes. “What if I said forever?” 

Groaning, Vernon furrows his brows, stroking your cheek with his thumb. You might be joking, but god, he wished you weren’t. “Then you can have forever. ‘M yours, long as you want me, like I said. Just gotta make sure my mom doesn’t file a missing persons report.” 

Vernon laughs when you wince at his words, the cute look on your face making him fall even harder for you. He knew his mom wouldn’t actually do that, not after just one night. He had been gone for longer periods of time, but there were some things he needed to do before he came back to you. 

“I’m sorry, Vernon... I’m clingy, I guess.” Trailing your fingers along his chest, you sigh into your pout, feeling his fingers trace your jaw. Shaking his head, Vernon lets his index finger move over your cupid’s bow, feeling your lips press against the pad of his finger. He wants to give in and stay right where he is. 

“I’ll be back this afternoon, promise.” 

Even after trying to feed Vernon or at least send him home with some form of food, you are left in your foyer with your lips tingling as he refuses, saying this is more than enough. You can only watch as he winks at you and closes the door behind him, leaving you alone in your house, making you realize just how quiet it is when you are by yourself while you count down the hours until he comes back. 

Sliding the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, Vernon puts one between his lips and starts to light it when his mouth falls open, the cigarette falling to the pavement at his feet. A moment before he could hear the birds chirping, cars driving in the distance, and even kids playing down the street. Now he could only hear the blood rushing in his ears as his eyes moved over the side of his Beretta and the red paint that had dripped down the entire side of the door in big capital letters: ‘PERV’. 

Shoving the cigarettes back into his pocket, Vernon curses through gritted teeth as he moves around the other side of his car, only to laugh in anger when he sees ‘LOSER’ on the other side in the same red paint. He didn’t need to figure out who had done this or even guess—he knew. There was only one person, Christen. 

The sound of the car door slamming outside makes you jump, your brows furrowing at how angry it sounds. You start to move to your front door when you hear tires squeal out of your driveway and down the street, leaving you confused and feeling a bit sick to your stomach. You knew that Vernon was a bit different from what you knew, but he wasn’t the type of person in your mind to drive recklessly. 

Deciding to settle back into the cushions of your couch and pass the time with television, you manage to zone out for a while. Your mind occasionally drifts to Vernon, causing your eyes to wander to the clock before you pull them back to your show. It had only been a couple of hours so when you hear a knock at your door, you are surprised but excited about the idea of him being back so soon. 

Practically skipping to the door, you pull it open and your smile drops as you meet Christen’s eyes as he leans against his hand against the door frame, causing him to loom over you. “Wow, for a second there, I thought you were happy to see me, baby.” 

The name baby on Christen’s lips makes you feel queasy as you take a step back and he takes it as an invitation to take a step into your house, kicking the door closed behind him. “I—I’m not up to hanging out.” 

Scoffing, Christen tilts his head at you and glances around your house as if looking for someone else before his eyes land on you once again. “Why the fuck not? Cause I’m not Chwe?” Christen watches your reaction—how you almost recoil at Vernon’s last name. That was all he needed to know, as if he didn’t know that the fucker had been at your house last night. “What the hell are you doing, Y/N? Did—” Disgust creeps along Christen’s face as he gives you a once-over, searching for something unseen. “Did he—did that pervert touch you?” 

You open your mouth to defend yourself and Vernon, but nothing comes out. You aren’t sure what to say. It’s none of Christen’s business and yet when he asks you something like that, you are overwhelmed with shame, as if you have done something wrong. The look evident on your face, Christen groans, lifting his hand to run it over his face, taking a step towards you to grab your wrist, pulling you towards him hard.  

“He did. Baby… You gotta tell me.” Pulling your arm in his grasp, you whine, finding his grip too tight—painful. “Did he fuck you? Tell me he didn’t. Tell me you didn’t let that freak inside of you.” 

Tears gather on your eyes as you pull once more at your arm, blinking a few times they slip on to your cheeks. “Let me go. Stop talking about him like that. It’s none—” 

“What the fuck, Y/N!” Christen’s anger makes you stop moving and talking. His grip tightens on your wrist and all you can do is whine his name, more tears rolling down your cheeks. “I didn’t think you were a slut, but I guess that’s what you fuckin’ are. Jesus Christ! Giving it out to anyone who’ll take it, huh?” 

Christen’s words cut deep at your heart and your confidence even as you shake your head trying to defend yourself, knowing he is wrong. You hadn’t done anything wrong. You had slept with one person your entire life and you cared deeply for him. Christen’s problem was that it wasn’t him. He was lashing out—he was trying to make you hate yourself, it was working. 

“Who’s gonna touch you now, Y/N? After you let him fuck you?” Pushing your arm hard back towards you, Christen’s expression doesn’t change when the force of his action causes you to stumble backwards, falling on your ass. “It’s pathetic… You’re pathetic. Just a slut.” 

Sobbing, you wrap your arms around yourself, begging Christen to leave you alone. Sucking his teeth, the man you had once called your friend tilts his head and stares at you for a moment longer before turning back towards your front door, leaving you alone once again by slamming your door. The sound of the windows rattling from the force of the door shutting makes you jump, a small shrill scream escaping your lips before you lay on your side, pulling your legs up towards your stomach and letting the tears fall freely.

Gritting his teeth, Vernon uses the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead as he kneels next to his car with a bucket and rag. He had been trying to clean the red spray paint from his black car for over an hour and he had barely made a dent. It was a hot day and the morning sun had only served to bake the paint into the clear coat of his Beretta. 

Vernon didn’t cry, but as he leaned into his driver-side door panel with all the strength he could muster, he could feel the pressure behind his eyes. This was bullshit. He hadn’t done anything wrong to Christen. You hadn’t done a fucking thing wrong to anyone, and yet this small dick son of a bitch was lashing out like a child, going after the only other thing that Vernon loved. 

The part of town that Vernon lived in wasn’t like yours or honestly, even his closest friends. Most people avoided it because of the lack of amenities and not many people wanted to be seen in the low-income section of such a well-respected little town. Vernon was used to the sound of engines revving; there were always beater cars that sounded like they were on their last legs going up and down his street so when someone seemed like they were late to an appointment, Vernon didn’t give it a second thought. He kept his eyes forward, his brows tightly furrowed as he grumbled. 

Rolling his neck from side to side, Christen leaves his car door open and keeps his eye on the prize—Vernon Chwe with his head close to his stupid ass car as he scraped the truth written from it. He was surprised that he hadn’t heard him pull up; he hadn’t been subtle. Christen had left your house and hauled ass to get to this trailer park trash part of town and to take care of this. 

Pain runs through Vernon’s face and head when he meets the side of his car with a loud thud. He can hear a muffled voice through the pain and ringing in his ears; it only becomes clearer when a boot meets his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. “Stupid fucking freak. Couldn’t keep your hands off what doesn’t belong to you? I’ll fucking kill you.” 

Blinking up at Christen, Vernon groans in pain, his hands grabbing for the foot that kept meeting his bruised torso in an attempt to stop the blows. Christen was furious, but so was Vernon. Anger had already been rushing through his veins and now his adrenaline was in overdrive. “Get the fuck off’a me!” 

Vernon twists Christen’s foot hard, bringing the other man down to the ground with a loud, painful groan. Both try to make the next move, but Vernon is a second fast, letting him get in the first punch across Christen’s face. “You piece of shit! I was willin’ to let this go.” Vernon wasn’t lying; he had you. He had woken up and felt the best he had in a year. For the briefest of moments, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought about him, but as he felt Christen struggle under him, he knew he’d never know that peace with you again—not while he was breathing. 

Laughing, blood on his lips from Vernon’s fist making contact, Christen uses his fingers to dig into Vernon’s forearm muscle as he pushes against him. “I ain’t letting anything go, you perv. Thinkin’ you are high and mighty now that you got some pussy. ‘Specially some that don’t belong to you!” 

He was still laying claim to you. Not even Vernon would claim that you belonged to him after being with you. There was something about how Christen was talking about you, like you were an object, that made him bite through the pain of his grip long enough for him to get his footing. “She doesn’t belong to you! She hates you; don’t you fuckin’ get that, Christen?” 

That was more than Christen could stand to hear. He could manage a few weeks of letting you sit in your mistake, washing the freak off of you before he would touch you—but the idea that you hated him? That was insane; no one hated him. Except maybe Vernon, but that feeling was mutual. 

“She worships me, Vernon. Always fucking has.” Eyes like daggers follow Vernon as he stumbles backwards into his garage as Christen moves to his feet with a low groan. They were both exhausted, bruised, and bleeding—but this wasn’t over. Following Vernon, Christen points towards him as he wipes blood from his lips with his other hand. “Just cause you got her to put it out like a slut one time doesn’t mean a damn thing. You’re gonna pay for that and then you’re gonna get your ass out of her life.” 

A slut. That was enough to make Vernon scoff into a laugh, his hand steadying him on an open drawer of his tool chest. You weren’t a slut; you were the furthest thing a person could be from something like that. The fact that Christen of all people was calling you told Vernon everything he needed to know—he didn’t care about you at all. Christen had never cared about you, and if he didn’t care about you, then he didn’t matter. 

“Did you fucking hear me, freak?” 

Vernon takes a sharp breath, his fingers wrapping around the handle of the knife as his eyes follow Christen’s broad steps towards him. Without a second thought, Vernon sinks the knife into Christen’s stomach, watching the smug look on his face slowly fade away into confusion and then horror. 

Blood seeps around his hand as Vernon digs his free hand into Christen’s shoulder, preventing him from taking a step back until he allows it. Looking down at the knife, Venon feels his lips pull up in a slight smirk when Christen gasps in pain. 

“Vernon…” 

Vernon wasn’t sure he had ever heard Christen sound so pathetic and weak before as he pulled the knife from him, meeting his eyes. “I heard you. Can you hear this?” Christen gasps, a choking sound bubbling in his throat as blood seeps around his mouth when Vernon stabs the knife back into his stomach, deeper. The others Vernon had kept at a distance. He hadn't gotten his hands too dirty, but he would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he was enjoying watching the life drain out of Christen’s face. 

Wiping his hands, Vernon takes a deep breath, nodding at how much progress he had made on his car. Unless you knew what you were looking for, you couldn’t see where the words had been painted anymore, and if you looked in the garage, the only thing that would have told you that anything bad had happened was the smell of bleach. 

Vernon tosses the rag on to the table before putting a cigarette between his lips and looking at the back of Christen’s car. He wanted to get back to you. He had been gone for too long after promising he just had a couple things to do—of course that had been before some unexpected hiccups—but Vernon meant to keep his promise. 

Closing the truck, not giving a second look to the body rolled up in a tarp inside of it, Vernon lets out a deep breath of smoke before sliding behind the wheel of Christen’s car, feeling a wave of anxiety lifting off of him as he pushes his foot down on the gas. It was a nice car. He could tell that a lot of money had gone into keeping it up. For a second, Vernon pictures a time when he and Christen could have had a normal ass conversation about cars, but that’s short lived as he turns onto the secluded road leading to the lake. 

“Sweetie, are you sure you don’t want to go to the cemetery?” 

Sitting in the backseat of your father’s car, you shake your head, refusing to look up at either of them. You didn’t want to look your parents in the eye and tell them that you didn’t care enough to go to the cemetery and watch people cry over Christen for another hour. You had done plenty of that in the church while people had looked at you like you were going to shatter. You weren’t; Christen wasn’t what everyone thought he was to you, but it didn’t matter what you said or thought. 

You father sighs, starting to say something when your mother coos in sympathy. When you do glance up, you wish you hadn’t when you meet Christen’s mother’s eyes. She looked broken, and yet you could tell she was loving the attention that this was bringing her. It was sick. “We are so sorry for your loss—” 

“Y/N, darling… Ride with us in the limousine to the cemetery. It’s what Christen would want. He would want his girlfriend to be with his family, sweetheart. I know you are being modest, but you don’t have to be.” 

Being cut off, your mother shifts her eyes from you and back to the woman in front of you as you look off to the side. She had never seen you this way. You were like a sunflower in the middle of a field of daisies and today it was as if the sun wasn’t rising for you. Thinking back, it had been that way for a while for you; they just hadn’t wanted to see it. 

Shaking your head, you scratch at a bug bite on your arm, your lips rubbing together as you try to think of something nicer to say, but there was nothing you wanted to say that was kind or proper. “If you think that he’d want his girlfriend with his family, perhaps you should ask Caitlin to ride with you.” Avoiding the woman’s eyes, you look at your mother with a pleading look on your face as you reach for her hand and whine. “Mom, please… I just want to go home now.” 

With a grimace on her face, your mother nods at you before meeting Christen’s mother’s eyes and seeing the fire behind them. “She’s exhausted; she hasn’t been herself for days since this happened. Please forgive and excuse us.” 

You knew that not going to Christen’s funeral would be a big deal to some. There would be plenty of talk. There were plenty who—just like his mother—thought you were his girlfriend. They all thought this despite you giving no one—including Christen—any reason to think so. Perhaps there had been a time when you would have done the uncomfortable thing for appearance’s sake, but that girl was just as dead as Christen was. 

Looking out the back passenger’s side window, you had been doing a good job of blocking out most of the conversation until your father’s voice lowered. It only did that when there was something to hide—something important—and now you were listening carefully. “He was brutalized... They’ve put the entire town on curfew. I just—what do we even do? We can’t leave her like this.” 

Your parents were good at talking about you like you weren’t in the same room or car with them. They were good, decent people, but that didn’t make them excellent parents. None of that meant that when your mother had been nineteen years old and knocked up that she had actually wanted to marry your father and have you, and yet here you were—in the car, invisible but looming. 

"Well, we don’t actually have a choice. That school is going to cost more than our damn mortgage.” Glancing into her visor mirror, your mother makes sure you are still watching the side of the road as she tries to keep her voice calm and low. “If she even still wants to go—” 

“She’s going. I’ve put too much goddamn money up for it.” Gripping the steering wheel tightly, your father rolls his neck, feeling annoyance ripple through it. They enjoyed being the parents who went to barbeques and got to say their daughter was going to a notable university in the fall, but deep down your father resented it. You hadn’t played sports or been exceptional at your classes, so there were no scholarships; there was just mommy and daddy’s hard-earned money. 

“Then that means we have to go to Chicago. She’ll understand…” 

They were leaving again. You were used to it. You knew your parents worked hard but you had gotten good at raising yourself once you hit high school. At that age, you were old enough that your parents could take business trips and schmooze their bosses. It was harder to impress the higher-ups from a little desk behind a phone. It paid well to drink and rub elbows with the ones who mattered personally. 

“Y/N… baby?” Furrowing your brows at the sweet shift in the tone of your mother’s voice when she speaks at a volume meant for you to hear. You meet her eyes in the mirror and tilt your head as she gives you a small pout. “I know things have been hard, honey. You’re strong, you know that? My strong girl...” 

You knew what she was trying to do, and while you could appreciate the peptalk, you weren’t in the mood. Looking back towards the side of the road, you sigh, and your mother purses her lips. “There’s a curfew now. Everyone has to be in their houses at dark.” 

“I know, Mom. The sheriff told us at the memorial—” 

“I know he did. You also know that there is someone dangerous still on the loose, but Y/N…” Grimacing at the idea of what she needs to tell you after what she just said, your mother looks towards your father, feeling his hand slide over hers to give her a bit of courage. “You’re an adult now, and we have to trust you because we have a business trip. One that we can’t pass up.” 

You didn’t want or need their excuses so you just nodded along with her words. “Okay, mom. I’ll be alright.” 

Laying back on his bed, Vernon groans as he looks at the sun starting to set just over the horizon. He hated this curfew bullshit. As if the curfew would keep anything from happening to anyone... As if it would keep him from doing anything if it needed to be done. 

“Vernon, did—are you listening to me?” 

Your voice brings Vernon back to the present; he shifts the receiver on his shoulder and nods. “‘Course I am, baby. I’m just—I’m thinkin’.” 

Walking around your kitchen with the cordless phone against your ear, you sigh softly to Vernon’s words before opening the fridge to see what you could make yourself for dinner. “Yeah? And—so? What do you think? I don’t wanna be here all weekend by myself. Don’t you wanna, maybe... spend some time with me?” 

That’s all Vernon wanted to do. He could hear you moving around in your house, and he could picture himself there with you already. “You know I do. I just—don’t think I’d make it there by curfew. People didn’t wanna leave the matinee and—” Vernon could hear the disappointment in your sigh as you let out a deep breath. “I don’t want you mad at me.” 

Dragging a pan from under the stove, you shake your head and lie to him and yourself as tears collect on the rims of your eyes. “Not mad. I’ll be fine. I’m gonna cook something and watch TV. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” 

Vernon runs his hand over his face, a soft groan escaping his lips when you want to get off the phone with him. He knew you were lying. You might not be mad at him, but you weren’t thrilled either. After everything had happened with Christen, Vernon had taken a step back while still trying to be close. It was a strange feeling, trying to keep you safe without being so close that he was the issue. He wasn’t sure if someone would link him to something or not; he was smart and he had covered his bases, but he wanted to be sure before he got too close to you again. Yet now, hearing your soft breaths and knowing you were about to cry, Vernon knew he couldn’t keep it up. 

“No… I’ll be over soon. Let me pack a couple things and I’ll figure it out. I’ll—” Scoffing into a laugh, Vernon slides off his bed and towards his desk as he rubs the back of his neck. “Try not to get arrested on my way over.” 

You knew you should feel bad for pressuring Vernon into coming over, especially with how close it was to the curfew. There was probably less than ten minutes before it would go into effect, and his house was at least twenty minutes away on a good day. “Please don’t get arrested, and be safe. I—” Unspoken words had become part of yours and Vernon’s routine. You knew what you wanted to say—what you felt, but it all still seemed too early. 

Swallowing hard, Vernon closes his eyes and imagines the two other words leaving your mouth before he sighs. “I’ll be alright. See you soon.” 

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel out of nerves, Vernon watches every corner and dark area as he drives to your house. There were a few others out, but he watched them quickly pull into driveways and usher children or spouses inside their houses. He wasn’t so worried about them as he was about the possibility of a cop lingering around the next street. 

When your house comes into view, he finally breathes out a sigh of relief, pulling his car into your driveway and glancing at the houses closest to you. Everything was so quiet on your street. If there was anyone at your neighbor’s house, Vernon couldn’t tell. The house was completely dark and there were no cars in the driveway—the same went for the house across the street. Your house was like a lighthouse at a port. 

Pulling his bookbag over his shoulder, Vernon groans a bit at the soreness in his muscles. He was still bruised heavily; that had been another reason he had been avoiding you. He didn’t want you to see that he was hurt, and he didn’t want you to worry about something you couldn’t fix. He had already fixed it. 

Nerves roll through Vernon as he moves towards your front door and lifts his hand to knock. He just wanted to get inside and away from the street. He knew that if he got caught even outside of the house after curfew, the cops would have questions and he didn’t have all the right answers. Waiting a full minute, Vernon shifts uncomfortably and knocks again when he hears a loud crash from inside your house and raised voices. Something was wrong, and he wasn’t going to wait any more. 

“You don’t even fucking care! You didn’t go to the funeral, Y/N. You’re such a selfish bitch.” 

Staring at the broken glass of your mother’s vase on the hardwood floor, you shake your head as Caitlin’s voice breaks. You had been surprised when someone had knocked on your door earlier than expected. You thought that maybe Vernon had driven a bit too fast to make better time, but then you had been sorely mistaken when Caitlin had pushed her way past you and into your house wanting answers. 

“This is crazy. You need to calm down—” 

“Don’t you tell me to calm down! I’m so tired of being told to calm down.” Pacing in your kitchen, Caitlin laughs, the laugh causing a chill to run down your spine. It isn’t a sound you had ever heard your best friend make before because the laugh isn’t one of humor. It’s dark. “You never cared about him. That’s the fucked-up part. I loved him—like really loved him, and he wanted you!” 

Picking up a bowl from the kitchen island, Caitlin doesn’t even think before she throws it towards you, narrowly missing your head as you duck, letting it hit the wall instead. Ceramic shatters behind you as you scream her name, begging her to stop. “It’s not my fault! I didn’t—please? Stop this…” 

Vernon narrows his eyes as he moves down the dark hall towards the kitchen, just as Caitlin screams at you again. He had heard you scream and beg her to stop; he had heard more things breaking—all he wanted to do was get her away from you. 

“It is your fault! He was murdered, you bitch!” Moving towards you quickly, Caitlin lunges at you, barely missing you as you push past her and back towards the pot boiling on the stove with tears streaming down your face. With tears streaking her own face, Caitling straightens her back and wipes hard at her cheeks as she stares at you with disdain. “I think you did it or you know who did. Shit like this doesn’t happen here, Y/N! Christen wouldn’t let someone close enough to him—to do that to him. So… I think you did it and I’m—” 

Gritting his teeth hard, Vernon watches Caitlin’s eyes move to the knife on the counter before her hand does the same. Panic rushes through him as he tries to think of what to do next, knowing whatever she is going to do can’t happen. 

Your back pushed up against the stove; you feel the hot steam against your back as you sidestep towards the fridge looking for a way out. You search for a way to get away from Caitlin as you watch her weigh the weight of the knife in her hand before she looks back at you and then her face contorts with even more hatred. “Please... Put it down, Caitlin. You’re my best friend. Don’t do this.” 

Caitlin was barely looking at you now as Vernon stepped out of the hall and into the kitchen behind you, his eyes fixed on her. Now it all made sense. All the pieces were clicking in her mind and she was right. She didn’t need some dumbass cop to solve a murder when she was looking at the murderers right now. “You did it, didn’t you freak?” 

Shaking your head, you take a step back, jumping when you feel a warm hand on your shoulder. Glancing up at Vernon quickly, you look back at Caitlin to keep your eyes on her and the knife. “Caitlin—” 

“Shut the fuck up, Y/N! Are you blind? You know how much he hates us.” 

Vernon just sighs, his hand sliding along your arm as he tries to move you behind him and out of the way of danger, even if it means putting himself in the line of it. Caitlin laughs as she watches, the knife pointed in your direction, the tip falling slightly forward in her amusement at the sight and the look in your eyes. She wasn’t an idiot; she was the smartest person in the fucking room and she knew you were in love with the fucking loser standing in front of you. All the pieces fit together like one big fucked-up puzzle. 

“Oh, I’m sorry... How much he hates me. How much he hated Christen... He clearly doesn’t hate you and you are in love with the person who killed your friend.” Making a face, Caitlin looks like she’s going to be sick, her fingers tightening on the handle of the knife. “God, I can’t even look at you. You let him do it?” 

Shaking your head, you try to push past Vernon, feeling defensive of him when Caitlin tries to blame him for murder. It wasn’t that you hadn’t even considered it yourself in times of weakness—you wouldn’t even have blamed him—you just didn’t want her doing it. “Shut up! You don’t know anything, Caitlin! He hasn’t done anything wrong; it’s always been you!” 

Trying to keep a grip on your arm, Vernon says your name and winces when you accidentally push back against his ribs. Everything happens so quickly in front of him that even though he tries to be the first one to act, he watches it like a movie in front of him. 

Caitlin screams in anger, finally letting go of all of it that had been boiling in her blood as she sees red and storms forward with the knife. Her intention and eyes set on Vernon; she finds herself surprised and annoyed when your hand grabs her wrist, keeping it back from the man. Of course you would stop her; she had been so close—but at this point, in her mind, it was two birds, one stone. 

“Stupid bitch!” Caitling’s shrill voice cuts into your ears just as much as the knife as she slashes at your arms, the two of you falling on to the kitchen floor. The only thing you want to do is get the knife away from her—keep her from making anymore mistakes, but when you feel pain followed by warmth spreading along your stomach, your blood run’s cold. 

“Fuck… Fuck!” Pulling on Cailtin’s arm, Vernon panics when he hears the sound of a choking gurgling—the sound of someone swallowing their own blood. From where he is standing, all he can see at first is blood on the white tiles, and the last person with the knife in their hand had been Caitlin. With his heart in his throat, Vernon whispers your name like a prayer as he separates you from Caitlin, and his eyes fall to the knife, and your chest rises and falls in panic. 

Meeting Vernon’s eyes, you quickly look down at your hand and the blood running along your fingers before seeing the knife buried deep in Caitlin’s stomach near her ribs. “No… no, no, no!” Sobs fall from your lips as Vernon pulls you back against him, his arm wrapping around your waist as tears fall along your cheeks. 

He knew you were upset; you were panicking, but Vernon kept his head. Turning your arms over in his hands, he shakes his head and whines your name, seeing the cuts and deep gash near your wrist. “Baby… shh. Listen—stop! Listen to me.” Vernon didn’t want to yell at you, but you had started to struggle against him, your eyes moving over Caitlin’s lifeless body as blood seeped from her mouth and you wanted to do something to change it. “We— It’s time to go. We are going to wrap your arm and then…” 

Shaking your head, you sob his name, feeling him turn you in his arms as he reaches for a dishcloth, wrapping it around your wrist tightly. “Yes, Y/N. You did nothing wrong. It was self-defense, baby... But they won’t give a fuck, so—baby girl, we gotta go.” Holding your cheeks between his hands, Vernon meets your eyes, and tears run over his fingers as you try to understand what he’s telling you. “We are leaving.” 

It takes half an hour for you to pack a bag and to be settled in Vernon’s passenger’s seat. You try to make heads or tails about what is happening, what’s real, and what has to be a dream as you both sit in the darkness of the garage across the street, waiting for the right time. 

You had insisted on calling the cops. Vernon had wanted to leave right away, but you didn’t want to leave Cailtin alone in your kitchen like that. So now you were stuck watching as three police cars slammed on their breaks in front of your house, and each cop held their gun at the ready as they entered. 

When the call had been made, you had been crying, saying you and your boyfriend were hurt and that your friend had been hurt too. They asked if the person who had hurt you was still in the house and without needing to lie, you had looked at Caitlin and said yes. Vernon had watched you carefully, waiting for the right moment before he grabbed the phone out of your hands and threw it against the wall hard enough for it to break. He was smart, you realized then. You also realized you didn’t know him as well as you thought—there was a lot you needed to learn about the person you were now on the run with. 

“They found her.” Sighing, Vernon leans his head back as one of the cops comes out of the house with his hand over his mouth. Small town cops weren’t used to this much death; Vernon almost felt bad for him. “We can wait until they get the ambulance out here and day breaks—then we go.” 

Closing your eyes, you nod, feeling fresh tears rolling down your cheeks. This was the only place you knew, the only life you knew and it had just been taken from you so quickly. Fingers wrap around yours, and Vernon’s lips brush over your knuckles as he furrows his brows, watching you closely. You were falling apart, but he wasn’t going to lose any of the pieces. He’d put you back together, no matter how long it took and no matter how far he had to take you away from here to do it. 

“Me and you, Y/N, okay?” Meeting Vernon’s eyes, you nod again, seeing his lips pull up slightly as he kisses your knuckles. Silence is almost deafening in the car, as you watch red and blue lights move across Vernon’s face, his eyes searching yours before he finally speaks again. “I love you.” 

READ THE BONUS ON PATREON

© onlymingyus - all rights reserved. Reposting/modifying of any fic, or pieces of original writings posted on this blog is not allowed. Translations not allowed.

[mononijikayu]

to you 2,000... or... 20,000 years from now… — ryomen sukuna.

As they stand to leave, his gaze drifts to one of his portraits—a work that captures a moment from another time, another life. In it, the King of Curses sits beside his beloved concubine, her expression full of light and laughter, radiant in a way that suggests an unbreakable bond. Ryomen Sukuna pauses, his hand still entwined with hers, and a rare, gentle smile crosses his face. Looking at the painting, he lets himself hope, just a little. Perhaps, even in a world he once saw as cold and unyielding, there are threads of something beautiful woven into his story. Perhaps, even for someone like him, there could be a happy ending, one he’d never dared to imagine. He leans down and whispers softly, almost as if confessing a secret. “I like to think they found each other again, you know? That somehow… this time, they got to be happy.”

GENRE: alternate universe - reincarnation;

WARNING/S: post canon, future timeline, fluff, possible romance, getting together, mild angst, reincarnation, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, dreams and nightmares, distress, grief, feelings, physical touch, character death, moving on, flashback, humor, no curse future au, pining, light-hearted, happy ending, depiction of the future, depiction of reincarnation, depiction of letting go, depiction of flashback, depiction of getting together, depiction of depiction of character death, depiction of distress, depiction of grief, mention of character death, mention of the past, mention of letting go, mention of grief, reincarnated! sukuna, reincarnated concubine! reader;

WORDS: 15k words.

NOTE: this concludes the final part of the main story of the other woman. i'm genuinely grateful for you love and attention towards my story. this was never supposed to be a series, it was supposed to be a one off fic. but because of your love for concubine reader, i was inspired to bring more to her life.

as i promised, this is a happy ending. well, the happy end that i think would suit the story. of course, this is not the end of concubine reader's story. there will be drabbles of sukuna and concubine reader's life that i never managed to put out.

if you have any suggestion or questions about the story, you can drop some words down in the inbox!!! i'm very happy when you ask questions about the story or have suggestions of what you wanna see next!!! please do so everyone!!!

i hope you look forward to them!!! thank you for reading, thank you for your support and love. i'll continue to write for you all!!! i love you <3

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HE DOESN’T KNOW HOW HE’LL GET THROUGH THIS. He’d never felt like this before. What do his other artist friends call it? Oh, that’s right. A slump. An artist’s slump. Yeah, that’s what it’s called. He’s never had that before.

But why should he? Ryomen Sukuna was a protege. He was a stellar artist with a golden hand, one who never stops. The one who works as though he’s running out of time. It’s him. 

And yet, at that moment, he wasn’t.

Ryomen Sukuna had a problem.

He was stumped from hell and back.

And he doesn’t understand why.

A loud exhale releases from his mouth as he looks up at all the drying canvas in front of him in the various easels. They’re all beautiful, don’t get him wrong. But they’re all the same.

And that bothers Ryomen Sukuna as he purses his lips in a flat line. His own studio has become a homage to these paintings and sketches as of late. There was nothing else coming out of him. Nothing else was occupying his mind.

In the maze of half-finished canvases and dried paint of his studio, there were only those same eyes staring at him. He could feel it even now under the dim lighting casting long, wavering shadows across each and every tender gaze.

He couldn’t stand up anymore. He’s exhausted. He’s been up since god knows when. Everywhere there was paint. His hands are stained, his shirt splattered with colors that have long since dulled. It’s been weeks.

He doesn't know how to deal with this. How could he, when she finds him in every moment? How easy it was to be that way. He’s stopped keeping track of time, because time means nothing when all he can see, all he can paint, is her.

As of late, it was this that haunted him. It was the same as always. It was this woman with those kind eyes looking back at him. That same tender smile greeting him. That same beauty yearning towards him. Everything about the woman’s face consumes him. Everything that she is continues to follow him like a ghost, over and over. 

He can’t even pinpoint when it started. It just started happening out of nowhere. At one point there were normal dreams and soon enough, there were something else.

And as time passed by, there was nothing else left but her. Her beautiful smiling face looking at him. Every single time, she never fails to be warm towards him. As though she could feel him, as though she could see him.

She’s become more than a fixation; she’s an infection, seeping into every corner of his mind, haunting the hours he’s awake as much as those precious few where he drifts into a broken sleep.

She first appeared in his dreams like a fleeting whisper, but her image has grown, intensifying with each passing night, filling his dreams with a crescendo of color and dread. And over and over, it was repeating.

Like a piano key stuck on the board, playing over and over that same repetitive note. And yet, it was still lovely. It was still tender. And then suddenly, it wasn’t. That was the worst part of it all, he thinks. He captures the beauty of her and then suddenly, it just disappears. It goes. Almost like smoke. 

The dream is always the same every night. At first it was terrifying to him. He’d never seen anything like her before. He’d never seen what happened to her before, not to anyone. Not ever. But with her, it repeats.

That nightmare continues over and over again. And he hated it. He hated how he has memorized it. He has hated how it was all he could see over and over again. He hated how this was the fate that such a beautiful, kind woman had to meet.

That beautiful lady, she would stand there and smile at him. Often, she stands at the edge of a crumbling cliff, the ocean roiling and dark beneath her, waves crashing against jagged rocks far below.

She turns, her eyes fixed on him, lips curling into a smile that might be tender, might be mocking, it shifts each time, eluding any attempt to decipher it.

She extends a hand, beckoning, imploring him to come closer. His heart races, his feet propel him forward, but just as he reaches for her, she slips, and he’s left grasping at nothing but empty air.

Again and again, he tries to save her. Again and again, she falls.

The dream wakes him in a cold sweat, heart pounding, breath shallow. He stumbles to his studio, and without thinking, he begins to paint. Her face materializes with each stroke, her eyes holding secrets he can’t unlock.

Her smile flickering with a mystery that tightens his chest. He paints her until his fingers go numb, until his eyes blur from exhaustion. He paints her even when he’s on the verge of madness. And he hates it—hates her—but he’s powerless to stop.

The people around him have noticed the shift, though they don’t understand it. They speak of his new works with reverence, captivated by the haunting beauty of the unknown woman he’s made famous.

But they don’t see the toll she takes on him. They don’t see the shadow of sleeplessness etched into his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the wild desperation lurking just beneath his cool exterior.

Every time he tries to paint something else. Absolutely anything else, it does not work. Not anymore. He would feel his hands freeze, his mind goes blank, and all he can see is her smile.

She’s everywhere, a ghost in his waking hours, her gaze piercing through every wall he builds to keep her out. The thrill of creation is gone; all that remains is the raw compulsion to recreate her face, an act that feels more like exorcism than art.

Ryomen Sukuna slumps back into his chair, eyes trained on the painting before him, hands limp and smeared with shades of red and soft violet. Her face, the delicate arch of her brows, the smirk teasing at her lips. All of it stares back at him, alive, taunting. 

It’s as though she’s watching him, laughing softly at his obsession, fully aware of the hold she has over him. The painted eyes seem to flicker, and in his exhaustion, Sukuna wonders if he’s the one painting her, or if she’s the one reaching through the canvas, carving her image into his mind with a precision that leaves him helpless.

“Damn it. This is so annoying.” he mutters, his voice echoing hollowly in the quiet room. He reaches for his brush, the movement automatic, but his hand falters, dropping it back onto the table as he releases a frustrated sigh. 

The curse feels weak, a pitiful attempt to regain some control, but he knows it’s useless. She’s an endless riddle, one he’s compelled to solve yet doomed to never fully understand.

No matter how many times he paints her, he can’t capture her—not completely. The harder he tries, the more elusive she becomes, as though she’s slipping through his fingers, mocking his every attempt.

He sits there, shoulders slouched, the steady tick of the clock filling the empty space around him. Hours blur into each other, and yet he can’t bring himself to look away, his gaze locked on her face, that faint smile hinting at secrets she will never share.

And then, just as the clock strikes midnight, he hears it. That tender voice giving him grief. That warm voice turning him cold. That voice echoed that whisper, soft as a breeze, calling his name.

“My lord…..my lord Sukuna.”

He closes his eyes, the sound reverberating through him, familiar and yet so distant. She’s there, in his mind, like an echo carried across lifetimes, the warmth of her voice stirring something deep inside.

He knows it’s a dream, an illusion conjured by his own obsession, but he doesn’t care. For a brief moment, he lets himself lean into it, lets her voice wash over him like a balm.

“My lord, my beloved lord Sukuna…” Her voice is softer this time, coaxing, filled with a strange tenderness that he’s certain only exists in his imagination. He can almost feel her fingers trailing along his cheek, the faintest touch, leaving warmth in their wake.

“What do you want from me?” he murmurs, his voice a weary plea, barely audible, as if afraid to break the fragile spell she’s cast over him. “You’re there every night, haunting me, making me see you even when I close my eyes. But what do you want?”

In his mind, her laughter echoes, soft and familiar, as if she’s toying with him. “You know what I want, my lord Sukuna. You’ve always known.”

He clenches his fists, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “Then tell me, damn it. Tell me what I need to do to set you free.”

“Set me free?” she repeats, and there’s a hint of amusement in her voice, as if the very idea amuses her. “Oh, my lord Sukuna… it’s not me who needs freeing.”

His breath hitches, her words cutting through him like a blade. The realization settles over him like a heavy weight, and he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that she’s right.

She isn’t the one trapped here—he is. Bound by his own memories, his own regrets, unable to let go of the past that has woven her image into every part of him.

He opens his eyes, staring at the canvas again, her face seeming to shift. It was almost ever so easy for her to taunt him like that, to tease him. Everything about her gave him that feeling that overwhelms him. Feelings that he's never felt in his entire life.

He could feel her eyes glinting with a knowing look that sends a shiver down his spine. He reaches for the brush, hand trembling as he adds another stroke, trying to bring her into focus, to finally capture the essence of her that has haunted him. But no matter what he does, he can’t reach her, can’t grasp the fleeting vision that seems to dance just beyond his reach.

“I’ll keep painting you. I swear.” he whispers, his voice raw, laced with something close to desperation. “Every night, every dream, until you’re satisfied. Until you let me go.”

But he knows, even as the words leave his lips, that she won’t; she’ll never truly leave. She’ll linger there, a silent muse, a relentless force guiding his hand, embedding herself deeper with every brushstroke.

And he, trapped in this beautiful, maddening cycle, will keep painting her face, night after night, each canvas only revealing a fragment of her and yet never enough.

The clock ticks on, marking the hours that slip away in her wake, but he’s long since stopped noticing. She’s there, in every line, every shadow, every flicker of light on the canvas.

She’s his prison, his muse, his madness—and he knows, even as he tries to break free, that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

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BY THIS POINT, HE WOULD HAVE BEEN FINISHED WITH HIS COLLECTION. Usually, Ryomen Sukuna finishes his pieces weeks ahead, leaving everyone else; especially Gojo Satoru—scrambling to catch up. Well, perhaps because he usually doesn’t work until he stops messing about. 

Still, the rivalry is a running joke among their peers. Gojo Satoru  would tease him endlessly, his voice loud and mocking. “The world might as well end if you didn’t finish first, Ryomen Sukuna. I’d have to check if hell froze over.”

Gojo Satoru would say with that infuriating grin, and Sukuna would just roll his scarlet eyes, barely dignifying it with a response. He didn’t need to—he’d simply outdo him, his work claiming the prime spot at the National Gallery, cycle after cycle. That’s just how it works for them.

But now, as the days tick by and his canvas remains trapped in this maddening loop, the weight of that old joke feels heavier. Maybe it would be better if the world did end, he muses grimly, his frustration boiling under the surface. Each day that he fails to paint anything else, fails to break free from this woman’s image—drains him. 

Every line, every shadow, every detail is etched with painstaking care, and yet each piece feels incomplete. He lets out a heavy sigh, his eyes narrowing as he looks once more at the canvas, the same haunting face staring back.

Another artist would leave the piece for a day, perhaps even a week, and come back with fresh eyes. But not Sukuna. He’s stubborn, relentless. Yet this time, it feels as though he’s been bested, and that thought is infuriating.

A soft knock sounds at the studio door, but he doesn’t respond. The door creaks open, and he doesn’t need to look up to know who it is—he can practically feel Gojo Satoru’s grin from across the room. This was a rare visit from his rival and somewhat friend. But, he already regrets giving him his address.

“Not done yet?” Gojo drawls, strolling in with a lazy confidence, hands shoved into his pockets. “Well, this must be it—the end of the world. Should I start making apocalypse preparations?”

“Leave, Satoru.” Sukuna mutters, his voice a low growl. But Gojo just chuckles, unperturbed.

“Can’t. I live wayyyyyy tooo far. Besides, I came all this way to see the fall of the great Ryomen Sukuna. And boy, is it a sight.” Gojo steps closer, his gaze shifting to the canvas. “Her again, huh? Your mystery woman? I thought you were done with her!”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens. “Say another word, and you’ll be painting with your own blood.”

Gojo just laughs, crossing his arms as he leans back against the wall. “Fine, fine. But it’s… interesting, don’t you think? You, stuck on the same image, over and over. And all of this because of one woman.”

Sukuna can feel his patience fraying, each word from Gojo Satoru like sandpaper on a wound that refuses to heal. But Gojo doesn’t stop, his tone shifting from mocking to genuinely curious. It’s already giving him a headache.

“So, bestie……” he says, a glint in his bright blue eyes. “Who is she? A muse? Some long-lost love? Because whatever it is, you’re about to drive yourself mad over her.”

“She’s nothing.” Sukuna says sharply, but the words lack conviction. He doesn’t want to dive into it. Especially for Gojo Satoru. He’d only try to make it all a joke and laugh about it. “Just a woman. Just a damn face that refuses to disappear.”

Gojo Satoru couldn’t help but arch an eyebrow. “Nothing? Could’ve fooled me, seeing as she’s all you’ve painted for weeks. Either she’s ‘just a woman,’ or she’s haunting you.”

Sukuna clenches his fists, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I can’t… get her out of my head, no matter how many times I try. It’s like she’s taunting me. Every stroke feels like a chase, and I can’t catch her.”

For once, Gojo’s grin fades, a shadow of understanding passing over his face. “So that’s it, huh? You’ve finally found a challenge you can’t conquer. Even after all these years.”

Sukuna scowls, eyes narrowing. “It’s not a challenge. It’s… more than that.” His voice trails off as he glances at the painting, his expression a mixture of longing and frustration.

“Then stop,” Gojo says bluntly. “If she’s driving you insane, stop trying to capture her. Paint something else. Anything else. Get back to your work, to the craft that’s kept you sane all this time.”

But Sukuna only shakes his head, his gaze fixed on the canvas. “It’s not that simple, Satoru. I can’t stop. I need to understand… Why is she here? Why does she keep coming back to me?”

Gojo sighs, running a hand through his bright snow colored hair, clearly torn between amusement and pity. “Well, I can’t say I envy you. But maybe you should try looking beyond the canvas, for once.”

Sukuna scoffs, though a hint of doubt creeps into his expression. “You think there’s anything outside this room that could give me answers?”

Gojo shrugs. “Who knows? Sometimes the answers we need are the ones we’re not looking for. But if this is what’s keeping you chained…” he nods towards the door, his voice lowering, “then maybe it’s time to find out why.”

Ryomen Sukuna says nothing, his gaze flicking between Gojo and the woman’s face on the canvas. And as Gojo slips out the door with a knowing smile, Sukuna feels the weight of his words lingering, as if daring him to break free of the chains he’s crafted for himself.

Gojo Satoru stayed in his studio for a while; the entire time his head hurt. But he couldn’t help admitting that his frustration was put on hold and that he was grateful for it. Annoying as he was, it was better than suffering what he had been suffering with the woman that haunts him.

But when Gojo Satoru leaves, he finds himself unable to leave either. From the night before, he hadn’t really found himself to sleep. But if he was still being honest, he really doesn’t think he made any progress from the ones he had already made  that he feels happy about.

Well, except perhaps three more additions to his deluded dreams of this woman. He couldn’t stop with that. That was not something he could enjoy. It didn’t look good. He didn’t think it was the best he had ever done. He looks at his canvas again and squints his eyes. It was as though he was hoping that he had painted something else. But he knew he hadn’t. There was no need to double check. 

Okay, well, he should be more honest — it’s four now. This is the fourth one. The fourth one for a while and it’s only past lunch time the next day.  Wait, is it really lunch time? He looked around again and saw his clock. His mouth agape in shock. It’s already been a whole day? It’s already the blue hour? What the actual fuck is going on?

He groans as he puts down his paintbrush and covers his face with his hands. A loud groan echoes against his skin, reflecting that bitterness he feels. He was going mad, he’s genuinely sure that he’s really going mad. This time for real. The world is ending and he’s going mad.

Once more, Ryomen Sukuna sits slumped in his studio chair, the dim, cold light from the nearby cityscape casting a pallor over his face. How can this be possible? He's rubbing his temples, staring at yet another drying and yet truly unfinished portrait of her when a familiar voice cuts through his brooding. Ryomen Sukuna turned his back and turned it back once more, just as quickly.

Fuck, its Uraume.

Shit, shit. Is it already that time?

He hasn’t messaged them for two days.

How the fuck is he going to survive—

“Sukuna–san, you have the exhibition in two weeks, you know that!” Uraume reminds him, waking over with their tone both gentle and insistent. They’re standing at the edge of the cluttered studio, arms crossed, their eyes flicking between Sukuna and the growing stack of canvases lining the walls. “Everyone’s expecting new work, Sukuna–san. You can’t just say you aren’t producing anything when this is—”

He cuts them off with a frustrated wave of his hand, as if trying to dismiss both them and the exhibition out of his mind. “I know, I know, Uraume–san. You already know that I know. Don’t you think I know? I just…… What’s the point of even going here? It’s not…it’s not finished—nothing is complete.” 

���That’s not what you’re supposed to be telling me—”

“I know, I know.” His voice trails off, heavy with exhaustion. He looks at the half-finished canvas before him, her familiar eyes staring back, mocking him. “Look, I need time. Okay? Just a little more time to get over it. I promise. It will be done soon.”

Uraume steps carefully, sidestepping the mess of brushes, scattered paint, and half-finished canvases that litter the studio floor. Their usual calm is tinged with a hint of bewilderment, their brows furrowing as they glance over at Ryomen Sukuna, who sits slouched in his chair, staring blankly at the portrait before him. 

This is the first time they’ve seen him like this—so unfocused, so… lost. It’s unnerving. For as long as they’ve known him, Sukuna was always in control, his power and his confidence absolute. Nothing stumped him; nothing could shake him from his single-minded determination.

And yet, here he is, surrounded by portraits of a woman they’ve never met, trapped in a spiral of obsession that they don’t understand.

“Get over what, exactly?” Uraume asks, a soft but firm edge to their voice, breaking the silence that has grown heavy in the room. “The exhibition is practically sold out already. You are the star of this show—you know that.” 

They hesitate, crossing their arms as they study his profile. “If you let yourself slip now, you’re going to lose everything. They expect something… groundbreaking, something other than…”

Their voice trails off as they catch sight of another painting, and then another; all of them of her. Each one shows a different expression, a different tilt of her head, a different light in her eyes, but always the same haunting face. Uraume’s gaze lingers on the latest painting, her smirk, subtle yet all-consuming, as if she’s daring anyone who looks at her to understand.

They shake their heads slowly, exhaling in frustration. “This obsession of yours…” They struggle for the right words, their gaze hardening as they glance back at him. “I don’t understand it. Who is she? And why are you letting her control you like this?”

Sukuna looks up, his expression weary, but there’s a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, a glint that only appears when he’s truly challenged. “You wouldn’t understand, Uraume–san.” he mutters, his voice low, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “No one would. Not unless you felt what she did to me.”

Uraume raises a brow, taken aback. This isn’t like him—this vulnerability, this almost painful honesty. They’ve seen Sukuna bring cities to their knees, watched him command fear and respect with the simplest look, but now? Now, he looks more like a man haunted than a man in control. 

“Then tell me, Sukuna–san.” Uraume says, their voice softening slightly, more curious than before. “What is it about her? Why does she matter so much?”

He leans back, a bitter smile crossing his lips. “It’s like… no matter how many times I paint her, she’s always out of reach, Uraume–san.” he says, his eyes flicking to the painting in front of him, the smirk that never changes. “Every stroke, every color—it’s as if she’s taunting me, daring me to try again, knowing I’ll never capture her.”

There’s a pause, the weight of his words settling between them, thick and tangible. Uraume takes a step back, their expression wavering. They’re used to seeing Sukuna drive toward a goal with relentless force, breaking anything that stands in his way. But this? This is something else. Something they can’t touch.

“Is she worth all this?” Uraume asks, more gently than they intended. “Worth losing your edge, your control?” They gesture to the canvases around them. “If she’s haunting you this much, perhaps it’s time to let her go.”

A dark laugh escapes Sukuna, low and humorless. “Let her go?” he repeats, his gaze still fixed on the painting. “I’ve tried, Uraume–san. But she’s there, every time I close my eyes. And I can’t…” He stops himself, the words caught in his throat. “She won’t let me go.”

Uraume watches him, feeling a pang of something they can’t quite name—pity, perhaps, or fear for what this fixation could mean for him. They take a step forward, daring to place a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’re stronger than this, Sukuna–san.” they say softly, but firmly. “Whatever hold she has over you, it doesn’t control you. You’re the one in charge here, remember?”

For a moment, Sukuna seems to consider their words, a flicker of clarity in his eyes. But then he glances back at the canvas, at her knowing smile, and his face hardens, as if he’s resigned to the fact that he’s already lost.

“I thought so too, Uraume–san.” he murmurs, barely loud enough for Uraume to hear. “But I’m beginning to wonder… maybe she’s the one painting me.”

Uraume watches him in silence, feeling the cold truth of his words settle between them. They realize, in that moment, that they may be witnessing the unraveling of the man they thought was unbreakable. And for the first time, they wonder if he can even escape from the shadows of his own creation.

Sukuna follows their gaze, feeling a surge of irritation and helplessness. “It’s not that simple, Uraume–san. God, it’s just….” he mutters, running a hand through his messy fuschia hair, which is starting to look as unruly as he feels.

“She’s—she’s everywhere to me. And maybe that’s why she’s always here. Every time I try to start something else, there she is. Like a bad dream I can’t wake up from.” 

He glances at Uraume, searching their face for some flicker of understanding. “Don’t you get it? I need to work through this. You can’t just snap your fingers and make it go away. If I had magic, it would have been fine, but I just….”

“Then maybe make her part of it.” Uraume replies, unphased by his frustration. “People will want to see this obsession—whatever it is. But they won’t be satisfied with half-finished canvases of the same face over and over.”

He stands up abruptly, pacing, as if movement will shake off the weight pressing down on him. “It’s not an obsession,” he says, though the words sound hollow, even to him. “I just need… time. To figure this out. To move past her.”

Uraume watches him with a calm patience that only irritates him further. “You’ve had time, Sukuna-san. And every day, I’ve watched you do nothing but chase shadows.” They gesture to the rows of unfinished canvases, the dozens of faces that all share her haunting expression.

“Maybe you don’t need to get past her. Maybe you need to go deeper, to figure out what she’s trying to tell you.”

Sukuna clenches his jaw, feeling the heat rise in his chest. He hates that Uraume, of all people, might be right. But how could he go deeper when she’s already consuming him? They should know that this is not what he needs right now. He needs support about this trying situation. He needs kindness about this. He needs—

He turns his eyes slightly and soon enough, they land on the first portrait he’s drawn of her. It was rough around the edges, it was true. But he was trying really hard to capture what he had found in her. He thought he would never see her again. That first time, it was all too interesting. Because he thought he would never see her again. And her smile would have been everything even that one time. 

That once would have been enough, it would have fulfilled him whole enough. That one portrait, that first one — it would have been enough for Ryomen Sukuna to feel like someone was always going to look at him kindly. 

That someone would always look at him with such tender eyes. He purses his lips in a line. Here she was. Once again, staring into his soul. Frozen in time. Looking towards him as though he was the world. As though life can only be known through looking at him. He gulped.

“I’ll figure it out, don’t worry.” he says finally, forcing his voice to steady. “Just… let me handle it my way.”

Uraume sighs, a long, exasperated sound. “Fine. But remember, Sukuna–san, time waits for no one. Especially not for you.” 

And with that, they turn, leaving him alone once more in his dimly lit prison, with nothing but her face and the ticking of the clock to keep him company. Ryomen Sukuna could not move anymore for a while. He couldn’t. Not when you were looking at him like that.

The echoes of the night pangs into the slumber of the bright starry sky, and the silence in Ryomen Sukuna’s studio is absolute, broken only by the occasional soft creak of his chair or the quiet scratch of his brush against the canvas. And he despises it. Usually, he would be happy about that. It helps him focus on his work. 

Yet, he’s almost afraid to move or make more noise or appease the silence with his enjoyment. Ryomen Sukuna was afraid that if he does, he’ll break the spell that’s settled over him, the fragile connection that’s come alive between him and her.

This ghostly woman, this chasing woman who has rooted herself so deeply in his psyche. He knows she’s not real, and yet every inch of him feels as if she’s in the room with him, closer than a shadow, more vivid than any memory.

The woman on the canvas feels different this time. He’s pushed past the limits of his frustration and reached a depth of expression that feels raw, unnerving. Her face, no longer a series of lifeless shapes and colors, seems to breathe on the canvas. 

Her smile is softer now, her eyes almost… knowing. But the knowing isn’t comforting; it unsettles him, strikes some primal nerve deep inside. He steps back, shaking his head as if to clear it, to dispel the irrational thought that she’s looking back at him with intent, with purpose.

But even standing back, even half-closing his eyes, he can’t unsee her. She seems more real than ever before, like he’s peeled away another layer, only to find her hiding deeper within. He feels his heart beat faster, a slow wave of dread creeping into his veins. How can a face he created himself feel so alive? So sentient?

He backs away from the canvas, his hands covered in paint, feeling a chill settle over him. He’s been pushing himself to exhaustion these past few weeks, painting her in every possible way, but this—this feels different, like he’s crossed an invisible line. For the first time, the compulsion to paint her is laced with fear.

Still, he can’t look away. Her presence fills the room, and he feels the weight of it like a physical force. His eyes roam over her face: the faint shadows around her eyes, the suggestion of pain hidden in the tilt of her lips, the look of sorrow mingling with defiance. Each detail tells a story he’s not sure he wants to know, yet he’s desperate to understand it.

Uraume’s words echo in his mind again: Maybe you don’t need to get past her. Maybe you need to go deeper, to figure out what she’s trying to tell you.

He shudders, the thought reverberating through him. What if this woman, this apparition, isn’t just an accident of his imagination? What if she’s here for a reason, some purpose he’s been too afraid to uncover?

He recalls the dreams—the cliff, the ocean raging below, the way she extends her hand to him with that haunting smile, beckoning him forward only to disappear again and again. It’s always the same. He can’t save her, but he can’t let her go.

He’s always believed that his art comes from somewhere deep within him, from emotions he doesn’t fully understand, from memories he can’t articulate. But this feels different to him. He had never dealt with this before. 

It was almost as if it’s coming from outside of him, as though she’s reaching through the boundary of his mind, using his hands as a conduit. He lets out a shaky breath, clutching the paint-stained edge of his workbench. Is this woman, this image, an echo from his past? A ghost? Or something darker, something he’s unlocked without meaning to?

The thought stirs something in him, a strange, unexplainable pull to keep going, to lose himself in this process of bringing her fully to life. He walks back to the canvas, hand trembling as he picks up his brush once more.

This time, he paints her hand, reaching out, as if extending toward him. The fingers are delicate, almost ghostly, and he layers shadows beneath them, giving them depth, weight. He works until the details blur, until his vision is smeared with exhaustion.

He steps back again, chest tight. Her hand stretches toward him now, inviting him, her fingers just a breath away. The air in the room feels thick, electric, as if she’s drawing him closer, beckoning him to cross some unseen line. He reaches out instinctively, the tips of his fingers barely brushing the canvas.

In that instant, a shiver courses through him, the chill going bone-deep. He feels his hand pull back, but it’s as if something is holding it there, holding him in place. His heart races. He hears the ticking of the clock, each tick louder, more insistent. The woman on the canvas seems closer now, her eyes sharper, more alive, her expression shifting as though she’s on the edge of speaking.

He tears his hand away, stumbling backward, the sudden movement jarring him back to himself. His studio comes into focus, the familiar mess of paint and brushes scattered around, the quiet hum of the city outside. But she’s still there, her face on the canvas, watching him with that faint, knowing smile.

His heart still pounding, he grabs his coat and stumbles out of the studio, leaving her behind, feeling her gaze burning into his back even as he shuts the door. The air outside is cold, crisp, and he gulps it down, trying to shake off the feeling that he’s walked out of a nightmare he can’t wake from.

But even as he steps into the city streets, even as the lights and the noise surround him, he can still see her in his mind, as clearly as if she were standing beside him.

And he knows, with a strange certainty, that no matter how far he runs, she’ll be waiting for him, waiting in the studio, in his dreams, until he finally dares to confront whatever truth she holds.

══════════════════

HE REALLY CAN’T HELP IT. Ryomen Sukuna’s heart hammers in his chest, louder than the muffled hum of voices in the museum, louder than the memories raging through his mind. He stands frozen, his scarlet eyes locked onto her.

This was the woman from his dreams, the face he painted until his hands went numb, until his sanity frayed. The woman he has known is like the back of his hand. She’s here, in the flesh, not on a canvas or a hazy memory, but real, close enough to reach out and touch. And yet, at this moment, she feels farther away than ever.

The woman doesn’t notice him. Of course she wouldn’t have. Why would she? He doesn’t expect her to know what he’s feeling now. She’s oblivious to the storm her presence has unleashed in his chest, the way his pulse spikes as he watches her, every nerve in his body caught between reaching for her and running away. 

She’s gazing intently at the displays, her head tilting thoughtfully as she studies each artifact, and with each subtle movement, she reminds him achingly of her—of the woman he’d known in that past life, his concubine, the one he’d lost so long ago. She has that same air of quiet intensity, that gentle focus, the same soft curiosity he remembers.

And then she steps closer to the display holding the hairpin. That hairpin—the one he’d given to his concubine as a symbol of the promise he couldn’t keep, the one she had treasured even on the darkest nights, when the weight of their hidden love had pressed heavy upon them both. The hairpin he’d clasped in her hair before she was taken from him.

The sight of it had been a punch to the gut even before he saw her. But now, watching this woman—a stranger, yet painfully familiar—reach out as though to touch the glass, Sukuna feels something crack open inside him, a wound he’d buried lifetimes ago tearing fresh and raw.

She lifts her hand, her fingers hovering near the glass, her eyes lingering on the hairpin with a look he recognizes—sadness, longing, nostalgia she can’t possibly understand.

Her face is calm, her expression serene, but he knows that look, knows that feeling. Does she feel it too? Does she feel the echo of something lost, something distant yet so deeply embedded in her soul?

His own hand trembles at his side. He wants to go to her, to pull her aside, to demand to know if she remembers, if somewhere in her heart she feels that same aching void he’s carried for centuries. But the reality sinks in, cold and unyielding: to her, he’s a stranger. 

She has no idea who he is. She doesn’t remember their stolen moments under moonlight, their whispered vows, the quiet, forbidden love that had bound them tighter than any promise. She doesn’t remember his face, doesn’t know the agony he’s endured, living each lifetime haunted by her ghost, painting her face in the desperate hope it might bring her back.

And yet, the hairpin calls to her. He watches her, rooted to the spot, as she studies it with a reverence she can’t name, can’t explain, an inexplicable connection to something lost to time. He can almost see the weight of her past life hovering over her like a shadow she doesn’t even know is there.

Sukuna’s fingers twitch, aching to touch her, to break this unbearable silence and tell her everything: that he’s waited lifetimes for her, that he’s dreamed of her every night, that every stroke of his brush was a desperate attempt to remember her, to reach her, to feel even an echo of what they once had. But how could he explain that? How could he unload centuries of grief, of longing, on her shoulders, when she doesn’t even know his name?

She turns, moving slowly to the next display. But for a single heartbeat, her gaze drifts in his direction. Their eyes meet, and in that split second, the air thickens, everything around him falling away. Her eyes—those same eyes, dark and deep, full of questions and secrets—fix on him, and he feels the weight of their shared history settle like a heavy cloak over them both.

He watches as something flickers in her gaze, an almost imperceptible flash of recognition. She blinks, and it’s gone, but he clings to it, desperate. Did she feel it, even if only for a moment? Did she feel the weight of a life before, a life they shared, a love they lost?

But she turns away, her brows furrowing slightly, as if shaking off a strange thought, and the moment shatters, leaving him stranded in a sea of regret and unspoken words. She disappears around the corner, her silhouette swallowed by the shadows of the exhibit.

A bitter pang cuts through him, deeper than anything he’s felt in centuries. She’s here, alive, within his reach, and yet she’s still lost to him. He’s still haunted by the echo of her smile, the shadow of her memory, the woman he could never save.

Slowly, Ryomen Sukuna forces himself to step away, his gaze lingering on the hairpin. He clenches his fists, feeling the familiar sting of regret, of promises broken, of lives tangled and torn apart.

He’d thought he was prepared to face her, though he could handle the pain that would come with seeing her again. But the reality is raw and relentless, tearing open old wounds he thought were healed.

In that moment, he was the only one who knew the truth: he’ll always be trapped in this cycle, drawn to her only to watch her slip away. No matter how many times he finds her, she’ll always be just out of reach, a dream he can never wake from.

Ryomen Sukuna’s heart nearly stops when he feels a soft hand on his arm, drawing him back to the present. His present. In front of this woman, this woman who haunted him with everything and anything in him.

“Are you… okay?” the woman asks, her voice gentle, her eyes warm with concern.

He’s stunned, his breath catching as he looks down at her, the stranger with the face he’s known all too well, the stranger who feels like a ghost comes to life. But he forces himself to gather his thoughts, to act like this is a normal interaction with a stranger, even though every nerve in his body feels charged with recognition.

“Ah… yes, I’m….I’m good.” he finally says, his voice rough but steady. “I just find the gallery… interesting.” The words feel absurdly inadequate, but it’s the only thing he can manage.

A small smile breaks over her lips, and the sight of it sends a sharp pang through him. It’s so familiar, so achingly familiar, that he has to clench his fists to keep himself grounded. She glances around the exhibit, her expression softening with a hint of pride.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, stranger.” she says. “It was… hard to tell the story. To do it justice, I mean.” Her gaze returns to his, warm and inviting. “I’m a Mikoto, by the way. A descendant of Hiromi.”

He feels his heart stop at the name, and it takes him a beat to respond. “Ryomen… Ryomen Sukuna, that’s my name.” he says, his voice catching slightly as he introduces himself. 

He could only watch as her eyes widened in surprise, and she studied him, the weight of recognition glinting faintly in her gaze, though she didn't seem to realize its true depth. She probably did not expect him to have that name, that exact name, also.

“A descendant of Hiromi, too?” she asks with a soft laugh, her expression open, friendly. When he doesn’t answer, she shakes her head with a lighthearted smile. “It’s okay. The family’s too big for everyone to know where they come from anyway.”

He nods stiffly, a bit overwhelmed, struggling to keep his composure as memories flicker before him. There’s so much he wants to say, so much he aches to tell her, but he swallows it all down, letting the silence sit between them, as heavy as it is fragile.

Then, gathering his nerve, he glances at her. “Can I… can I ask you something about the exhibit? About Ryomen Sukuna?”

She tilts her head, curious. “Of course, you can.” she says. “But fair warning—it’s going to be a long story. A sad story.”

He meets her gaze, and in that moment, he sees a flicker of recognition in her eyes, something deep and familiar that calls to him. He nods. “That’s okay.” he says softly. “I think I need to hear it.”

She studies him a moment, as if trying to understand his need to know. Judging from her own reaction, it's a difficult story to even try and tell. But he was curious. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he wanted to know so badly.

He wanted to know more than anything how these two people lived. How she lived, that woman in his dreams — the woman right in front of him. He looks at her tenderly, curiously. And she nods, a quiet understanding in her expression. 

“Ryomen Sukuna… and his concubine. Their stories are really not easy. Nor is her own. His concubine’s story is difficult. She led a long, sad life. They were together for a long time, longer than Sukuna and Hiromi were wed.” Her eyes lowered, the sight gleaming with sorrow as she touched the glass, trying to reach for the hairpin. 

“She was devoted to him, in all the ways that one could describe devotion. And yet….she suffered under him… Quite a lot, if we’re to be honest. She gave him a son and she lost him and his indifference at times, it broke her.” She hesitates, glancing at him before continuing. “Though in his own way, he loved her. But well, was it enough? We cannot truly tell. From what we know from Ryomen Chiharu, she died without knowing. But perhaps, those are claims.”

The words pierce him like a knife. Hearing it from her lips, from her gentle voice, makes it all feel too real. The bitterness, the heartbreak, the weight of it all surges within him, yet he can’t look away from her. Is that what she has had to live through all that time? Was it only the heartbreak she had lived through? In that past life, in her past life — was it just grief born out of more, one after the other? Is that why she kept falling to her death? Suffering in all that pain? 

“If he had loved her then….” Sukuna could feel some sense of anger bubble through him. “Why is it not ever clear, his feelings? If you love someone, you….you tell them! You make them know when they’re alive. Not when they’re gone! What kind of man is he? Is he even a man at that point? That’s cruel….That’s…..”

In that moment, her eyes turned wide as she gazed at him. She had seen people get angry on behalf of the long suffering concubine of the King of Curses. That was normal, to feel anguish on her behalf. And yet, this mayhaps is the first time he’s ever seen someone so infuriated. And aggrieved. And bitter. Truly, in the sense of the word. Her heart felt warm about that. 

She smiles softly at him and places her hand on his own. “You know….he still did care. Even if he was a terrible man. In some ways.”

“Even then—”

“Come with me, stranger!” she says, her voice soft as she takes his hand, her touch sending an electric shock through him. She leads him to a long table draped in dark fabric, a single scroll lying open at the center. It was a magnificent piece of work.

In the middle was her, that concubine. With her elegant features and her bright eyed gaze, her tender smile that could bring life to a mundane world. The colors illuminated her with such ethereality that one couldn’t even understand. It would have taken much too much time to do this in their lifetime, during the Heian Era.

 And yet, it was so carefully made, carefully thought of. So full of devotion to her, details that one couldn’t even find in any other portraiture in that time. Sukuna could only watch as her fingers glide along its edge with a reverence that pulls him in, as though she’s sharing a secret between them. Her smile grows wider.

“This is painted and written by Sukuna himself, mayhaps, a few years before she passed.” she whispers, her eyes shining as she looks at him. “We don’t know, if he had painted and made this in secret. Or if she had known and seen it.  But….it was to her… a message. From him to her.”

The scroll is faded, ink blurred by age but unmistakable. And as Sukuna reads it, he feels his breath leave him, his pulse racing as he takes in the words he never thought he’d see again. In ancient script, barely visible, are the words he remembers writing so many lifetimes ago, a promise that felt foolish and desperate even as he wrote it:

“To you, my little one, from a thousand years to another twenty thousand years from now, you who will continue to be dear to me.”

His vision blurs, and he forces himself to swallow down the ache rising in his chest. How is that man ever so contradictory? How could he cause her hurt and then do…do something like this? How can one ever make amends, or show love, knowing they had caused grief and pain and suffering? 

He purses his lips, his face echoing in conflict. He could feel his hand tighten in a fist. The woman he saw in his dreams, and the woman he sees before him now. How they both suffered to get to this point. 

That smile a thousand years ago, so gentle and yet….so pained. And now, so beautiful and serene, happy. Truly so happy. He couldn’t help but be so overwhelmed by emotion. By all of this. She looks up at him, her face soft with empathy and warmth, her hand still resting lightly on his arm.

“What kind of person do you think could write something like that?” she asks gently, studying his reaction.

He swallows, searching for the right words, his voice barely a whisper. “Someone who knew… he’d never find peace without her.” he says, almost to himself, his gaze lingering on the scroll. “Someone… who wanted more time.”

Her eyes meet his, something unspoken passing between them, a quiet understanding that hangs thick in the air. She doesn’t say anything, but her expression shifts, her gaze softening, as if she’s sensing something she can’t quite place, something from another life pressing against the present.

In that moment, he knows he can’t tell her, can’t burden her with the weight of it all. This life may not hold the memory, the pain, the love he’d lost, but here she stands, still at his side. The universe, fate, something unknown has brought them here, and for now, in this fragile moment, it’s enough.

Sukuna’s mind swirls, each beat of his heart drumming louder against the silence that now surrounds them. The faint traces of this man’s ancient words—his promise, his plea—are scrawled on the scroll, untouched by time. 

The weight of it feels unbearable, as if this fragile piece of paper holds not just a message from the past but the entirety of his soul. He risks a glance at her, the woman with his concubine’s face, her warmth, her spirit.

She’s watching him with an intensity that pulls him back from his reverie. “I wonder if he ever found her, if he was ever reborn and given new life.” she murmurs, more to herself than to him. “If… across all that time, they somehow managed to find each other again. And are more truthful to each other. I always thought that, even when I was a child. I hoped and prayed that they found happiness together in a new life.”

Her words send a chill down his spine. He wants to tell her they did, that he’s standing here, right now, because of her. But he knows he can’t—no matter how much his heart aches to reach out, to let her in on the truth he’s carried alone for so long. The curse of knowing, of remembering, is his burden alone.

Instead, he lets his fingers drift across the edge of the scroll, keeping his gaze lowered. “Maybe he never stopped searching. Even if he is reborn. Maybe if he doesn’t remember it all. He should find her and make amends.” he says softly. “Maybe that’s why his name and his memory linger even now. So that she’ll notice. And…maybe they’ll live the way you want them to.”

She tilts her head, considering him, her smile touched with the slightest hint of sadness. “That’s a beautiful thought. Almost… almost as if he’s still out there, waiting. Even if he had to endure every lifetime alone.”

Sukuna swallows, struggling to keep his composure. “Sometimes, we don’t have a choice, about it all.” he says, his voice low. “We’re bound by memories we can’t remember, by the promises our futures will have to remake, even if we have to carry them alone.”

She studies him for a moment, her expression thoughtful, as if she’s trying to glimpse the truth beneath his words. “That sounds like something he would have said, perhaps….perhaps to her.” she murmurs, almost to herself.

The weight of her gaze feels like a hand pressing against his heart, pulling him toward her, tethering him in a way that feels more ancient than memory. But she turns her attention back to the scroll, breaking the spell, and a soft smile touches her lips as she reads the words he once wrote.

“You know,” she says after a pause, “my family used to tell stories about Sukuna. He’s more of a legend now than a real person, but there are so many conflicting tales. Some say he was ruthless, others say he was capable of great kindness. I’ve always been fascinated by that contradiction.” She glances up at him, eyes alight with curiosity. “What do you think? Was he a monster… or was he something more?”

Sukuna’s breath catches at the question, the answer sitting like a stone in his throat. How can he possibly explain that the truth was more complicated than either legend or history could capture? That he was both and neither, a man torn by his own humanity and haunted by a love he couldn’t protect?

“It’s hard to say what he was.” he answers carefully. “Maybe he was both. A monster to some, but to others… he was someone who gave everything he had. No one is….no one is truly a villain, after all.”

She nods slowly, seemingly satisfied with his answer. “I like that answer.” she says quietly. “I think we all have pieces of light and shadow inside us. Maybe he was just… someone trying to find a balance, even if he had caused so much hurt. Even if he had failed.”

The irony cuts deep, the tragic poetry of her words like salt in an old wound. Her voice is gentle, but there’s a conviction in her tone that makes his chest tighten. If she knew the truth—if she knew what he’d lost, the sacrifices he’d made—would she still look at him this way, with this soft reverence and understanding?

Lost in thought, he hardly notices her reaching for his hand. Her fingers wrap around his, warm and grounding, and he’s stunned by the simple, natural ease of her touch, as though they’ve done this a thousand times before. Her hand fits perfectly in his, and for the first time in centuries, a glimmer of hope stirs within him.

“Come with me again, stranger.” she says, leading him past the scroll and into a smaller room at the end of the hall. “There’s something else I want you to see.”

They walk in silence, and he lets her guide him, his heart racing, wondering if perhaps, just maybe, she’s starting to feel the pull too—the invisible thread binding them across lifetimes. She stops in front of a display case holding a small, intricately carved pendant, its silver chain gleaming under the soft lights.

“This pendant, it was passed down to Ryomen Chiharu, after a few years.” she says, gazing at it with a fondness that surprises him. “It belonged to her. His concubine. One of the only things she kept close to her heart.”

Sukuna stares at it, his mind reeling. The pendant was once his gift to her, that King of Curses—a token, a promise of protection. Seeing it now, preserved and cared for, feels surreal, a whisper of the life they once shared. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, his voice thick with emotion he’s barely keeping in check.

He wondered, maybe if it was the right time, the right place. If he hadn’t been so enthralled with another — maybe it would have been a match that would have ended with less pain and more joy. Perhaps if the King of Curses had found himself able to move forward, he would have been happier. Maybe his concubine would have been happier. 

But that was a thousand years ago. And humanity keeps making that same mistake. Little by little, you could find people repeating it over and over again. That makes Sukuna so bitter and sad, grievous and angry all at once. How could fate be so twisted? How could fate seem so indifferent to it all? How could…how could fate not stop such suffering of people who wish to be happy? 

“I always thought it was sad, you know?” she continued, her tone soft. “She must have known he’d never be hers completely. But she still kept this close to her heart.  Thinking of him. It’s like she never stopped hoping.”

Sukuna’s throat tightens, the weight of her words pressing into the raw ache within him. “Hope….hope is fragile.” he echoes, his voice hollow. “It can be a painful thing to carry, especially when there’s no chance of seeing it fulfilled.”

Her gaze turns up to him, searching, as though she can sense the depth of his grief but can’t name its source. “Maybe.” she says, her voice a whisper. “But sometimes… hope is all we have.”

He looks away, afraid she’ll see the truth in his eyes. He wonders if she understands, if somewhere deep down, a part of her remembers. But even if she doesn’t, he can feel her empathy, her gentle warmth reaching out to him, soothing his restless spirit.

She squeezes his hand, her touch gentle and grounding. “Thank you,” she says, smiling softly. “For listening to her story with me. I know it’s heavy, but… it’s part of our legacy, isn’t it?”

He nods, his heart raw and open, feeling the weight of the centuries fall away, even if just for this fleeting moment. It’s not enough—not enough to heal the wounds, to bring back what they’d lost—but for the first time, he feels something close to peace.

And in that silence, in her quiet smile, he dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, there will be a way to find and know each other again. She was right there. He likes to think she is. Right in front of him. There was hope, somehow. 

That she would be happy. That maybe, just maybe – he could see her smile so beautifully again. A smile that would reach all the way to her eyes and warm her face and towards the reach of all the heavens.

Sukuna stands there, his fingers still brushing the edge of the glass case, the pendant gleaming faintly beneath his touch. He feels an unfamiliar warmth stirring within him, a strange, hesitant urge for something… more, something real and tangible. He looks down at her, her expression still soft with that quiet empathy that unsettles him as much as it comforts him.

Before he can second-guess himself, he clears his throat, casting a sidelong glance her way. “Would you, uh… would you like to grab a coffee sometime?” he asks, a bit gruffly, as if trying to sound casual. “Maybe you could help me with some ideas for my art. I’m….an artist by the way. ”

The question hangs in the air between them, and for a moment, he feels exposed in a way he hasn’t in centuries, like he’s offering a piece of himself he’s long since hidden. He braces himself for rejection, for her to smile politely and turn him down.

Sukuna watches her smile, a genuine, radiant expression that spreads across her face like dawn breaking over a darkened sky. It’s infectious, igniting something deep within him, as though it was a feeling that has lain dormant for centuries beneath layers of pain and regret. 

Everything in him felt warm inside. Everything in him grasped to life, hoping that she could nourish it to last forever. Her acceptance feels like a lifeline thrown into the stormy sea of his existence, and he clings to it with a desperation he can’t quite articulate.

“Tomorrow sounds perfect, stranger.” she says, her voice a gentle balm against the jagged edges of his heart. “Oh, I should stop calling you that, shouldn’t I? My apologies, Sukuna–san. I wanted to tease you for a little more time.”

As she writes her number on a slip of paper, the world around them fades into a blur. The museum, the exhibits, the weight of history—all of it dissolves until it’s just the two of them, suspended in this fragile moment of connection.

He takes the paper from her, fingers brushing against hers for the briefest second. It sends an unexpected spark through him, and he’s momentarily lost in the warmth of her skin, the softness of her touch. He forces himself to pull away, catching her gaze again, wanting to savor the moment a little longer.

“What do you like to drink?” he asks, trying to keep the conversation going, to stretch this fleeting connection into something more tangible.

“Coffee, mostly. I love a good espresso.” she replies, her eyes shining with enthusiasm. “But I’m always open to trying new things. I’m sure the cafe will have new wonders. How about you?”

He nods, remembering the countless cups of coffee he’d consumed over the years, each one a bitter reminder of the countless sleepless nights spent alone. “I’m more of a dark roast person myself. Stronger the better.”

“Then I’ll make sure to introduce you to the best place in town. They have the most incredible brews, fit for a long suffering artist.” she says with a playful grin, and for the first time, he can’t help but smile back. It’s a small, simple thing, but it feels monumental, like a bridge forming over a chasm he thought would always divide him.

“Great….I uh….” he replies, his voice a little steadier. “I look forward to it.”

They linger for a moment, both seeming to hesitate, caught in a bubble of anticipation and something deeper that he can’t quite name. He’s never been one for lighthearted interactions, especially when it comes to connections. Yet here he is, standing before a woman who feels like a piece of his lost history, someone he feels inexplicably drawn to.

With one last lingering look, she steps back, her smile still warming the air between them. “See you soon, then, Sukuna–san.” she says, her voice light yet meaningful.

“Yeah….. I’ll see you soon.” he echoes, his heart pounding in his chest as he watches her walk away, the soft sway of her figure leaving him breathless.

As he turns to leave the gallery, the weight of the memories of a thousand years presses less heavily on him. He had left behind Sukuna's world, and birthed a new. He hopes he can. He wants to. He wants to make that woman happy. She deserves to. She deserves to be happy, in the way he couldn’t do it. He promises himself that.

For the first time, he feels a flicker of inspiration reigniting in his chest, like a spark that’s been waiting for just the right moment to burst into flame. The idea of coffee, of sharing thoughts and laughter, of discussing art with someone who understands the nuances of his legacy—it excites him in a way he hadn’t felt in what seems like an eternity. It excites him to burn with joy.

The streets outside are bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, the colors alive and vibrant, reminding him of the canvases he has yet to fill. He can almost picture it now, a new piece forming in his mind—a swirling mix of shadows and light, of loss and hope, reflecting everything that has led him to this moment.

In the days and nights that follow, he begins to sketch again. The woman’s face, a beautiful blend of familiarity and freshness, dominates the canvas, layered with strokes of longing and the bittersweet pang of memory. He paints her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and the gentle warmth that radiated from her smile.

Every brushstroke feels like a conversation, a way to weave their stories together—a blend of art, history, and the unspoken connection that binds them. The artist’s block that had once felt insurmountable begins to crumble, each session at the easel pulling him deeper into his thoughts and feelings, and farther from the suffocating grasp of despair.

He dreams of their meeting, the way her presence felt like coming home, and as their coffee date approaches, he finds himself wrapped in a mix of excitement and nerves. What would they talk about? What would she think of his art?

That evening, as he stands in front of the mirror, he catches a glimpse of himself—disheveled fuschia colored hair, weary bright scarlet eyes; but beneath it all, there’s a glimmer of something he hasn’t seen in ages: hope. A hope for the future. A hope for a new world, a new life. One that will echo years and years from now about joy.

Tomorrow, he tells himself as he brushes down his shirt, it will be different. 

Tomorrow, he’ll make her the happiest person in the world.

Tomorrow, he’ll hope that she will never have any more days to frown.

When the sun rises, he feels it all too well. There was a flutter of anticipation in his chest as he prepared to meet her. Each step feels lighter, each moment filled with possibility. The thought of sharing coffee and stories—his past entwined with hers—ignites a spark of creativity he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

As he enters the café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee envelops him, and he scans the room, searching for her familiar face. When he spots her, seated at a cozy corner table, her hair cascading softly around her shoulders, he feels a rush of warmth.

Her smile brightens the space around them, and as their eyes meet, he knows he’s ready to embrace whatever this connection holds. It’s a chance to delve deeper into their stories, to explore the tangled threads of fate that brought them together.

“Hey!” she says, her voice lighting up the air between them as he approaches. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” he replies, the weight of the past lifting as he takes a seat across from her. “So, what’s first on the menu?”

As you sit together, enveloped in the warmth of shared memories and laughter, Sukuna leans forward, his gaze both intense and gentle. The edges of his usually guarded expression soften, and the small lines near his eyes deepen with a smile that’s almost boyish.

“You know," Sukuna says, his voice low and thoughtful, “I have to say this to you… but… I never thought I’d find someone who could understand me like this. The things I’ve seen—it’s hard to explain to people who haven’t lived through the same nightmares."

He glances down at his coffee, a faint smirk on his lips. “But with you, it doesn’t feel like explaining. It’s like I’m just… remembering with someone else who was there too. This feels so natural. Between you and I.”

She smiles, feeling a warmth blossom within her. “It’s strange, isn’t it? I mean, if someone had told me even a month ago that I’d be here with you, talking like this…” She trails off, laughing softly, feeling a little lost for words. “I would’ve thought they were crazy. But here we are.”

Sukuna chuckles, the sound surprisingly warm, free of his usual biting edge. “Crazy doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He pauses, his gaze meeting hers, searching as if he’s trying to decipher something hidden. “It feels like I know you… not just from now, but from a long time ago. Almost like I was meant to find you.”

His words send a shiver through her, a feeling both comforting and unsettling in its intensity. She nods slowly, letting the feeling settle within her. “I know what you mean,” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath. “It’s like we’re picking up where we left off… wherever that was.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving hers. “Every lifetime,” he murmurs, as if saying it to himself. “Every single one, I think I’d find you.” His hand drifts across the table, his fingers brushing hers in a tentative, almost reverent way. “And every time, I’d be the luckiest man alive.”

She looks down at his hand, his touch grounding her. “Do you believe in that, then? In soulmates? Lifetimes together?”

He smiles, almost a little sadly, as if unsure of his own answer. “Maybe I never did before… but with you, I can’t help but think maybe I was wrong.”

A comfortable silence settles between them, the words hanging like a delicate thread binding them together. After a while, he speaks again, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You… you make me see things differently, you know that? I just met you, but I just… I think it’s meant to be.”

There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, one she’d never expected to see. “Like maybe life doesn’t have to be as lonely as I thought it was. Or maybe, it just doesn’t matter, as long as I’m here… with you.”

Her heart aches at his words, sensing the pain he’s carried and the hope he’s now daring to hold onto. She laces her fingers with his, giving a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to do it alone anymore, Sukuna-san,” she says softly. “Not as long as we have this. As long as we have each other. Maybe… maybe we’ll find something more to life together.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding. When he opens them again, there’s something raw, something almost fragile in his gaze. “I’m… I’m honored,” he whispers gently, a small smile forming on his face. “If that means I’ll be able to live by your side in this life.”

She blushes, feeling the depth of his sincerity. “I’m just as grateful, you know?”

“Thank you.” he says, the words rough, yet sincere. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“You never have to say thank you to me.” She whispered back to him, smiling even wider. “Or say sorry. Okay?”

“Okay.” He smiles back at her, almost contagiously. 

“So, do you….do you wanna watch a movie with me?”

“I’d be honored.”

In that moment, it feels as though nothing else exists—just her and him, caught in the quiet gravity of each other’s presence. 

As the sun sets outside, casting a warm glow over their table, Ryomen Sukuna feels a flicker of something he thought long extinguished. 

And as long as she’s beside him, he knows he’ll be right there with her, finding a new meaning to every breath and every heartbeat, perhaps better than he’d ever dreamed. 

After that day, Ryomen Sukuna stopped having those nightmares about that long suffering concubine.

Instead, he started to dream of a tall man and that long suffering concubine, walking away from him — smiling. Together.

══════════════════

HE WAS LUCKY HE MADE IT. He hadn’t slept much, but it was all worth it. He liked to think that he made his best gallery presentation yet. He knew she liked it just as much as he did. And that had made him even more happy. 

He wasn’t the best of storytellers, he knew that much. Writing was more or less something else to him. But, art like this? He could do it. And so, as he promised, he would make happiness appear on his canvas. He would make that concubine happy again. 

 As the evening progresses, the atmosphere in the gallery transforms, infused with a blend of excitement and reverence. Guests drift in and out, their whispers and laughter weaving a tapestry of shared appreciation for Sukuna's work. 

The vibrant energy of the space pulses with life, but at its core lies a poignant sense of introspection; a collective acknowledgment of the stories each painting holds.

Sukuna stands near the centerpiece, his gaze lingering on the depiction of himself and his concubine, locked in an eternal moment of tenderness. The hues swirl together, capturing not just their faces but the very essence of their souls; a connection that feels almost palpable. Each brushstroke is infused with the weight of longing and regret, but now, standing beside his companion, he recognizes a glimmer of hope amid the sorrow.

As the crowd ebbs and flows, Sukuna finds solace in watching her interact with the guests, her warmth radiating in waves. She engages effortlessly, sharing her thoughts on the art, her enthusiasm infectious.

He catches snippets of their conversations, her laughter ringing out like music, and he can’t help but smile at the ease with which she navigates the social landscape. It’s a stark contrast to his own guarded demeanor, and yet, her presence encourages him to lower his defenses, to engage in this world he once viewed from the shadows.

With each passing moment, Sukuna feels a shift within himself. The uncertainty that had plagued him for so long begins to dissolve, replaced by an exhilarating sense of possibility. As the crowd gradually dwindles, he glances at the painting again, his heart swelling with emotion. It’s more than just an image; it’s a testament to love that transcends time, a narrative that binds past and present.

Suddenly, he turns to find her standing close, her expression reflecting a mixture of admiration and something deeper. “You’ve poured so much of yourself into this, Sukuna.” she says softly, her eyes shimmering with sincerity. “It’s not just about the concubine; it’s about you, too. You’ve laid bare your soul.”

The intensity of her gaze sends a shiver down his spine, and he swallows hard, feeling exposed yet liberated. “I wanted to capture the essence of what we had… to honor her, in my own little ways.” he replies, his voice low and steady. “But I realize now it’s also about my journey. This is as much about my pain as it is about her love.”

She nods, her understanding palpable, and in that moment, he feels a deep connection; there was an unspoken bond that links them through shared experiences and emotions.

The weight of his past no longer feels like a burden; instead, it becomes a source of strength, a wellspring of creativity he can draw from as he embraces this new chapter in his life.

“I think you’ve done an incredible job of that, you know?” she says, her voice softening. “You’ve shown that even in our darkest moments, love remains a guiding light. It’s beautiful.”

Sukuna’s heart races at her words, and he feels a warmth blooming in his chest—a mixture of gratitude and affection. “Thank you, really.” he replies, his voice sincere. “It means a lot to hear that from you. You’ve been… a source of inspiration for me.”

Her smile deepens, and there’s a spark of something electric in the air, a subtle shift that sends his pulse racing. “I’m glad I could be here for you, you know?” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a privilege to witness your journey, to see you reclaim a sad story to a happy one.”

He looks at her, the soft glow of the gallery lights illuminating her features, and he feels a wave of emotion wash over him. For so long, he had been shackled by the weight of his past, haunted by the ghost of his concubine and the mistakes that had led to their separation. But here, in this moment, standing with her amidst the beauty of his creations, he feels the chains loosening.

“Will you stay a little longer?” he asks, almost hesitantly, fearing her response. “I’d like to talk more… about the paintings, about everything.”

Her eyes light up, and the warmth in her smile reassures him. “I’d love that.” she replies, and they find a quieter corner of the gallery, away from the remnants of the evening’s festivities.

As they settle into a cozy nook, surrounded by the lingering essence of art and history, Sukuna feels a sense of calm wash over him. The world outside fades, leaving only the two of them and the unspoken connection that has blossomed between them. 

“What do you see in these paintings?” he asks, eager to hear her perspective.

She leans forward, her gaze thoughtful. “I see love, loss, and resilience. Each piece speaks of a journey, a struggle to find beauty amidst pain. But what resonates most is the longing—the desire to reconnect with something that was lost. It’s powerful.”

He nods, her words echoing his own feelings, and as they discuss each painting in turn, he feels an exhilarating rush of creativity and clarity. The art becomes a conduit for their emotions, a way to explore the complexities of their shared experiences.

They dive deep into conversation, their voices low and intimate, each word exchanged drawing them closer together. She shares her own stories of loss and heartache, of moments when she thought she’d never find her way again. It’s a cathartic exchange, and he listens intently, captivated by her honesty and the strength she exudes.

With each revelation, Sukuna feels the walls that the King of Curses had built around himself begin to crumble. He shares his own struggles, the weight of his legacy, and the guilt that had shadowed him for centuries.

And perhaps, redemption may soon come for him in love.  In this safe space, he finds himself opening up that man, that myth, that curse,  in ways he never thought possible, unearthing emotions he had long buried. 

The night wears on, and as the last of the guests trickle out, the gallery transforms into a cocoon of intimacy. It’s just him and her, surrounded by the echoes of their stories, and for the first time in ages, he feels a sense of belonging—a connection that transcends time and pain.

“I never thought I could feel this way again.” he admits, his voice thick with emotion. “After everything I’ve lived through… I thought I’d lost the ability to truly connect with anyone.”

She reaches out, her hand brushing against his in a gentle, reassuring gesture. “You haven’t lost that ability, Sukuna. You’ve just been waiting for the right moment, the right person….the right time.” she says, her gaze steady and filled with warmth. “I’m here now, and I want to be part of your journey.”

The sincerity in her words washes over him, and in that moment, he knows he’s found something rare—a connection that has the potential to redefine his understanding of love, art, and the future. The vulnerability he feels is both terrifying and exhilarating, but he knows he’s ready to embrace it.

As the last notes of music drift into silence and the soft, warm lights dim, the two of them sit close, hands intertwined, surrounded by the vibrant, intimate world he has created.

Each painting on the wall, each sculpture in the dim light feels like a memory brought to life, and she feels him relax beside her, the weight of his past somehow easing with each quiet heartbeat.

His thumb gently strokes her hand, and in that small, tender motion, she feels him say more than words ever could. With her here, in this sanctuary he’s built out of his own creativity and passion, he’s no longer the solitary figure haunted by shadows. He’s simply a man who has finally, against all odds, found someone who can see past his darkness and anchor him in light.

As they stand to leave, his gaze drifts to one of his portraits—a work that captures a moment from another time, another life. In it, the King of Curses sits beside his beloved concubine, her expression full of light and laughter, radiant in a way that suggests an unbreakable bond. 

Ryomen Sukuna pauses, his hand still entwined with hers, and a rare, gentle smile crosses his face.

Looking at the painting, he lets himself hope, just a little. Perhaps, even in a world he once saw as cold and unyielding, there are threads of something beautiful woven into his story. Perhaps, even for someone like him, there could be a happy ending, one he’d never dared to imagine.

He leans down and whispers softly, almost as if confessing a secret. “I like to think they found each other again, you know? That somehow… this time, they got to be happy.”

She squeezes his hand, her eyes shining with warmth and understanding. “I like to think that too.” she replies gently, her voice full of affection.

They walk out together, the cool night air surrounding them as they leave his art behind. And as he catches her smile, he feels his heart swell with gratitude and a strange sense of peace.

For once, he isn’t looking back, haunted by the ghosts of what once was. Instead, he’s looking forward—toward a future that, with her beside him, feels so much brighter than he ever thought possible.

In his heart, he offers a silent prayer, hoping that they’ll continue to find each other, in this life and in all the ones to come. And as they disappear into the night, hands intertwined, this Ryomen Sukuna hopes that the King of Curses finally allows himself to believe that, this time, happiness might be his after all.

══════════════════

THERE WOULD BE NO MEMORY OF THIS WHEN HE’S REBORN. Ryomen Sukuna knows that much. That is the will of the unknown, of the gods unseen and unheard. He does not care much about the propriety of the accuracy. Why should it matter what their name is? He was dead, why should he care?  

In the stillness of the afterlife, everything feels suspended, timeless. Everything was not what he had expected. Long ago, he had resigned himself to the thought that a final death would lead to the depths of burning inferno. And yet, it was not. He was stuck in a journey, a journey that continuously repeats over and over again. 

He does not know what those gods intended with that. What was the purpose designed by the gods? What was the purpose of this journey? He had asked himself that for hundreds of years, walking and walking like the pilgrim he was and yet without end in sight. There was no road that was left to find a stop.

Perhaps, that is until now.

Ryomen Sukuna was the first to notice.

There was a wide shoji that appeared before them.

Ryomen Hiromi was quite unsure about what that was all about. But when she stepped right in front of it, the field protecting it had barred her from even touching it. She pursed her lips in a flat line. This door was not one for her to enter. 

And she probably had already known that. Looking at him with those knowing purple eyes, she knew that it was not for her. It was for him. The gods had sent him a path, and it was not to be with her. It was a road for him to take, a road that was for him. Only him.

He took a short step towards it and allowed his hands to feel the space occupied by the massive wooden shoji. His touch could pierce its space. It was truly for him. There was no mistake in that. Uraume looked at him with a tense uncertainty. His most loyal Uraume is quite that timid  child, still. Just as when Sukuna had met them years and years ago. 

For a moment, it reminded him of Chizuru. That gentleness of that youth, that tenderness of youth. He could only see his little one. The little one that he misses most. His soul is already at peace, and perhaps Sukuna would never see him again. 

He doesn’t deserve to. He wasn’t a good father to him. But moments like this, it gives him relief. Even if Chizuru didn’t need him anymore, then someone else did. And that someone still needed him. Even if he wasn’t the person suited to be needed.

Sukuna looked down at them, and then nodded reassuringly. Uraume reached forward and gasped. Their touch too pierced through its barrier. Of course, Sukuna thought to himself. Uraume tied their entire life to him.

They were one in the same. The loyal servant cannot live without the master. No, no. Sukuna corrects himself. There was always a need for someone. People will always need people.

He stands there idly as Ryomen Hiromi stood beside him, though keeping a distance. Everything around them had grown brighter. Brighter than before. All that surrounded them had been bathed in a soft, eternal light that neither burns nor fades. 

This place, this moment, is for closure—a place where the bonds of the past can either linger or be released. A purgatory for souls, sinner or not. All souls look the same to the gods. Well, that’s what Hiromi had told him.

Sukuna’s gaze rests on Hiromi, taking in the warmth in her expression, the calmness in her presence. Even here, she glows with an inner light that he has always cherished. Serene as the moonlight, as mellow as the clouds. 

There had always been a quiet grace that no one could replicate. He had known that in his long lifetime. And for as long as he had lived, he thought that his job had been to protect it. To protect her. No matter what, with everything in him —  even if it often meant tearing down the world around him.

For a long while, they simply stand together, the weight of their shared history resting between them. A thousand years, feeling even more than that, reflected in the understanding that came in the silence. He had known her too well, she had known him too well.

There was nothing left between them. Only knowing. And perhaps, that’s why it wouldn’t have ever worked. He thinks about that. Knowing someone, even too well, will never truly be living a life with them. 

There was too much he did not know about her life. There was much she did not know about his own. They had lived lives that grew out of their tender love. People who loved each other so much, that they risked everything in the world — finally became two boats in the night waiting for each other to pass. 

Perhaps that’s all that there could be, he thinks about it now. No matter how much he loved her, no matter how much he still does love  her — they were parallel lines. Right people, wrong place. Right place, wrong time. 

That in itself was hard to admit, he knows that. He always has. But it was hard to say. It was hard to accept. Perhaps it always will be. Yet there is so much more beyond that grief of something already lost. Of life already lived and passed by. No matter how much he wants to follow Ryomen Hiromi with all the love in his heart, with all the devotion given from all his life, there will always be fate. And fate knows better than he. 

As much as he tries, he was not a god.

He will never be one, he has tried to be.

He was just a sinner, a cruel cursed sinner.

Taking a deep breath, Sukuna speaks, his voice soft, yet resolute. "I can feel it, Hiromi." he says, looking down at his feet. “Somewhere out there……..I am soon to be reborn. Soon….I must enter this door.”

Ryomen Hiromi’s face softens, and a knowing smile tugs at her lips. She tilts her head, teasing, but with a hint of sadness that she can’t entirely hide. How could she? Ryomen Sukuna was her person. He was her family. Her dearest friend, her confidant.  The man she loved, still does love. The love of her life. 

But she knew that he was not yet ready. Perhaps he will never be ready to move forward like this. There was much tying him to the world of the living. To the earthly life. And she knew it wouldn't be her. It will never be her. 

She could see it in the corner of his scarlet eyes. He too had lived a life. He had moved on. And he wants to see that loved one again. He wants to return. Even if he does not know it. He wants to see that smile on her face again.

"So, you’ll stop following me now, huh?"

He chuckles, the sound quiet, almost reverent, as he brings her hand to his chest. "I’ll love you most in the world, you know that.” he murmurs, each word weighed with truth. “You were the part of me that was good, Hiromi. Everything I am….was because of you.”

She looks at him, shaking her head. She remains smiling. “Endless flattery is not your style.”

His eyes warmed towards her. “It is not flattery if it's true. You know that most. I do not lie, not easily. Not without reason.”

“I know.” She huffs back in response, her eyes lowered to the floor. “I know you too well.”

“I need to go. You know that. There are still…..too much left undone. I have a lot to make amends for, things I must repair.” His voice grows steady, almost solemn. “I need to start with someone else I love. Someone who’s waiting, on the other side of the shore.”

Hiromi’s gaze flickers, her surprise shifting to understanding. There’s a light in her bright purple eyes, a pride that only deepens as she studies his face. For a moment, she wondered when he had grown up. When had he aged this well, lived this well. A part of her mourns the things they never saw. But she knew it was too late. He had someone else waiting to see those sides of him now. 

“I always hoped you’d find something worth living for, beyond me. Beyond our clan. Beyond Jujutsu.” she says, her words carrying an emotion he hadn’t expected. She laughs. “You’ve done well, Sukuna. I know you would. And now you’re better at admitting your faults. You’ve….you’ve truly grown up! Father and uncle would be so glad to see it, don’t you think?”

The weight of her words settles deeply into him, her silent devotion across lifetimes coming into sharp focus. Ryomen Sukuna closes his eyes, feeling the immensity of all that they’ve shared, all that he’s never truly expressed. 

“There’s still much for me to set right, Hiromi.” He looks at her, his expression softening as he finally speaks the words he’s never quite managed to say before. “But the love we shared… It's the best part of me. It’s the part of me I want to carry into the next life. Everything you taught me, it will be for the better.”

A soft laugh escapes her once more, and she shakes her head as if she’s hearing a promise she’s waited lifetimes for him to make. Her hand reaches up, gentle, almost motherly, as she brushes a stray hair back from his face. Leaning in, she presses a delicate kiss to his cheek. 

“You don’t have to say anything else. I’ve always known you loved me.” She pulls back slightly, her hand lingering against his face. “I’ll always love you too, Sukuna. But we have different lives now. Paths that aren’t tied together anymore. No paths are bound, after all. Isn’t that what was taught?” 

Her words are tender but firm, and he nods, finally accepting what she’s known all along. “I know.” he whispers, the smile on his face tinged with the bittersweet ache of goodbye. “But I think I’ll be alright, night flower. I’ve found something, someone… who I believe can make me better. She’s out there, waiting.”

For a moment, she could feel her heart shatter. In that moment, to remember what he had called her. With those words, with that tone of finality. With that tone of farewell. She could feel the warmth of water echo through her eyes. But she tries to make sure they do not pour. Those tears shouldn’t be poured. Not for him. He does not need it. She must send him happily. She must send him off with a smile. A good farewell.

Hiromi pulls away, her hand slipping from his, though her gaze remains fixed on him with a profound love and pride. Her bright eyes gleamed at him, even brighter than before. She smiles at him, though he could notice how tight it was. No matter how happy she is for him — she will mourn. She can’t help it. 

“Then, I want you to find her, hm?” she says softly, the conviction in her voice like a benediction. “Find her and find your happiness, the kind that lasts. The kind that you finally deserve.”

He nods, and there’s a rare, open softness in his expression, a gratitude as deep as the ages they’ve spent together. He takes a good look at her, as though he was memorizing this moment. For as long as it still lasts, he wants to remember it. He wants to remember her, giving her blessing. 

“Then, I’ll go, nightflower.” he says, his voice low and filled with purpose. “I’ll find her… and try to live the life I dreamed of with you.”

Hiromi smiles gently, and with one last lingering look, she turns to leave, pausing only to say. “Someday, I hope to meet her too—the one who brought you peace. Bring her back with you. So that I may thank her for taking care of you.”

He nodded at her. He takes a deep breath as he lowers his gaze and sees Uraume looking at him, as though asking for courage. Sukuna takes Uraume’s hand and tightly grips it, but is careful not to hurt them. A ghostly smile appears on his face, beaming it towards them. 

Uraume could feel their eyes glisten as they felt the warmth of that smile. Uraume could feel warmth in them, tenderness — tenderness that molds their will to live with courage. Sukuna turns his head slightly, looking at Hiromi. His smile gets wider, and becomes more honest than before. She smiled at him, waving him off. 

As he and Uraume walked towards the shoji, Ryomen Hiromi knew that she too has to move away. Ryomen Sukuna slowly watches her walk away into the path of light, alone, feeling the weight of a thousand lifetimes lifting from his shoulders. He could feel his breath hitch as he watches her walk away, perhaps for the final time, perhaps until they get reborn again. 

If you were not waiting for him, if he had not met you, if he had not loved you — perhaps he would have turned away from these doors and moved towards the path of life and rejected rebirth. He would have let his soul rest in peace for all of time. But he knows that he was no longer that person anymore. He wanted to move forward. He wanted to break the cycle. He wanted to be with you.

Ryomen Sukuna is ready to face the world again, this time with a purpose that is as clear as the love he feels for the woman he will now seek.  He must atone. He must live a new life. He must make you happy. 

Both of you will be happy, he knows that. And as he steps forward, towards his own rebirth, he carries her blessings, his heart finally open to the happiness he had once believed was out of reach. He will live it now. He will atone, he will find redemption. He will make you happy.

[crazykinkiwi]

Mr Fushiguro | Twisted Oneshots

Pairing: Father-figure!Toji x emotionally isolated!Reader (Modern AU)

Genre: Psychological thriller, Dark fiction, Emotional manipulation, Yandere, Familial tension, Mindbreak

Word count: 6.7k

WARNINGS:

Emotional/psychological abuse, grooming, possessiveness, manipulation, coercive control, trauma bonding, toxic family dynamics, gaslighting, guilt-tripping, disturbing power imbalance, fear, grief, implied non-consent, mentions of parental death, yandere behavior, huge age gap implications, mental breakdown, obsessive behavior, stalking, implied violence, horror/psychological themes

⚠️ Please DO NOT read if you are sensitive to any of the above topics.

AN: This story explores dark, disturbing themes including coercion, psychological manipulation, and trauma. It is entirely fictional and does not support or romanticize harmful behaviors. If you are uncomfortable with possessive characters, emotional control, or traumatic psychological content, I strongly advise you to skip this. Your comfort and safety matter. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

Masterlist

You arrange the last of your books on the wooden shelf, your fingers brushing over the spines with a little more force than needed. It’s been two days since you moved into this new place.

You, your mother… and Mr. Fushiguro.

You know you’re supposed to call him something else now—father, maybe. But the word tastes wrong even in your thoughts. He’s not like your real dad, not loud or violent or cruel.

And yet… something about him makes your stomach knot.

Still, you’ve promised yourself you’ll try. For your mom. She deserves better. She deserves to be happy. Even if it means pretending that the man she married doesn’t unnerve you every time he walks past.

Your thoughts are cut off by your phone buzzing on the bed. It's her.

"Sweetheart? Come down for a sec!" her voice sings over the speaker, light and excited.

You head downstairs, trying not to look tense.

At the foot of the stairs, you spot her first. She’s radiant tonight—hair done, makeup soft, wearing that light lavender dress that makes her smile like she’s in her twenties again.

And beside her, dressed all in black, fiddling with the sleeve of his button-up, is him.

They look like they’re headed to a fancy dinner. Or maybe a gala. You’re not sure. You don’t ask.

“What do you think?” your mother beams, twirling once with a small laugh.

“You look beautiful, Mom,” you say, smiling softly.

You don’t look at the man next to her. Not even a glance.

Toji doesn’t say anything either. Just slides his hands into his pockets and shifts his weight, chewing gum slowly.

“Oh! I forgot my purse upstairs,” your mother suddenly remembers. “Dear, just wait for me a sec, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles with a nod, voice low and lazy. “Ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

She disappears back into the house. The front door clicks shut behind her.

Silence.

Just you and him now, standing in the hallway. You stare at the floor, the air feeling heavier with each second. You’re not sure what pushes you to speak. Maybe it’s the guilt. Maybe it’s the growing pit in your chest.

You finally ask, voice low, tight—

"You’re not using her… are you?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t even move.

Just keeps chewing.

And somehow, the silence feels louder than anything he could’ve said.

The front door swings open again, heels clicking against the hardwood floor.

"Found it!" your mother laughs, holding up her small silver purse. "Let’s go now before we’re late."

She glances over at you as she steps outside again, adjusting her earring.

“Take care, okay, sweetheart? There’s food in the fridge.”

You nod. “Have fun.”

Toji walks past you without a word, brushing by with the faint scent of his cologne—musky, sharp, expensive. He doesn’t look at you either.

The door shuts with a gentle click.

From the window, you watch them get into the car—him in the driver’s seat, her talking animatedly as she buckles her belt.

Inside the car, Toji glances over as he pulls onto the road.

“She’s still awkward around you,” your mother murmurs, watching the passing streetlights. Her voice carries no blame—just quiet concern.

Toji exhales through his nose, one hand loosely on the steering wheel.

“‘S fine,” he says. “Makes sense. Hard to live with someone ya barely know. I'm just some stranger her mom married outta nowhere, y'know?”

She smiles, a soft, touched smile. The kind she rarely wore in the past. “Still… I hope one day you two can be closer.”

Toji clicks his tongue lightly, eyes fixed ahead. “Plenty of time in the world for that. No rush.”

She reaches over, places a hand over his. He doesn’t flinch. Just keeps driving.

---

The next day, you're stepping out of your college gate, the sun dipping low behind the buildings. Beside you, one of your classmates—Rika—adjusts her bag strap and turns toward you.

“So,” she begins casually, “any future plans? Like after finals?”

You squint up at the sky, thoughtful. “I’ve been looking for jobs I can do alongside my classes. Maybe part-time tutoring. Or a desk job.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you didn’t need to worry about money.”

You pause, surprised by the remark. Then she adds quickly, “I mean, since I heard your mom… y’know. Remarried and all.”

You give a short nod. “Yeah. She’s happy. That’s all that matters.”

Rika tilts her head, studying your face. “Hmm… so how is he? The guy?”

You hesitate.

What are you supposed to say?

That you barely speak to him? That something about him makes your spine tingle in all the wrong ways? That even his silence feels calculated?

“…Good. Maybe,” you say finally. “He’s polite.”

You leave out the fact that you've never once caught him off guard.

Not even when you accused him.

Later—

You greet the gate guard with a small wave as you step inside the compound.

“Uncle,” you call gently, and he turns from his little stool near the security booth.

“Ah, YN,” he says with a smile. “Back from class?”

You nod. “Yeah… are they back?”

He scratches the back of his head. “Came back about an hour ago. I told them you had college.”

“Thanks,” you say, grateful. You liked the old man—he wasn’t nosy like others. Always kind. Always respectful.

You head inside the house. The faint scent of something sweet and buttery hangs in the air.

From the kitchen, you hear clattering.

Your mother.

“Welcome home!” she calls out without looking up. “I’m almost done with dinner.”

You kick off your shoes and step closer, dropping your bag quietly by the couch. “Okay…” You hesitate, eyes darting around the living room. No sign of him.

You clear your throat.

“…Mum,” you say gently, “how was your day?”

She turns from the stove, cheeks a little flushed, smiling. “It was lovely. Every moment with him was just… easy. You know?” She stirs something in the pan. “He’s really kind, YN. Thoughtful.”

You swallow down whatever comment bubbles up. “…That’s good.”

Before you can add anything else, something cold brushes your cheek.

You flinch, turning your head sharply.

Toji stands beside you, holding out a small, wrapped cone of your favorite ice cream.

He raises an eyebrow, smirking.

“Would’ve eaten it if ya took any longer,” he drawls. “Now hurry up before it melts.”

You blink. “Uh—thank… you.”

You take it slowly from his hand, your fingers barely brushing his.

Vanilla almond crunch.

Your favorite.

“See?” your mother calls from the kitchen, amused. “Told you she’d like it.”

Toji doesn’t respond right away. Just glances down at you, head tilted, one hand in his pocket.

“Kids are predictable,” he says lazily, the corner of his mouth twitching up in smug satisfaction.

You frown faintly, muttering under your breath, “…I’m not a kid.”

Still, you find yourself staring at the ice cream.

It’s nothing.

Just a sweet gesture.

And yet… a warmth settles in your chest.

Maybe because your real father never did things like this.

—

Days pass. And strangely, the air in the house doesn't feel as heavy anymore.

Not because you’ve grown closer to him.

But because he’s hardly ever around.

He’s out for “work”—whatever that means—or whisking your mother away to fancy dinners, charity parties, and late-night drives that leave you alone with silence and reheated leftovers.

But every time he returns, he brings you something.

A silly frog keychain.

A packet of imported chocolates.

A glass snow globe with your college's name etched into it—how did he even know?

Small things. Thoughtless things.

Yet somehow… thoughtful.

Today is no different.

You’re curled up on the living room couch, legs tucked under you. Toji sits beside you, eyes on the television as some match plays. Rugby? No—maybe football. You’re not paying attention.

He sips from a bottle of water and stretches one arm lazily along the back of the couch.

You don’t lean into it.

But you don’t move away, either.

Your eyes flick to the staircase—and that’s when you see her.

Your mother.

She’s standing halfway down, hand resting on the wooden rail. Her eyes find yours, and there’s something in them.

Worry. Or is it guilt?

You can’t tell.

She’s been like this lately. Distant. Guarded.

And the more things smoothen between you and him, the stranger she becomes.

Her lips part as if she wants to say something—but then Toji’s voice cuts in.

“Babe,” he says casually, not even looking away from the screen, “can ya get me a drink?”

Your mother blinks, flinches almost. Then nods.

“Of course,” she murmurs, and walks toward the kitchen.

You glance at Toji.

He’s smirking at the TV like nothing happened.

You glance back at your mother’s retreating figure.

And something feels… off.

You rise to your feet.

Feet bare against the tile, you step into the kitchen. She doesn’t turn.

Her back is to you, hands mechanically grabbing a glass and filling it from the water filter.

“Mum?”

She pauses.

“…What’s wrong?”

A beat.

And then, softly—almost too quiet to catch—she speaks.

“…It’s you.”

Your chest tightens. “What?”

She sets the glass down a little too firmly. It clinks against the counter.

But she doesn’t repeat herself.

You stare at her profile. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. Her gaze is far away.

You don’t understand.

What did she mean?

—

You let out a heavy sigh.

Whatever that was in the kitchen… it’s still sitting on your chest like a stone.

You return to the living room and sink onto the opposite couch, not even pretending to watch the match anymore. Your hands rest limply in your lap.

Toji doesn’t look at you immediately—but you feel his gaze shift.

“…She pissed or somethin’?” he asks, tone casual, but not exactly careless.

You glance over at him.

And shrug.

“I… I don’t know.”

He hums low in his throat, like he’s heard that kind of answer before. Doesn’t push. Just leans back again.

Your mother returns soon after, holding a glass of water for him.

Toji takes it without looking, takes a sip, then smacks his lips slightly and says, “Get ready.”

Your mother blinks.

“Huh?”

He looks at her now, smirking faintly.

“Dress up. We’re goin’ out.”

You feel the air shift, just slightly. A softer look spreads across your mother’s face. That glow she always has around him returns like it never left.

She nods. “Alright. Just give me a few minutes.”

As she walks upstairs, Toji catches your eye and jerks his chin toward her. “Told ya. Women just need a lil' change of vibe.”

You offer a stiff smile.

And that’s it.

Evening settles quietly. You watch from the window as your mother steps out later, Toji already waiting in the car, leaned casually on the driver-side door with his usual arrogance. He holds it open for her. She smiles. Something about it feels genuine.

You hope it goes well.

You busy yourself. A little cleaning. Rearranging your bookshelves. You even wipe down your desk for no reason other than to stay distracted.

Later, you eat a simple dinner alone. Rice. Curry. Reheated.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You go to bed early. Or at least, you lie down.

It’s past midnight when the silence breaks.

You blink awake, staring at the ceiling, unsure at first if you imagined it. But there it is again—a sharp thud, and the low rumble of raised voices.

You sit up slowly, heartbeat climbing. Slipping out of bed, you pad barefoot toward your window.

The car is back in the driveway.

They’re home.

But it doesn’t sound like a peaceful return.

You step into the hallway.

Just in time to see your mother storming past your door.

Her heels clack furiously against the floorboards as she disappears into the master bedroom, her purse flying—literally flying—backwards toward the hall. It hits Toji’s chest.

He catches it with one hand.

Doesn’t even flinch.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice gravelly. “Ya throwin’ your whole salary at me or what?”

She doesn’t answer.

He sighs and looks up.

Right at you.

Your eyes meet—briefly. His mouth twitches, like he might say something.

But he doesn’t.

He just exhales sharply through his nose and walks after her, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

The door shuts behind them.

Hard.

You stand there, unsure what you just walked into.

But your stomach tells you it’s something you weren’t supposed to see.

—

Morning arrives too quickly.

And too quietly.

There’s still tension in the air like smoke after a kitchen fire. No sounds of arguing, no slamming doors. But that somehow feels worse.

When you step into the hallway, you notice his shoes are gone. Toji must've left early. Not that you’re surprised. He always disappears in the mornings—sometimes before you even wake.

Your steps are soft as you approach your mother’s door.

It's already slightly open.

She's standing by the mirror, fixing the collar of her blouse, earrings glinting under the dim vanity lights. Her lips are pursed, drawn into the kind of line that feels permanent lately.

You hover in the doorway.

“…Mom?”

She looks at you through the mirror, but her hands don’t stop moving.

“Yeah?”

You step in slowly.

“I... I just wanted to talk. Please,” you say quietly. “I mean… what's been bothering you?”

She doesn’t respond at first.

You watch her pick up a bottle of perfume, spritz her wrists, then rub them together like she didn’t hear you. But you know she did.

“…You’ve been different lately,” you continue, forcing the words out despite the knot in your chest. “And last night, the fight… I just—can you please tell me what’s going on?”

Your mother freezes for a second, shoulders rising as if preparing herself to either scream or shatter.

But she doesn’t do either.

She simply lowers her arms and turns toward you, her eyes calm. Too calm.

“You need to find a job, quickly.” she says.

You blink.

“I am trying...”

“I know,” she says softly, “you should hurry. And… move out.”

It feels like the floor just cracked beneath your feet.

You open your mouth, but no words come. Nothing sounds right in your head. Nothing makes sense. You just… stare at her, hoping—praying—that she’ll laugh and say it’s a joke.

But she doesn’t.

She smooths down her skirt and adjusts her purse strap.

Your voice comes out small, fragile. “Do you… not want me here anymore?”

She doesn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, she says, “You’re old enough now. You’ve got your classes, and you’ll graduate soon. It’s time you start thinking about responsibilities..”

You swallow hard.

She sounds so distant. So formal.

Like a teacher giving a lecture—not your mother who once rocked you through every fever and breakup. Not the same woman who used to cry watching cartoons with you.

Still, you nod.

You try to convince yourself that maybe she’s just being practical. Maybe this is her way of preparing you. Maybe she means well.

Maybe.

You whisper, “Okay,” even though you don’t feel okay at all.

She moves past you, heels clicking softly on the floor.

“Take care,” she says without looking back.

You turn to watch her leave.

Something in her posture is stiff. Tired.

And then she’s gone, the front door closing quietly behind her.

You stand there for a while.

Still. Cold. A little hollow.

Then you square your shoulders and nod to yourself.

Fine. I’ll wait. But I’m going to find out what’s going on. I have to.

After she’s gone, the house feels too empty. Too clean. You pack your things slowly and leave for college. The walk clears your head a little. Your friends greet you with their usual laughter and inside jokes, and for a while… you manage to breathe.

In class, things almost feel normal again.

Almost.

You’re eating lunch on a bench outside when your phone buzzes in your lap. You glance down casually, expecting maybe a text from a classmate.

But the name on the screen makes your heart drop.

Uncle Ravi (Security Guard)

You answer instantly.

“Hello—?”

His voice is panicked, out of breath.

“Miss! Madam—your mother—she—there’s been an accident!”

Your blood goes cold.

“What?!”

“She was on the way to her office, near the flyover—some car hit her from the side. They rushed her to the city hospital—Please come!”

The phone nearly slips from your hand.

People around you blur into noise as your heart hammers in your ears.

You get up so fast you nearly stumble.

You don’t think.

You just run.

—

The hospital smells like antiseptic and silence.

The waiting room is white and too bright. You sit there, barely breathing, knees pressed together, hands trembling in your lap. Toji is standing nearby, speaking quietly with someone at the desk—but your ears are ringing. All of it feels like a dream. A nightmare.

Your fingers curl tightly against the seat. The last thing she said to you was “Take care.” You didn’t even say it back.

Then the doctor walks in.

White coat. Glasses. A clipboard held like a shield.

You look up as if your life depends on him opening his mouth.

“She was gone on the spot. Blunt force trauma to the head… I'm sorry.”

Gone.

Gone?

You don’t even hear anything after that.

It hits you like a tidal wave—no warning, no time to breathe.

You crumble forward, head in your hands, shaking. The tears come faster than your body can keep up with. Your throat tightens until it hurts. You can’t breathe. You can’t scream. You can only break.

“No… no… please, no…”

You don’t know how long you sob like that. You only feel a weight—Toji’s hand on your shoulder, trying to pull you back, to hold you upright.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay. I got you. You’re not alone,” his voice is low, soft, but laced with panic. “I’m right here, kid. I’m right here…”

He helps you walk—somehow. Maybe someone helps him. You don’t remember.

All you know is that by the time you get home, it’s already dark.

The lights are off.

The house feels like a hollow shell.

He tries to guide you inside. Your legs move, but your mind doesn’t. You feel like a puppet being dragged across a stage you never asked to perform on.

You slump down on the couch. Toji bends slightly, kneeling in front of you, reaching out to your arm gently, like he’s done a dozen times before.

But this time—

You jerk away.

Your palm hits his hand with a sharp slap.

“You…!”

He blinks. Confused.

“What—?”

“You did this!!”

Your voice shakes. It cracks.

You point your finger at him, tears still pouring down your cheeks.

“She was acting weird because of you! You fought with her! I saw it—why would you—why did you have to argue with her that night?!”

He stares at you.

Frozen.

“I didn’t—”

“She wouldn’t have stormed off if it weren’t for you!”

Your voice shatters against the silence. You're not even thinking anymore—just feeling. Everything at once. Anger, grief, betrayal, fear.

But then—

“Enough.”

His voice cuts through the air like a whip.

Firm. Cold. Controlled.

You flinch.

You look up slowly—and for the first time, really see him.

Toji’s eyes… they’re red. Shimmering. Gutted.

Not the smug, calm expression you’re used to. Not the lazy sarcasm or distant annoyance. No.

This is different.

This is a man who just lost something. Someone.

“You… accused me on the first day,” he says softly. “And I let it go. I figured maybe you were just scared. Protective.”

He runs a hand through his hair and stares at the floor.

“But now… this?”

His voice is hoarse.

“You’re blaming me… for this?”

His fists clench by his sides.

“Since the day we met,” he cuts in, his voice breaking, “I—”

He inhales sharply, as if trying to swallow a scream.

“I loved her.”

Your eyes widen.

“I loved her so much,” he whispers, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Even if you hated me. Even if she avoided talking about us in front of you. I didn’t care. I didn’t need to be liked. I just… needed her. She made me feel like I was still human.”

His breath hitches.

You feel something in your chest crack. Guilt crawling up your throat like poison ivy.

You take a step forward.

“I didn’t know…” you whisper, shaking. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was scared, and—”

But then.

He lowers his hands.

And meets your eyes.

A slow smirk creeps across his face—one that sends ice down your spine.

And then he whispers—

“…Is that what you think I’d say?”

Your body stiffens.

His voice… isn’t soft anymore.

Not even close.

There’s no pain in his tone now.

Only something colder.

He stands.

Tall. Shadowed.

“Good story, right?” he mutters. “The grieving man. The misunderstood boyfriend. You almost believed it.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“…W-what?”

He leans forward slightly.

But his smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Let's start from the beginning.."

FLASHBACK — Earlier That Evening

The place isn’t a restaurant. Not even close.

It’s one of his private resort lounges, dimly lit, draped in expensive shadows and silence. The air smells of polished leather and cigar smoke, not wine or roses. No music plays. No waiters. No table set for two.

He sits lazily on a velvet armchair, legs spread like he owns the world — which maybe, in this moment, he does. A cigar burns slowly between his fingers, embers glowing like a distant warning.

Your mother stands by the glass wall, arms crossed, the city lights painting pale gold across her face. She’s dressed up — stupidly hopeful, maybe — but the sparkle she once wore is gone. Her lipstick has begun to fade. Her hands are clenched so tight, her knuckles crack.

She stares at him for a moment, breathing through her nose, then says softly—

“Is that all?"

Toji doesn’t look at her. He exhales a drag, smoke curling past his lips like venom.

“Hah?”

He chuckles, jaw twitching.

“What’d ya expect, sweetheart? Candlelight dinner? A violin in the corner?”

He finally turns his head, eyes like knives under half-lowered lids.

“Don’t kid yourself.”

She swallows hard, like the words cut her throat on the way down. Her voice shakes slightly but she forces it out.

“You think I don’t know why you’re doing this?”

At that, he smirks. His tongue brushes the corner of his mouth. The cigar burns between his fingers like a ticking fuse.

“Good.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her like a predator sizing prey.

“So ya ain’t as dumb as ya pretend to be.”

A pause. Then a sneer.

“I told you what it is and you chose to stay.”

Your mother flinches. Her face twists—shock, shame, rage—all colliding in a blink.

“What the hell are you saying?!”

Toji stands now. His full height casts a long shadow across the room. He walks toward her slowly, lazily, dragging the smoke through the air behind him.

“I’m sayin’ we’re not fuckin’ married, babe,” he growls.

“No papers. No promises. Just you clingin’ to a lie. Pretendin’ for your little girl, actin’ like this—” he gestures around, “—is some fairy tale when it's just dirt dressed in diamonds.”

Your mother’s lip trembles. Her fists clench tighter. She doesn’t back down.

“I did this for her. Everything—for her. And you said—”

“Yeah, I said I’d help ya. I gave ya the fuckin’ job. Put ya in my damn house so your daughter didn’t end up rottin’ in that hellhole with your husband.”

His voice rises, venomous.

“I gave ya everything. And now what? You cry ‘love’? Ya want flowers? I should’ve left you to your toxic bastard husband and washed my fuckin’ hands clean.”

The slap is sharp.

So loud it cracks through the smoke.

Toji doesn’t move. His cheek glows red, his head turned from the blow.

Your mother’s hand shakes at her side. Her breathing is jagged, eyes filled with tears—pure rage, pure heartbreak.

She doesn’t say a word. Just turns on her heel and storms toward the door.

But behind her, Toji slowly turns his head back. A bitter smirk slices across his face.

“Go ahead. Run back to your fantasy.”

He calls after her, voice heavy with disgust.

“But don’t forget who’s payin’ the bills while ya play perfect mommy.”

FLASHBACK — THAT NIGHT, JUST AFTER THEY CAME BACK

The front door slammed shut, echoing like a gunshot in the hallway. You were already in your room, heart pounding from the shouting outside, pretending not to hear. But the silence didn’t last long.

A second slam — a bedroom door this time.

Then it happened.

Inside that locked room, she barely had time to drop her purse before he grabbed her wrist.

His grip was brutal — fingers digging deep, making her wince. He pulled her to face him, his jaw clenched so tight, it looked like it might shatter.

“You wanna act like that in public?” he spat, breath laced with cigar and venom.

“Then you better learn how to behave yourself in private, sweetheart.”

She struggled, face burning, but he didn’t let go.

“If ya don’t straighten the fuck up,” he growled, voice low and dangerous, “I’ll kick ya out. Right here. Right now. How ‘bout that, huh?”

He leaned in closer, eyes glinting with threat.

“Would ya like that? Hmm?”

“You and your precious daughter out on the streets?”

She went still. Her lip trembled. Her shoulders sagged under the weight of it — the threat, the reality, the trap. She said nothing. Just shook her head, barely.

Toji scoffed, finally letting go, watching her stumble back. He didn’t say another word.

But from that moment on — she didn’t fight again.

---

The flashback slams into your brain like a freight train.

You’re still standing there — in the quiet room, with the stench of hospital antiseptic clinging to your skin, your heart cracked open, your lungs barely working.

And suddenly, you understand.

That’s why she told you to move out.

That’s why she was quiet.

That’s why she cried alone.

Because she was trying — trying — to protect you.

And now she’s gone.

Because of him.

You start shaking, violently. Your breath comes out in small, choked sobs, like your lungs have turned to stone.

“N-No… no, no, no—”

You shake your head, stepping back, clutching your chest as if your heart itself might fall out. The walls spin. The truth crushes you.

But Toji steps forward, calm, collected, eyes unreadable.

He cups your face.

Big hands. Rough palms. A grip that looks gentle but feels like iron.

“Shh, shh…” he whispers, voice suddenly soft, like honey laced with cyanide.

“It’s okay… breathe, yeah?”

You can’t.

“I… I—”

He presses his forehead lightly to yours, fake tenderness dripping from every breath.

“She’s gone now, baby. It’s okay… you don’t have to cry.”

He strokes your cheek with his thumb, catching a tear.

Then he whispers it.

“It’s your fault anyway.”

Your whole body freezes.

“You made me do this~” he murmurs, voice twisting into something cruel, singsong, mocking.

“All that pressure, all that pushin’... she wanted to leave, but she wouldn’t. Because of you. And now…”

He gives a slow, dark smile.

“Now she’s gone. Because of you.”

Your legs give out. The guilt crashes like a tidal wave. Even if it’s a lie — even if it’s manipulation — you feel it. In your chest, in your throat, in your bones.

He leans closer, voice almost cooing.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.”

“I’m still here. I won’t leave you. Not like your mother did.”

“Not like your fucking dad did.”

“And not like your precious uncle…”

Your heart stutters.

Uncle?

You blink. Confused. Choking on the sob lodged in your throat.

“W-What…? What did you just say…?” you whisper, voice barely holding on.

But Toji only smirks, eyes flashing with something unhinged.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers, forceful but calm.

“You didn’t know?”

His voice drips disbelief — or fake surprise. You can’t tell.

Then his hands fall from your skin like he's finished with the performance, like you're no longer worth holding.

And he turns you around by your shoulders. Slowly. Purposefully.

Your legs feel like glass.

Your breath hitches.

Your gaze lands on the front door.

And there—standing silently like a ghost that was always there—is your house guard. The man who stood by the gates every day. Who smiled when you left for class. Who patted your head when you were small. The one you trusted.

He stands there now.

Not moving. Not blinking. Just… watching.

As if he’s always been watching.

Your stomach lurches.

He heard everything.

Every word Toji said. Every scream. Every sob. Every confession.

And worse — from the look in his eyes — you know this wasn’t his first time witnessing it.

He didn’t just hear today.

He’s known.

Known the fights.

Known the threats.

Known what Toji’s done.

And he said nothing.

He did nothing.

You stumble back, your voice breaking apart.

“You… you knew? You knew all of this? And you—”

But he doesn't answer. He doesn’t even look away. He just stands there, as still as stone.

And that silence hurts more than any scream ever could.

Behind you, Toji lets out a low, dark laugh.

“Told ya,” he mutters, voice mocking and smug, almost amused.

“Everyone around ya? Just playing their part.”

He leans closer, breathing behind your ear.

“There was never anyone on your side, sweetheart.”

His voice is low — cruelly soft, the way lullabies sound just before a nightmare begins.

And then — he adds, almost like a sigh, almost like a promise:

"But me."

The words settle over your skin like frost.

Your legs weaken. Your thoughts scatter.

You don’t know where you are anymore.

You don’t remember when he stepped forward.

You don’t remember him reaching for you.

You don’t even remember the moment your breath left your lungs.

But suddenly — his hands are on you.

One curling behind your neck.

The other gripping your waist, hard enough to bruise.

And he pulls.

Pulled like you were a thread unraveling into him.

Your body slams into his chest, and your hands instinctively press against him — but it’s too late.

He’s already there.

His lips crush against yours.

Hot. Possessive. Hungry in a way that doesn’t feel like affection — no, it feels like claiming.

There’s no warmth in it.

Only dominance.

Only control.

You gasp against him, your mind blank, panicking — but his grip tightens, holding you still, forcing you into it. His breath tastes like smoke and whiskey and something feral you can’t name. Like this was inevitable.

Like you were always meant to be swallowed.

A noise tears from your throat — somewhere between a sob and a choke — and you try to move, but—

“Shhh,” he murmurs against your lips, like he’s soothing you.

“You’ve got nowhere else to go now, Y/N.”

The name sounds filthy on his tongue. Intimate in the worst way.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your entire body trembling.

You don't know... when toji was on top of you. Over your naked form.

Tears still streaming down your face as you gasped and shuddered from the relentless pounding of his thick cock. He had taken her ruthlessly for hours, fucking you raw until your tight little cunt was stretched wide around his throbbing shaft.

"Shhh, it's okay," Toji purred, leaning down to capture one of your nipples between his teeth. He bit down just hard enough to make you yelp, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud. "I know ya miss your mommy, but she's gone now. You're mine."

You sobbed brokenly, clawing at Toji's back as he continued his brutal thrusts. You could feel every inch of him stretching you open, the blunt head of his cock ramming against your cervix with each powerful stroke. Your pussy was slick with a mix of their juices, making obscene wet sounds as he hammered into you.

Toji sat back on his heels, pulling you up onto his lap. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back, exposing the pale column of your throat. Leaning in, he ran his tongue along the side of your neck before sinking his teeth into the delicate skin. He sucked hard, marking you as his own.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Toji growled, his hips snapping up to meet yours. "I'm going to fill this tight little cunt with my cum. Breed ya over and over until your belly swells with my child."

You whimpered pathetically, hating yourself for the way your body responded to his cruel words. Your pussy clenched around him, eager for his seed. You could feel yourself teetering on the edge of orgasm, the pain and pleasure merging into something almost overwhelming.

"Shh, there there my sweet Yn," Toji coos, his voice dripping with false sympathy as he pushes deep inside your quivering pussy, your walls clenching around his thick cock. "Fuck, ya feel so good.. I'll always take gooooood care of ya."

He punctuates his words with harsh thrusts, grunting as he pounds into you, his pelvis smacking against your ass. Your whimpers and cries, tears streaming down your face, your body jerking with each deep stroke.

"N-no.. more," You gasp out between sobs. "I- can't take anymore!"

"Oh yes ya can," he growls, gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "You're mine now, sweetheart. Every inch of this sweet little body belongs to me."

He leans down and sinks his teeth into the soft skin of your neck, sucking hard. More marks for you to remember him by. His hips never stop moving, driving into you again and again, his cock stretching you open.

You whimper against, but your pussy doesn't lie - you're getting wetter by the second. Toji feels you clenching around him, trying to milk his dick for all it's worth.

"Fuck, you love this don't ya?" he groans, picking up the pace. "Ya love being fucked by the man who killed your mother, who took everything from you."

He leans down and spits directly onto your pussy, watching it glisten around his pistoning cock. He reaches up and tweaks your nipples hard, feeling them pebble under his fingers.

You lets out a choked cry, your body shaking as he brings you closer to the edge. Toji grins savagely, knowing that even though you're mourning, you can't deny the pleasure he gives you.

"Come on baby, cum on my cock," he commands, hammering into you harder. "Show me how much ya love being mine."

"N-no, stop.. Mr..!" You whimper, trying to push him away as he forces himself inside you again.

Toji just laughs, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head back roughly. "Still with that 'Mr.?' How fucking cute of ya.."

He tugs you into position, forcing you onto your hands and knees, your ass in the air. He kicks your legs further apart, opening you up completely for him.

"Look at that photo," he demands, pointing at the picture of your family. Your mother's smiling face grins out at them, a mocking reminder of what Toji stole from her.

You choke back a sob, tears streaming down your face. "Please, don't.. not this-!"

Toji just laughs cruelly, lining his cock up with your dripping entrance. "Oh, but I am. I want them to see how well ya taking care of me. How much ya enjoying yourself with me."

He slams into your with one harsh thrust, burying himself to the hilt in your tight heat. You cry out, your body shaking with sobs as he starts to fuck you hard and deep, his hips slapping against her ass.

"That's it, take it," Toji growls, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Take my cock like the good girl I know ya can be..."

He reaches forward and grabs the photo frame, holding it up in front of your face as he pounds into you. "Look at her, smiling like she had any right to be happy. Look at what a fool she was, thinking she could protect ya from me."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the image of your mother's smiling face. But Toji just grabs your hair again and yanks your head back, forcing you to look.

"Open your eyes, slut. Watch as I fuck ya raw, right in front of your precious dead mother. Watch as I make ya mine forever."

You lets out a choked sob, feeling like you're being torn apart inside. But despite everything, you can feel your body responding to his harsh fucking, your pussy clenching around him as he drives into you again and again.

"Fuck, fuck fuck... so tight," Toji groans, reaching down to rub your clit hard.

"Come on, cum for me," he demands, his fingers moving faster on your clit. "Cum on my cock like the dirty little slut ya are. Show me how much ya love being mine."

You lets out a choked sob, your whole body convulsing as your orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy spasms around Toji's cock, milking him for all he's worth as you came hard..

Toji pulls out of you with a satisfied grunt, his cock slipping from your battered pussy with a gush of cum. He takes a moment to admire his handiwork - your limp, fucked-out body, your gaping hole dripping with his seed, the red marks and bites covering your skin.

"Mmm, ya took that so well," he purrs, running a hand possessively over your ass. "Such a good little slut for me."

You just lays there, utterly spent and barely conscious. Your mind is reeling, unable to process the shameful pleasure you found in being used by your mother's killer. You feel like you've been split in two - one half mourning your mother, the other craving more of Toji's brutal touch.

As Toji gets up to retrieve his clothes, you mumbles something softly into the sheets. He leans down, cupping a hand under your chin and forcing you to look up at him.

"What was that, sweetheart? I couldn't quite hear ya."

You swallow hard, tears welling up in your eyes once more as you whisper brokenly. "I...I'm sorry.."

"I'm sorry, Mom..."

"Pfft..." A low chuckle escapes him, and he smirks — slow, twisted.

"Mmhh, You should be..." he whispers.

"Be miserable with me... for the rest of your life."

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Extra chapter— |Click here|

[kinbedo]

(wc: 1k)

Thinking of actor au! Kinich who prefers action-filled roles.

actor au! Kinich who doesn't express it, but is always glad when he gets to play a role in a thriller.

actor au! Kinich who turns down all offers for a romantic show, before even reading through the letters he receives from the directors. Why would he need to pretend to be in love with someone when he already has you?

actor au! Kinich who hates that the directors and script-writers think that he's the only one suitable to play the romantic interest, even when he's supposed to be playing the nonchalant grey character.

actor au! Kinich who absolutely hates it when he's informed that the kiss scene will be recorded the next day.

actor au! Kinich knows that he needs to do the scene properly, lest they make him repeat it over and over. And he doesn't want to even try kissing someone else once, forget about the re-takes.

actor au! Kinich who uses the kiss scene he has next day as an excuse to "practice" with you, trying his best to make his kisses seem convincing without getting too close to you.

actor au! Kinich who doesn't even realise how he's teasing you with the way his lips just barely hover over yours, his face inclined one side to cover up the fact that he's not actually kissing you— just pretending that it's happening.

actor au! Kinich who is fully aware of the way you're looking at him through half-lidded eyes, silently begging him to kiss you for real at least once. He can see your silent pleas clearly through the mirror, and yet he refuses to acknowledge it, only focusing on perfecting his act.

"Was this really convincing enough?"

"I feel like I might have gotten too close for my comfort there, let's try again."

And then he's already leaning in again, his hot breath fanning over your swollen lips. You squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for Kinich to leave you craving for more for the nth time that evening.

actor au! Kinich who drags out his "practice" a bit longer than necessary, just because he loves seeing your reactions in the mirror.

actor au! Kinich who makes his boundaries be known the minute he sees his co-actors, letting everyone in the room know that he wasn't going to tolerate any advances in the name of shooting a scene.

actor au! Kinich who does put last night's practice into good use, perfectly getting through the scene in one go. You're standing in a corner watching it play out, and you can't help but feel sorry for the co-actor for being left like that by Kinich— after all, you know how painful it was, how your boyfriend was so painfully teasing with his hovering kisses.

actor au! Kinich who often has to learn and practice some rather risky exercises for some of his more action-filled scenes. Even just seeing the instructor tighten the ropes to prevent accidents makes your stomach drop. What if the ropes break? What if he gets hurt? What if these ropes fail to prevent any accidents?

actor au! Kinich who spends a little longer with you that night, reassuring you that he's alright, that he got through the day without any accidents. He holds you closer, rubbing soothing circles on your back. He was never one to be bothered by extreme sports, but he knows that you're scared for him, and he truly appreciates your concern because it makes him feel cared for.

actor au! Kinich who sometimes takes you to the nearby park at night, when no one else is there in the playground. His legs are strong enough to support him as he hangs upside down from the monkey bars. "Come closer" he calls out to you, and you comply only to be caught in a kiss. His hands find their way around your neck, threading through your hair while one of your hands reach up to tangle in his hair.

He pulls you closer by your neck, deepening the kiss. Your view is blocked by his black hair. His eyes are closed and his eyebrows are scrunched up in focus, trying to maintain his balance (it would be embarrassing if he fell after trying to pull this stunt).

actor au! Kinich who breaks the kiss to whisper "I hope this makes up for making you practice with me that night" just to dive in again, softer this time, but just as meaningful.

actor au! Kinich who lowkey tries to convince the director to give you a minor, two scene role of his love interest instead of pairing him with someone else. If you're okay with it, he'd much rather have his character have a subtle love interest mentioned only once or twice. That could keep the audience engaged and craving for more, no?

actor au! Kinich who would ensure that you're never uncomfortable with any part of his work, opting to drop his role entirely for you instead. "This role requires the confession to become a bit hea-" and he's out, neither is he comfortable with it, nor does he want to make you feel uncomfortable about it. If it's his safety that you're worried about, then he is extra careful during shooting to assure you that he will be fine.

actor au! Kinich who knows that what he has with you isn't an act, and who cherishes his reality with you more than anything else in the world.

[stonesense]

Would you mind if I asked what the overall, like, thoughts and plot stuffs you have on a 'the inquisition as antagonists' story? Honestly sounds really interesting as an AU. Is it built off (the scant bits we have) of the cancelled Exalted March? Like the Inquisition redeclared and exalted march enacted on the Free Marches while the Qunari attack from the north and Hawk (or some other hero) trapped managing it all in the middle along with the growing red lyrium crisis? Or something entirely different?

there i was, banking on my explanations of how cool and hot the female characters would be, sure no-one would ever ask me to come up with a plot or logic... foiled...

so. loosely. as we established in da2, the mage circles are in rebellion. the divine gave cassandra one chance: to find hawke, discover the truth about kirkwall, and string them up as an example with all the blame pinned on their shoulders. (remember cassandra’s certainty that hawke and their allies planned everything from the start? i really think this makes more sense than the idea they always wanted to recruit hawke.) the mages would then have a chance to return peacefully to the circles, graciously forgiven for either being swayed by hawke’s lies (supported the mages) or being forced to react to hawke’s crimes (supported the templars). it was supposed to bring things back under control & prevent the divine from having to take more drastic measures. but varric lies, and cassandra fails. given that the rebellion is not centralised in one place anymore, an exalted march isn’t suitable. the divine declares an inquisition. and from then on, nowhere in southern thedas is safe from catching its eye

my intention was that the protagonist would still be the herald of andraste, because i think that’s the most compelling thing dai has going on. i think i’m keeping a lot of the plot with corypheus too. so: after an incident (still figuring out exactly my take) at the temple of sacred ashes, rifts pop up everywhere, and you’re the only one with the mysterious power to close them. in a time when both chantry and mages are doubted and feared, common people mark a sudden saviour as the herald of andraste who is going to bring everything back to rights. their beliefs get you help you can’t afford to refuse, as this time you’re really a prisoner and underdog in every way possible, no army of scouts here. but it also paints a target on your back. the inquisition doesn’t believe in corypheus; it’s obvious to them that these rifts are the work of the loose rebel mages everywhere, taking their vengeance on ordinary people. and you yourself must have dealt with demons to have such power, yet you dare to operate under andraste’s name. whether or not you want to be, whatever you were before, you immediately become the inquisition’s enemy #1

kind of similar structurally to how dao has loghain and then the archdemon, the inquisition would be the enemy you can deal with in multiple ways and corypheus would be the ultimate threat. i wish i could say i have something more solid than that but i really don’t, i haven’t put in a lot of work on this and there are lots of inquisition characters & subplots i don’t consider myself an expert in at all. but that’s sort of the direction in my head

[yuujispunches]

Of rivalry and ruin ~ M.F. (Part 2)

Pairing: Megumi Fushiguro x fem!Reader

Summary: After that party you swear that sleeping with Megumi Fushiguro was merely a mistake but when it keeps happening and lines begin to blur you find hating him more and more complicated.

CW (content working): college AU (modern setting, no curses), aged up Megumi and reader (they’re in their 20s), mentions of shitty father, some cursing, MDNI (+18), mentions of alcohol, p in v sex, oral sex (f receiving), protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), a bit of angst at the end.

AN (author’s note): Hi guys! I’m so so happy that you’re liking my works, I had most of them written out before but I never thought I’d end up posting them so thank you so much for your support. This is the second part of this short series and I think I’ll probably wrap it up on the next one. As always a reminder that English isn’t my first language and I’m typing this on my phone so I’m sorry if there’re any typos/mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

<<Part 1 || Masterlist || Part 3 >>

You tell yourself it was a one-time thing.

That’s what people say after they sleep with someone they’re not supposed to want, a stupid mistake, a moment of weakness, alcohol and hormones and tension unspooling after years of quiet combustion.

It meant nothing.

But it’s harder to keep lying when it happens again. And again. And again.

The next time it happened, it’s two weeks later, after midterms. You’re stressed, sleep-deprived, shaking with too much caffeine. You run into him outside the humanities building at 2 a.m., both of you cradling takeout and dead-eyed from hours in the library.

You barely say a word. Just drag him into an empty lecture hall and ride him in the back row, still wearing your hoodie and his hand over your mouth when you moan too loud.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

Library glances turn into locked doors. Study breaks turn into makeout sessions in shadowed corners. You fuck in stairwells and parking garages, once even in the back of a cab with the driver up front pretending not to notice.

It’s reckless. It’s addictive. It’s ruining your life.

You don’t know when it stopped being just sex.

Maybe it’s the way he brings you coffee before your 8 a.m. seminar, your order, not his. Or how he notices when you’re quiet and asks what’s wrong, even though he’s the worst at pretending he cares.

Maybe it’s how he doesn’t just undress you with his hands, but with his eyes. Like he’s seeing all the things you never let anyone else close enough to notice.

And worst of all?

You let him.

——————————————————————————

You’re lying on your stomach in his bed one night, hours after you were supposed to be home, one of his pillows beneath your chin and a hand lazily tracing shapes on your bare back.

He’s beside you, equally naked, breathing slow and deep. You think he might be asleep until you shift and his hand slides lower over the curve of your ass, down between your legs.

“Again?” you mumble, already sore.

He hums. “Didn’t hear you complaining an hour ago.”

“I’m complaining now.”

He presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “Liar.”

You flush.

He slips two fingers between your thighs anyway, and your body betrays you arching back, needy.

“You like this.” He murmurs, voice gone low again. “You like me.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I already did” He says, slipping two fingers inside you. “Twice.”

You throw a pillow at him, but it’s weak your body’s too busy melting under his touch.

He rolls on top of you, and positions himself on your entrance. Your eyes meet before he starts moving slow, deliberate. This time isn’t fast or wild. It’s not fucking. It’s something else. Something you don’t have a name for. At least not yet. His fingers lace with yours. He kisses your jaw, your temple, your mouth.

You don’t stop him.

When you come, it’s quiet. Like a sigh. Like surrender. He finishes with a groan, collapsing against you.

And for a while, neither of you says anything.

Then he shifts beside you and murmurs, “You’re gonna break my heart.”

You blink, stunned.

“What?”

He doesn’t repeat it. He just lets it linger in the room and echo deep inside you.

You stare at the ceiling, heart beating too fast.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were supposed to hate him.

——————————————————————————

It gets worse. People start to notice.

Nobara corners you one night at dinner, poking at her pasta with suspicion.

“So…” She says, chewing slowly, “You’ve been weird lately.”

You blink. “Weird how?”

“Weird like... smiley. Distracted. Glowing. Suspiciously well-fucked.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

She narrows her eyes. “Who is it?”

“There’s no- ”

“If you lie to me, I swear to god I’ll go through your phone.”

You sigh and you give up because you know for a fact that she’s perfectly capable of it so there’s no point in lying to her.

And for the first time, you say his name out loud. Her jaw drops.

“Fushiguro?”

You cringe. “Yeah.”

“As in, your mortal enemy? Your academic nemesis? The guy you almost punched in that poetry seminar?”

You groan and hide your face in your hands, unable to face the fact that, now that you’ve said it out loud, now that someone else knows it makes this all too real. “Please stop.”

She stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “This is unbelievable. Are you in love with him?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You don’t answer. That’s answer enough.

——————————————————————————

Finals hit hard.

You’re buried in papers and presentations and the slow, suffocating dread of post-college uncertainty. Your brain is fried. Your planner is bleeding ink and stress.

You see Megumi less. You pretend not to care.

But one night, after a particularly brutal week, you come home and find him sitting outside your apartment.

Hood up. Elbows on his knees. Looking like the end of the world.

Your heart trips.

“Are you ok?” You ask, careful because the expression on his face is something you’ve never seen before on him and it makes your heart clench.

He looks up, eyes shadowed.

“My dad called.”

Oh.

You don’t know much about his family, he doesn’t like to talk about it, only that his dad is a sore subject. Absent. Toxic. One of those people who builds their children out of disappointment and control.

You sit beside him, close but not touching.

“He wants me to take the law school offer.” Megumi says quietly. “But I don’t... I don’t think I want that life.”

You stay silent.

“I thought I did.” He murmurs. “For a long time. Just to prove I could. But now... I don’t know.”

You rest your hand over his.

And for once, he doesn’t pull away. He interlocks fingers with yours, slowly and almost trembling because both of you know what this means. But you don’t mind, at least in that moment.

You sleep together that night but you don’t fuck. He pulls you into his arms and you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. Steady. Real.

It’s worse than all the times he’s had you moaning beneath him. Worse because it means something.

You’re not sure what. But it terrifies you both.

——————————————————————————

Summer creeps in slow and sticky.

Your last final ends in a blur, and you stumble out into the sun dazed and half-dead, lungs full of freedom.

Megumi’s waiting by the stairs.

You don’t kiss him. Not here. But you want to.

He walks you home.

You tell yourself this is temporary. That it’ll fade once the semester ends. Once you go back to your lives and stop playing pretend.

But then he says something that makes your heart stop. “Come with me this weekend.”

You blink. “Where?”

“Out of town. Just for a few days. My friend Yuji’s throwing a grad party at his family’s cabin.”

You frown. “You want me to meet your friends?”

He shrugs. “You’ve already met me naked. Might as well see how bad my social life is too.”

You hesitate.

He looks away. “You don’t have to.”

“No.” you say, surprising yourself. “I’ll come.”

His eyes meet yours.

And he smiles. Not the smug, condescending smirk you’ve grown used to.

A real smile. It’s dangerous.

You’re already falling and you don’t know if he’ll be there to catch you.

——————————————————————————

The cabin is beautiful.

Perched on the edge of a lake, tucked between trees and birdsong, it smells like pine and possibility. Yuji is a whirlwind, cheerful and chaotic and the human embodiment of a golden retriever, the total opposite to Megumi. You like him immediately.

There’s a group of them old friends, former classmates. You’re the outsider, but they don’t treat you like one. You catch Megumi watching you more than once, like he’s waiting for you to run.

But you don’t. You stay, you laugh at his friend’s jokes, you talk about the places you used to go on vacation with his sister, you steal glances at him and smile quietly.

That night, after too much wine and a firepit under the stars, you sneak away with him to the upstairs bedroom. The walls are wood. The air smells like cedar and summer.

“Your friends are nice.” You say once you’re both alone in your room.

He stays quiet for a moment, his eyes sparkling slightly with a glint that you haven’t seen before. “They loved you.” He say simply and steps closer to you, his hands on your hips. “I already knew though, who wouldn’t?”

His words linger in the air, heavy with the weight of what they could imply.

“You don’t have to- ”

“I do.” He says as his lips start kissing down your neck. “It’s the truth.”

You close your eyes and let him, too scared to dive further into it. You knew what you felt and, for a moment, you think that he might just feel the same.

Soft sighs leave your lips, your skin feels like electricity everywhere he touches.

He undresses you slowly, reverently. It was as if he was trying to carve every second of it into his memory even though he had already seen it countless times.

He lifts you up, carrying you to the bed and places you down carefully, like you were something holy, something worth worshipping. His positions himself on top of you, and his lips descend down your body, slow, too slow. It makes you lift your hips up impatiently.

“Megs…” You whine. “Please…”

“Never thought I’d hear that word coming out of your mouth.” He muse and smirks up at you.

“Fuck you.”

“Oh you’re about to.”

And just like that his mouth is finally on you. He licks a strip down your slit before he starts lapping like a man starved. It leaves you gasping for air, one hand gripping the sheets and the other is tangled into his hair. It’s almost embarrassing how fast he makes you come, but once his face is eye level with yours again he seems proud of it.

You’re breathing heavily and you’re still coming down from your high but your body feels on fire.

“Your turn.” You say before placing a hand on his chest, pushing it lightly and rolling over so that now you were straddling him.

You quickly reach out for the nightstand, grabbing a condom, tearing the wrapper with your teeth and slowly, teasing him.

“Fuck…” He grunts and shudders slightly.

“Who’s impatient now?”

“I can never win with you.”

“You’re about to.” You smile as you repeat the words he had just said moments ago.

He chuckles and shakes his head as he looks up at you, it’s soft, intimate and it makes something inside of you stir.

You sink down on him, slowly, giving you both time to adapt to the sensation before you start moving. He places his hands on your hips and caresses your skin gently.

“God you’re beautiful.” He breathes out, that shine in his eyes still present.

You ride him with the window open, moonlight on your skin and his hands on your hips. He groans your name like a confession.

Later, he pulls you close and whispers, “Stay.”

And that’s what you do.

——————————————————————————

You almost believe it’s real.

Until the night you hear him on the phone.

You’re walking back from the kitchen when you pause outside the door voices muffled, urgent.

“I don’t know what she wants from me.” He says.

Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t ask for this. We weren’t supposed to get serious.”

Silence and then the words that make everything shatter.

“Yeah. I know. I should end it.”

You leave before he sees you. Getting back into bed with a gaping hole inside your chest.

You pack your bag the next morning. He’s still asleep when you slip out.

You don’t leave a note. You don’t need to.

——————————————————————————

The summer passes in pieces. You ignore his texts. You block his number.

You go home, bury yourself in internships and silence and the ache in your chest that refuses to leave.

You should hate him.

You want to.

But even now, you still want to hear his voice.

——————————————————————————

Three months later, you’re back on campus for grad orientation.

You’re early. You always are.

You step into the first seminar of the term, a new building, a new professor, a new beginning.

But the fantasy is short lived because you see him and the whole words seems to freeze.

He’s sitting in the second row. His head lifts. His eyes meet yours and, for a moment, everything falls away.

The pain. The pride. The heartbreak.

You remember his hand on your thigh in the library. The way he kissed your spine when you were half-asleep. How he looked at you like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

You want to scream. You want to run.

But instead, you walk down the aisle heart in your throat and take an empty seat on the third row.

He doesn’t say anything and neither do you.

Tags: @hawkwithsocks

taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

[puffins-muffins]

Control - The Attraction

Pairing: Jax Teller (AU-ish) x FemaleLawyer!Reader Word Count: ~10,370 Summary: Back in Charming, your return to TM and SAMCRO leaves you feeling a complex mix of nostalgia and anxiety. As Jax's trial approaches, you face mounting pressure from a relentless prosecution and your growing feelings for Jax complicate your focus. Warnings: 18+ only please, cursing, descriptions of anxiety/panic attack. Brief mention of character death(s), Jax (he's his own warning).

A/N: Ommmmgggg you guyyys!! I am blown away by all the love and support for this story! This one was an emotional rollercoaster. It kiiiinnd of got away from me, but with reader back in Charming now, there was a lot that needed to be explored. Feedback always appreciated. Beta'd by myself, all mistakes are my own. Please enjoy it as much as I do!! Part 3, here we go! 💜

Part 1 | Part 2

Sitting at the old diner, the one you and your dad used to frequent for dinners, you stared down at your untouched coffee, the bitter scent rising into the air, tightening the knot that had taken residence in your stomach. You had sworn to yourself years ago that you wouldn’t get pulled back into this world, into the familiar emotional storms. Yet, here you were, back in Charming, with Jax only a few miles away—and that ironclad resolve you once had was starting to fracture.

Your conversation from the interrogation room replayed relentlessly in your mind, Jax’s words as sharp now as when he first said them. “Maybe you’re afraid you’re not over me.” He looked right through you, cutting past your defenses. He had seen the truth in you, that you hadn’t really moved on. Not completely. With one look, he knew it.

You hated that he could still read you so easily, that after all these years apart, he still knew exactly which buttons to press. It was maddening, that sense of vulnerability. You were supposed to be stronger now. Smarter. But being around Jax, it felt like every wall you had built came crumbling down the moment you walked into that room. The way he looked at you—like no time had passed at all—made it impossible to pretend that you didn’t feel the same pull. 

Seeing him again brought it all rushing back. The way he used to look at you, the way he made you feel like the world outside didn’t exist when you were together. How he’d made you feel seen and understood, in a way no one else ever had. You spent years trying to fill that void, tried to find that connection with others, but it had never been the same. No one had never been Jax.

You sighed, rubbing your temples, the weight of it all pressing down on you. What was it about him that made it so hard to let go? After everything, after all the pain, the heartbreak, why did being near him still make you feel like you were tethered to him in some unbreakable way?

A familiar voice pulled you from your thoughts, warm and gravelly with a hint of surprise. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

You glanced up, finding Wayne Unser standing a few feet away, his worn face cracking into a smile. The knot in your stomach eased, replaced by a wave of nostalgia. You stood, offering a hug that he accepted warmly. “Chief! It’s so good to see you.”

He chuckled as he pulled back, shaking his head. “Ain’t the Chief anymore, darlin’. Haven’t been for some time now.”

You smiled, gesturing toward the empty seat at your table. “You’ll always be the Chief to me,” you said fondly.

He nodded, settling into the chair across from you. There was something comforting about having him here, someone who had always been in your corner and witnessed your life intersect with the club’s chaos.

“I was hoping we’d run into each other while I’m in town.” you said, your tone soft as you folded your hands on the table. “You really saved my ass with that character letter.” 

Unser waved it off, his smile fading as he leaned back in the chair. “Would’ve done a lot more if I could’ve. Jax may be in deep, but I’ve known that boy since he was runnin’ around on his tricycle. He’s a good man, even if he’s gotten himself tangled in a mess.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of the conversation shift. Unser had always seen the good in Jax, even when others didn’t. And that loyalty was something you admired, but it also made you wonder how much of Jax’s actions over the years Wayne had turned a blind eye to, how much he excused for the sake of it.

“Jax’s world has gotten a lot more complicated,” you said carefully, not wanting to betray the growing unease you felt about the case. “But I think he’s still the same underneath all of it. I just hope I can do enough to get him out of this.”

Unser gave you a long, knowing look, his eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something. “I can tell this ain’t just about the case for you,” he said, voice low but steady. “I remember how you two used to look at each other. It was you and Jax against the world for a while there.” 

You glanced down, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, but before you could respond, Unser continued, his tone softer now. “You know I care about Jax. Always have. And I care about you too. I ain’t tryin’ to meddle, but you gotta be careful. That world, it takes more than it gives. And once it gets its hooks in you, it’s hard to break free.”

His words hung heavy in the air, and you found yourself nodding slowly, the truth of what he said sinking in. But you had always known that. You experienced first-hand the toll the club took on people, felt how it could consume everything. 

“I know,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I always promised myself I wouldn’t get pulled back in.”

Unser smiled gently, but there was a sadness in his eyes. “Sometimes life has a way of draggin’ us back to the shit we swore we’d never return to. You just gotta make sure it’s what you really want.”

You took a deep breath, the weight of his words settling over you. “I’m only here to keep him out of prison,” you said, and though you meant it, you could hear the uncertainty in your own voice.

Unser didn’t press further. Instead, he gave a slow nod, his gaze softening with understanding. “Just remember, there’s always a choice, even when it doesn’t feel like it. And I’m around to help anyway I can.” 

You offered him a grateful smile. Wayne Unser had always been more than just the town’s chief of police—he had been a guiding presence, a steady hand amid the disorder. And now, even though his health was failing and his role in Charming had changed, he still had that same calming influence.

“Thank you, Chief,” you said sincerely. 

He reached across the table, patting your hand gently. “You’re gonna be alright, darlin’. And your Daddy’d be real proud of you. Just keep your head on straight and don’t let that boy take you down with him.”

His words about your dad hit you harder than you anticipated. A familiar ache of loss surged in your chest, and you swallowed thickly, managing a small smile. If he were here, he would be proud of you; he lived and died by this club, loyal to SAMCRO until the bitter end. In ways you hadn’t fully comprehended yet, that loyalty ran deep within you as well. 

For a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe you could navigate this, maybe you could keep the line between personal and professional from blurring. But as Unser stood to leave, his words stayed with you, lingering in your mind after he’d walked out the door.

You sat there a while longer, staring at your coffee, knowing that soon enough, you’d have to face the inevitable—Jax, the case, and everything that came with it.

That evening, you sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, your laptop balanced on a stack of case files, the screen glowing in the dimly lit room. The soft hum of the air conditioner filled the silence as you stared at the notes scattered around you, taking a deep breath before unmuting the conference call.

“Alright, Liz,” you said, your voice steady despite the mental whirlwind of information you were trying to process. “Let’s go over what you’ve found so far.”

Liz’s voice crackled through the line, sharp and focused, though you could hear the exhaustion creeping in. You both had been burning the candle at both ends. “First off, the witnesses—they’re falling apart. Like I mentioned earlier, one of them wasn’t even in town on the night of the murder. And the other? He’s changed his story three times now. The prosecution’s trying to hold them together with duct tape and hope.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth as you jotted down notes, but the situation was far from funny. “Good, we’ll shred them on cross. What about the arresting officer? Connolly?”

Liz’s tone shifted, growing more intense. “Connolly’s dirty. Filthy, actually. I tracked down a couple of large deposits made into his account, way beyond his salary. The timing of one deposit matches up almost perfectly with Jax’s arrest.”

Your breath hitched for a second, your pen pausing mid-note. “So he’s being paid off,” you muttered, processing. “We just need to find out who’s pulling his strings.”

“That’s where things get murky,” Liz replied, her voice lowering. “I’ve got leads tying him to a rival MC, but nothing concrete yet. It’s more like whispers. Still digging.”

The mention of the rival MC made your pulse quicken. This wasn’t just a murder case—it was layered with club politics and buried secrets. “If we can prove Connolly’s connection, it could blow the prosecution’s case wide open. Anything on the murder weapon?”

“No sign of it,” Liz said, frustration seeping into her voice. “The cops don’t have it, and no one’s talking.”

You leaned back against the headboard, tapping a pen against your knee as you reviewed your strategy. “We hit them where they’re weakest. Discredit the witnesses—tear their timelines apart. Then expose Connolly’s dirty money and ties to the rival MC. If we paint him as corrupt, we cast enough doubt to cripple their case.”

It was a solid plan, but your mind wasn’t entirely on it. Jax lingered in your thoughts, you hadn’t seen him since you dropped him off at TM, just a few exchanged texts. You knew you were avoiding him—avoiding the way his presence stirred up old feelings.

The case was slipping into something bigger, and you couldn't afford distractions. But no matter how hard you tried, Jax was always there, just under your skin, pulling you closer, and threatening to unravel everything.

Your phone buzzed, jolting you from your thoughts. It was Jax. It was as if he knew he was consuming your mind.

“Heard you’re back in Charming… avoiding me?”

Your stomach tightened. You’d forgotten just how small Charming was—news traveled fast, especially when it involved Jax. A mix of irritation and anxiety settled in as you realized that even without him realizing it, he was forcing you to face everything you’d been trying to avoid. Each moment brought you closer to the inevitable, and despite your best efforts to stay distant, you knew you couldn’t escape it forever.

You stared at the blinking cursor on your phone, but the weight of everything felt overwhelming. Not just Jax—the entire case. Connolly, the witnesses, the unexplained deposits. Something felt wrong. You couldn't shake the feeling that something deeper was at play, something corrupt and insidious threading through the heart of this case. But whatever it was, it would all have to wait. First, you had to deal with Jax.

“Everything okay?” Liz’s voice cut through your haze, snapping you back to the present.

You cleared your throat, adjusting your grip on the phone. “Yeah, just a text from Jax. He knows I’m in town.”

There was a pause on the other end, and you could practically hear Liz’s raised eyebrow. “Wow, his ears must’ve been burning. You’ve been avoiding him, haven’t you?”

You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. I’ve been busy with prep, but... it’s more than that.” You pushed yourself off the bed, pacing the room. “The truth is, seeing him again after all this time... it stirs up shit I’ve tried to move past. But I know I can’t keep dodging it forever.”

Liz didn’t press further, always knowing when to hold back. “You’ll handle it. You always do.”

You sat back down on the bed, staring at Jax’s message again. “It’s just… TM, this place, it’s like stepping into a time capsule. It holds all the memories from when everything was simpler. When things weren’t so... complicated.”

Liz was quiet for a moment, then spoke softly. “Do you think he’s changed? Jax, I mean.”

Her question hit deeper than you expected. You’d been avoiding that thought too. From the few moments you’d shared recently, it was clear that life had weighed heavily on him. The charm was still there, but beneath it was a hardness, a fatigue you hadn’t seen before. And yet, the pull between you, the familiarity of him—it was still there, almost as if no time had passed at all.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “Maybe he has, maybe he hasn’t. Part of me thinks he has. The other part knows better.”

Liz was quiet for a beat. “Well, if anyone can navigate this, it’s you. Just… don’t lose yourself in the process.”

You swallowed hard, her words hitting closer to home than you wanted to admit. “I won’t,” you said, more to reassure yourself than to convince her. “Thanks, Liz. You’ve done great work so far. Just promise me you’ll be extra careful. The people we’re looking into are dangerous.”

“Absolutely,” Liz replied, her tone serious. “Just remember, you’re not in this alone.”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see you. “Thank you, that means a lot. I’ll call you after I meet with the club.”

Liz’s tone sharpened. “I’ve got my guard up, don’t worry. I’ll keep pushing on Connolly and the money trail. We’ll crack this.” she added before the line clicked off.

You set the phone down beside you, staring at it for a moment before typing a quick response to Jax.

“Let’s meet tomorrow. Noon. TM.”

You hit send before you could overthink it. There. Done. Now it was just a matter of facing whatever came next. You were confident in your ability to handle the legal side of things, but Jax... that was different. Seeing him again wasn’t just about the case; it was about the past, about unresolved emotions, and the complicated mess of history between you both.

But as you leaned back against the headboard, that familiar knot of uncertainty tightened in your stomach again. Charming felt like a minefield—corruption beneath the surface, power plays behind the scenes. And at the center of it all was Jax, pulling you into something that was about more than just legal strategy.

You weren’t sure what the next day would bring, but one thing was certain: this wasn’t just another case. It was personal, in more ways than one.

And you weren’t sure if you were ready for that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As you pulled into Teller-Morrow, your stomach twisted with unease. You hadn’t even stepped out of the car yet, and already you felt the weight of the memories pressing down on you. Before you could even gather your courage, the office door swung open, and there she stood—Gemma Teller. 

Your breath caught in your throat. Gemma had always been more than just Jax’s mother—she was a force of nature. The history between you two was complex, a mix of respect, tension, and unresolved emotions. She had always wanted Jax to take his rightful place at the head of the club, and at times, you felt like she viewed you as a threat to that vision. She never outright said it, but you could feel it in her looks, her comments, that underlying worry you’d pull Jax away from the life she envisioned for him. In her mind, love was dangerous if it meant her son might stray from the path she’d set for him.

But things hadn’t turned out the way any of you expected. The decisions Jax made, the path the club took—it all happened regardless of your love.

Somehow, you willed yourself out of the safety of your car, and now, standing here in the parking lot, you weren’t sure how Gemma was going to greet you. Would it be the sharp-edged woman who used to see you as a potential obstacle, or the maternal figure who had, at times, treated you like family?

As she approached, her sharp gaze softened slightly when she saw you. There was a flicker of something—recognition, nostalgia maybe—but Gemma being Gemma, it was hard to tell what she was really thinking. She stood there for a moment, looking you over, as if assessing whether time had changed you—or if you were still the same woman she once had a complicated relationship with.

“Well, look who’s back,” Gemma said, her voice laced with that familiar mix of sarcasm and curiosity. Her eyes scanned you, and though her expression remained unreadable, you could feel the weight of her scrutiny. She hadn’t lost her edge.

“Gemma,” you said, stepping forward, trying to keep your voice steady, even though your heart was pounding. “It’s good to see you.”

For a split second, the tension hung in the air. Then, to your surprise, her lips curled into a half-smile, and she pulled you into a hug. It wasn’t warm exactly, but it wasn’t cold either. It was… familiar.

“You too, baby,” she said softly, her tone just a little gentler than you expected. When she pulled back, her eyes locked onto yours, searching for something, though you couldn’t quite tell what. “Missed having you around here.”

Her words caught you off guard, but you nodded, unsure of how to respond. The history between you both was too complicated for simple pleasantries. Gemma folded her arms, giving you another long look. “You still look good, kid. All grown up. Life must be treating you well out there.”

“Something like that,” you replied, offering a faint smile. You wanted to say more, but any words caught in your throat.

She raised an eyebrow, and you could feel her probing deeper, looking past your words to the things you weren’t saying. “I know coming back here ain’t easy for you,” she said, her voice lowering, all traces of humor gone. “Lotta ghosts, I’m sure. But Jax needs you, sweetheart.”

There it was. Gemma was always three steps ahead, and this time, she was trying to use your own feelings against you. She wasn’t just reminding you of your connection to Jax; she was weaponizing it. Like she always did when she wanted something.

But this time, you saw it clearly. Years ago, you might have let her play on the soft spots you had for Jax without even realizing it. Back then, you were less guarded, still figuring out how to navigate people like Gemma. But now? Now you were older, sharper, and you understood her game better than you ever had before.

Then again, with Gemma, it was always about Jax first and foremost. Beneath the tension, there was a quiet, unspoken respect between you—born from your shared loyalty to him. And you almost couldn’t fault her because of it.

Almost.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, instead forcing the sweetest fake smile you could manage. “I’m here to help,” you said, your tone flat but polite.

Gemma studied you for another long moment before she nodded, her expression softening just a bit. “Good.” She gestured toward the clubhouse with a tilt of her head. “They’re inside. Go on in, baby.”

You hesitated, feeling the weight of everything you were about to walk into. Then, with a deep breath, you headed toward the clubhouse, knowing that the real test was just beginning.

The door creaked open, and you stepped inside, feeling a wave of familiarity wash over you. The air was thick with the scent of leather, motor oil, and the faint tang of beer and cigarettes. It was captivating, pulling you back in time. Memories rushed in—laughter echoing through the halls, heated arguments by the bar, the camaraderie that once filled every corner. The nostalgia was almost too much to bear.

The room hummed with energy, a mix of business and brotherhood. Heads turned when you walked in, the club members greeted you with expressions that ranged from curiosity to warmth. Jax stood near the bar, flanked by Chibs and Tig. His body language was casual, but the moment his eyes locked onto yours, everything seemed to shift. That tension, the current that had always existed between you, surged again. You felt it deep in your gut, that familiar flutter that left you off balance.

"Look who finally decided to show up!" Tig's voice cut through the room, teasing and lighthearted, a grin spreading across his face. He approached quickly, pulling you into a tight side hug and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Thought we'd have to send out a search party."

You forced a smile, trying to push down the knot in your chest. "Guess I couldn’t stay away forever, huh?"

Chibs was next, stepping forward with his usual warmth, his broad shoulders a comforting sight. "Good to see ye, lass," he said, pulling you in for a brief but solid hug. His embrace steadied you, easing the tension just a little.

"You too, Chibs," you replied, your voice steadying as you caught sight of the "Sergeant-at-Arms" patch across his chest. He was still looking after his brother, still his protector.

And then there was Jax. He hadn’t moved from his spot by the bar, his posture relaxed, but his eyes—those piercing blues—were locked onto you, unreadable yet intense. Something flickered in them as he watched you cross the room. Anticipation? Vulnerability? You couldn’t quite place it, but it made your heart race.

“Hey,” Jax said, his voice low and calm, offering a nod that felt almost casual—except for the way his gaze held yours, unrelenting.

“Hey,” you replied, forcing a lightness into your tone that didn’t match the way your chest tightened. It didn’t feel casual. Not with him standing there, the weight of his presence bearing down on you, making the room feel smaller.

Looking impossibly good in his leather kutte, worn and weathered, clinging to him like a second skin. His broad shoulders were more defined than you remembered, the white T-shirt underneath emphasizing the lean muscle that flexed with his every subtle movement. His jeans hung low on his hips, and at his side, the knife that once belonged to his father—a reminder of the life he was born into. But in contrast to the rough edges, his signature white Nikes were spotless, a small, almost ironic sign of the control he still maintained amidst all the mayhem.

With that familiar boyish smile tugging at his lips, and his gaze holding you captive, it felt like time hadn’t moved at all. The pull between you, always there, had only intensified. His eyes swept over you, lingering just long enough to make your breath catch, and in that moment, your carefully built defenses began to dismantle.

Jax didn’t need to say anything for you to feel it—the connection, the history. And as you stood there, caught in his gaze, you realized just how much power he still held over you.

Exhaling a shaky breath, a familiar towering figure stepped into your space. Opie stood before you, his presence bringing you back instantly. His eyes were soft but filled with gratitude, and though he didn’t say much, you could feel the depth of his emotion.

Without a word, he pulled you into a tight hug, his arms strong and comforting around you. The weight of everything seemed to ease as you leaned into him. There was something solid, unwavering about Opie—his presence had always been a source of quiet brotherly strength.

He pulled back, just slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders as he looked you over. There was no need for words between you. You could feel what he was saying in the look he gave you—a silent thank you, for being here, for standing by Jax. It wasn’t easy, and he knew it.

“Ope,” you said quietly, your fingers gently brushing over the VP patch stitched into his kutte. He nodded, his gaze softening even more. He didn’t need to say it; you knew he appreciated you more than words could express.

After a beat, he released you with a gentle pat on the shoulder, stepping back but keeping that connection between you.

You finished greeting the rest of the Sons, taking in Happy and Juice for the first time, while Jax stood nearby, arms crossed, his posture casual but his eyes sharp. He gave a quick introduction. “Juice is sort of our intelligence officer,” he said, nodding toward the younger man with a smirk. “Anything you or your girl need, he’s your guy.”

You gave Juice a polite smile, but your mind was racing, struggling to process everything around you. The room was filled with faces—some familiar, some new—each one stirring a different emotion. Jax’s voice broke through the noise in your head, steady and low as he filled you in on what you’d missed. He listed off Bobby, currently away in Vegas on an Elvis gig, Piney’s tragic death, and then, quieter, Clay’s betrayal and eventual demise. These weren’t just updates—they were the scars the club carried, and you could feel the toll it had taken on them.

Your eyes flicked to Opie, a silent understanding passed between you. Piney’s death wasn’t just a club loss—it was deeply personal, and you could see the weight of it in Opie’s eyes. There were no words needed. Just that brief acknowledgment of everything you’d both lost due to this life.

You glanced around the room as he spoke, the walls lined with mugshots and memories. There was more than you remembered, each one a stark reminder of the lives that had been lost or altered. Jax’s voice, though calm, carried the heavy toll of everything that had happened. “We’ve had to rebuild… but we’re still standing.”

You nodded, trying to absorb it all, but the sheer weight of the club’s history left you spinning. So much had changed, and yet, in so many ways, everything felt the same. The familiarity of it—the faces, the raw energy of the room—only made the losses hit harder. Processing Jax’s brief rundown of the club’s last decade felt like trying to catch your breath while drowning. The room felt entirely too small, the air thicker with years of grief, brotherhood, and blood.

Your chest tightened, and suddenly the noise of the room faded, replaced by a suffocating sense of overwhelm. The memories of your dad, the endless cycle of loyalty and sacrifice, the faces you used to know—it all crashed into you at once, relentless and unyielding. You could feel your pulse quicken, your breath becoming shallow. The walls felt like they were closing in, the weight of the past pressing down on you, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop the anxiety from bubbling up.

Your hands trembled as you pulled your phone out of your pocket, desperate for an escape. “Hey, do you guys mind? I need to check in with my office real quick,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, though your voice was tight and strained. Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and headed for the door, the room suddenly too stifling.

The warm air hit your skin as you stepped outside, but it did little to calm the storm brewing inside. You hurried to the side of the building, out of sight, and leaned against the rough brick wall, your breaths coming in shallow, rapid bursts.

You pressed your trembling hands to your chest, willing your body to calm down, but the tightness only worsened. The faces inside, the ghosts of the past, the changes you hadn’t been there to see—it all swirled around you. And Jax, standing there like a god damn living reminder of everything you’d tried to move on from, only made it harder.

Your pulse pounded in your ears, and your vision narrowed as the panic surged through you. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on your breathing, but each one felt like you were dragging it through quicksand. The edges of your vision blurred as you fought to keep from losing control entirely.

You pressed your back harder into the wall, as if grounding yourself to something solid would keep you from slipping under. One breath, then another. But the waves kept coming, relentless, and all you could do was ride it out.

Lost in your desperate attempt to control your thoughts, Jax’s sudden appearance startled you. “Jesus Christ, Jax!” you gasped, “Can’t a girl have a panic attack in peace!?”

The humor was your defense, but he saw right through it. His eyes softened, and he took a small step closer, his expression full of quiet concern, no judgment in his gaze.

“These still happening?” His voice was gentle, like he already knew the answer but needed to hear it from you.

You shook your head slowly, trying to reassure him—or maybe yourself. “It’s been a while,” you admitted. And it had been. The panic attacks hadn’t started until after your dad’s funeral, when the weight of everything had finally come crashing down on you. They had been rare since then, but being here—back in the thick of it—was bringing it all back.

Jax had been there for the first one. You could still feel the memory of his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing away your tears as he’d tried to steady you.

“Just breathe, Pep. You’re alright, baby,” he’d murmured, his voice strong yet soft, grounding you as you fought for air. His hands held you like an anchor, keeping you planted in the present, calming the storm raging inside you.

You could see in his eyes now that he wanted to do it again—grip your face, hold you still, remind you how to breathe—but he resisted, just watching you carefully, giving you space to pull yourself back together.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, voice softer now, the edge of panic slowly retreating.

Jax nodded, his gaze never wavering, his presence a quiet reassurance. He didn’t push, didn’t offer words that would feel too heavy right now. He just stood there, close enough that you could feel him, the steady hum of him calming the storm inside you like it always had.

As the tightness in your chest began to ease, you exhaled slowly, embedding yourself in the present. Jax stayed where he was, steady and familiar. You didn’t have to look up to know his eyes were still on you, watching patiently, waiting for you to be ready.

You shifted, pushing your hair back, trying to regain your composure. “So,” you began, your voice a little uneven, “that crash course in club history… it left out a lot.”

A small, knowing smile tugged at Jax’s lips. “Figured I’d save the rest for when you weren’t looking like you were about to bolt.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. “You really know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

He shrugged, taking a small step closer. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t really a question. He had always been good at saying what mattered without actually saying it. You nodded, meeting his gaze. The air between you was charged, but somehow, it felt a little easier now.

Jax leaned against the wall beside you, his shoulder just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. Neither of you spoke—just stood in the weight of all that had changed, all that remained. Despite the years and distance, there was a strange comfort in the quiet, a reminder of the bond that never really broke.

“I didn’t know it would be like this,” your voice barely above a whisper. “Coming back.”

He glanced over at you, his eyes softening. “It’s different now. A lot’s changed.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. “Yeah,” you murmured, not elaborating because you didn’t need to. He understood. He always did.

Jax shifted slightly, his arm brushing yours in a way that felt intentional but not forceful. “But some things are still the same,” he said, his voice carrying a comfort that felt like home.

You turned your head, really looking at him this time. And in that moment, you realized nothing had changed between you, not really. All the ways Jax made you feel alive were still there, as intense as ever, threading their way through this version of you. The laughter you’d shared, the unguarded moments, all echoed in your mind, reminding you of why it had been so easy to love him all those years ago.

You were screwed.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Some things.”

Jax held your gaze, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart skip. He nodded slightly, then asked, “You ready to head back in?”

You took a deep breath. “Yeah,” you said, forcing a small fake smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He straightened up, extending his hand to you. It wasn’t just a simple gesture—it was an offer of solidarity, a bridge between the past and the present. You hesitated. You knew what taking his hand meant. It wasn’t just comfort—it was an acknowledgment of everything that once existed between you, everything that still lingered.

And those hands, rough, calloused—the hands that had held you, commanded you, loved you. Memories surged, the way those hands used to move over your body, strong but gentle, leaving you breathless in ways that no one else ever could. Your pulse quickened at the thought, your body remembering what your mind tried to suppress.

You considered pulling back, keeping the distance you’d carefully built to protect yourself. But there was something in his gaze—steadfast, patient—that made you relent. Maybe it was the silent promise of understanding, or maybe it was the sense that, for once, you didn’t have to face it all alone.

As you slid your hand into his palm, the rush of contact sent a familiar ache through you. Like touching a live wire, the sensation both comforting and dangerous at the same time.

The years between you seemed to dissolve, and it felt like you were back to a time when holding his hand meant safety, when it felt like the most natural thing in the world. But now, that safety was bittersweet, tangled up with all the things that had changed, things you couldn’t undo.

As you walked back inside together, your nerves slowly steadied, but not entirely. The weight of what came next crashing around you—a shift from personal to professional that you weren’t sure you could make seamlessly.

The Sons were already moving toward the meeting room, a familiar rhythm as they filed in one by one. You hesitated for a moment as you approached the double wooden doors that separated the main hall from the room where so many decisions had been made. It was the heart of SAMCRO, a place where only full patch members were allowed, unless invited. As Jax walked ahead, he turned to you, his eyes locking with yours. An unspoken acknowledgment of that invitation passing between you.

You took a steady breath, following Jax’s lead as he gestured for the others to remove their electronic gear. Phones, watches, anything that could transmit or record was left behind on the counter by the door. A small but necessary security measure, one that reminded you just how serious things were.

Jax stepped aside, letting you enter first—a show of respect that didn’t go unnoticed. As you crossed the threshold, your pulse quickened, your thoughts rushing back to the task at hand—his defense, the case you needed to build. Yet despite your professional focus, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were stepping into something far more personal.

The familiar room unfolded before you: a heavy wooden table at its center, surrounded by chairs reserved for the members. The walls were lined with SAMCRO memorabilia, chronicling the club’s long history. Every detail brought back memories of the countless times you’d been outside those doors, waiting, wondering what decisions were being made. Now, you were stepping inside, reentering the world you once fought so hard to leave behind.

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you in with the weight of the past and the uncertainty of what was to come. Jax pulled out a chair, motioning for you to sit. You took it, keeping your focus on the task at hand, even as the memories swirled around you. You knew this was only the beginning, both in the case and in facing what the two of you had left unresolved.

As Jax moved to the head of the table, it hit you all over again—he wasn’t just a member of this club anymore. He was the club, its leader, its heart, and its future. The sight of him in that spot—the president’s chair—was jarring, a far cry from the man you once knew who had always been just a step behind the power, always questioning his place in it. Now, though, he settled into that chair like he’d been there forever, like it was made for him.

Seeing Jax there for the first time sent a wave of emotions through you, some you couldn’t even name. He exuded authority, a quiet, undeniable control over the room. The way the guys around him, men you’d known for years, deferred to him without question told you everything about how he commanded respect—something he’d always struggled with when Clay was in charge. But this Jax was different. He had the weight of leadership on his shoulders, and it suited him, in a way that made you ache with want.

There was no denying the way his presence filled the room, his hands resting on the table with that same quiet strength you’d seen so many times before. He didn’t need to speak to demand attention; the sheer force of his presence did that for him. The patches on his kutte—his Reaper, President, Redwood Original—seemed to glow under the low lighting, a reminder of all he’d earned, all he’d sacrificed to sit where he was now.

You swallowed hard, trying to focus, but seeing Jax in that seat brought up more than just memories. It aroused something deeper inside you, something visceral and complicated, something you felt like you wanted to explore.

This was his world now; one you weren’t sure you could navigate the same way. But as his eyes met yours across the table, there was a flicker of the Jax you’d always known, the one who would burn the world down to protect the people he loved. And at the center of that, was you.

No matter how much time had passed, how much had changed, you could feel it. The invisible thread that tied you to him, pulling tight in moments like this. You’d tried to sever it, tried to walk away from it—but here you were, sitting across from him, feeling every bit as connected as ever. Jax might command the club now, but in that brief, intense exchange of glances, you realized you still commanded a part of him too.

The meeting was intense but productive. You stood among the Sons, the weight of their stares heavy upon you as you recapped everything uncovered so far. Tension and anticipation filled the room as you detailed the rival MC you suspected might be involved in Jax’s case and the corruption within Charming.

As you spoke, your voice steady and confident, you felt the atmosphere shift. The men leaned in, their focus entirely on you, absorbing every word. Jax watched from his spot at the table, his expression a mix of admiration and intensity. There was something powerful in the way you controlled their attention, the confidence radiating off you. In that moment, you were no longer just a part of this world; you were a force within it, and he couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for the woman standing before him, unflinching and resolute.

With determination, you laid out the plan. The club would work their angles, gathering intel the way they did. “But,” you said firmly, your tone leaving no room for debate, “you guys have to stay out of trouble. Jax’s freedom absolutely depends on it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Weeks passed in a blur of pre-trial motions and legal preparation. You were constantly on the move—drafting briefs, reviewing discovery, and prepping witnesses for deposition. Every day felt like a strategic sprint, as you meticulously crafted arguments and counterarguments, anticipating the prosecution’s next move. Each court appearance was a balancing act, maintaining a sharp, composed professionalism—all while bearing the emotional weight that hung over everything. The late nights spent strategizing with Liz felt endless as she continued to uncover more leads, but the pressure mounted with each passing day.

Amid the whirlwind of legal battles, your connection with Jax grew deeper than you’d expected. Late nights over drinks became the norm—what started as case discussions often shifted to more personal conversations. You found yourself sharing pieces of your life beyond Charming, and Jax listened intently. The barriers you’d kept up for so long were starting to crack. Lingering looks, brief touches—each one drawing you closer. The tension between you was impossible to ignore, even if neither of you said it aloud. And quietly, you began to rely on him more than you ever thought you would.

As you and Jax grew closer, you struggled to keep your emotional defenses intact, fully aware of the dangerous game you were playing. Your heart was betraying your mind, and you understood the potential consequences. You had always been flexible with boundaries when the situation called for it—that’s what made you so damn good at your job. But getting involved with Jax beyond the attorney-client relationship felt like a line you couldn’t afford to cross. Every moment with him brought you closer to that boundary, and despite your reservations, the gravitational pull between you was undeniable.

The trial date had finally been set, but the initial relief quickly turned to dread when you learned about the judge—one notoriously known for his stance against offenders like Jax. His reputation sent a wave of unease through you. Renowned for being a stickler for the law, he rarely exhibited leniency toward defendants with ties to criminal organizations—alleged or otherwise, and you understood that this was a significant setback for Jax’s defense. It was clear that drastic action was needed.

As you prepared for the next hearing, the reality of the situation became increasingly daunting. The prosecution had seemingly stacked the deck against Jax, armed with an overwhelming trove of evidence that you knew was questionable at best. Witnesses had been lined up, all poised to testify against him, yet you sensed that many had been coerced or incentivized to provide testimony that would serve the state’s narrative. The prosecution’s strategy relied on the judge's reputation to sway the jury, and you felt the walls closing in around you.

In court, you stood confidently to argue for a change of venue, fully aware this was your last-ditch effort to tilt the scales of justice. Jax sat at the defense table behind you, his presence a steadying force as you gathered your thoughts. Despite the anxiety churning in your gut, you felt empowered, ready to make your case.

“Your Honor,” you began, your voice steady but laced with urgency, “given the high-profile nature of this case and the appointment of Judge Hartford—who has a well-documented history of issuing disproportionately severe rulings in cases of this nature—my client cannot be assured a fair trial in this jurisdiction. Furthermore, the prosecution’s evidence, while admitted, raises substantial concerns regarding its reliability. Key pieces of evidence rest on circumstantial foundations and are bolstered by questionable witness testimony, which has been accepted without the necessary scrutiny.”

You paused, gauging the judge's reaction as the courtroom remained silent. “This is not about deflecting responsibility, Your Honor, but about upholding the principle of impartial justice. Mr. Teller is entitled to a fair and unbiased trial, and the current circumstances of these proceedings threaten to undermine that right.”

The judge’s gaze hardened as he responded, his tone sharp and unyielding. “Counselor, while you present a well-prepared argument, your concerns do not rise to the level required for a change of venue. Your assertion that this court, or any court within this jurisdiction, is incapable of impartiality due to unrelated past cases is both unfounded and inappropriate. I will not tolerate further implications of bias. The trial will proceed here, as scheduled, and I expect you to adhere to the procedural standards of this court.”

The weight of disappointment crashed over you as the motion was denied. The trial would move forward under conditions that were not only unfavorable but also potentially unjust, given the prosecution's ability to present suspicious evidence without proper challenge. You knew that each piece of evidence they had, whether it stemmed from questionable chain-of-custody practices or testimonies that lacked verifiable credibility, posed a significant threat to your case.

Returning to Jax's side, you were left with the grim realization that navigating this battlefield required you not only to confront legal obstacles but also to expose potential ethical violations. The clock was ticking, and you needed to dismantle their narrative before the trial commenced, safeguarding not only Jax’s freedom but also the integrity of the legal system itself.

It was late afternoon when you finally emerged from the courthouse, frustration and exhaustion churning within you like a storm. The hearing had unfolded predictably, which was to say, not in your favor. You clenched your jaw, muttering under your breath about the judge’s dismissive demeanor and the uphill battle that lay ahead. Jax was waiting for you just outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his relaxed posture standing in stark contrast to your tight, wound-up demeanor.

As you approached, he sensed the tension radiating off you, an electric charge around you. His expression shifted from concern to mischief, a glint of playful defiance in his eyes. “You know, for such a pretty lady, you’ve got a seriously intimidating scowl going on there,” he teased, an easy smile spreading across his face.

You shot him a sharp glare, irritation bubbling to the surface. “Thanks for the insightful observation, Jax. I’m glad you’re here to help me manage my emotions.”

“I’m just saying, you might want to dial it down a bit before you scare someone.” He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, annoyance deepening. “God, you’re annoying sometimes.”

His grin widened. “I’d forgotten how adorable you look when you’re this pissed off.”

You snorted at that. “Adorable?”  the word felt strange on your tongue, a jarring contrast to the storm of frustration brewing inside you. “I’m not trying to be adorable; I’m trying to do my job.”

“Hey, doing your job doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun along the way,” he teased, stepping back with his hands raised in mock surrender. “I’m just looking out for you. Can’t have you getting all worked up like this, Pepper.”

His charm only fueled your frustration further. “I’m trying to keep everything from falling apart here, Jax. There’s a lot of pressure—”

“And you’re doing a fantastic job of it!” he exclaimed, his tone light yet sincere. “Look at you, holding it all together.” He paused, letting the moment linger. “But if you want a break from holding it all together, I’m here for that, too.”

Your lips twitched at the corners, and you fought to maintain your stern facade. “Are you trying to distract me from being angry right now?”

“Is it working?” he countered, a confident grin plastered across his face.

You let out a reluctant laugh, shaking your head as the frustration began to dissolve. You resolved, playfully lying, “No.”

Jax walked you to your car, his bike parked just a few spaces away. The tension hung between you like a heavy fog, unspoken thoughts swirling in the silence before he finally broke it, his expression shifting. His usual easy charm was tempered by something more serious, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Are things really that bad? How worried should I be after that?” he asked, his voice lower, almost cautious.

You noticed the concern on his face—his jaw tight, eyes searching yours for reassurance. It was rare to see him like this, letting his guard down enough to show he was unsettled. That weight sat heavy between you, and despite the deepening connection, you reminded yourself that it was your job to protect him, to keep him steady when things felt like they might tip over.

Sighing, you offered a small smile, forcing yourself to sound more certain than you felt. “It’s not ideal,” you admitted, “but I’ve handled worse. I wouldn’t lose sleep over it yet.”

Jax studied you for a moment, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Good to hear,” he said, his voice softening.

You saw the tension in his shoulders ease, though you weren’t sure if it was because of your words or his faith in you. Either way, you resolved in that moment—to keep him from worrying, even if it meant keeping some of your own doubts to yourself.

“Hey,” he said, a familiar glint of mischief flickering in his eyes. “Your hotel isn’t far from here, is it?”

You frowned, caught off guard. “No, why?”

“Well,” he continued, leaning in a fraction closer, “how would you feel if I followed you back there? You could change and we can go for a ride on the bike. You know, like we used to.”

His suggestion lingered in the air, tempting yet charged with unspoken implications. Your heart raced at the thought, memories of past rides flooding back—the exhilarating rush of freedom and the undeniable chemistry between you. The idea was thrilling yet daunting, nostalgia mingling with the weight of your current reality.

You raised an eyebrow, trying to conceal your intrigue behind skepticism. “And you think a ride will magically fix everything?”

Jax shrugged, his grin unwavering. “Not fix everything, but it could help clear your head. It always did the trick before.”

You hesitated, your thoughts tangled in the mounting pressure from the trial and the stress that had built over the past weeks. “I don’t know, Jax. I have a lot to review tonight.”

“I understand,” he said, his tone softening. “But sometimes you need to step away from it all. Just one ride won’t hurt, right?”

As your eyes met, the noise of the world around you faded into the background. The thought of escaping, even for a little while, tugged at something in you. You could feel the tension in your chest loosening, if only slightly. The familiarity of being with Jax was hard to resist, especially with comforting memories of the past washing over you like a warm wave.

Your mind recalled that Saturday afternoon, so long ago, when he first convinced you to ride with him. Each ride after had only drawn you closer, igniting feelings you still didn’t fully understand to this day. The thrill of the road had always served as a backdrop for something much deeper between you.

Finally, you sighed, allowing your frustration to slip away. “Fine. But just a quick ride.”

“Awesome,” he said, barely containing his excitement as he moved back toward his bike. “I promise to get you back before the next crisis hits.”

A smile broke through your frustration, a flicker of joy emerging. Climbing into your car, you felt a mix of anticipation and lingering anxiety. As you drove, you glanced in the rearview mirror, watching Jax follow closely behind on his bike, a feeling of calm and safety washed over you.

When you reached your hotel, you parked and hurried inside, your heart racing not just from the thrill of the ride ahead but from the possibilities it held. After quickly changing into a t-shirt and jeans, you grabbed your jacket and stepped outside, the late evening sun casting a golden hue over everything.

Jax was waiting, his eyes lighting up as you emerged into the fading day. The way he looked at you sent a thrill coursing through your body.

You noticed the way his gaze roamed over you, his eyes tracing every detail as you moved with effortless confidence, dressed casually, more like the woman he knew all those years ago. The soft fabric of your shirt hugged your curves in all the right places, accentuating the changes that time had brought—subtle hints of maturity that only made you more intoxicating. He couldn’t help but admire how you carried yourself, a blend of poise and sensuality that sent a rush of heat coursing through him.

Every glance at you stirred something primal within him. Your smile lit up your face, and the glint in your eyes held a promise of mischief and tenderness. The way your hair fell perfectly around you, the subtle sway of your hips—it all drew him in. In that moment, you weren’t just a familiar face; you were a vision that awakened his deepest cravings, leaving him breathless with anticipation for what was to come.

“You look amazing, Pep,” he said, punctuating his words with a low whistle and an extra charming wink.

You rolled your eyes, but the heat of arousal spread through you at his compliment and the way his gaze devoured you. “Let’s just ride, Teller.”

“Yeah, let’s do that,” he replied, a hint of playfulness in his tone. Climbing onto the bike behind him, excitement surged through you, a heady mix of nerves and joy. You wrapped your arms around his waist, feeling the heat radiating from him, grounding you in a way that was both comforting and exhilarating. The smell of him was almost dizzying, an enticing blend of leather and spice, wrapped in the warm musk of his skin, it was utterly captivating. It all felt instinctual, as if you had never truly been apart.

As the bike surged forward, the hum of the engine vibrated beneath you, its power rolling through your body in waves. The sensation was addictive. You’d forgotten how freeing this felt—how the road opened ahead, inviting you into a world where nothing existed but the rush of air, the growl of the machine, and the strength of Jax’s body in front of you.

Your grip around his waist tightened instinctively, your hands resting against his toned frame, feeling the flex of muscle as he controlled the bike with effortless skill. The wind whipped through your hair, tugging at the strands, as you leaned into the turns, trusting him completely. With every curve of the road, you were reminded of just how alive you felt on the back of his bike, a feeling you hadn’t allowed yourself to experience in years.

The exhilaration flooded your senses, making your pulse race, your skin buzz. There was something thrilling about the speed, the raw power beneath you—and about being this connected to him again. Your body molded against his in a way that felt too natural, too right. You had forgotten how good this was, how good he felt. The familiar heat that always simmered between you both seemed to flare to life like a spark catching fire.

Each time his hand drifted back to yours to give a reassuring squeeze, it sent a jolt through your chest, a shock that had nothing to do with the bike and everything to do with the man in front of you. The scent of leather and Jax enveloping around you—a reminder of what you’d once had, what you’d always been drawn to. His strength, his recklessness, his loyalty.

The road stretched out ahead, but all you could focus on was him—his presence, his warmth, the pull of gravity that seemed to bring you closer with every mile. There was a tension building, a storm brewing in the spaces between you, and it wasn’t just about the ride. It was about him—the way he made you feel alive, dangerous, wanted.

And as the miles flew by, the line between the past and present blurred completely. Jax had always had this effect on you, waking something wild and unrestrained. The longer you stayed on that bike, the more you realized that no matter how much you had tried to distance yourself from him, from this, the connection was still there—burning hotter and brighter than ever. And you weren’t sure you wanted to fight it anymore.

As he parked the bike and cut the engine, the world around you faded into a distant hum, the adrenaline from the ride coursing through your veins like molten lava. You climbed off, laughter bubbling up inside you as you pulled off the helmet, shaking your hair loose. The wind had turned it into a wild, tousled halo framing your face, and in that moment, you felt liberated from the weight of your worries.

Jax inched closer, his body radiating heat that contrasted with the cool evening air. His eyes roamed over you, a smirk playing on his lips, and then he closed the distance, brushing a few loose strands behind your ear with a lingering touch. The simple act sent a thrill racing through your body, his fingers lingered against your skin, an intense reminder of how easily you could lose yourself in him.

“You’ve got that wild look going on,” he said, his voice a low, sultry whisper, laced with playful mischief. “Like the rebellious girl I fell for when I was seventeen.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, a rush of desire surging within you at the memory of that time—free, untamed, and filled with reckless abandon. The way he looked at you now sparked a forgotten excitement, coaxing out a spirit you hadn’t tapped into in years.

“Sometimes I really miss her,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it aloud made it even more real. You felt a pang of nostalgia, remembering the thrill of those carefree days and the adventurous essence that had once defined you.

Jax’s body pressed against yours in a way that sent sparks flying. He leaned in, his gaze locked onto yours, smoldering with an intensity that made your heart race. The air around you thickened with anticipation, that irresistible force drawing you together, the world around you fading away.

“Just so you know,” he murmured, his breath mingling with yours, heavy with longing, “I’ve always thought you looked hotter with a little chaos in your hair.”

The tension hung thick, saturated with desire. As you tilted your head back, your breath quickened, every nerve in your body alight with need. Just as his lips hovered dangerously close to yours, your phone buzzed violently against your thigh, shattering the moment like glass. You instinctively pulled away, breathless and disoriented.

You fumbled for your phone, your heart pounding in your chest as you glanced at the screen. Liz’s name flashed, accompanied by an urgent message:

“The prosecution just entered new evidence. We need to discuss our strategy ASAP.”

The weight of her text crashed down on you, extinguishing the fire that had been lit between you and Jax. You felt the immediate shift in your mood, the walls you’d been trying to keep at bay rising once more as reality flooded back in, cold and harsh.

“Everything okay?” Jax asked, his tone shifting from playful to concerned, the light in his eyes dimming slightly as he took a step back.

“Yeah, just… work,” you replied, forcing a smile. “Looks like we’re going to have a long night.”

A shadow of disappointment crossing his features. “Guess the joyride is over then,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, but you could sense the frustration in his posture.

You felt a pang of regret for what had almost happened between you, a moment that could have shifted everything. The chemistry that hung in the air was thick, the desire still radiating through you both, but the reminder of your responsibilities loomed large.

“Jax, I—” you began, but the words faltered on your lips. You felt the weight of responsibility, reminding you to keep your focus on the case, but the yearning in his gaze held you captive, making it nearly impossible to look away.

“Handle it,” he replied, his voice steady yet laced with an undertone of something softer—an understanding tinged with disappointment. “I’ll be here when you’re ready for another ride, Pep.” His hand brushed against your cheek, leaving a trail of heat that lingered softly. The gentle caress sparked a rush of emotions within you, evoking the depth of the connection you shared.

His words carried a double meaning that made your stomach flip-flop. You turned away, feeling the heaviness in your chest swell. The exhilaration of the ride and the tantalizing near-kiss lingered, but now they felt like fading echoes, drowned out by the harsh reality of the battle looming ahead. The bond you shared with Jax was enthralling, yet the stakes of his defense demanded your undivided attention, pulling you back into the relentless world of law where every decision carried the weight of consequences.

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand. The unresolved tension of what had just occurred lingered in the air, heavy with potential and yearning for a resolution.

Part 4

[444eggnog]

The Winner Takes It All

✍︎: thank you so much for all the support on the first part of this AU, and on all my works in general. every like, comment, and reblog truly doesn’t go unnoticed. in fact, they motivate me to keep pushing and do better with my writing. a special thank you as well to those who requested a part two. i hope this next chapter will satisfy you (at least a little!) until i can share the final part.

if you haven’t yet, i suggest reading the first part before diving back in here. as usual, i hope you enjoy! ♡ and of course i had to post this on July 17th because “what a night” ;)

content: ANGST, unresolved feelings, emotional conversations, confrontations

list of characters: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, George Russell, Toto Wolff

wc: 4.9k

part 1: I've Been Waiting For You

excerpt:

Four years.

Four years spent tucked away in this quiet little town, watching mornings as the sun warmed her skin.

Four years of holding small hands, of quiet promises that she’d keep them safe.

She named her Calista because it meant beauty. Because even in the ugliest, loneliest moments of her life, this little girl had brought her light. Joy. A reason to stay.

Within Calista, she found her meaning. The purpose she hadn’t even known she was searching for.

In a few weeks, she would be lighting candles, singing happy birthday, celebrating the new life she’d brought into the world four years ago.

But unbeknownst to her, in just a few weeks, heartbreak would come knocking at her door once again.

Heartbreak that wore branded clothes and a watch far too expensive for this little town.

Uninvited. Inevitable.

A shadow falling across the soft light she’d tried so hard to keep burning.

─── 🏁

Calista would be turning four soon.

Almost four years of sand-sticky feet, of mango juice smiles, of soft curls tied back with fraying ribbons. Four years of calling this quiet corner of Palawan home.

She was the reason Y/N stayed. The reason she chose peace over noise, small over grand.

She watched her daughter play outside with the neighbor’s goats, shrieking with laughter, and felt a warmth spread through her chest that she didn’t think she deserved but held onto anyway.

Inside, she sat at the table, writing out invitations by hand.

She wanted it small.

Just the people who mattered. The neighbors who’d taught Calista Tagalog words and shared bowls of champorado on rainy mornings. The old fisherman who carved her a tiny boat for her third birthday. The friends who’d become sisters, who loved Calista like their own.

Just family. Just love. Just home.

But her friends had other ideas.

One of them still remembered the story Y/N had once told, late one night, voice hushed with rum-laced honesty. The stranger in the rain. Oscar Piastri. “The first time I ever really chose something for myself,” she’d said.

They hadn’t forgotten.

Enough to make them wonder if he should know she’d built a life worth being proud of. Quietly, without asking, they tracked him down. Wrote his name on an envelope of their own.

Another friend, helping her deliver envelopes around town, stopped at George’s uncle’s house. They all knew him. He’d laughed, taken the invitation, and said, “George is actually visiting that week. I’m sure she won’t mind if he comes too.”

No one told Y/N.

She just kept writing, unaware.

Imagining Calista’s giggles. Her messy cake-covered face. The warmth of a day that was supposed to be simple.

A day she thought she had planned perfectly.

─── 🏁

Back in the cottage, Y/N stacked the remaining invitations neatly, tapping them against the table to straighten the edges.

She handed a few invites to her mother.

“These are for you to give out when you get back home, there’s a spare invite for Dad’s brother.” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear absently.

Her mom flipped through them, nodding. “I see.”

Y/N smiled as her mother tucked them into her bag.

Her father, meanwhile, was pretending not to watch them too closely.

As they stood by the door, ready to leave for a few weeks before returning for the party, Y/N pressed a kiss to her mom’s cheek. Then she squeezed her dad’s arm.

“Travel safe, okay?”

“Always,” he rumbled back.

They walked down the sandy path toward their waiting tricycle.

Halfway there, she saw her father lean close to her mother, voice low but clear enough to catch.

“Give me that extra invite,” he said gruffly. “I’ll tell my brother in person.”

Her mother’s laugh carried back on the breeze.

“Honestly, Toto, you’re so stubborn,” she teased, but she pulled the envelope free and handed it over without protest.

Y/N watched them go until they were out of sight, the warm hush of late afternoon settling around her again.

She let out a slow breath.

Family. Just family.

Or so she thought.

─── 🏁

Oscar

Oscar, upon receiving the letter, was confused at first.

He turned it over in his hands like it might reveal something hidden in the creases.

She’d told him not to look for her.

“Don’t look for me,” she’d written years ago in lipstick on that foggy motel mirror. “Good luck on your journey.”

He’d respected that.

But now, the envelope sat heavy in his lap. Her handwriting clear and careful. An invitation.

It felt like an opening.

Maybe she wants me to come, he thought, brow furrowing as he read it again. 

He tried to be rational about it. Told himself it could be a mistake. 

But hope had a way of lodging itself in his chest.

“Philippines again,” he murmured to himself, fingers drumming on the table.

He exhaled slowly, made the decision in silence.

He was going.

Just in case.

Because if there was even the smallest chance she’d meant for him to be there, he couldn’t ignore it.

─── 🏁

George

George arrived a few days before the party, dust on his shoes, sweat on his brow from the long trip.

His uncle met him at the edge of the path, grinning wide.

“Welcome back, boy.”

George dropped his bag with a tired sigh but managed a smile. “Feels good to be here.”

They set off toward the small house, the sun sinking low, bathing everything in that golden hour glow.

It wasn’t until they were sitting inside, cold drinks sweating on the table, that his uncle spoke up casually.

“By the way. You’re just in time for Y/N’s little girl’s birthday.”

George paused mid-sip.

“Little girl?”

“Yeah. She’s turning four.”

George’s fingers tightened around the glass.

Four.

It had been four years since they’d last seen each other. Since that boat ride, all jokes and flirtation and something soft underneath they’d both left unspoken.

He swallowed.

“Four,” he repeated quietly.

His uncle didn’t notice the look on his face. Just nodded, cheerful.

“You’ll come with me, of course. She’ll be happy to see you.”

George forced a small smile, eyes distant.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, sure. It’ll be good to see her.”

But his mind was already turning over the math. The time.

Four years.

─── 🏁

Lando

As for Lando, he wouldn’t have known at all, if not for Toto.

He loved his granddaughter more than anything. And every time he visited San Vicente, despite the complicated relationship he and Y/N had, he’d see Lando in Calista. Those green-hazel eyes that danced with mischief. The stubborn curls. The exact same mole beside her nose. Even the easy grin when bribed with sweets.

But that wasn’t what convinced him.

Years before, whenever Lando happened to cross paths with Toto, at a race, an event, Lando would greet him politely, but there was always something else. A hesitance. A question behind the eyes. Eventually, he’d asked, casually at first, then more seriously:

“How’s she doing, by the way? Your daughter. In the Philippines.”

That got Toto curious. He brought it up to Y/N, gently at first. She bristled, tried to brush it off, but finally, quietly, she admitted that yes, she and Lando knew each other. That they’d met at the town’s fiesta the year she arrived. 

And suddenly it all clicked.

Toto realized exactly who Calista’s father was.

It might have been overstepping. He knew that. But he also believed with his whole heart that Lando deserved to know. That his granddaughter deserved the truth.

When the time came, Toto didn’t make a show of it.

He found Lando in the paddock one quiet afternoon. No entourage. No cameras.

He waited until the young man was alone, reviewing notes on a tablet.

He didn’t bother with small talk.

Instead, he just held out an envelope.

“My granddaughter’s birthday is next month,” he said evenly.

Lando looked up, startled, brows pulling together.

He took the envelope slowly. “Oh.”

Toto watched him for a moment.

“Since you’re the only driver who’s ever actually been friends with my daughter,” he added, voice dry, “I figured I’d invite you. If you can stop by, you’d be welcome.”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Finally he nodded once, carefully.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“No pressure,” Toto added, already turning to leave. “Just thought you should have the option.”

Toto didn’t wait for a reply.

That night, alone in his hotel room, Lando sat on the edge of the bed and turned the envelope over in his hands.

He’d tossed it aside. Tried to forget about it.

But here it was again, heavy with possibility.

He ran a thumb under the seal and carefully pulled out the card inside.

San Vicente, Palawan.

His eyes scanned the neat handwriting.

Calista Wolff’s 4th Birthday.

He froze.

Four.

It hit him all at once, sharp as a slap.

Four years ago. That was the year he’d met Y/N. The fiesta. The nights on the beach. The way she’d laughed with her whole body, eyes bright even when she tried to hide it.

“Four,” he murmured, voice catching slightly.

He swallowed hard, reading it again.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to silence the voice in his head that was already asking too many questions.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it wasn’t his business.

But he couldn’t ignore the twist in his chest.

Stop by if you can.

He heard her voice from that last fight, cold and cutting.

She probably doesn’t want me there.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there was something unfinished.

He flipped open his calendar. Sponsorship meeting that same week.

He didn’t even hesitate.

He picked up his phone.

“Hey. About that meeting– ”

─── 🏁

The day came warm and bright, the ocean breeze stirring the hand-painted banner that read Happy 4th Birthday Calista!

George was the first to arrive, walking up the sandy path with his uncle at his side, a giant teddy bear tucked under one arm.

Y/N was tying balloons to the gate when she spotted them.

Her eyes went wide, mouth breaking into a surprised laugh.

“George?”

He lifted the bear a little, that familiar, slightly crooked smile spreading across his face. “Hey.”

She walked over, brushing her palms on her dress.

“What are you doing here?”

His uncle clapped him on the shoulder. “I might have told him there was a party. Said he should come by.”

George shrugged. “Hope that’s okay. Didn’t want to just… show up.”

Y/N looked at the stuffed bear, then at him, her eyes softening.

“It’s more than okay. She’ll love this.”

George let out a small breath of relief. His eyes darted past her to the decorated yard, the little table set for kids, the hand-painted banner fluttering in the breeze.

“Is she…?” His voice dropped. “Is she mine?”

Y/N’s smile faltered, but only slightly.

She shook her head gently.

“No. She’s mine. But not yours, George.”

He studied her face carefully. Searching for anything that might say otherwise.

She didn’t flinch.

“Thank you for coming,” she added softly. “It means a lot. It’s really good to see you.”

He swallowed, managing a slow nod, though there was something unreadable in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You too, Y/N.”

But even as she turned back to welcome other guests, George glanced once more at the child-sized chairs and bright streamers.

His fingers tightened around the teddy bear.

He didn’t say anything else.

But part of him still wondered.

She’s four years old. She has to be mine.

─── 🏁

Meanwhile, just outside the gate, her friends noticed a guy lingering at the roadside, looking lost.

He wore sunglasses but kept pulling them down to scan the yard, confusion clear in the set of his jaw.

One of them squinted.

“Is that… the Australian guy?”

The other one elbowed her. “You idiot. She’s gonna get so mad at you.”

The first friend huffed. “Well he’s here now. He made time… That’s gotta count for something.”

They walked over.

“Hey,” one called, friendly enough. “You look a little lost.”

Oscar looked up, swallowing hard.

“Is this… the kid’s birthday party?”

They nodded, pointing to the banner.

He read it slowly.

4th Birthday.

Oscar’s heart thumped.

Four years.

His mind started putting the pieces together faster than he wanted to.

“Is she mine?” he thought, his stomach twisting.

His fingers tightened around the small, neatly wrapped gift he’d brought.

But instead of going in, he shook his head once, like clearing water from his ears, and turned back down the path.

“Hey… Where are you going?” one of the friends called.

He didn’t answer.

He just needed a moment.

─── 🏁

Y/N back at the cottage lingered at the doorway, pausing for a second to watch the scene outside.

Calista was perched on George’s knee, her little hands busy showing him the shiny new hair clips she'd gotten as gifts. He was listening seriously, nodding at every color she named like it was the most important thing in the world.

Y/N’s mouth curved despite herself.

“They’re sweet together,” her mother’s voice murmured beside her, quiet but amused.

Y/N glanced at her. “Yeah. He’s good with her.”

Her mother’s eyes didn’t leave the pair by the window. “She’s happy. You’ve made her a good life here.”

“I try,” Y/N admitted, voice soft.

A silence settled between them, gentle as dusk.

Then her mother’s voice lowered. “Do you think you’ll ever tell her? About her father?”

Y/N’s smile wavered. She swallowed.

“I don’t know.”

Her mother reached out, resting a warm hand on her arm.

“You don’t have to decide now. But she’ll want to know one day.”

Y/N blinked fast. Looking away.

“I know.”

─── 🏁

A few hours into the party, just as everyone was gathering around the table to sing Happy Birthday, the gate creaked open.

Oscar stood there, a little out of place in the bright tropical light, holding a carefully wrapped gift box in both hands.

Y/N’s heart stopped.

Beside her, one friend elbowed the other, whispering, “Look at her. She looks mortified.”

Oscar caught her eye, gave a small, uncertain wave, then waited by the gate while everyone sang.

Calista squealed as the song finished, leaning forward to blow out her candles, icing smearing her chin. The whole yard erupted in cheers.

Y/N clapped too, but her eyes kept flicking to the gate.

When the noise died down, she took a breath and walked toward him.

“Oscar,” she said quietly.

He straightened. “Hey.” He held out the gift, awkward but sincere. “For her.”

“What… what are you doing here?”

He blinked. “I got an invite. A few weeks ago. With her name on it. From you, I thought.” He paused, eyes searching hers. “Honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever hear from you again. But… if the invite meant something… maybe it was this?”

He glanced past her to where Calista was giggling, icing all over her chin, curls bouncing.

“A four-year-old little girl with your smile?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She swallowed.

“Oscar… I didn’t send it.”

He looked stunned.

She continued before he could speak. “Yes. She’s my daughter. But she’s not yours.”

His jaw worked silently. He looked from Y/N to Calista and back, confusion and something like hurt settling over him.

“You’re sure?” he asked roughly.

“I’m sure.”

He dropped his gaze to the gift in his hands. “I… I still want to give this to her.”

Y/N’s voice softened. “Of course. Thank you for coming all this way. It… means a lot. You’re welcome to stay if you’d like.”

He nodded slowly, but it was clear he was processing it all.

Before either of them could say anything else, her friends who’d been shamelessly eavesdropping hurried over.

“Aussie, I mean Oscar! You made it!” one beamed, hooking an arm through his.

“We were just about to serve food, come on,” another chimed in, tugging at him.

Oscar gave Y/N one last searching look but let himself be pulled away.

As they steered him toward the table, he turned his head, gaze flicking back to Calista, watching her laugh with cake on her face.

Four years, he thought, heart tight in his chest.

Four years since that night.

It has to be me. 

─── 🏁

Lando was the last to arrive.

It was getting dark, the sun slipping low behind the palm trees, staining the sky in streaks of pink and orange. The salty breeze ruffled his hair as he walked the narrow, sandy path he remembered all too well.

Four years.

He remembered walking here with her beside him, their shoulders bumping, laughter spilling out in the warm night. He remembered thinking he might stay forever.

His chest tightened.

The glow of the cottage lights appeared ahead, lanterns strung up between the palms casting soft circles of gold on the yard. He heard music, laughter, someone calling for another slice of cake.

His steps slowed.

What am I even doing here?

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling shakily.

Then, suddenly, a flurry of motion. A few little kids ran down the path, shrieking with glee. Lando automatically stepped aside, smiling despite himself.

But one of them didn’t dodge in time.

A small figure crashed into his legs with an oof, nearly falling over.

“Whoa, hey, careful!” Lando reached out instinctively, steadying her by the shoulders.

The little girl blinked up at him, eyes wide. She rubbed her nose and mumbled, “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see you.”

Her curls tumbled around her cheeks as she looked up at him, mortified.

Lando’s heart stopped.

“Hey,” he said gently, crouching down until they were eye to eye. “It’s okay. No need to be scared.”

She peeked up at him from under long lashes, still blinking back tears.

“Promise?” she held up her small hand, pinky extended.

Lando blinked. His heart turned to complete mush.

“Promise,” he breathed, looping his pinky around hers.

Her smile broke across her face like sunshine.

“Thank you,” she whispered, like it was a secret just for him.

That was when he really saw her.

Those green eyes. His green eyes.

And that little mole beside her nose.

He almost forgot how to speak.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly.

“Calista,” she said, lifting her chin proudly. “Today I’m four.”

His breath caught.

Four.

Four years since he last walked this path. Since her mother had stood here, laughing in the same sunlight.

“That’s a beautiful name,” he managed, voice rough around the edges.

She beamed, bouncing on her toes.

“Thank you!”

He glanced around, fighting to keep the emotion off his face.

“And… are you out here all alone, birthday girl?”

She shook her head, curls swishing.

“No, silly,” she said, pointing at the pink balloons. “My party’s over there. My mama says I run too fast sometimes.”

Lando felt everything inside him twist, fear, wonder, hope.

“Well, I think you’re very brave,” he said softly.

She giggled, clutching her ribbon.

“Bye-bye!”

Then she turned and sprinted back toward the cottage, curls bouncing like a halo in the sun.

But before she reached the steps, a tall figure in a light pink linen shirt stepped out from the shade of the porch.

“Calista,” Toto called gently.

She squealed in delight, slowing down immediately and running right into his arms.

“Papa Toto!”

Lando felt his breath catch in his throat. Watching her small arms wrap around Toto’s neck, her laughter ringing out, did something to him.

Toto looked up just then and spotted Lando standing on the path. Their eyes met across the small yard, and understanding flickered in Toto’s gaze.

He let Calista down carefully, patting her shoulder.

“Go on, sweetheart. Go help your mama, hm?”

“Okay!” she chirped, running off with all the purpose in the world.

The air between the two men stretched.

Lando swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the pounding of his own heart. He forced himself to walk forward, closing the distance.

He stopped a few feet away.

“Is that… your granddaughter?” Lando asked, voice low and uncertain. The words felt rough in his mouth.

Toto didn’t answer immediately. He followed Lando’s gaze to where Calista was now, chasing after another child in the yard.

Finally, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That’s her.”

Lando swallowed hard.

She really did look like him. He couldn’t stop seeing it now. The green-hazel eyes, the little mole beside her nose, the curls that refused to stay tied back.

His chest felt tight, painfully tight.

Toto’s hand landed heavily but not unkindly on his shoulder.

“She’s a good kid,” Toto added softly. “Smart. Kind. Stubborn as anything.”

Lando’s breath hitched. He couldn’t speak.

Toto squeezed once before letting go, gesturing toward the cottage.

“If you want answers, you won’t get them from me.” He nodded in Y/N’s direction.

She was standing at the cake table, hair a little messy from the humid breeze, smiling as she handed another slice of cake to a giggling child. For a moment she laughed, pushing her hair back behind her ear, so unguarded he felt it in his chest like a punch.

“Talk to her,” Toto said quietly.

Lando’s eyes didn’t leave Y/N.

He clenched his jaw, and in that moment, watching her in the golden glow of lantern light, he wasn’t sure what kind of answer he wanted.

─── 🏁

Lando set the paper bag on the gift table, careful, almost too careful, and walked away before he could second guess himself.

He didn’t stop walking until he reached the dock.

The same one.

The same place he’d told her his name four years ago, under string lights and fireworks, with salt in the air and wonder in his chest.

He ran a hand through his curls and exhaled hard, trying to clear the fog in his head.

But it didn’t work.

Because all he could think about was her. The girl who wore independence like armor and tasted like freedom. The girl who disappeared from his life without warning, and somehow lived in every corner of it anyway.

And now, the child.

That little girl with eyes that mirrored his, a smile that made his chest tighten until it hurt.

Calista.

He didn’t need a DNA test. He’d known the moment she bumped into him. The moment she said “Sorry, sir,” like he was a stranger. Like he wasn’t part of her.

Even Toto saw it. The way he looked at the girl, there was no hiding it.

Lando checked the time. Sunset had passed. The yard would be emptying by now.

He turned around and walked back.

The lights were still strung up, but the laughter had faded. Only a few chairs remained. A forgotten balloon drifted across the grass.

And there she was.

Y/N stood alone near the table, staring down at a paper bag with a tilted head. Her brows furrowed as she picked it up and turned it over, fingers brushing the small tag.

Happy Birthday – Lando Norris

She froze.

Then looked up.

And he was already there standing quietly by the gate, watching her.

She blinked once, stunned, before quickly stepping back.

“What are you doing here?” she said, voice sharp, guarded.

Lando’s jaw tensed, but his eyes never left hers.

“Is Calista my daughter?” he asked, no hesitation this time.

Y/N scoffed, anger flashing through her. “Why the hell are you here, Lando?”

He let out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

“I don’t know, Y/N. You tell me.”

His voice cracked, low and urgent.

“Why did your father invite me to his granddaughter’s birthday? Why did I drop a million-dollar sponsorship to come to a little girl’s party halfway across the world? Why am I standing here, at a party for the daughter of the girl who broke my heart and feeling like maybe... maybe I never stopped waiting for her?”

Silence.

The air stretched tight between them.

Y/N opened her mouth, then shut it. 

Lando took a step forward, softer this time.

“Just tell me,” he said. “Please. Is she mine?”

She swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the paper bag.

“You don’t have the right to ask me that,” she hissed. “Not when you’re the one who left.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, eyes dark and hurt.

“You pushed me away, Y/N.” His voice broke with anger he tried to swallow. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like I just walked off. I was willing to give it all up, for you. For us. If you’d let me, I would’ve done that in a second.”

He took a step closer, voice dropping low and pleading.

“So please. Don’t shut me out this time. Don’t push me away again. I deserve to know if she’s mine. And she deserves to know who her father is.”

Her breath shuddered. Her eyes burned.

“She has me, Lando.” Her words were sharp, brittle. “She’s had me since the day she was born. I raised her all alone, without you or anyone’s help for that matter.”

He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh.

“That’s not fair.” His voice cracked. “You never even gave her the chance to find out.”

“She didn’t need to,” she spat, chest heaving. “Because she’s not yours.”

Lando shook his head slowly, eyes shining.

“Bullshit,” he whispered. “You know it. You know it every time you look at her. Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to yourself. I see it clear as day, Y/N. I felt it the second I met her. She’s mine. You know she’s mine.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She shoved the paper bag against his chest.

“Go home, Lando.” Her voice broke on the words. “The party’s over.”

He held the bag, frozen, his breath ragged.

She didn’t look back as she turned away, shoulders shaking.

And he stood there in the dying light, alone on the path they used to walk together, clutching the gift he’d brought for the daughter he wasn’t allowed to claim.

Y/N didn’t make it far.

She barely stepped into the kitchen before her legs gave out, hands gripping the counter for balance. Her chest rose and fell in ragged breaths as she stared at the floor, blinking back tears.

Behind her, quiet footsteps approached.

“Y/N?”

Her mother’s voice was soft, careful, already sensing she’d walked into something delicate.

Y/N didn’t turn around. She shut her eyes, willing herself to keep breathing.

“Is everything alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said too quickly, swiping the back of her hand across her cheek.

Her mother didn’t buy it. She moved closer but didn’t force it, simply reaching for a kitchen towel and folding it neatly beside her daughter’s trembling hand.

Then she glanced out the window.

Outside, she could see him. Lando Norris. Leaving slowly down the path, head low, shoulders tense. He paused to set a small paper bag gently on the porch step.

Y/N’s mother watched in silence for a moment. Then her voice dropped to a hush.

“Is he Calista’s father?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She just lifted her eyes, wet and shining, to meet her mother’s.

And that was the only answer she needed.

─── 🏁

Calista had been watching too. The little girl tilted her head, frowning in confusion. She slipped out the door quietly, careful with her steps.

She spotted the paper bag on the step and picked it up with both hands.

Then she ran after him.

“Sir! You forgot your bag!”

She tugged at the hem of his shirt, breathless and earnest. Lando turned, startled. He looked down at her big green eyes, his eyes blinking up at him, the mole by her nose catching the dying light.

His heart clenched so painfully he nearly forgot how to speak.

He dropped to her height, voice rough.

“That’s for you, sweetheart,” he managed, pushing the bag back into her hands. “Happy birthday.”

Her face lit up instantly.

“Thank you! Thank you!” She squealed as she peeked inside and saw the flower crown and chocolates. “Thank you so much! I love chocolates!”

He swallowed, voice hoarse. “Yeah? Me too.”

She beamed at him. “Did you try the cake? My mama baked it. It’s really good.”

He shook his head slowly. “I didn’t get to.”

Her eyes went wide. She grabbed his wrist. “You have to! As thank you! Come, follow!”

He felt himself waver. He wanted nothing more than to follow her.

But he looked at her tiny fingers around his, then up at the cottage.

He pulled his hand gently free.

“I don’t think I should…”

Her bottom lip trembled a little. “Please?”

He felt everything in him begin to break.

He forced a small smile and brushed her curls off her forehead.

“I have to go,” he whispered.

She blinked up at him, confused but obedient. “Okay… bye, sir!”

“Bye, Calista. Happy birthday.”

He turned around, heart leaden in his chest.

He didn’t look back right away. He couldn’t.

But as he finally chanced one last glance over his shoulder, he saw her.

Calista, standing in the yard, sliding the flower crown over her curls. Beaming as she tore open the chocolate packet.

She looked just like her mother did all those years ago.

He felt something in his chest shatter.

And when he heard someone call out “Calista!” from the porch, he turned his back for the second time.

Leaving his heart behind for the second time.

Wishing she would call for him, for the second time.

─── 🏁

thank you so much for the support: @anunstablefangirl !

[strialternatives]

[[tried a bit of a joker interlude to the palace au that goes hand-in-hand with akechi's pov i'm not 100% happy with it but akira's weird brain is pretty fun to write around]]

SIDE JOKER

Kurusu Akira has always been good at school, in a technical sense.

Memorization and repetition were both things he had a knack for, the education system uplifted those traits—though, he wouldn’t call himself smart the way Makoto is (the way “he” used to be). School work was a grind to him, something semi-productive that got him praise when he was younger. 

These days, however, it was a distraction that allowed Akira to grit his teeth and bear with his sorry situation until he could get back to Tokyo, where he could shed a mask that no longer fit.

Even with his redacted criminal record, straight 100's across the board could get him in anywhere.

Akira, had a future with his well-off parents' support and the uncountable number of cards in the deck he’d cultivated in Tokyo. With his lot, he has a plethora of options forward that others in his situation would probably kill for, but Akira himself could honestly take or leave most of them.

And yet, as he sits alone at the empty kitchen table the day he comes back, missing the scents of Leblanc and the comforting sounds of Sojiro’s gruff tones, his phone constantly buzzing with notifications from friends and the many interesting characters he’d become acquainted with; Akira finds he can’t unwind.

He’s staring at his sad convenience store bento while Morgana loudly complains about the quality of the meal. His vision swims and he blinks the sensation away.

Shoulder length honey colored hair and wine colored eyes crinkling up in amusement in the dim lights of Jazz Jinn. Pale fingers wrapping around a glass filled to the brim with colorful liquid as words weaved of silk and deceit serenade him; bitter resentment, resigned smiles.

The sheer clarity of the image makes him twitch.

Akira inhales, he barely notices he’s snapped his chopsticks clean in two with the force of his grip.

Ah.

This is no good at all, is it?

///

Morgana grounds Akira more far than the buzzing notifications in his pocket or the weekly video calls with the thieves Futaba sets up. Even Haru and Makoto make the calls, even if they’re both busy with uni. 

(He feels a conflicting warmth, knowing that they’re all scared of change, but at least they can be scared together.)

It was never about the million little tragedies, it was about making the choice to move forward despite all that.

Even if they all fell apart one day, even if the nebulous future might rend them asunder—Joker’s rowdy phantoms would still stay his thieves, and nothing could take away the precious time they all spent together, intertwined in Tokyo.

Foolish sentimentality.

(He supposed he could acknowledge Maruki for one thing—Shujin’s beloved school counselor had given Akira and Akechi that one final month. Akira would never thank him for it necessarily, but he wouldn’t begrudge that stolen time either.)

It’s not as though Tokyo was home, the way his hometown was, Tokyo itself was just another place.

Akira’s ‘home’ has always been people, it was relationships, a distinct sensation of belonging. Akira was good at things like that, finding places to belong, nothing too permanent, always temporary.

The goodbyes rolled off the tongue easier that way.

Maruki would probably have a field day linking all that back to Akira’s deep seated abandonment issues.

Morgana looks after him of course, his friend is perky and positive, bad mouthing the snide, narrow-minded classmates Akira’s been dealing with since elementary school, just to make him crack a smile. 

Akira takes him to his favorite spots to keep his mind off of things—nothing lofty, it’s mostly nature walks and caves Akira liked as a child.

He doesn’t have any other friends anymore, and the hiking keeps him in shape. Akira doesn’t really have a reason to do it anymore, but running and working out with Ryuji instilled the habit, even the pull-ups he does using his door frame felt meditative in a sense.

He liked the rhythm of it, a mindless routine to help him settle his thoughts.

Nonetheless, Akira still hunches in his shoulders, folding himself into an unassuming, submissive creature to fly under the radar, that mask keeps him safe.

(He wonders if Boss would be willing to put him up for university, it’d be nice, living in Leblanc’s attic, seeing Futaba show-off in her new uniform.)

///

‘Lonely’ isn’t the right word for the thick clench of panic in his chest he feels, the grayed out contrast of his hometown is stifling. 

This place hasn’t felt like a home since every thing he’d ever known turned on him, he’s coming to realize it never would again.

So, he doesn’t rejoin the theater club for his third year (because the memory of ignored text messages from club members he’d come to know and blocked calls from ‘friends’ he’d hang out with outside the town's sole grocery store grates and sets his teeth on edge).

His charges have been dropped but the awkward wariness lingers, his classmates give him a wide berth.

Akira doesn’t care enough to remedy the rift, he’s here for a diploma and nothing else—he doesn’t hate them or anything. Hate is something reserved for monsters like Kamoshida and Shido, for the tangled mess he feels for Maruki’s complicated everything. For gods and demons. 

Hate would require having loved them in the first place and, uncomfortably enough, Akira's also starting to suspect the indifference he feels isn’t new.

Was he really so callous? Didn't he grow up with these classmates? What did that say about him, that there was nothing, not even anger?

Shallow connections, lukewarm relationships—just like the one he’s always had with his parents, the one Akira’s parents had with each other. 

Yikes.

Maybe he’s a lot a bit more fucked up than he’s been allowing himself to process.

(God knows Maruki’s avoidant style brought out the worst of his coping mechanisms.)

Akira twirls a pen as he absently listens to a lecture on something he’s already studied in Shujin’s surprisingly advanced curriculum, stroking a thumb over Morgana’s head. His heart squeezes a little watching a little pink tongue bleep out, his friend dozing against his palm. Easy. A year of boring school in his sorry hicktown is easy compared to killing a god or two.

He’s not alone.

He’ll never be alone again.

If Igor was mean enough to give Morgana an actual cat’s lifespan though, Akira thinks he might become a supervillain—but, well, he supposes they’ll cross that bridge when they come to it.

///

The days that pass are slow moving as molasses, Akira is bored out of his skull.

He keeps his head down, he barely studies and still makes first place in the student rankings, Makoto would be proud of him. Akira ought to call her he thinks but… hm. His finger lingers over the call button, stomach twisting in a complicated way remembering the tense conversation they'd had about her interning at the police station.

Like Akechi used to.

(“I want to follow in dad’s footsteps, fight for my justice! I can make a difference, I know I can.”)

Akira blinks down at his feet, the hallway seems to warp around him, as he stares down at his phone for a long time. It buzzes with a text from Ryuji in the group chat.

Him and Haru had met up in Kyoto it seems. He has a college there willing to take him on.

Slowly, carefully, Akira’s muscles unclench—he didn’t realize he’d locked up like that in the first place. He shoots back a text, short and sweet with congratulations, then shows a sparkly-eyed Morgana the selfie they’d sent.

Akira whistles a happy tune and tries not to think about the irrational twist of betrayal he’d felt in his gut. And it was irrational, Makoto’s justice was her own—it wasn’t his place to give his two cents, Haru, he’s sure, has that more than covered already. It wasn’t like she’d made a secret of setting her sights on the Commissioner's seat. 

He’s only several months into the term and he can already see their Queen starting to crack. He’s sure the problem will fix itself.

“Joker?”

Akira looks down at Morgana’s large, curious pupils and his shoulders unwind, he smiles as he scratches behind his best and dearest friend’s ears. His voice is a fond croon when a triangular head bumps against his palm affectionately.

Suddenly he feels a bit more grounded.

“Nothing to worry about, Mona, just got lost in thought, that’s all.”

///

In the beginning there’d been countless black suits following him around his tiny town—but, one by one, just outside of his field of vision, Akira watches them drop like flies.

Not in the literal sense, of course.

It starts with a lack of suits at the local corner store Akira haunts on Sundays, his third eye abruptly stops itching. The scrutinizing gazes he'd grown used to no longer there.

Then, he notices a lack of dark vans on his long trek home from school—something Akira hadn’t even realized brought him anxiety.

It’s all very gradual, if Akira were anyone else he probably wouldn’t have noticed the slow decline at all until his watchers were completely gone.

He’s cautious by the change as he is curious.

Akira contemplates contacting Futaba, but selfishly, he kind of wants to see where this all goes. Because either the government’s lost interest (unlikely) or someone’s gearing up to kill him (exhaustingly likely with his luck). Maybe it's his protective streak, they've only really followed him, after all. He doesn't want to involve the others for what could be nothing.

Yet… somehow, someway, by the time October rolls around, there’s no more men in black following him at all.

Akira’s tension leaves him along with the malicious eyes crawling down his back. His curiosity still burns and burns, Arsene’s interest rumbles at the back of his skull.

He leaves it be, he doesn't tell a soul, not even Futaba. It's like his stalkers were nothing more than a mirage. A bad dream.

/

“I didn’t used to have friends, you know.”

Morgana twitches an ear, loafing in Akira’s lap one night, pretending his little body isn’t purring like an engine. He flops over on his side and Akira’s eyes squint in affection, scratching under a fuzzy chin.

“Oh?”

“Mmhm. I was a real chameleon growing up. Sure, I had people I sat with at lunch, and we even called each other at night and said ‘good morning’ and ‘see you soon’ before and after school every day.” Akira hums in thought staring sightless at the muted television set.

There’s nothing that triggers the rant really, it’s been brewing for months, words he’s been holding back, biting down. 

“We’d even hang out at the only strip mall on our days off, but you wanna know a secret, Morgana?”

Morgana lifts his head at that, properly keyed-in—understandably so. Getting Akira to talk about his life pre-Tokyo is like pulling teeth. His friend is perceptive in the way he doesn’t ask.

“… A secret?”

He nudges a finger against a twitching, velvety ear, dropping his voice so low he can feel it in his chest, “I hardly ever enjoyed myself here, not until Tokyo. I was scared.”

“What? You? But you’re never scared, Joker!”

Akira snickers eyes bright and amused, “Absolutely terrified.”

If it was possible for a cat to pout, he supposes Morgana would figure it out, “…You’re teasing me again.”

“I’m really not—I used to be so anxious and it feels silly now. The worst feeling was being left behind, so I’d slap a smile on my face and try to stay on everyone’s good side.” 

He holds a squalling Morgana to his chest, slumping over on his side with a faint exhale.

“You know what everyone used to say?

‘You’re so well behaved, Kurusu-san.’

‘You always agree with what everyone says, it's hard to tell what you’re thinking, Kurusu!’

‘Are there any original thoughts or opinions in that head at all?’

 —That last one I kind of resent though. I like old movies and Mifune Toshiro, y’know?”

Morgana finally settles in his arms, baby blues wide and compassionate. “Oh, Akira,” he sighs in that forlorn way of his (and Akira adores him).

“I was always the odd one out in class. I was just trying to fit in but… you know. Whenever someone called me on being shallow I didn’t have any excuses. They were right.”

He’d always been a touch too awkward, just a bit too tall compared to his other classmates, shuffled this way and that to fit in group photos, the last person everyone picked to partner up with on school trips. Less bullied and more of an afterthought—Akira recalling joining his tiny country school’s itty little drama club as a stagehand for lack of much else to do, helpful where he was needed, a ghost where he wasn’t. 

He’d never been brave enough to audition for a true stage role.

The only things his friends and clubmates knew about Akira were his parents being some city big wigs, always away on business, and that Akira had a quirky fondness for plays and tv dramas.

Akira contemplates this for a moment: “You know, no one but my parents even called me by my first name until Tokyo, not since early elementary school.” 

Morgana is silent aside from a somewhat frustrated mewl, head butting him lightly, as though that’ll shake loose all of the morose thoughts in Akira’s brain. It’s a nice thought. It even pulls a genuine laugh out of him.

“You guys gave me that back to me—my name—without a second thought, Ryuji and Ann just made it so easy. The Phantom Thieves, everyone I met in Tokyo, Boss…” He rolls over onto his back looking at the ceiling, lips upturned, “I love you guys for that.”

“You don’t need to thank us for anything, Akira,” a fuzzy cheek nuzzles against his—Akira melts a little at that, “we’re all friends, aren’t we?”

Akira nods but his mind goes on a walk.

In retrospect, Akechi’s voice reminded him of a song. There was something in his cadence, in the way he said his words despite never hearing his rival sing.

Distantly, Akira can’t help wondering what his name would sound like in Akechi’s soft detective prince tenor, or perhaps spat like a curse in his truer raspy, no-nonsense cadence. Akira never got to hear him say it, he’d always been ‘Kurusu-kun’ then a stilted ‘Kurusu’ throughout January.

Never ‘Akira’. Then again, Akechi was never ‘Goro’, either, was he?

Sometimes, Akira wonders what would’ve happened if he’d taken his offered hand after their duel that night, would it have moved the needle just so? Would Akechi have been there, reluctant, fighting a god beside them as a proper thief, alive and with a team behind his back?

No more what-if’s.

Akira buries his face in Morgana’s fur, curled up on the couch, the warm body vibrating in comfort.

Losing hope wasn’t an option.

He had to trust that he’d know the shape of his name on Akechi’s lips one day. —Akira’s always been rather stubborn, once he cared enough to set his mind to something. That trait is what got him shipped off to Tokyo in the first place, after all. 

“Say, Akira?”

“Hm?”

“I don’t think you’re fake or shallow at all. You’re the best person I’ve ever met, Joker. And anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t know you at all.”

Akira smiles, holding Morgana aloft, eyes squinting, overwhelmed with bubbling affection, “I know Mona,” he murmurs, “you’re my best friend.”

And he means it. Akira only had surface level connections until Tokyo.

“Why, of course! I’m your partner in crime, not even Ryuji knows you better than I do!” His cat puffs out in pride and Akira brings him down again, nuzzling their noses together much to Morgana’s lengthy whinging.

Quietly, Akira tucks away the urge to correct the metaverse feline.

—Morgana knew him best aside from… him.

His detective always seemed to see straight through him; dissecting him with the precision of a predator, a surgeon, a taxidermist.

Even now, after almost a year, Akira still couldn’t figure out how to stitch himself back together again.

///

Akira remembers a scene from a million years ago.

Akechi sits across from him at Jazz Jin, stirring a colorful drink—he’d noted the flavor, sweet and unique with a kick. Just like his rival. Akechi’s eyes had slid across his, a dull wine color, exhausted and tense at the edges.

He’d been like that for all of January.

(Their conversations were always a dance between unbearably heavy and nonsensically mundane when they sat like this. Akira bottles the moments in his heart, the good, the bad and the ugly, so they stay sharp and pristine.)

“Do you know the myth of the Minotaur?”

“In passing.”

Akira had inclined his head, still absently stirring his drink, eyes glued to Akechi Goro’s profile in the dimmed light of the club, watching him watch the featured singer of the night. His lips had parted in a sigh, gaze slanting languidly back to Akira.

“It was a monster of Crete with the body of a man and the head of a bull—an unwanted child brought forth due to the petty whims of a god.” 

Akechi had stared into his drink, eyes half mast and far, far away, so far away it’d filled Akira with an irrational fear that he’d fade away right then and there.

“He was a punishment for the king of Minos, for not sacrificing the white bull, so Poseidon made his wife fall in love with it.”

“… What happened to him?”

His counterpoint had blinked out of his daze, eyes refocusing on Akira, “To the king?”

A shake of his head, “No, to the child.”

Akechi’s answering smile had been bemused as it was bitter—a twisted contrast to the pleasant veneer of the detective prince: “He locked the monster in a prison as soon as it was weaned, of course, he buried his shame deep, deep underground and kept it fed with the lives of his enemies.”

They’d both taken sips of their drinks, the jazz singer reaching a crescendo, Akira still recalls the perfect pitch of the saxophone. His heart had been hammering in his chest—there was something in Akechi’s tone that hadn’t sat right with him.

(He’d weighed the options, he hadn’t pushed.)

“How does the story end?”

Is that how you see yourself? 

Akechi had hummed carelessly, eyes dull and drifting again. Akira had wanted to shake him. “Why, how all stories like this with a monster are meant to end—the hero, Theseus, slays the beast and takes its head.”

“That’s kind of sad isn’t it? For the monster, I mean.”

Shrug. A smirk over a glistening glass. “That’s the fate of a monster, you should know that better than anyone, Joker.”

“Even an innocent one?”

Akechi had cackled at that, the same way he does in the throes of bloodlust wearing Loki’s skin in the Metaverse—the subject shifted after that. He’d never given Akira a clear answer.

///

Akira graduates alone.

His parents couldn’t make it with his father tied up with business in Nagasaki and his mother, a successful paralegal, working on several cases in Kyoto. He’d started packing as soon as he got his acceptance letter to a university in Kanagawa—Sojiro had been ecstatic in his quiet, stoic sort of way when Akira shyly called him up to see if the attic room was still available.

Dad had wanted him to go to Tokyo U. Akira had trashed the application thrice and there’d been a night of screaming and broken plates and threats, and now, well, needless to say he wouldn’t be getting any financial support in Tokyo outside of his scholarship. 

Luckily, Lala-san and Iwai had been happy to take him back.

He didn’t need the jobs, really, but, Akira still wasn’t sure what the hell to do with all the unmarked money he’d earned transversing Mementos and selling scraps to Iwai last year. Akira also liked to keep busy, when he got idle he tended to…spiral. And he’s already had enough self introspection to last a lifetime.

So, he’d taken his diploma and left his old high school gates without once looking back.

No one asks him for the second button on his uniform, and Akira doesn’t have anyone to give it away to.

—Red irises flash in his mind’s eye for just a moment, Akira brushes it off before the thought can truly take root.

With Morgana settled in his duffel, chirping about sushi on the train, he leaves behind his sad country town and the stark, empty walls of his childhood home.

///

Futaba catches him in a flying hug dressed in her Shujin uniform, her long skirts fluttering as she complains about how solid he is, hugging him tight, tight, tight, as though they don’t chat every night, as though she doesn’t talk to him more than Ann and Ryuji put together.

She squeezes his arm as Sojiro ruffles up his hair, complaining about Akira somehow getting taller compared to last year.

They cook curry in the Sakura family home for once. As Futaba practically vibrates in place, bouncing on her heels the entire night.

Was she always so small? So young? 

Akira blinks.

Huh. That’s a new hang up.

“We’ve got a surprise but you can’t see it yet! Sojiro wanted to do stuff right this time.”

“… ‘Do stuff right’?”

“Mweheheh! You just wait, it’ll knock your socks off, leader!”

It’s a shower.

Sojiro had got Akira’s phone call months ago and immediately got to work arranging a fucking shower so when Akira returned to Leblanc (home, it’s home, isn’t it?) he wouldn’t have to go to the bathhouse every night.

Morgana calls him an idiot for the anxieties he’d whispered to him on the train ride up. When he’d been nervous enough to shake. What if things had changed too much? What if he didn’t fit anymore? What if Sojiro and Futaba weren’t at the train station?

The relief he feels when he cries into his curry that night is unmatched, the soft fur rubbing up against his face a comfort as he sniffs and rubs his eyes when it’s just them at the cafe counter.

His fears feel silly now.

Futaba is throwing him a surprise graduation party with everyone tomorrow, and badly keeping it a secret while she drops the most obvious hints in the world. And this is the warmest he’s ever felt.

How could Akira have ever doubted them?

//

“Hey, dude, how’re you holding up?”

Akira blinks up at Ryuji, laid flat on the floor of Leblanc’s attic, Ann is perched on his bed, eating her way through a platter of sushi. Ryuji is heading out to Kyoto tomorrow, Ann’s going to America next week.

They’d decided on a sleepover with just the four of them, they always meant to, but just never had time back when they were all at Shujin with the Palaces and the targets to worry about. That entire year had moved so fast it felt like Hawaii was the only stressless event.

Ann feeds a visibly content Morgana a piece of salmon with her chopsticks. Akira glances away.

“Fine. Why?”

“Well, all of us are heading off and I know Futaba and Sumire are gonna still be in Tokyo but, it’ll be… y’know, different.”

“No doubt.”

Morgana lets out a groan, “I can’t believe you’re leaving me, Lady Ann—I’ll miss you so much! Also you’re the only reason Akira looks presentable when he goes out.”

She lets out a giggle, rubbing him behind the ears until the metaverse feline is practically melting into the duvet, “Oh, Mona! I’ll be just a phone call away, and besides,” she leans in with a mischievous air, it reminds Akira of Carmine a little bit, “I’ve still got a week to replace that wardrobe he’s had since second year.”

Akira pouts, “I look good in black.”

Ann nods looking serious, “Yeah, it’s awful. You can’t even pull off a red hoodie.”

“Hey!”

They chat and bicker into the early hours of the morning, winding up a tangled puppy pile on the floor with several futons Sojiro had brought up. 

If asked, Akira would sooner die than ever admit to playing favorites amongst his thieves, but Ann and Ryuji were special, they were the first ones he’d ever fought beside, the first real friends he’d ever made at a new, hostile school. They’d made Shujin feel safe. They were home.

This wasn’t goodbye, not really, but knowing his friends’ paths were diverging so completely made Akira ache.

Yusuke was thinking of taking a gap year, Haru was determinately pursuing her business degree, Makoto though… Well, Akira and her had another mild disagreement regarding her career choices. They hadn’t talked in a couple weeks.

That left Sumire and Futaba in their third year at Shujin, fast friends with their own futures to think about.

There was no name for this feeling—bitterness wasn’t quite right, but pride was too positive for the heavy sensation of foreboding Akira’s felt in his chest since arriving back in Tokyo.

‘He’ should be here.

He should get a future, just like the rest of them.

He should be in his seat at the coffee counter, complaining about universities, and nitpicking Akira’s choice in courses and—

He should be here. With Akira.

Ann drags him shopping after they see Ryuji off at the station. Maybe she feels the weight of their impending separation too, because there’s not a day that final week that Akira doesn’t see her in the coffee shop, once, she even brings in Shiho.

It’s a nice week, he only thinks about Akechi twice.

///

“Joker, what do you know about Orpheus?”

It’s mid-November and Sae’s palace is nearly half-way finished, they’d mutually decided to head into Mementos alone to work on synergy. Akechi looked regal in his princely marching band outfit.

(Akira knows it was all a façade now, but he’ll still readily admit that Akechi looked best in white.)

“That's a Greek tragedy, isn’t it?”

“Correct, Kurusu-kun.” His eyes squint in amusement behind his beak mask, “The son of a muse, who loses his wife to a snake’s venom on their wedding day, and ventures down to the land of the dead to bring her back to the light.”

His golden ray gun had glinted in the surreal light of Mementos as he’d shot a shadow before it could take form. It was over in a flash, so quickly and efficiently, Akira had no idea who Akechi had thought he’d been fooling, pretending to be new to the Metaverse.

“The only stipulation Hades gave him was that he absolutely mustn't look back.”

Akira inclined his head, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets, “That’s the point of the myth isn’t it? That everyone looks back, I’ve always thought the story was about grief and letting go.”

Crow had hummed lightly under his breath, hands carelessly clasped behind his back, gripped loosely around his laser sword—he’d been more whimsical when he wore Robin. Clinical and precise when playing his role as he was, there hadn’t been a single thing out of place, there was a gracefulness there, an endless waltz on a tightrope parallel to Joker's.

Akira was obsessed.

If it weren’t for Akechi's slip-up that day in the TV station he’d have probably fallen for it too. Hook. Line. Sinker. He’d have welcomed Akechi Goro just as easily as he had Nijima Makoto into the Thieves’ ranks, without a second thought.

“So you read the myth as a metaphor then?”

He’d cut a smile over his shoulder at that, “That, and if I were Orpheus I wouldn’t follow some god’s rigged game. I’m only human, you know.”

Akechi had blinked at him owlishly, “So was Orpheus, in the end.”

“We’re different people. I wouldn’t let go.”

Wine colored eyes had caught his and held.

“If I had something I loved that much, enough to cross the river Styx, I’d keep going back, over and over, even if I had to swim. Even under threat of being crushed under the currents. I wouldn’t let it go.”

“How romantic,” golden hair had fluttered briefly as Akechi turned his head away, no doubt hiding his bitter scoff, softening it into a chuckle befitting of the Detective Prince, “ever the gentleman, Joker.”

“I’m a thief, first and a gentleman second, Crow. And thieves can be quite tenacious with the right motivation.”

“Oh my, is that a confession,” Akechi smirked right then, and it looked almost genuine, “shall I save us both the trouble and take you in?”

Akira had thrown his head back and laughed, wild and free in a way he only felt in Joker’s skin, “Only if you can stomach turning yourself in as my accomplice, detective.”

“Accomplice? Not a ‘thief’?”

“Hm, I don’t think so,” nesting in the back of his mind, Arsene purred his agreements, “you’re ‘Crow’. We’re allies with a common goal, at least for now, and that’s enough.”

Akechi had gone silent for so long, he’d thought that the conversation was over. But, to his surprise, his rival had swayed a bit closer, brushing up against Akira’s side as their eyes met.

His expression had been, for once, blank and flat, but his eyes were intense—burning as they searched his face for… something.

Akira still doesn’t know what he was searching for, but just the same, like the flipping of a light switch, that plastic smile was right back in place.

“… You know Joker, I think you’re right. You’re quite stubborn—you remind me more of Sisyphus.”

“How so?”

“You have a thing for lost causes. My guess is, in Orpheus’s role, you’d have kept going back, as many times as it took.”

///

“Senpai!”

“Sumire!”

Akira twirls his kouhai around and around in the fast food joint drawing stares as she giggles. When he sets her back on her feet she’s quick to embrace him, mouth going a mile a minute as she drags him over to the Bang Burger booth where Futaba is waiting.

“Sorry I wasn’t here when you came back in town, senpai! I was busy with training, then I had to go to a competition in Osaka and I just couldn't find the time-”

“It’s fine Sumi, breathe.”

It’s a nice afternoon, a pleasant lunch as Akira skirts around the subject of what he's been up to (nothing at all) and Sumire talks about getting third in her most recent meet and fills Akira in on some Shujin happenings. 

She’s made very good friends in Futaba’s computer club, it seems. And Futaba chimes in, eagerly telling him about all of her exploits as president and how ‘Ami-chan is a way better successor to my vision than Tamaki, I don’t know why he thinks I’d pick anyone else for president, he doesn’t even know what a motherboard is!’

He absently notes Sumire’s striking, scarlet hair pulled back into a french braid with her sister's bow, not in a ponytail, or down like she’d worn it while at her lowest in January. A style completely of her own.

She adjusts her glasses confidently, beaming up at him, finally comfortable in her own skin and Akira is so, so proud of her.

They’re so strong now, both of them are. He can't wait to see what they'll become.

Afterward, Akira goes home to Leblanc and tries hard not to think about how he hasn’t picked a field of study yet. He’s only in his first months of the term and he’s already so tired.

It helps to hang out with Futaba and Sumi. Taking shifts at Lala's and helping Iwai with inventory takes his mind off of the looming juggernaut that is the shape of his impending future.

The line he walks is razor thin, it’s like Akira is balancing over a yawning cavern, and once he loses balance and falls he’ll just never stop.

He’s waiting in anticipation for something while in stasis, lethargic, drifting.

Morgana is dozing on his bed as he plucks up his groggy friend after his shower, curling around the warm ball of fur as he falls asleep, dreaming of a smile full of knives and flinty red eyes.

He’s thinking of him a lot these days. 

(Akira wonders if they’re looking at the same sky.)

///

The incident happens on his way to campus on an unremarkable day, it’s on a rare occasion when he doesn’t have Morgana with him.

Akira spots a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye.

The otherworldly shade is so familiar it's downright disorienting, a ghostly blue glow seems to light up the narrow alleyway. At first, he shifts from foot to foot, hesitating at the mouth of the opening between buildings the door is tucked into. The foreboding feeling is heavier than it's ever been, but below it still is a twinge of adrenaline.

Inside him, Arsene shakes off the stiffness of his feathers; Raoul slits open a single eye.

Akira gathers his nerve before he takes one step forward... then another, then another. 

This is not a hallucination, the feel of his fingertips on the coarse brick of the buildings the door is nestled between is too solid to be a dream.

It’s not a prison cell this time, but a sturdy oakwood door, and isn’t that curious?

When his fingers close around the handle, it pushes open without fanfare.

What follows is disorienting, a bit like entering Mementos, real world surroundings warping and churning. Akira squeezes his eyes shut against the white-blue flash of light and the all-encompassing feeling of his insides twisting together.

He’s unceremoniously spat out into a booth. 

Dizzily, Akira glances around the room. In front of him there is a cocktail bar of blue-tinted black oak wood, reminiscent of Jazz Jinn’s. Front windows with curtains of navy stream in a soothing ultramarine light that reflects softly off the pale walls of the lounge.

The rest of the booths are empty, but Akira quickly registers that he isn’t necessarily alone. 

He cocks his head towards a blindfolded man on a humble stage, fingers flying across the keys of a pleasant sounding piano, and an opera singer with a swooping hair style and curling wisps of silver at her temples. Her voice is intimate and nostalgic, Akira feels like he’s heard it on loop in a dream within a dream somewhere. 

Finally he looks to the bar, one by one, his muscles unclench at the sight of faces he finally knows.

“… A jazz lounge is an improvement, I guess.”

Behind the bar, Lavzena stands, ramrod straight by Igor’s side, fidgeting with her skirts, doe-like yellow eyes seeming to glow in the dim room. She worries her bottom lip, Akira thinks if she had the length of the room she'd be pacing.

“Forgive me, Trickster, but you are needed once more. This is something only you can do.” 

(Well, university was getting tedious.)

[chocochipsushi]

𝑮𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒔𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚, 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑼𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒆 𝑻𝒐𝒋𝒊’𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆

NSFW! minors do not interact! 18+ only!

🌸Word count: 5.3K

🌸AU: Toji as your father’s best friend, consoling you with his cock after a fight with your dad

🌸CW: cockwarming, toji calling reader all sorts of pretty names, fucking while reader's dad is around, unprotected sex, fluff

🌸A/N: Hello... I am here to clarify some things. I found out recently that I got a pretty established and amazing fanartist on Twitter into a situation where they received backlash for recreating one of my Uncle Toji scenes. I felt so bad because antis were giving the artist shit for something I wrote. So I am here to let all of you know that:

1) reader's age was never specifically spelled out bc I wanted everyone to be able to relate to the reader's age and not be restrained by a number in the story. If I knew that there was a rule where we had to indicate ages of every character in stories, I would have done so... Anyway, if I were to be asked what the OC's age was, I would say she is within the age range of 26-28yo.

2) It will be clear in the last chapter as I tried to give a short back story (before I even saw those mean tweets) but I will let you all know now - Toji was out of the reader's life from age 9 to 24, reader's dad had her at 21, and Toji is a few years younger than the dad. So the math is that the age gap between Toji and the reader is ~18 years.

3) Reader hardly calls Toji by his name because she feels awkward doing that since she's always known him as Uncle Toji. but if you notice, she has been getting braver through the chapters. And she calls him 'Uncle Toji' during sex most of the time coz they like to roleplay??

Anyway, I am only explaining bc I really do not wish to hurt anyone, and I hope the fanartist know that the hate should be directed at me, not at them.

Next chapter will be the last. thank you all for supporting my Uncle Toji series.

<< Part 1 🔞, Part 2 🔞, Part 3 🔞 || Epilogue 🔞 >>

I am surprised when Toji’s hand on the small of my back gently guides me to the side, away from guests trying to lure us into their conversations. I look up at him in confusion and worry, only to be met with a concerned look on his face. 

He dips his head so that I can hear him when he murmurs, “You alright, baby? Wanna go home?”

Oh. 

I’d had a fight with my dad before coming to the gala dinner. Toji was caught in the crossfire when he came to pick me up. I was initially supposed to meet him at the dinner with my parents, where I would be handed over to Toji since each guest could only bring a Plus One. However, once my dad and I started raising our voices at each other, my mother called Toji right away and got him to come over to take me.

I was glad for it, and I’m sure my parents were, too. I haven’t been in the best of moods since then and Toji knows me way too well to have me engage in any conversation. I am still a good guest in the way I politely respond to questions asked, yet at the same time cutting the conversation short. But Toji understands that I am being civil only for the sake of it. 

I give Toji a small smile and shake my head. “No, I’m fine.”

He observes me for a few seconds. Finally, he rubs his thumb on my back and nods. “Okay. But I’ll bring you home early. Let me just talk to Dr. Hung.”

I have no objection to that, so Toji slides his engulfing hand down to take hold of mine and starts walking towards Dr. Hung. I try to listen politely and take mental notes of their conversation, since I am also here to make connections that might benefit my father’s company when I eventually take over. Toji, being my father’s best friend and longest business partner, knows of this and even tries to bring up our company’s name. 

By the time they were done talking business, I had Dr. Hung’s name card and a promise to have a business lunch, all thanks to Toji. And finally, when it is just us again, Toji rests a comforting hand on my back and leans down so that his lips are by my ear. 

“Let’s bring you home now, shall we?”

I look up and nod my head, to which he returns a nod at. Before we leave, however, Toji looks around to locate my parents, who are engaged in a conversation with a few other notable people in the industry. Not wanting to interrupt them, Toji guides me straight out of the ballroom and walks me to his car where his driver is already waiting. 

“Careful,” he murmurs with his big palm resting on top of my head as I get into the car. 

He gets his driver to bring me back and only when he has walked me back to my room, I face him and hold onto his calloused hand with both of mine. 

“Stay for a bit, Toji?” 

He stares at me for a long moment, not saying anything. I know that he is debating whether he should, since my parents might come home and see him here. But I give him a small pout that I know he can never resist, and he eventually squeezes my fingers — his non-verbal way of saying yes. 

When I let go of his hand, Toji undoes the knot on his tie, ready to get comfortable. By the time I am out of the shower, I find Toji already laying on my bed, tie off and blazer-less. He has the top few buttons of his shirt undone, his arm resting behind his head widening the plackets of his top and allowing me to see more skin. He is on his phone, probably going through some soccer news. 

Cuddling up to him seems so inviting that I rush through my nightly routine just to jump into bed with him. Toji fully expects it, having experienced this too many times for him not to be ready for it. He spreads his arm out just in time for me to burrow into his side. 

“Ugh, what a terrible day,” I groan into his armpit. 

Toji pats my crown and rests his palm on the swell of my hips. “Your dad only means well, you know that, baby.”

I lift myself up on my elbow, my hand on his chest to keep me steady, as I glare at him. Toji returns a levelled gaze. “He thinks that I’m not focused and that I am not trying hard enough to learn about taking over the company!”

Toji locks his phone and puts it aside just so he can give me more attention. But when I hear his response, I suddenly wish he didn’t give me any at all, or that I even asked him to stay. 

“Well, do you think you really have been giving your all in the handover?” I simply gape at him, in disbelief that he would say something like that. Toji taps my hip. “Look at it this way, Princess, from your father’s point of view. You complain when you have business meetings, when they are actually good for your business. You hate the small talk and show an attitude, which I can’t say gives off a good impression. You hang back and passively stand there and look pretty at the networking events your father brings you to, that are really for you to broaden your connections.” 

Toji could probably see the look of incredulity and betrayal on my face, because he sighs and strokes my chin with his free hand. Being the petty me that I am, I turn my head away with a pout. 

“You know that I am always fair and logical, Princess. I’m not just taking your dad’s side because he is my best friend,” Toji murmurs.

I stay quiet, trying to rationalise his explanation. But the longer I do, the more heated I get. So, instead of answering him, I get up, tear the sheets off my bed to get under it, and reach out to turn the lights off, plunging us into darkness. I lie on my side, facing away from Toji even though he can’t see me in the darkness anyway. He doesn’t move or say anything for a while but a few seconds later, I hear movement and in the next few seconds, the nightlight next to my bed turns on. I feel Toji getting under the blanket behind me where he rests his heavy hand on my hip. He comes closer until his lips are hovering over my ear. 

“Although…” he murmurs huskily, quietly. “Of course I will be there to help you. How can Uncle Toji leave his baby girl to be eaten by the wolves?” While my heart flutters at his words, I make sure not to react. Toji rubs his rough palm up and down the side of thigh now. “Together, we’ll dominate the playing field. I’ll guide and bring success to you.”

I know that he always keeps his promises and he never promises anything he can’t do. But I still won’t respond, so Toji nudges my earlobe with his lips. I can feel the scruff on his chin that is already growing. 

“It’s all for your own good, Princess. Your dad just doesn’t want you to fail. Neither do I.”

I turn my head slightly and grumble, “I thought you said you’d help me succeed.”

The tip of Toji’s nose now brushes my cheek. He rubs my side gently, at the same time causing my night dress to ride up. “Oh, that’s not negotiable, baby. Of course I will. But you’ve got to try and make it out on your own too.” 

“But I am trying,” I whine, now twisting my body a little more so that I am facing him. 

He is staring down at me with the softest gaze — one that he only reserves for me. “Of course you are,” Toji almost coos. This only makes me pout instinctively. He leans down to press his scarred lips to mine. “But try harder.”

Immediately, I pull away with a loud whine and slap his broad shoulder. Toji’s chuckle is low and husky, so warm and familiar that I am already melting before he kisses me again. This time, he nips on my bottom lip, his palm on my hip now moving in sensual strokes. Little moans and mewls escape me as some sort of resistance, not wanting to be played into his hands like that. But we both know that I am enjoying this, especially when I clench my fist on the material of his shirt, pulling him closer. Toji hooks his fingers under the hem of my night dress and drags them up along my thigh, pulling my dress up. 

He is toying with the band of my panties when he breaks the kiss and murmurs against my lips, “Still mad at Uncle Toji?” My teeth pull on my bottom lip as I nod my head. The corners of Toji’s lips turn down. “Can’t have that now, can we?” he hums before burying his face into my nape. He trails the faintest of kisses along my neck, his fingers now tugging and flicking at the thin elastic of my underwear. “You’re not tired, are you, baby? I don’t think you’ll be getting any sleep yet.”

And with that, Toji lifts himself up on his elbow as he pulls my g-string down as far as he can. He kisses me on the shoulder just as he hovers his hand over my crotch, the tip of his finger drawing shapes on my sensitive skin, making my hair stand on ends. I hold my breath as he gets closer to my clit, dipping his finger between my thighs so that the length of his digit rubs on my pussy lips. 

I can feel his erection growing hard against my ass, especially when he starts thrusting his hips slowly in tandem with the rhythm of his finger sliding between my labia. The tip of his finger teases my entrance. Pushing just an inch of his digit into my hole, he slides out and spreads my slick along my lips. I swallow and turn my head so that I could at least see him a little. Almost at once, Toji leans in to kiss the corner of my lips. 

His lips are still on me when he mumbles, “You’re so cute when you act like you’re mad at me.”

I let out a whine and reach out to thump my fist on his shoulder. Toji merely chuckles against my lips. He gives me one last kiss and pulls away, now moving to lay on his back. I turn my head to take a look at what he’s doing and see that he is undoing his pants. Knowing that he is actually going to finish what he started, I return to face the front. 

His strong arm snakes around my waist again and this time, I can feel his member poking my ass, excited and hard. The expensive material of his pants brush against the back of my thigh, adjusting my position so that my legs are scissored. Scooching closer to me, Toji holds his cock in his hand just for him to rub it against my flaps. I bite my bottom lip in an effort to try not to stick my ass out. But it is useless because my hips start to move and grind against his cockhead, allowing him to spread his precum and my wetness along my slit. 

Toji wraps his arm across my chest and brings me inevitably closer so that his lips are pressing against my ear. As he continues to thrust his hips, letting the length of his cock slide along my pussy lips, he lets out the sexiest grunts and the lowest of moans. At this point, I just want him to put it in me already. And he knows, because I arch my back to the point I am pressing my ass against his hips. 

Reaching his hand down, Toji tactically spreads my cheeks apart and positions his cockhead at the entrance of my wet pussy. Thrusting his hips forward, he stretches out my hole, making me whine and moan in pain and pleasure. Once he has his tip in, he returns to hugging me tight against his body. Toji’s nose is at the back of my ear, his lips on my earlobe. I can hear his shaky breathing as he enters me deeper. 

“Fuck…” he groans quietly. “You feel so good, baby.” 

Toji is slow as he sheathes himself inside of me, trying to savour the moment he first slides into me. Only when he is balls deep inside of me, he pauses and groans into my ear while he enjoys the pulsing, warm cocksleeve around his meat. My jaw goes slack when he finally pulls out several seconds later, only to thrust back into me again. His strokes start out slow before building up to a passionate rhythm of fucking. 

Toji growls into my ear and I just know that he isn’t going to last very long tonight. Especially when he brings his hand to wrap around my throat, his thick fingers lightly gripping the sides of my neck. My pussy is getting wetter. The sounds of Toji’s hips slamming against my ass and the squelching of my sopping pussy are almost too loud in my quiet room. It doesn’t help that Toji releases the chokehold around my neck, only to bring his hand down to my clit, his fingers already rubbing the nub in circles. 

“Ah, Daddy…” I mewl breathily, my body already trembling at his ministrations. 

Toji grunts. “God. You’re so tight and warm around me, Princess.” He lets out a long groan. “Daddy’s going to cum.”

By the sound of his irregular breathing, I just know that he is so close. Just a few more thrusts and he is going to explode inside of me. 

Which is why I have to be the one to stop him with my hand against his hips, giving him a squeeze in warning, when I hear the door creaking open. My heart is racing with fear and anxiety. Toji curses under his breath but immediately ceases his movements. He tries very hard to regulate his breathing quietly. He taps my thigh and I just know what he wants me to do. I shut my eyes and pretend to sleep. 

Someone takes a few steps into the room. Toji twists his body so that he appears to be lying on his back. I hear him groan, like how a tired person would. 

“Oh, you’re with her.” 

I really hope the thumping of my heart against my chest is not as loud as it sounds like to me. Because my father is here, speaking quietly to Toji.

“We had a little talk before she fell asleep,” Toji mumbles. I am impressed that he doesn’t sound at all out of breath.

My father lets out a loud sigh. Instinctively, my entire body clenches with anxiety, even down to my pussy walls squeezing Toji’s swollen cock. Toji chokes on a grunt and reactively moves his hand that is under the blanket to squeeze my arm lightly in warning. 

“Yeah, I might have been too harsh on her,” my father reflects. He sounds a little regretful. 

Toji clears his throat. He knows that I am listening and will very well treat him according to his reply. He pauses for a second before saying, “Good you know that. She really is trying, you know. She’s a good girl.”

As a reward for Toji sticking up for me, I pretend to shift in my sleep so that I press my ass against his hips, fully taking in his cock. Toji lets out a short hiss, which he covers up by clearing his throat. 

“She can be a brat,” he comments, making sure that I hear the edge in his tone. The corner of my lip lifts slightly. “But she is a good kid.”

“I know.” My father sighs. “I feel terrible. We never have fights.”

Toji scoffs. “Obviously. You’re a sucker for your daughter.” 

I could almost hear my father rolling his eyes. “You’re not one to talk. I’ve never seen you fuss over anyone like you do with her. She can’t even meet boys with the way you’re always hovering around her.”

Toji shifts his leg, at the same time angling his cock and driving his meat deeper inside of me. I bite down on my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning. He is almost growling when he answers, “Boys can’t take care of her.”

“You know, I agree with you. But then who will?” 

I wish I had my eyes open to watch the non-verbal interaction between my father and Toji. Because the tension in the air intensifies and my dad almost sounds interrogative now. 

“You? You want to take care of my daughter?” 

“Just ‘cause she’s a brat and a princess, you think I can’t handle her?” Toji may sound like he is joking but I just know that he is being defensive. 

The tension breaks when my father laughs. “Oh, I know for sure you can handle her, Toji. I’m just not confident she can take care of you, ya grumpy old geezer.”

Toji’s body relaxes behind me. He scoffs and says, “Like I need anyone taking care of me.”

“Hmm. True.” A moment of silence passes, putting an end to the short distraction from their original conversation. My father sighs and asks, “Are you staying?” Without waiting for Toji to answer though, he quickly changes his question to an instruction, “Stay the night and talk to her in the morning before breakfast. She listens to you better. Then we’ll go for brunch at Fordeux.”

Toji chuckles under his breath. “Bribing me with a meal at my favourite place, huh?” My father doesn’t answer but I know he must be grinning. Toji flips to the side and pats my hip over the blanket. “Alright. I’ll make sure she’s talking to you again tomorrow.”

“Good ni—”

“But,” Toji stops him in his tracks. My father pauses. “You need to cut her some slack too. Let her do things at her pace.”

It takes a while for my father to respond but when he does, my heart lightens so much that I feel like I might float. “Fine.” I can almost hear him roll his eyes. “Can’t say shit about me when you’re as big of a sucker for her.” 

“Shut up, dickhead.”

My father’s laughter is getting further and further until I hear the door open again. The moment it closes behind him and we are back in the silence of my room, I open my eyes. I wait a couple more seconds before turning my head around to face Toji. He turns to look at me. I keep staring at him, not saying anything, probably scaring him because he opens his mouth to say something. Before he could even get a word out though, I reach my arm behind me and grab his neck, pulling him close. Toji’s fingers tighten around my hip when my lips touch his, so possessive and full of yearning that I can only respond in a sensual swirl of my hips. 

Hearing him moan into my mouth, I am motivated to give him more. Arching my back to press my ass against his groin, I rock my hips at a steady pace, sliding his cock in and out of my tight hole. Toji kisses me back sloppily, his jaw slack at the pleasure my wet pussy is giving him. 

I pull away from his lips, which only makes Toji’s eyes flutter open as he stares at me in a lovestruck daze. It makes me grin. I am usually the one with that expression. Circling my fingers around his wrist, I pull his hand away from my hip and move away from him. His brows draw together for a moment before he realises what I am about to do as I push him back and climb on top of him, straddling his hips. 

Toji licks his lips and bites down on the bottom one as he watches me steady myself with a hand on his chest and my hand wrapped around his dick. I lift myself up so that I am hovering over his thick cock. Sliding his cockhead up and down my wet lips, I glance up at him, finding him already in position with his arms behind his head, ready to watch me ride him. 

Lowering myself as I rub his mushroom head along my slit, the wet smacking of my pussy lips becomes louder and almost more elaborate. Toji’s teeth are tugging on his bottom lip and I can just tell that his restraint is almost breaking at my teasing. He is probably just two seconds away from flipping us around and completely obliterating me when I finally sink down on his dick, slowly letting his wide girth stretch me out. 

Toji’s hip spasms at the immense pleasure my sopping cunt is giving him and his face contorts into one of agony and bliss, all at the same time. Placing both hands on his chest now, I hold myself stable as I continue taking in his cock, all the way down until he is balls deep inside of me. I let out the breath I had been holding in and lift my head to find Toji with his eyes barely open. He always enjoys the first time his cock slides into my pussy. 

As I slide my palm up his smooth chest, I tease, “You alright there, Uncle Toji?” 

It takes him a few seconds but Toji finally blinks the haze away. He is already glaring at me. Taking a hand away from the back of his head, his palm meets my ass with a resounding smack. “What’s gotten into you, huh? Thought you were mad at Uncle Toji?”

As I lean forward with a grin, I lift my ass so that his cock slides out of my tight snatch. “How could I stay mad at you?” Toji flickers his eyes down to my lips, looking so mesmerised by the way my bottom lip is caught between my teeth. “You stood up for me.”

Toji’s hand cups my chin and pulls me closer. “If I don’t, who will?” 

My heart flutters at his words, sending a ripple down south that massages his meat. Toji’s warm breath hits my lips in a soft moan before taking my mouth in his. He kisses me deep and slow. Readjusting my hands to hold myself up on the bed beside him, I slowly start to move again, sliding my wet cunt up and down his hard dick. He could still kiss me until I started going faster, slapping my ass down to meet the base of his cock each time. Letting out a low, deep moan, Toji breaks the kiss and tilts his head up slightly, trying to get more air into his lungs. 

I stop for a moment, only to change my position so that I have my palms flat on my headboard, completely hovering above him now. I move my hips again, fast and powerful that I have the bed rocking slightly, my tits swinging in Toji’s face, my perked nipples just grazing his stubble and his sharp nose. The man below me lets rip a growl and grabs a handful of my breast, latching his mouth on my tit. I throw my head back at the sensation of his tongue flicking over my stiff bud. My pussy is only getting wetter, making me glide up and down his thick cock easily. 

Toji’s other hand slides down to my body, finding my ass. I mewl when he slaps my mound before giving it a squeeze, his grunts only letting me know that he enjoys my reaction. I know that Toji is enjoying this, but he always wants to finish with him on top. And I am slowly losing my strength as I start to slow down. He gives me one last slap and squeeze to my ass before unlatching from my breast. With his hands on my hips, he stops me from moving, holding me up with his hands now cupping my ass. 

“Oh, fuck, Daddy…” I whine when he starts rutting his hips, impaling me over and over with his thick meat. 

“Mm…” he groans. “Baby.” He cannot stop himself from giving my flesh another squeeze. “Princess.” At that petname, I fall forward and melt into his chest completely, letting him hold me up with pure brute strength. Toji’s grunt in my ear is low and guttural. “My pretty girl,” he moans. My cunt grips tighter around his cock. He knows what this does to me. 

Sliding a hand up to my head, he pushes my hair away from my face so that I can feel his warm murmur on my cheek when he says, “My darling little kitten.” I shut my eyes and let out a mewl. “Daddy made you so wet, pretty baby.” Toji squeezes a handful of my ass. “Gonna cum for Daddy, sweetheart?” I can only whine and nod my head dumbly. stops with his cock entirely sheathed inside of me and circles his hips, enjoying the sticky sound of our juices mixing together. He groans at my pussy pulsing around him. 

He tilts his head so that his cheek is resting on my temple and murmurs, “Daddy’s going to cum, baby doll. And I’m going to ruin your pretty little body when I do.” I can only mewl in response, my walls fluttering around his sheathed cock. My head is buzzing from my unexpected orgasm, my body already reacting involuntarily at his words. Toji nudges my temple as he moves to whisper in my ear, still gyrating his hips with his cock inside of me, “My cum all over your stomach and your tits, baby. Gonna look so pretty, all covered in Uncle Toji’s love.”

I gasp when he flips us around suddenly, his dick slipping out of me at the movement. I am lying on the bed staring up at him now. He cages me under his big, strong build, his eyes dark and lustful as he watches me. Licking his fingers, he reaches between us and gives my sopping wet  pussy a slap, causing me to jerk in surprise. A corner of his lip pulls up. He does this again, and this time I whine. 

Toji takes hold of his cock now, positioning it at the entrance of my parted pussy. He lets out a deep exhale as he slides into me again. I like being in this position where I am able to watch Toji’s expression as he fucks me. His eyebrows would be furrowed, his dark, green eyes would be piercing mine, the ends of his hair just slightly wet from the physical exertion. I smile and reach up to give him a peck on his lips. 

It is meant to be a sweet gesture, but Toji lets out a low growl. He drops his head to kiss me hard while he speeds up his pace. I move in tandem with his fucking, meeting the base of his cock with every hip thrust. I make a conscious effort to squeeze my walls, my pussy gripping so tightly onto his cock that Toji quickly pulls out like he has been burnt, just to keep stroking his meat furiously. He cums on me like he said he would, the white liquid painting my stomach with some droplets staining my night dress. 

He takes a while to recover from his heaving but when he does, he gets up slowly and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He keeps his eyes entirely on me the whole time he strips from his clothes. The moment he is done, he scoops me up carefully and walks me to the bathroom where he brings me to the shower stall with him once he takes the dress off me. 

“I’m going to do something stupid tomorrow,” Toji suddenly announces in the middle of our clean-up. 

My heart stops for a second. I look up at him shampooing his hair. “What?” When he only stares at me, not saying anything, I laugh and joke, “Gonna have another cheat day and eat all the carbs you want?”

Toji rolls his eyes. “Everyday is a cheat day when your girlfriend always leaves you with her unfinished food.”

I click my tongue and reach out to land a wet slap on his bicep. He grins at me and closes his eyes to wash out the shampoo on his hair. Finishing up my rinse, I get out of the shower before him and dry myself. I have to change into a new set of nightwear and when I am dressed, I snuggle back into bed, waiting for Toji. 

He takes a while so I try to stay up. But when I hear the hairdryer going off, I decide that I can always spend time with him in the morning before the brunch, since he is staying over. 

I am already half-asleep when Toji finally crawls into bed and cuddles me, bringing me closer to him. I wonder if I had been dreaming when he murmured in my ear, “I’m going to talk to your dad about us, baby.”

At brunch the next day, I am sat next to Toji, both of us across the table from my parents. He takes care of me the entire time like he always does, even going to the extent of cutting up my waffles for me while he talks to my father. 

“You’re spoiling her, Toji,” my dad finally comments as he watches his best friend cutting up my food for me. “She’s not a baby, you know.”

My father glances at me but I merely shrug at him and grin up at Toji. “I like being spoiled.”

“Of course you do,” my father quips. 

Toji makes one last cut of my waffle and sets the cutlery down. I thank him and start eating. As he reaches out to have a sip of his wine, he leans back in his chair comfortably to address my father. 

“Do you think it’s weird that I spoil her?”

My dad laughs as he reaches for his wine glass too. “Not weird. But definitely bad.”

But Toji is serious as he continues, “Then do you think it’s weird if I say I want to take care of her?” 

My father pauses for a moment. He looks at me looking lost and uncomfortable at where this conversation is headed, then glances at his similarly confused wife, and finally back at Toji. 

“No… You’ve always been taking care of her even when she was younger.”

“I mean as a man.” 

The man across him frowns and leans forward to put his wine down. “You mean… like…” My father is at a loss for words. 

Even I am, too. All of us are just gaping stupidly at Toji now, waiting for some sort of explanation, or even him laughing to tell us he is joking. But he only clears his throat and sits with his elbows on his arm rests, his hands resting on his torso with his fingers interlocked. 

“Like I want to commit my life to her.” 

<< Part 1 🔞, Part 2 🔞, Part 3 🔞 || Epilogue 🔞 >>

-

© chocochipsushi 2023 all works are mine, please do not rewrite/plagiarise

[factual-fantasy]

26 asks! Thank you!🐕‍🦺

I believe that AI generated """art"""/images are extremely harmful to real artists. Its just a weapon that steals mountains of peoples hard work and is causing real people to lose their jobs.

Its a rotten thing that should be obliterated from the internet. I'm sitting on the edge of my seat waiting expectantly for its downfall.👎👎👎

@axolotlcookie0

If you're talking about making fanart of my designs/character/AUs, please do not. I'm really not comfortable with it :( If you're just trying to show your support then just leave a comment on my artwork or stop by my ko-fi. Those will go a long way for me <:))

I had no idea there was one! <:0 I haven't been keeping up with Welcome Home since Matpat took a step back...

References. Just drown yourself in references. I'm in a discord server that has a bunch of refs for the bots and also am taking dozens of screenshots as I rewatch the show. Just gathering reference after reference and using them religiously as I draw. :00

You mean the factual fam? :0 I thought about adding another character once I hit 30k followers. But when the time came I didn't really have any ideas that I liked.. So for now it'll just be the 5 of us :)

Also thank you so much! :)))

(Referencing this post)

XDDD Average day in the Autobot base!

(Link in ask)

I have not, but they have a neat artstyle! :000

@cherrycreamfairy

Nothing in particular, it been same old same old. 😔

Don't worry! I don't think you're asking to many questions! <:00

Also, I love LOVE LOVE!! The bond between Ratchet and Raf 😭😭💞💞💞

Lastly, I love that character! :DD It looks really neat :)))

(Link in ask)

Man, that's just disgusting. I'll do whatever I can to get it taken down. Thanks for letting me know 👍

I've never heard of it <:00

XDD You're welcome! Use that power wisely now, don't do anything Optimus wouldn't do!☝️

@misscherrypie (Referencing this post)

JHABDJHEHF XDD

(Link in ask)

Thank you so much! :DD I have a fanfic side blog but have since privated all the posts out of embarrassment- so currently I don't write/have any fanfics to share 😅😅--And other than sounding like a hyper five year old when I made that post😅 my opinions remain somewhat unchanged.

Soundwave is still my favorite Decepticon for the same reasons. The silent type that is a beast in combat, and is fiercely loyal to Megatron will always be cool to me. As for the other Decepticons, the way I would describe them has changed just a bit.

Megatron: I hate him in the way you are supposed to hate a villain. I think he's a really cool character and I enjoy seeing him on screen and seeing what evil deed he'll craft next.👀

Starscream: I used to really hate Starscream. But now his pathetic, sniveling, and cowardly behavior is more funny to me than anything. And its always funny/satisfying to watch him backstab Megatron and throw a wrench in his plans over and over XDD

Knock out: Knockouts incredibly vain and Egocentric personality is really getting on my nerves this second time around. He annoys me whenever he's on screen and keeps making me think that Breakdown was more deserving of life and a redemption arc than K.O. As I close in on the episode where he becomes an Autobot, I highly doubt there will be any satisfying character development that makes his switch from Con to Bot believable. I will surly post a rant about him sometime soon and maybe completely overhaul his character for my AU. 🙄

Shockwave: I've only seen a few episodes with him so far. But I really like him. A hulking scientist that can absolutely flatten you on the battle field. Cold, alien, calculated, unfeeling, shows no mercy or fear.. he's pretty cool to me XDD

Airachnid: I hate her but not in a fun way like Megatron. She's just an annoying villain with an annoying personality that keeps getting away when she really shouldn't have. 🙄

Predaking: Only seen this guy for a few episodes too. And I haven't gotten to the ones where he talks yet. But I don't like him much already. The stakes already felt high and realistic enough. But then you add a reincarnated overpowered cybertronian dragon thing into the mix? Just made it feel more fantastical and like there's too much going on at once. Not really a fan of him so far. <:/

Dreadwing and Skyquake: The ending these two had made me very sad. Skyquake dying in his debut episode and then having his death/body striped of all its honor by being resurrected and used as a weapon.. Only for him to mindlessly wander the shadow realm for eternity.. I can only hope he became one with the allspark and has no connection to his body..

Then Dreadwing.. The pain he must have felt when he learned of what Starscream did to Skyquake.. and he didn't even get the chance to avenge his brother.. I really hope they're both at peace together with the allspark.

I really liked the two of them, and think they were very well written and interesting characters. I will definitely be writing them into my AU and give them a happy ending where they can be reunited.💚💙

Breakdown: I really, really liked him and think it was horrible writing to kill him off after his encounter with Silas and Bulkhead. Like seriously, what happened in the writing room for this character? They couldn't have hammered it into our heads any harder that Breakdown was setting up to switch to Autobot. I went back through that episode (Season 1, Episode 16) and took some dialogue just to showcase what I mean.

First of all, we have what Megatron said after he is notified that Breakdown was captured by Silas. "If Breakdown allowed himself to be captured by those smaller than him, weaker than him. He deserves whatever fate awaits him."

This shows the viewer that Megatron sees Breakdown as weak for being captured by humans, and thus deems him useless.

Then we hear what Breakdown says when Silas comments about Breakdown being too valuable to let go. "Haha! Megatron will never pay a ransom!" His laughter and this comment shows the viewer that Breakdown believes Megatron will not negotiate with the humans and will simply eradicate the humans in order to rescue him.

These two things showed the viewer that Breakdown thinks Megatron values him and will rescue him, when in reality Megatron absolutely does not value him and has no intentions to rescue him.

Then later on with the bots we get these lines:

Bulkhead: "Mech can melt him down for all I care, let the cons rescue their own!"

Optimus: "It is unlikely that Megatron would bother with an arrand of mercy."

Arcee: "Okay, but this is breakdown we're talking about"

Optimus: "Sometimes we must rise above ourselves for the greater good."

Bulkhead: "Oh what's that supposed to mean!? Breakdowns gonna go all soft and join the cause??"

Optimus: "While it is unlikely any Decepticon will choose the path of good, even they posses the potential for change."

THIS, implies/hammers it SO HARD into the viewers brain that not only is it likely that a Decepticon WILL change, because Optimus believes they all have the ability to do so. But that BREAKDOWN SPECIFICALLY might change after they save him.

After this, we have this interaction between Silas and Breakdown after the Autobots were supposedly blown up.

Silas: "Enjoying the view? Ironically your would be rescuers may be in more pieces than you right now."

Breakdown: "Decepticons don't break that easy!!"

Silas: "Who said they were decepticons?"

Breakdown: "That doesn't make sense. Autobots wouldn't come to rescue me."

This shows the viewer two things. That Breakdown really believes the cons will rescue him, and he doesn't believe the bots would save him for any reason.. But then Bulkhead shows up.

Bulkhead: "It must be your lucky day"

Breakdown: "w...what are you doing..?"

Bulkhead: "Getting you outa here. Yeah, I don't believe it either."

Bulkhead: "Can you walk."

Breakdown: "I.. I think so"

(Alarm starts blaring)

Bulkhead: "Can you run?"

Breakdown transforms his hand into a hammer: "Never run when you can fight"

Bulkhead: "Just keep that thing pointed away from me, alright?"

Breakdown then pauses and kind'a looks at his hammer as Bulkhead moves forward. Eventually following after him.

Later in the fight against Silas, Bulkhead was weakened and fell. Breakdown rushed in to push him out of the way of the helicopter firing the laser. They look at each other, both kind'a surprised by what Breakdown just did.

Later, we then we get this interaction with Starscream.

Starscream: "Consulting with the enemy, Breakdown?"

Breakdown: "Bulkhead got me out of there!"

Starscream: "Many sparkfelt thanks, Autobot. Now destroy him."

Breakdown and Bulkhead look at each other. Both look shocked and hesitate to do anything.

Breakdown: "But y-"

Starscream: "Do you plan on joining their ranks anytime soon? No?? Then be done with it already!"

Breakdown hesitates for several more seconds. "Tough break Bulkhead, maybe in the next life." And then attacks him.

This, once again, was hammering home that Breakdown very likely was going to become an Autobot. He fought alongside Bulkhead and protected him when he didn't have to. And when he was told to destroy Bulkhead, he seriously hesitated and tried to argue with Starscream about it. Before giving in..

Then finally, he have the most damning evidence of all. After Breakdown and Sarscream escape the scene and meet up later on down the road. They have this interaction.

Starscream: "One day you will repay your debt to me Breakdown, the day it comes time to choose sides."

Breakdown: "Uh.. between bots and cons?"

Starscream: "Between myself, and Megatron!"

Breakdown: "...."

Starscream: "Incidentally I suggest that Megatron never know of this rescue. You do want him to think you overcame the puny humans on your own.. don't you."

THIS, interaction is the cherry on top. Starscream implied that if Breakdown wants to go back to the cons, he better make himself look useful and say he got free of the humans himself. This shows Breakdown that Megatron didn't actually send anyone to rescue him. Megatron does not care. So his view of Megatron and the deceptions as a whole was changed with this interaction.

THEN you have the fact that Bulkhead saved him. He doesn't understand why, but no doubt this changed his view of the Autobots and Bulkhead entirely. With their limited resources, they still went out of their way to try and rescue a Decepticon. No doubt the Bots are looking much more merciful and kind than he may have originally thought..

And lastly, us as the viewer get what Breakdown said. "Uh.. between bots and cons?" LITERALLY. This question makes the VIEWER AND BREAKDOWN consider that choice! Why else would they have Breakdown AUDIBLY QUESTION which side he should be on if it wasn't implying that he would later change???

I think it was just garbage writing to kill off Breakdown the way they did. They made an entire episode that basically spelt in big bold letters "Decepticons have the ability to change, and Breakdown is going to choose to become and Autobot." They could not have made that message to the viewers and to BREAKDOWN any more clear if they TRIED.

So basically. I really liked Breakdown and the direction his character was going. And I absolutely hate what the show did to him.

@narrator-girlart (Referencing this post)

Ah sorry, that was just a paid drawing request. I'm not actually apart of the fandom <:/

But I mean hey, I plan to reopen requests soon, maybe you could place an order for me to draw more XDD

@fancymussmuss

Aww that sounds really sweet! :) Any opportunity for Ratchet to bond with the kids and learn more about human culture is a win for me! :DD

@ilobewallmark

Thank you! :DD And I plan to! :))) And after I finish watching the show and make simpler redesigns for the bots, I imagine I'll draw them even more! :))))

@sussyhahag

(I wont show the artwork because it is not mine to share, but the text next to Miku said: "I KNOW THINGS ARE HARD RIGHT NOW, BUT IM SO PROUD OF YOU FOR MAKING IT THIS FAR! LETS KEEP DOING OUR BEST, OK?💙")

Aw <:))) Thank you! Does this mean Miku will bring me ibuprofen and cold water? 🥺

@beryl-shade

From the picture, it looks to be a beautiful lake! :00 I'm sure my OCs would think its beautiful too! :))

@knifecatss

SCREAMSSS THANLYUUU!!! :DDDD 💞💞💞💞

Oooo I might have to look into that :00 tho I don't think I'll make my holoforms bleed <XD I cant find a way to make that make sense..

..Well, maybe if the bots main body is injured, that injury will be shown on their holoform as a glitch or tear in their bodies. But idk if you can injure the holoform itself 😅

Woof. Thank you so much for the information! This really helped me make up my mind.

Its sounds like Rescue bots is a show I'd be willing to give a shot someday. Just for its lightheartedness alone tbh. At first I thought I wouldn't like a kiddie transformers show, but as I transition into season 3 of TFP I find myself missing season 1 and the lower stakes/day-in-the-life-of vibe it used to have. But I would be sure to just 100% disconnect it from TFP.

As for Robots in disguise, I think I'm bagging that show entirely. Bumblebee and the others acting way out of character, stupid/non threatening Decepticons, the main cast never learning or developing their character, it just sounds like it would be SO frustrating for me to watch. I can imagine I'd be ranting the whole time and rolling my eyes at Bee. So I won't be trying that show anytime soon.😔

@beryl-shade

I can imagine they'd be be in awe of the car factory. Maybe slightly disturbed..? Maybe it'd feel uncanny to see cars be assembled like that..

As for the DMV, half of the cars wouldn't pass inspection XDDD

@littlelightfish

He's probably chowing down on some good food and listening to the bigger cookies tell stories! :)))

@heaventhehedgi3

I actually don't remember him <:(( I don't think I've ever seen that movie before.. 😔

I've actually drawn Sherlock Gnomes and Watson before! :0 It was a long time ago tho 😅

[octagava]

[Tumblr ate my quality... give it back :(]

Ada's dorm assignments and Explanation's and a bit of Headcanon's under ⤵️

HEARTSLABYUL

Atsushi: I was struggling with choosing between Heartslabyul and Savannaclaw for him. I think Savannaclaw would fit better (the tenacity part, and the tiger thing), but in the end, I chose Heartslabyul because he values justice, responsibility, and doing what’s right, which fits well with the rule-oriented nature of Heartslabyul.

Kenji: I chose Heartslabyul mostly based on vibes. Kenji is a cheerful and easygoing person, but also has his own unique logic that feels like the chaotic side of Heartslabyul.

OCTAVINELLE

Dazai: I don't think much needs to be said… His charisma? Cunning personality? Talent for manipulation? Straight-up Octavinelle student, no question asked. Especially with how easily he reads people, charms them, and manages to make people do what he wants by smooth-talking.

Haruno: This was a bit of a challenge to choose for her. At first, I thought about Pomefiore, but we already had so many characters in there, so I decided against it. I also considered Savannaclaw and Scarabia, but they didn't quite fit. In the end, I stuck with Octavinelle purely because of Haruno's intellect. It also felt right to make her a vice housewarden in her dorm.

POMEFIORE

Kunikida: This choice was easy, just like Dazai's. The drive for perfectionism, discipline, and ideals—he’s the literal embodiment of Pomefiore. It felt perfect for a dorm that’s known for its image-conscious students. It also made sense to make him Housewarden (and a little poke at the fact that, in canon, he’s supposed to take over as head of the ADA).

Junichirou: I was heavily influenced by his gentle yet thoughtful demeanor and the protectiveness he shows (not only his obsessive care for Naomi, but also his willingness to stand up for others). Despite being a bit of a wimp, he’s protective and supportive. He’s also a vice housewarden to Kunikida.

Naomi: To be fair, I had a hard time choosing for her. At first, I thought maybe Heartslabyul would be good for her affectionate yet mischievous personality. Then I considered Octavinelle for her cunning and strategic side. In the end, I went with Pomefiore, blending her elegant and calculating nature. She’s charming, and her subtle manipulation would suit the dorm well. It also helps that Junichirou is here, as where he is, Naomi is likely to follow. But I do think she was probably in Octavinelle first and switched to Pomefiore less than a month later.

IGNIHYDE

Rampo: Another easy choice. He’s intelligent and prefers solitude, plus his amazing problem-solving fits Ignihyde perfectly. He’s brilliant and often dismissive of what he considers unnecessary social interactions, so this is 100% the right dorm for him.

DIASOMNIA

Yosano: Diasomnia is a very fierce dorm, often associated with strength, authority, and a commanding atmosphere, which perfectly suits Yosano. Not only is she fierce and strong, but her role as a housewarden also fits well with the dorm's atmosphere.

Kyouka: She’s resilient and carries strength with her despite her tragic past. As previously mentioned, Diasomnia is focused on power and overcoming inner turmoil (especially considering the storyline of Book 7), so it’s a great fit for Kyouka.

Diasomnia overall is just a perfect choice in that regard for both Yosano and Kyouka.

I might also do other organization's in this AU if I feel like it, haha Or maybe I should do it the other way around? TWST in BSD universe???

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

WAIT WHAT IF FOR THE TRIPLE TIME REBOOT AU,

Bill has outside knowledge too, that’s why he’s the all seeing eye… what if he’s the author of the show or the creator of Mystery Falls. And once he was trapped in his own show, he feels like it’s his right to take over, after all he made everything!

Ford is his main character, his pet, his thing.

Also why is this side character Mr. Mystery messing things up?! Why is Fiddleford’s wife gone rogue??

They were supposed to die!

How are they not dead yet?

Or maybe not he owner of the show itself but maybe like he helped with creation of ford. Like he added the plot line that Ford should be friends with the main villain Bill Cipher!

Ooh hmm. Alright.

Hmm. Hmmmmm.

Bill isn't the original creator, but he did write for the show and had a big hand in creating og Bill and Ford. He was never a huge fan of the light hearted comedy, wanting to take the show into a more serious direction, but was shot down, as this was a show aimed towards kids.

Right up until something happened to the og creator, and Bill was thrust into the driver's seat of the show, finally getting to turn the show the direction he wanted, use the ideas that had been thrown out.

Started with killing off Emma-May and kickstarting Fiddlefords descent into madness, turning the goofy monsters more threatening and adding actual consequences, crimes became more political and Ford failed to catch culprits, and Stan was killed off to cut off any support (plus Bill never liked the character. A secret twin? And it was Mr. Mystery? Uhh). The show become dark, ended terribly, and everyone blamed Bill for it.

Bill dies, gets reborn as Bill the triangle demon, and decides he'll 'fix' the show by making himself the main character, appearing more so that the 'camera' focuses on him, and the og ending becomes a happy one because he won.

Except there are three other time travelers here, only 2 of them know about each other, and all of them are working against him. Bill thinks him acting early is setting off a chain reaction to make Mr. Mystery more mobile, and is desperately trying to turn it back toward the edgy plot, while Ford thinks the same thing and is trying to twist it... not goofy, not grim, but a nice middle road.

Unfortunately Stan is not doing anything because of them. He's got several dart boards, a box full of prompts, and several new henchpeople to give him the wildest ideas possible, while Emma-May is now adding to the chaos through magic terror beasts and barely remembers the plot to begin with, or that she's married. They're the only two who know about each other and neither are working as a team. Emma-May just plops monsters in the city or sleuths them out for future monster making while barely mentioning things to Stan, meanwhile Stan is just stealing random science equipment and throwing them at her while they both make do with what the other is giving.

It's ruining the gritty vibes, and Bill hates it

[girlfailureboylosercom]

Ex-literature Student Hyperfixates on Haikyuu Characters and launches off their rocker

the title says everything.

i got too silly trying to plan a hrhs yuri au fic and ended up deciding to do an analysis on the Kamomedai team (its mostly hrhs. my bad guys)

I'll be analysing volumes 38-41 in this post!! If I miss out on certain panels or misinterpret moments, that's my bad. Most of the panels I'll be putting here are taken irl, so they might not be that easy to read 😞🙇

This is also an opportunity for me to dissect my brain and figure out why I took a liking to these characters. I LOVE ANALYSIS and genuinely wish there was more over Haikyuu, especially on themes and characters and their philosophies!

so, what will I be focusing on in this analysis?

Kamomedai's philosophy, importance + message

Hirugami Sāchiro and

Hoshiumi Kōrai's significance in the story of Haikyuu

Coach Murphy's connection to HRHS' philosophies

If there are any topics I've failed to list here but have explored in this analysis, please understand that I was simply too excited to write and may have forgotten to list them here!

Word Count (excluding titles): 4838

Hirugami Sachiro

His Backstory

of course, whenever Sachiro is brought up, his backstory is the first thing that automatically pops into mind. It's tragic but even worse, it's realistic. It stuck with me the first time I read the entire manga, but I couldn't figure out why. I knew it resonated with me, reminding me of the several burnouts I witnessed in multiple kids around me at school, but that reasoning wasn't enough. So I supposed that pushed me to write this analysis haha!

From these panels, it's safe to say that Sachiro did have love and passion for the sport. He practically grew up with it- his parents and siblings played it, and they eventually went down the path of going pro. It would be no surprise that he was bound to follow in their footsteps. It was natural. There's no confirmation and this is more like a theory/headcanon, yet I believe that his family did have these expectations for him or placed pressure on Sachiro to play volleyball, whether or not they intentionally meant to. When you grow up with a family of star athletes who all did the same sport, why would you do something different? In the manga, Hirugami states that if he just 'straight up quit' volleyball there and then, there would be a whole set of problems. We could assume that maybe their coach would be upset, but this could be another hint that his family would not take the news that well. Perhaps his parents would be the more judging ones. Since he has all of these expectations and the pressure to improve and earn respect and acknowledgement from his family, it wasn't a surprise that this mindset would eventually turn sour and cause Sachiro to crash. We even have some supporting evidence for this, and it (strangely) comes from Atsumu.

Atsumu states that he knew Hirugami was always this good, but the way he played was 'like a man possessed', and watching him gave Atsumu the impression that he was on edge at all times. In the panel that displays Atsumu's recollection of his original impression of (middle school) Hirugami, we can see that the Miya Twins are completely fine compared to Hirugami who is panting like a dog, tired out and not looking in top shape. I don't think it's a far-fetched assumption to say that Hirugami was just forcing himself to play the sport, to keep on going and giving his all despite his body protesting, trying to tell him that he's reached his limit. But the mind can be stubborn and Hirugami's mind was also dead set on goalless/vague improvement; He wants to build more muscle, not let anyone outdo him, and not get left behind- all these goals don't have a proper end and that's harmful. Of course he's going to force himself to continue whether or not his body gets the rest it deserves. To him, there's no such thing as a rest day. Hirugami doesn't believe he gets to rest until he finally achieves or stops chasing the improvement he desires. But there's no end to the goals he wants to achieve. If Hoshiumi didn't stop him, how long would've Hirugami been aimlessly chasing his own demise?

Hoshiumi & Hirugami's Middle School Relationship (sub-category of Hirugami's backstory)

I think that Hoshiumi and Hirugami have quite similar philosophies! Both are centered around hard work and the need to improve, to become better. However, here's the difference: Hoshiumi's more accepting, acknowledging the harsh reality that he's weak. There are stronger people out there, which is why he NEEDS to be competitive and strive for improvement in order to avoid lagging behind his competition. If Hoshiumi makes any mistakes, he most likely would take it as a learning opportunity and eventually shrug it off. He already knows he gives everything his all, so any mistakes he encounters are not an outcome of laziness or lack of effort. On the other hand, Hirugami's is more degrading. It's harsher, taking any mistake he makes and echoing it back at him in a harmful manner, telling him that he could've- should've done better, that there were ways Hirugami could've gotten that last point, that the smallest mistake he made would affect the way he and his team played. There's no room for error because if there is, then there's something wrong with him. And because of their difference in philosophies, I believe that led them to interact when Sachiro finally crumbles and hurts himself.

While re-reading Sachiro's backstory, I got the impression that he and Hoshiumi barely interacted during their middle school days, so I asked myself: why would Sachiro tell Hoshiumi, an all-time bench warmer, that he doesn't like volleyball? The few times we've seen middle school Hoshiumi and Hirugami interact besides the self-harm scene were they only getting brief glimpses of one another. The panel above shows Hirugami briefly noticing Hoshiumi, acknowledging that he's still practising this late at night, then shrugging it off and walking back to the canteen. Well, Hoshiumi just helped him out of a daze during a difficult moment. Hirugami's head is now above the deep, dark water called his thoughts, so he's most likely disorientated. He's shaken up by the pain in his knuckles that are finally alerting his senses and at the same time, he's settled on a simple conclusion: He doesn't like volleyball anymore. And in that moment of silent anguish, who else could he let out this confession to? Any walls Hirugami has put up during this time are now knocked down by raw vulnerability. He needs to speak and ground himself, to let his mind finally acknowledge that he doesn't want to continue playing volleyball like this. And it just so happens that Hoshiumi is also there to hear this statement. There is no hesitation in Hoshiumi, not when he offers a tissue for Sachiro to clean up his bloodied hands, not when he listens to Hirugami's sudden, sensitive confession and simply asks, "Okay. Why don't you quit?", a question that Hirugami didn't consider nor thought possible before. He doesn't coddle but offers Sachiro advice that he could take or leave behind. Korai doesn't forcefully press the tissue packet into Sachiro's hands, nor continues to show his discomfort at the sight of the other boy's wounds despite the response being natural. His steadiness and composure are reassuring, allowing Hirugami to take his time to calm down and process his thoughts and the advice that Hoshiumi has given him. Also, Hoshiumi's advice is structured more like a conversation, if that makes sense. Hoshiumi is straightforward and honest and his words hold no flattery when he points out Hirugami's strengths, something that he can't achieve as easily as the other could. He's not making a big deal out of the situation and is staying calm yet helpful, which is essential. Because of his approach and advice, Hoshiumi unknowingly helps to give Hirugami an entirely new perspective, when he probably intended to only stop him from harming himself even further. (I also believe that Hirugami revealed this thought to Hoshiumi because sometimes, people find it easier to talk to strangers than the family or friends that they are close to.)

Little note: I love how supportive HiruHoshi are of one another!! Throughout the manga, we can see how close they are; Hoshiumi has always been there for Hirugami, ever since they first properly interacted in middle school until the end of their high school days. And of course, during adulthood. Hirugami visibly reciprocates this by taking the time to understand Hoshiumi, learning his story and other things like his thought process and quirks in volleyball.

Sachiro's View on Volleyball

One of the special arts that included Hirugami called him 'dispassionate' and I found that very interesting. It highlights his whole stance on volleyball; He likes it, but after all that he's been through, Hirugami would rather leave it behind and watch from the sidelines. He likes it, but he's not going to get overwhelmed by it again, unlike the other Kamomedai members or characters in Haikyuu. This time, Hirugami has set the goal of playing volleyball only until the end of high school. Knowing that he will get to quit after all these years, that these long periods of burnout will finally come to an end, its a relief to him. Hirugami still has a love for volleyball, but he understands that his relationship with the sport will not go back to the original, passionate state that it was before. And he's accepted that. He wants to play the sport without getting drowned in those overwhelming thoughts, he wants to have fun and not let volleyball take over his life. It doesn't matter if his talent in volleyball gets wasted. So what if it does? Hirugami knows what he wants in life now and wants to pursue it.

Dispassion can come off as someone having no passion, but that's not true; it's simply another meaning for being calm and not letting emotion take over logic.

Parallels with Asahi

Also noted that he and Asahi have some parallels! Not as much or obvious as Hinata and Hoshiumi, but it's there! Even the summary for Volume 40 acknowledges this!

Both characters have had a past with or are currently experiencing overthinking, along with how it affects their attitude and behaviour during games and or in general. Their arcs are connected to their mental health/well-being and how volleyball, the sport they play, are closely intertwined. However, Asahi's character does seem to be more centred around anxiety and how it can affect his gameplay and social life. Meanwhile, Sachiro's character has a more intense focus on the depression that can come from burnout and the effects it can develop. Yet both of these characters share the pressure of needing to be better, the need to live up to certain expectations that have been placed on them consciously or not. For Asahi, it's being the ace. And for Sachiro, it used to be, well, being good at volleyball.

Throughout the entire story of Haikyuu, we can note that Asahi is still trying to get over the overthinking that his anxiety has given him- he's struggling with the thoughts, which have been shown to affect his plays and his relationships. Asahi is learning to have more faith in his abilities, to go easier on himself and stop wallowing in his negativity. Meanwhile, Sachiro is shown to have already gotten past that. Has he made a full recovery? I don't think so. But he's shown to have not been affected by expectations anymore; He's over that burden and he knows that even if things get tough, volleyball is just a game. If he makes a mistake, Sachiro knows he won't die. It's a sport he enjoys, but there are simply other things in life that he has more passion for. He's just currently focusing on having fun with volleyball and trying his best.

Hoshiumi Kōrai

The Little Giant Legacy

If you care about either Hinata or Hoshiumi, you would know that the cause of their rivalry is the pursuit of the 'Little Giant' title. It makes sense after all! Both players are considered astoundingly short for their sport, have great jumping lengths and are considered amazing players by their team, just like the original Little Giant, Udai (who changed his mind on the pursuit of volleyball and went on to do manga instead). Personally, I believe that the moment their rivalry was officially solidified was actually at the end of Chapter 361 and the beginning of Chapter 362!

This panel was when Hoshiumi started to develop some respect for Hinata, recognising him as a potential rival he wanted to go against. But before it, when Hinata jumps and manages to spike the ball against Kamomedai's defence, Hoshiumi recalls a statement he made earlier, one he gave to the interviewer: "Yes, being short is a disadvantage...but it isn't a sign of incompetence."

And this panel establishes just how similar they are. They haven't heard one another's philosophies, yet they share it already. Gao acknowledges it with an expression of unease, and even Sachiro thinks, "He's just like Korai-kun." For this part, I will focus on these four people due to their connection with one another: Hinata, Hoshiumi, Udai and Coach Washijo. These four characters have experienced how height can be an extreme hurdle to overcome in sports.

According to Udai, the original 'Little Giant', he talks about how he knew he was the ace back in the day and how he deserved to feel confident over it. However, as Udai grew up, it is implied that the pressuring competition experienced at nationals most likely got to him. Udai assumed that if he trained himself even more, and focused on improving his skills and technique, it would be enough to keep up. But there was one thing he forgot to factor in: mentality. In fact, I think Udai does acknowledge this as well! It's why he politely shoots down Akiteru's comparison compliment of his and Hoshiumi's playstyle. Udai points out during the match that if he was in one of the situations that Hoshiumi was in, he would've failed at scoring as he would've spiked the ball down instead of back, a sign that the block intimidated him and made him retreat. "Hoshiumi has far better skill and decision-making than I ever did." Referring to Volume 41, Udai gives this mental narration while watching Hoshiumi set the ball to Hirugami: 'Know your weaknesses. Accept them. Forget the weapons you can't wield. Find all the ones you can...and carefully, persistently hone them all to a wicked point. That is what it means...to be a Little Giant.' Between these two pages, we can note that Udai is also eagerly watching Hoshiumi's play, with a determination that we can conclude from that if Udai had to pass down the title personally to anyone, he would most definitely choose Hoshiumi. If Hinata has Coach Washijo rooting for him, then Udai is the one who is silently applauding for Hoshiumi from the sidelines. (Fun fact! In Volume 45, in a small panel that features Udai, we can see him drawing his second manga series and the main character looks reallyyyy similar to Hoshiumi,,,)

All four characters know that they are weak when it comes to volleyball. However, Udai and Washijo are the ones to have been shown to crumble under that knowledge, accompanied by other factors that have made them resign from the court and pursue another path. Yet, that other path is still connected to volleyball. For Udai, it was making a manga based on it; For Coach Washijo, it was becoming a coach and only cultivating those with strong potential.

Coach Washijo has been burdened by the knowledge that his height restricted his ability to play so severely that it's firmly become a staple of his philosophy, that he'll only take in the strongest and biggest, keeping that mindset for 40 years. He only starts to change his mind when Hinata enters the scene; Not when Udai started playing and became Karasuno's ace years ago. Yet, Coach Washijo remains resistant to the idea that a player like Hinata or Hoshiumi can make it. (We don't see what he thinks about Hoshiumi, but I think his view would be similar to how he views Hinata, but not as personal 🤷) Over the time of Haikyuu- and by the time we reach the Kamomedai vs Karasuno match, Washijo's mindset has already begun shifting into a more positive view. He's started becoming more open and eager to the idea of a 'Little Giant', finally accepting that the harsh reality he faced back then is now possible to overcome. I believe that the match and the development of the fun rivalry between Hoshiumi and Hinata contribute to it, even if it isn't hinted at that often.

Turning back the focus onto Hoshiumi and Hinata, their rivalry is simply a beautiful thing to witness, especially considering the legacy both these players are chasing and discovering the respect they have for one another despite being one another's biggest competition. (also something something about the monster generation players on the Adlers team being the people who are the top three rivals Hinata has experienced in the entirety of the story,,,,yeah)

Referring to a panel from Volume 41 (again), Hoshiumi confesses to Hirugami that compared to other competitor teams, where he states that he simply wants to go through them no matter how good they were, Karasuno is one that he truly wants to beat. This intimidating statement sends a shiver up Hirugami's spine, which is something considering the handful of panels we get of him making a sadistic expression throughout this match. From this interaction between the two, we can interpret that up until this point, Hoshiumi did give his all to help his team win against several other teams to get to Nationals, but most likely didn't experience much competitive thrill during those matches and had to hype himself up by beating opponents who would underestimate him due to his smaller stature. Yet now, he finally gets the competition he desires. In Nationals, every team has been proven to be good. No one's planning to overestimate or underestimate anyone, there's simply no time for that. The time on the court is precious, meant to be used to win against whichever team is on the other side of the net. And like a cherry on top, there is someone like him. Someone gunning for the same thing he desired- Hoshiumi and Hinata's relationship can be classified under 'mirror characters'. Or in a more literary viewpoint, parallels. Typically, this trope is used to give the protagonist a rival, which is one of the reasons why Hoshiumi was created. Hoshiumi's role in the story is necessary as considering the other two main 'rivals' Hinata faces in the story (Ushijima as the Privileged Rival and Kageyama as the Main Rival, referring to TV Tropes), both of them seem to have more of the upper hand due to their height and long experience with getting the chance to play on the court consistently. With the presence of Hoshiumi, his character further drives the message that whether or not you have been given blessings from the start or have access to certain opportunities, working hard & smart along with having passion are also essential elements that you require in order to achieve the success you want.

"They come to us with solid, undeniable strength, and make us choose them."

The Need For Competition

Disclaimer: I do NOT have any siblings. So if I do accidentally miss-analyse anything in this section, I sincerely apologize 🙇 But yeah. Akitomo. Although we BARELY see him for the rest of the manga, he still has an essential role- if not, why do we need him in the first place? Furudante gives every character a purpose, whether or not they're major or minor. From Kōrai's backstory, we can see that he and his brother have your usual competitive sibling rivalry and whatnot. Akitomo bullies him and Kōrai retorts. But I think that this manga panel solidified Kōrai's need to be competitive and the desire to drive himself to improve in every area of volleyball possible (besides his mother's helpful advice that also plays a huge role in his philosophy).

This was the utter devastating realisation that he was so much weaker than Akitomo, despite Akitomo not knowing how the fuck to play volleyball. Kōrai learned that sport, dedicated and invested himself into it, yet here comes his brother, easily taking away the spotlight and spiking the ball without breaking a sweat. Just a jump and a hit, and boom. He could be replaced like that. Akitomo has always teased Kōrai over his height, yet this moment was most likely one of several that Hoshiumi experienced and solidified his understanding of how weak he was, and there were some things that he simply couldn't change from just effort and hard work alone. But with Asa's advice, Kōrai also understood that just because some doors were shut to him didn't mean the rest were. Some doors required a bit of prying to open, while some were already waiting to be discovered, and all Kōrai needed was to find and sharpen the required tools. Throughout the manga, there is a theme of competitiveness and how it affects the lives of the high school players on the court. We see how it affects them for the better and also the worse. We see how regardless of its positive or negative effects, these teenagers strive for improvement, to learn how to work with others as a team, and the list goes on. Hoshiumi is an example of a character who has a good balance of competitiveness and passion, which keeps him going in his pursuit of being good at volleyball. But in a moment of vulnerability (not defeat), he suddenly turns to Gao during the match and admits that there were times when he'd given up a little, starting to feel there were limits to the height he could reach. I believe that this statement was essential for Hoshiumi to admit out loud, as it further shows us that even a character as confident and competitive as him can eventually start to feel the pressure of keeping up and even almost let it get to him. But it seems that by the end of the manga, all the effort Hoshiumi has put into his own improvement in both body and mind, along with letting his competitiveness drive his passion instead of control him, he manages to achieve not only a spot on one of the best V1 League teams in Japan but also becomes a player on the Japan National Team for the Olympics. The seeds he's sown have finally grown and now Hoshiumi can reap his rewards as he rightfully deserves.

Someone once told me that competition was simply part of human nature. It can come in forms we never thought possible, but it's still there. Sports, academics, collections, status, and so on. It doesn't matter what form this competitiveness comes in, but it does matter how we use it in our lives. Do we let it control us and our desires in turn? Or do we use it as fuel to strive for improvement, to make a positive change in our lives and for others as well?

Kamomedai's Message

The Importance Of A Coach

Aaron Murphy is the coach for Kamomedai and according to the manga, his background and qualifications make him stand out amongst the range of other coaches we've seen in the story. He's a coach for one of Italy's Pro Series A leagues for years, took a Japan V2 League team and made them V1, and many kids on the volleyball team purely attended Kamomedai High just to play for him. He's a pro through and through- you'd expect him to be harsh, to have multiple well-detailed training schedules for his team, to push the limits of his players- similar to Coach Washijo, who's also a coach for a powerhouse school that is amazing at volleyball and set up to be one of the biggest antagonists Karasuno will ever face. But he's not! He seems to be a far cry from that. According to an onlooker (and referencing the manga again), people view him as a coach who doesn't seem to stand out too much, despite knowing he has an incredible record of being one. Meanwhile, Coach Washijo only looks for players with raw strength and power, the ability to intimidate and rule the court with their impressive height and skill and he will cut them off from their position if they refuse to listen to him. He's painfully harsh and it's evident in the way we've seen how his players react when he merely calls their names. Coach Washjio is intimidating and fierce, something you'd expect from a coach who has cultivated a team that's produced some of the most impressive players in the history of Haikyuu. Yet this treatment stems from his background, where Washijo was not allowed to play volleyball because of his height. We don't know a lick of Coach Murphy's backstory, but that's okay! It's unrequired to dissect his importance and why someone like him fits perfectly with Kamomedai's message and significance in the story, along with implied effects on Hirugami and Hoshiumi's philosophies.

Earlier, I stated that Udai gave up on volleyball because the pressure of intense competition got to him. It was good that he knew that improving his skills and technique could help him make up for his height, but Udai forgot about improving one thing that Coach Murphy had emphasised when training the Kamomedai team: Mindset. (Or more accurately, mental toughness) Through short moments in Volume 41, we can see that Coach Murphy focuses on mental training. Furudante could've shown us how intensely he trains Kamomedai, as he does mention that serving and blocking are the other two skills that he wants to train the team in (and Kamomedai is well-known for those two aspects), but we only get a brief panel showing us how sweaty and exhausted the whole team is. Yet, during that moment, the focus is on Coach Murphy talking about mindset, before directing the team to scenario practice. In the same volume, Akaashi recognizes that not one, not two, but the whole Kamomedai team is capable of doing task focus throughout the game, something that he barely managed to do in Volume 38. Akaashi is a character that is typically perceived as someone who is very calm and collected due to his analytical nature, but in Fukurodani matches we get to see that he doesn't have a good view of himself and tends to have negative thoughts that are similar to Asahi. A character like Akaashi noticing and making this connection further emphasizes how the players on Kamomedai are exceptional at their way of thinking, besides their serves and blocking.

We can see that his teachings have effects on his players and that's great! Reflecting on my earlier comparison between him and Coach Washijo, his methods are tough and intensive, but they're not excessive and seem to value both physical and mental health equally. Although Coach Murphy and Coach Washijo have years of experience training volleyball players, only one of them has experience looking over a professional team of athletes. Coach Murphy focuses on taking the players he has and helping them to hone their skills, instead of filtering through them and only picking ones who have the most potential. He looks at the cards he's dealt with and figures out how to make the best use of them. There's an air of professionalism with the way he handles and talks to his players, in my opinion- he's playful at times, but Coach Murphy's words are also grounding and firm. In a way, his method is very similar to gentle parenting (if that makes sense haha). His healthy way of teaching has affected his players, assisting them on their journey of improving their thinking in both their games and outside of the court. In Volume 41 and on the same page that the players of Kamomedai are briefly shown to be undergoing training, Coach Murphy's advice clearly addresses potential physical or mental obstacles players can face during a match- 'What happened was either a failure of your skill...or a failure of your decision-making process and mental control'. Murphy also states that they should make success a larger habit, before following up that a thought along the lines of "Oh, I'm having an off day today" isn't an excuse, unless the player themselves are sick or hurt. From this, it's implied that Coach Murphy is advising his players to pursue success but not let a negative mindset prevent them from doing so. Coach Murphy's second statement also supports the point that his training is gentle but firm by implying that he guides his players on how to properly reflect on their mistakes and spot areas of improvement before making the next step (which is solving the issue). Kamomedai's slogan is 'Habit Becomes Second Nature', which further supports the purpose and message of the team in the story of Haikyuu. Combined with Coach Murphy's teachings, it's no surprise that Kamomedai will not only grow as a team, but their players will also become people who persist despite undergoing harsh conditions. It's why they're closely linked to seagulls (and also why Hoshiumi resembles and is heavily based on one); To quote Coach Murphy, Kamome means 'seagull'. Seagulls can handle sea or sky, fair weather or foul, no matter what.

So, what is Kamomedai's purpose and message in the manga? From all the evidence I've gathered, I believe that the team exists to show the viewers and other characters in the story the importance of mindset besides skill, to carefully train yourself to persist in doing or achieving something despite obstacles in your way and that if something bad happens, it's not good to beat yourself up. Instead, careful reflection is required if you wish to improve and avoid making the same mistake again. Take care of yourself, both physically and mentally.

But then again, this analysis might be a bit biased as Kamomedai is one of my favourite teams and I've typed a crap-ton of words for this, phewwwwww. My brain is dry now. So if you have any other views on them, feel free to reply to this! I'm all up for discussion :3