#THIS WAS A LONG TIME COMING WHOOPSIE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 1 year ago

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Bad Boys Bring Roses - G.S.

Synopsis. You’ve never dealt with the yakuza - not once. So why is the future head of the Gojo clan suddenly coming up to you, demanding that you marry him for 30 days?

Pairing. Yakuza boss! Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, yakuza! au, fake marriage, annoyances to lovers, elders suck, mentioned k*lling (not reader or Satoru), Satoru is INSANE and SO down bad, one bed trope, praise, biting, oral (fem receiving), fíngering, unprotected, créampie, spitting, overstim, flower language, kníves, bit dark, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 9.1k (whoopsies)

A/N. I just HAD to get this out of my mind like I wanna write an entire book series on this. Spent too long researching rose language as well so see if y’all catch that hehe.

You thought the wedding invitation was a joke when it had arrived - a delicate, lacey little card that you’ve probably read over a million times by now. It had been stuffed haphazardly into your mailbox, along with a ridiculously large bouquet of purple roses. Seemingly inconspicuous when you first tore into the thick envelope, wondering which one of your friends was getting married now.

And it was - that is, until you saw your name at the very top - right where the blushing bride’s was supposed to be.

We hereby formally invite you to the marriage of…

What?

No return address. No date. No groom’s name either. Only yours, written in beautiful, golden writing - inviting you to your own wedding, exactly a week from now.

You remember perfectly the way you’d flipped it over and over in your hands, the gears turning in your head as you tried to crack down on the motive behind this invitation. A threat? A joke? Texting all of your friends about what a cute prank that was - only to get a shared confused reaction, and a few “April Fool’s has already passed, y’know.”

Hell, you’d even cornered the mailman, desperate to get to the bottom of this. But that wasn’t particularly helpful when he was only able to shake his head in protest, pale as a sheet, and trembling ever-so-slightly as he sped away from you. Weird.

Without a clue as to who sent the letter, or even a follow-up in the days after, you stuffed the invitation somewhere deep in the back of your closet and handed the bouquet to your mother. Not bothering to tell your parents where it was from - because who’d worry over a stupid prank like this? It was probably one of the kids from down the street that’d gotten their grubby lil’ hands on a printer.

You, however, had more important things to focus on - like trying to help your father revive his failing diner. It was a family business, a quaint, hearty little shop. One that was quickly, and dangerously, losing both customers and employees with the brand new fast food place that’d popped up right across the street.

Which is why you found yourself here - working overtime on a Saturday night, looking over the empty chairs and stacks of boxes from behind the counter. Whatever, it was only a few weeks until relocation anyway.

You heave out a sigh, eyes flitting to the clock beside you - 11:21pm.

Nine minutes more, you drum your fingers in boredom, maybe you should just close up early. Because sure as hell no one else was-

“Oh? Still open?”

“Ah- Uh, yes, welcome!” Jolting out of your reverie, you stand up ramrod straight, taking in the customer standing at the door. He wasn’t one of the regulars - no, you think you’d remember if he was. Cloudy white hair, piercing blue eyes that twinkle from above his shades, even in the dim light of the diner. He was so very tall, taking up almost all of the doorframe, only getting more and more imposing as he walks up to you in quick, long strides. Magnetizing.

And if you dared let your eyes wonder, you caught a few tattoos peeking out from his unfairly snug button-up, clashing with its flashy blue color. Dragons? Trees? Or were they flowers - roses?

“Roses.” the man in front of you answers your unspoken question, voice so very deep, and melodic - tinged with something playful in it that you wouldn’t have expected at first glance. At your raised brow he continues with a wink, “Could tell ya were checkin’ me out, sweetheart.”

“F-forgive my rudeness, sir.” you sputter, face burning. You look away from the way his muscled ripple as he crosses his arms, immediately turning to fumble with the menus, “Please take a seat and I’ll be there with you shortly.”

You’d expected him to take up a booth, or maybe head towards one of the good tables around the corner. What you did not expect was for him to plop down on the stool right in front of you, flashing you a playful grin before humming, “S’alright, m’just waitin’ for someone.”

Oh. Well, it made sense that someone like him would be taken. Swallowing, you hand over the menu, before giving him a close-lipped smile, “A lover?”

Resting his head on his palms, not bothering to even glance at the list of dishes before him. “My fiancée.”

“Congratulations, Mr…”

“Gojo Satoru.” he tilts his head, looking way too happy with himself. “Please, call me Satoru.”

You nod softly, picking up your pen and notepad to get this conversation over with - and maybe to also avoid his heavy stare that made something hot and uncomfortable coil in your stomach. “Right, Mr-” at his disappointed whine, “Satoru. Congratulations, must be one heck of a thing to plan.”

“Oh I’m having fun with the wedding planning.” He waves off your words with a chuckle, missing - or pointedly ignoring - the way you were waiting for his order. “How’s it going for you?”

What?

You narrow your eyes at the way Satoru was batting those long lashes up at you, deceivingly innocent and waiting for your answer. “I’m sorry- Me? Did you mean with the diner relocation plans or-”

“No no no.” he laughs, loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say at someone interrupting you if you weren’t so mesmerized by that little dimple at the corner of his grin. One that moves as he plows on, “M’asking how wedding planning is going for you, wifey~”

There’s a beat of silence. One. Two. With you gaping at the pure audacity as Satoru quiets down to little titters, seemingly studying your reaction in amusement. Which slowly, but surely, drains from his face as you grit out a sharp, “I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, sir. We’re very busy and don’t have time to entertain your pick-up lines.”

Those widened blue eyes sweep the painfully empty diner, letting out a low whisper. “I can see that.” you let out a strangled noise of embarrassment at that. “But you’re really gonna ask your husband to leave?”

Huffing in frustration, “I don’t have a husband.”

“...you do.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t. And who the fuck are you to tell me I do?”

“What?!” Satoru jumps out of his seat in shock, fast enough that the stool clatters to the floor with a deafening clang! Hands slamming on the counter as he leans over it - so close that you could feel his minty breath fanning your face with each hurried, shrill word that tumbles out of his lips. “What do you mean you don’t have a- I’m gonna kill those fuckin’- After I bought Canva premium just to make that invitation? Did the flowers come at least?”

And while Satoru is panicking, words spilling out of his mouth a mile a minute - only one of those rings in your mind - invitation.

“You.” you hiss, barely audible over meltdown in front of you. Pointing a finger accusingly, “You’re the one behind that prank with the dumbass roses.”

That seems to snap Satoru out of his dramatic monologue - and you’re glad it did. Because he looks up to meet your glare, “Hey! You didn’t like the roses?”

And for the first time, you see Satoru more serious than he’d been ever since stepping into this diner. Eyes somewhere behind you, ablaze and almost…frightening. “Didn’t you ask him?”

You whirl around to see your father, who’d apparently rushed downstairs at the commotion. Baseball bat to fight off the intruder hanging in midair as he stands frozen, taking in the scene before him - but more importantly, that man in front of him. “You.”

---

And, well, it’s not everyday that you’re having late night tea with your parents and one of your father’s…business associates. Even rarer when said business associate is…you gulp, praying to whoever’s above that this is all some sick dream you’ll wake up any second from.

“So, let me get this straight…” you sigh, pinching your nose in frustration. It’s been an hour or two of trying to understand whatever this was. Giving a stern look at the two men squirming across from you in the booth. “My father was conned by one of your-” you gesture your head at Satoru, which only makes his smirk grow, “-men to take a loan from your um-”

“Family, yakuza. Anything goes.” he supplies helpfully.

You wave him off, trying as quickly as possible to brush off the ‘yakuza’ bit that makes your stomach lurch. “And now he owes you a favor of…what exactly?”

Satoru leans across the table, t-shirt opening tantalizingly. Voice dropping to an almost-pleading murmur, “Look, I just need you to pretend to be my doting, loving, charming, gorgeous-” backtracking at your withering glare, “...Anyway. I just need a fake wife for a few months, convince my family to get off my back about arranged marriage n’ carrying the Gojo legacy. Then bam! you stomp all over my heart, we divorce and I’m too heartbroken to ever get married again. Easy.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

You bet Satoru’s disappointed groan echoed across all 23 words of Tokyo, because it was definitely ringing in your ears amongst whirlwind thoughts of marriage? To a yakuza? Completely, and utterly ridiculous. And from his talks of “carrying the family name” it seemed like he was some sort of future head as well. Though, he definitely wasn’t acting like it right now.

“Alright. Plan B, then.”

Oh? You couldn’t help but think that maybe he wasn’t that much of a manchild as sits up from where he’d been splayed all over the table in tragedy. Lacing his fingers together before turning to your father, continuing in a more diplomatic tone, “But I want the cash you took. In full. Now. Gonna hafta disguise my best friend as my wife, n’ dresses for a six foot man aren’t cheap.”

Your mother looked like she could faint right then and there. Choking out a noise of surprise, “B-but we’ve deposited it all for the relocation- Please, can’t we pay any other-”

At the firm shake of his head, you stammer, “Now? Aren’t you some yakuza nepo baby, can’t you just ask your parents for money?”

“No.” Satoru chuckles, in a tone which told you that he probably could but might just lose his head for it. Only further supported as he muses, “Not unless I want a finger cut off for dealin’ money on the side. Seriously, sweetheart, why did you think I sent you the invitation last week?”

“Take me instead.” you father cries, trying to negotiate above Satoru’s half-joking mutters of “Ugh, I’m not into ol’ men dumb enough to sign yakuza contracts.”

It was all too much. You couldn’t take out the relocation deposit - it was a new start, possibly the only thing to save your family. Nor do you have enough in savings to pay back the loan. And if Satoru’s warning was anything to listen to, then you knew that dealing with the yakuza could be dangerous. Why you? Why you? Why you?

“Fine.”

The moment that word leaves your lips, it’s like the whole world freezes. Everyone in the room - including yourself - unsure of whether they heard you right. “I’ll do it.” you clarify, voice hesitant but firm. Eyeing the way Satoru’s eyes begin to sparkle, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips. Raising a finger to shush your father’s protests, “But for a month, until we leave this place. After that m’going with my family and you’re never to contact us ever again. Deal?”

And oh Satoru seemed over the moon, reaching out to grasp your hand in a handshake - so warm, and softer than you’d imagined. “Swear on m’life, wifey. You can kill me if not.”

He was so intimidating - and intimidatingly exhilarating.

Only an hour more of arguing and a quick phone call later, men - yakuza, you assume - were flooding your family’s little diner. All tattooed and burly, looking somewhat comical as they carried your few packed-up suitcases outside. Well, at least they stayed for a late dinner.

And ended up being witnesses to a very rushed, very rushed signing of marriage agreements. Evidence to really show up your alleged marriage. It barely even lasted a few minutes before, well, that was that - you were married, to the son of a yakuza head.

You say a quick goodbye to your teary parents, soothing them with promises of “I’ll be back before you know it. One month. That’s all.”

“And don’t worry about a thing,” Satoru sing-songs, coming up behind you. “If there’s anyone she’s safe with, it’s me.”

“You better keep your mitts off of my baby.” your father warns, raising the baseball bat still clutched in his hand menacingly.

“I won’t lay a hand on her, father-in-law. And anyone that even thinks about it…” he cackles, breath hot against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. “I’ll kill.”

Prancing off to hold the door of that shiny black Mercedes parked outside open for you. “Ladies first.”

With another quick hug to your parents, you hastily make your way inside. Feeling extremely out of place amongst the overly luxurious interior in your slightly-stained work uniform. God, the covers on these cushions themselves probably cost more than your house.

“Like the car? I can buy you one. Or four, as a wedding gift.” Satoru grins.

Oh, right. You weren’t in here alone - you were here with your new…husband. The word felt so strange to even wrap your head around, instead you turn to meet his easy smile. Clenching your jaw as you grit out, “So how do we act m-married?”

You swear he brightens up impossibly, scooting closer to you on the seat. Heart lurching as he raises his eyes to meet yours, dizzy with the heat of his proximity, he promptly pulls out his Notes app.

“Well, you see. I forgot to send this with the invitation so you better memorize this before we get home.” flashing you a long, long list of likes and dislikes, “Here’s my favorite color and my favorite Digimon and-”

That car ride could not have been longer. Because in addition to arguing with Satoru about who the best Digimon was, you had to fill out your own version of his overly extensive list. “So we can be foolproof.” he’d whined. And you’d been so engrossed in the process that you barely noticed the looming estate out the window.

“We’re here, young master and madam Gojo.”

It took a second to register that the driver was talking to you as well as Satoru, immediately pushing your face against the window to take in the scenic site before you. Heavy wooden doors - probably taller than an average house - opening to reveal sprawling gardens. Koi ponds and rose bushes lining a pathway that led to a traditional Japanese house - all power and glory. You half wondered whether you were still in Tokyo.

“Home sweet home.” Satoru grunts. “Such a beautiful hell, huh?”

Your home, for the next month. At least.

And if you had any doubt that Satoru was in fact the future yakuza head, that all went out the window at the welcome you got. Men lining the wooden hallway, bowing at the waist while your all-new husband wraps a hand around your shoulders, pointing out the various rooms and ornaments as he led you in.

“-and this is going to be our room.” he brings you in front of a large tatami room, one the size of your entire diner.

“Ours.” you repeat. Walking unhurriedly to the king-sized bed in the middle - the only bed. Heart pounding as you take it all in.

“Ours.” Satoru echoes, happily. And if he was any bit as affected as you are, then he doesn’t show it, instead pulling out a blue yukata from the closet, a golden Gojo emblem stamped on the back. Made with such a pretty, delicate fabric that it made you shiver to think how much it cost. “Now, I had these made jus’ for you last week. You can give me a lil’ fashion show tomorrow, so make sure you get some rest, wifey.”

It’s only when he says the word “rest” that you realize exactly how tired you are. Your long shift and the entirety of this having your eyes feeling heavier than usual.

“Um…” you start, risking a glance at the bed.

Satoru jolts, “Ah- don’t worry, sweetheart. You take the bed.” beginning to saunter outside to meet his team. “Got some work, so I’ll be sleeping in my office. Dream of me~”

And, really, you almost felt bad splaying yourself out on the crisp navy sheets. Sinking into the heady smell of fabric softener, and something so so Satoru. Addictive. Like an expensive cologne that made your head spin, one that wafted through your mind as you dreamt of summer weddings, and blue, blue skies.

“Ichiji.”

“Yes, young master.”

“See to it that the madam is safe. Anyone try anything funny and you bring them back alive. I wanna be the one to play with them, okay~?”

“Of course, young master.”

---

Admittedly, you probably have the best sleep of your life at the Gojo estate- or, it would’ve been if your husband didn’t burst in every morning at 7am. Handing you a ridiculously big bouquet of white roses, straight from the garden, before dragging you outside.

Milling about the estate, Satoru was never too far behind, chattering away. Letting you hold onto his strong arm crossing the bridges, occasionally having you show up to yakuza meetings as his plus one. Relishing in the rumors spreading all through the yakuza syndicates in Tokyo. Gojo Satoru, and the commoner wife he’d do anything for.

Weirdly enough, some strange little part of you thinks he puts in a lot more work than necessary for some pretend relationship…

“I think that stupid plan is really working, y’know.” you muse to him after a few days of this. Dipping your fingers into one of your favorite koi ponds with a nod at the figures watching you from a distance - Gojo clan elders, you assume. “Those old coots hate being within a five mile radius of me.”

Satoru huffs out a laugh, “That so? S’probably the method acting then, huh? Taking good care of me, wifey?” he wiggles his eyebrows, nudging you from where he was holding an umbrella beside you.

Furrowing your brows mockingly, “S’funny for you to say, they don’t even look at me. But they follow me around everywhere.”

“Do they annoy you, must I do my duty as a husband and gouge their eyes out?”

He…didn’t sound like he was joking.

Rolling your eyes, you pointedly ignoring the way your heart lurches at the word “husband.” Still so jumpy at the idea. “Speaking of, your parents give up the marriage proposals, yet?”

At this, Satoru clenches his jaw. “Still nagging, but they’re finally considering you as my actual bride rather than some hijink.” he spits out, seemingly recalling whatever conversation they’d had before. “And they want to have some family ‘dinner’, but it’s going to be awful and you don’t-”

“Let’s go.” you interrupt, nodding determinedly. “The realer this marriage seems, the faster we can divorce, no?”

He blinks at you slowly, “That’s…true. For the divorce, then?”

“For the divorce.”

And, well, that was settled - you were to meet your new in-laws. The ever-elusive heads of the Gojo clan. Also one of the most powerful yakuza in all of Japan, but, semantics really.

You spend the evening cooped up with Satoru in the library, poring over the bloody history of the yakuza - with the Gojo’s heading them all. The only time he actually leaves your side is a few hours before the dinner.

“For you.” he’d murmured, lips ghosting your ear, slipping something cold onto your finger. You look down to see one of the most beautiful rings you’ve ever seen - gold, with delicate blue and white diamonds encrusting it, cut in the shape of roses. “Can’t be married without a wedding ring, huh? Think of it as a good luck charm for tonight.”

And with that he’s swept away in a flurry of bodyguards and ruffled men, and you’re left standing there all alone. Cheeks burning, wondering how the hell he knew your perfect fit.

You worry longer about the dinner than you spend actually preparing for it. Though, that’s probably because of the group of stylists that come into your room to help you dress. Wordlessly fussing around you despite your weak attempts at conversation, eyes averted. Almost like they were…scared of you.

But there wasn’t much time to think of that - not when you’re being marched off in the direction of what you remember Satoru had called the family dining room. “More like a fuckin’ meeting room for those hardasses.” he’d snarked.

The moment you step in, all eyes turn to you - the only ones you recognize being Satoru’s, who immediately stands with a smile. “Ah, wifey! Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” pulling you into a tight hug. His voice drops into a low, raspy murmur in your ear, “Ya look fuckin’ gorgeous in my colors, y’know.”

Traitorously, jolts of electricity run down your spine. Especially at how fucking gorgeous he looked in traditional wear. Whispering back, “Playing up the doting husband bit, huh?”

“Only for you.”

Pulling away, you drink in his dangerously handsome state. Hair so effortlessly styled, tattoos winking at you from just above his yukata - blue, to match yours. So pretty.

Stammering out, “Corny.”

“Only for-”

“Now that the girl is finally here, may we begin with dinner?” A stained voice sounds from behind Satoru, old and tinged with a tone that years of customer service told you did not bode well. Craning your head, you look over his broad shoulders, meeting the eyes of several disapproving elders.

Shit. Some of the most dangerous people in this country right now.

Gathered here - for you.

Automatically, you knew which ones were his parents - painfully upright, and hauntingly beautiful in a cold, calculated way. Sat right at the head of the long table. With a jolt, you realize that you two are seated right opposite them.

“So.” his mother starts, as you take your seat with a bow. Satoru doesn’t waste any time on niceties, plopping down right next to you, scooting closer than necessary. “Congratulations on the…wedding, my son.”

My son. You ignore the way both parents pointedly avoided looking at you. Your husband, however, does not. “What~ Not gonna wish my dear wife as well?”

It’s a silent staredown - one that has the entire room on edge. You don’t realize that you’re clenching your fists in tension until Satoru untangles them, slipping his larger hands into yours. Gaze still alarmingly intense and locked on the other side of the table.

He wins.

“Congratulations. Let us begin now.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief, the tension only slightly broken as butlers stream into the room, carrying decadent trays of food. Well, at least the food might make up for how appalling this dinner is going to be.

It’s only 15 minutes in that you realize how very, horribly wrong you are - because the elders of the Gojo estate really don’t hold back, do they? Thank God you memorized every part of that stupid likes and dislikes list.

Besides picking apart every aspect of your relationship that they could manage to squeeze out of you between the appetizer and the main course, the main scrutiny tonight seems to be you. But in that icy, subtle way that has Satoru’s jaw clenching tighter each second.

Lips curling, Gojo senior eyes you over his wine glass. “So, dear,” voice dripping with underlying venom despite the pet name. “Is it true our Satoru missed an esteemed marriage meeting with the Zenin group to ambush you at some rundown old diner?”

You fight to keep the smile plastered onto your face, painful and cracking under the pressure. A hand squeezing under the table to stop Satoru from opening his mouth to retort, you answer instead, “Well, ambushed wouldn’t be the word. You could say we fell in love over the counter - at my family’s diner.”

“A waitress, she said?”

“Now we know why it was this rushed. Probably pregnant.”

“The scandal. How far the Gojo name has fallen.”

The few stifled gasps from the other end of the table are so dramatic that you could almost laugh. But you don’t. Breath hitching as Mrs. Gojo chuckles, “Marrying the daughter of a lowly diner owner? How... quaint.”

“Mother, be quiet or-”

“What?” she throws her hands in exasperation. “Can’t I say anything around here. Honestly, Satoru, I’m just trying to make conversation with your new wife.”

Before either you or Satoru can react, his father speaks up, apparently not done with the interrogation. “You understand that we’re just worried, right, dear? Especially with marrying into prestigious families, of course.” The emphasis on “prestigious” is not lost on you.” And it drives you insane.

Steeling yourself, you train your eyes on the untouched food below you. “I understand.”

Plowing on as if trying to infuriate you, “And you understand that this position is dangerous? You’ll be targeted.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Don’t be swept up in our Satoru’s charm and wealth, dear, my son just wants a way out of duty.” tone dripping with disdain, Satoru’s grip becoming tighter and tighter on yours. “The Gojo syndicate owns half of this city, we could bulldoze over that little diner of yours with only one phone call”

“My wife and I are leav-”

“I said I fuckin’ understand.” Your words hang in the air like a foul stench, and you raise your head to glare. If looks could kill, all the elders in this room would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on their graves already. “Neither me, nor my husband would ever let that happen because he knows a thing or two about respect, unlike you.” Lacing your fingers tighter with Satoru’s. “So shove your mighty family up your wrinkly asses. I don’t give a flying shit.”

Eyes wide, jaws dropped, the old couple opposite you finally seems stunned into silence. And if it was any other situation you could’ve almost laughed at how similar they looked to Satoru when he found out you thought his proposal was a prank.

His father adjusts his glasses. “Perhaps that is so.”

Ah, if only the rest of the table would be quietened just as easily.

“Not only is she a slut she’s a-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not even sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. Because in a split-second, the knife that was at your side is suddenly embedded, deep into the wooden table - barely even an inch away from the elder that had spoken up.

“You’re lucky I’m matching with my wife n’ didn’t want to dirty this new yukata.” a voice sounds from your side. Melodic and so so eerie that you don’t realize for a second that it’s Satoru - your Satoru.

He loops an arm under your legs as he stands up. Easily maneuvering you into a princess carry, forcing you to cling onto his robes for dear life as your feet dangle from the floor. You look up - maybe to snap at Satoru to put you down - only for the words to die in your throat at how absolutely fucking feral your husband looked. Eyes wide, aura menacing. A grin gracing his features, not the familiar one which had your heart racing, no - something so dangerous and cold.

“Now,” he hums. Turning his back to the room, gaze still locked with the shocked heads inside, “My lovely wife and I will be retiring. Won’t you all say goodnight to your future madam?”

You don’t know what shocks you more - the way everyone in that room mumbles out a disdainful little “Goodnight, ma’am.”, or the way Satoru cackles as he carries you to your shared bedroom. Laying you gently on the mattress with a quiet, “Be right back, sweetheart.”

What the fuck happened?

He could’ve killed that man. And looked like he wanted to.

Your brain yells at you - run away run away run away- But you weren’t…scared? In fact, you don’t think you’ve ever been less fearful in your entire life. Especially not when Satoru stumbles back into the room, clearly rushing. Something warm spreading in your chest at the trays of food in his hands.

“Dinner’s better without a bunch of fossils on my kill list.” he grins. Settling right next to you on the bed, setting out the dinner he’d brought for you. And, well, you didn’t doubt that they really were on his kill list.

“Hey, wifey.” Satoru speaks up after a few moments of silence, satisfied with the food laid in front of you. “M’sorry for putting you through that. No more family dinners from now.”

You inch closer to lay your head on his sculpted shoulder, a hand bringing up the food to his pretty lips. He smelled so good, faintly like pine, and clouds. It made you so dizzy. “Eat, Satoru.”

That’s all which is said, because maybe that’s all that was needed. And for a second there, you almost forget that this is all pretend.

---

“Hey, uh- mister. You alright?” you call out, voice barely audible over the rain.

The sullen figure didn’t react at first, soaked through and eyes trained on the ground. Unmoving, even when you hesitantly drew closer, umbrella quivering in your hands.

You should turn around - walk away like everyone else on the sidewalk was doing. But no, something about the way he sat alone, stoic to the storm around him made you inch closer. “Here.” you hold out your umbrella. “S’our diner’s, but you look like you could use this more than I do.”

He jolts, as if hearing you for the first time. A flash of blue, so quick you almost think you miss it. Still not raising his head fully, the man’s snowy hair tousles as he jerkily closes around the handle. Pretty. And so so sad.

“It’ll be alright.” you nod.

And with that, you turn, running back in the rain to the haven of the diner, where your father was waiting impatiently - he’d just bought the boxes to start packing up for relocation. Fingers still burning ever-so-slightly where his hand had brushed against yours. How strange, you wondered his name.

---

Satoru stayed true to his word over the weeks that followed. His parents seemed well and fully intent on avoiding you. And, well, other than a few disdainful remarks, the elders mostly scurried away in fear at your very sight.

The only thing that made your skin prickle was that the housekeepers had a penchant for peeping in on the two of you. Increasingly following you - they always did, but now…honestly, it was a bit disconcerting.

But other than that, it was almost…peaceful. You wake up every morning to a large bouquet of burgundy roses at your bedside table - and a husband. Because Satoru had taken to sleeping on the little couch at the corner of your room every night - saying something about not wanting to rouse suspicion because if he actually had a wife he’d be “taking her to bed every night”. Somehow, you didn’t doubt it.

“Funny how it’s getting close to a month of being married, but you haven’t even kissed me yet.” you deadpan. Looking down at where he was resting his head in your lap, sprawled across the soft grass in the garden.

Something else also happened - something different.

Because Satoru was a bit touchier, a bit closer. Like right now, preening into your fingers carding through his soft hair. “Oh~? Why, wanna take me to bed, wifey?��

“You wish.”

“Maybe I do.”

Your hands still, pulse racing as your eyes bore into Satoru’s, trying to figure out what sort of bad joke this was. Subconsciously, you find yourself leaning down closer - too closer. Close enough that you could count every shade of blue in his hungry gaze. But by the grace of whoever was above-

“Young master, please excuse the intrusion but you have-”

Sitting up abruptly, addressing the newcomer in a stone-cold tone. “How many fuckin’ times have I not told you to never bother me when I’m with my wife?”

The servant bows apologetically, sputtering out apologies as you move to get up. Flashing a smirk at Satoru’s dramatic pout, “I have to catch up on some reading anyway. See ya, Satoru.”

“Noo~ my sweetheart don’t leave me~”

You stifle a laugh at his little tantrum, so different from when he was serious. He was so….dizzying. “You’ll be okay, Satoru.” Glancing up nervously to meet the servant’s intense stare, studying the scene before him, how different his master was. “I’ll be at the library now.”

And Satoru notices - of course, he does. He sees that tiny flash of concern in your eyes. One that you might not have noticed yourself. He lowers his voice as you walk away, so you don’t hear him speaking behind you. Words dripping with a similar venom he always heard from his parents, “Now, tell me who you’re spying for. Names, first and last.”

Satoru doesn’t join you in the library that day, the first time in weeks. And you find yourself missing him more than you should. It’s dark out by the time you’re raising your head from the books, joints aching from poring over them for hours. The house seems a lot quieter. Somewhat bigger.

Something was wrong. Something was wrong. Something was wrong.

Scratching the back of your head, you wander through the wooden hallways to your bedroom - wondering what was amiss. Your feet take you there as if on autopilot, thankful for Satoru’s meticulous tours.

“Hey,” you smile softly at a servant making your bed, “Where are-”

Your question dies in your throat at the way she yelps at your words, hurrying down the corridor with a jerky bow. Weird. Leaving you all alone, and confused, muttering to yourself, it’s only then that you notice the flash of red by your bedside table.

Not a bouquet. Only a single, red rose - a note tied around the stem, something you’d never gotten before.

“The marriage proposals have been revoked, your contract is fulfilled, my ex-wife.”

Oh, reading that hurt more than it should’ve. You should be happy at being free, a few days earlier than expected at that - but it was over - just like that. You didn’t want to leave him. You didn’t want to leave him.You didn’t want to leave him.

Were you going insane?

Clutching the flower like a lifeline, heaving out a sigh, “Maybe Satoru knows…”

“Thinking of me?”

Startled, you whirl behind to face your husband. In the dim-lighting, making out the stoney expression on his face, eyes wide and a little duller than they had been earlier today.

“Satoru?”

His eyes light up at the mere sound of your voice - then you’re engulfed in him. Wrapping you in his arms, bowing his body into yours, so tight that it almost hurts. But you let him, fisting the fresh yukata in your hands - and that’s when you realize, he’s changed his robes since this morning. “Are you okay?” you whisper into his shoulder. Drinking in the smell of his cologne, and something faintly metallic.

Every cell in your body is screaming at you to take the opportunity - to run away from this yakuza and his slaughter and whatever this was. But how could you? Staying rooted to the spot, not even a speck of fear.

Satoru heaves out a heavy breath, tickling the hairs at your nape as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Those nosy elders won’t be bothering you anymore, sweetheart. You’re free to go.”

A shudder runs down your spine at his words, and you didn’t want to think too hard about what they meant. Instead, you guide him to your bed - and, surprisingly, he allows you to. Letting the two of you sink into the plush mattress. With Satoru still in your arms. He repeats, “You’re free to go.”

Run away. Run away. Run away-

There it was again - that strained little manta. You stare right into his eyes, voice thick at the sinking feeling in your stomach. “My 30 days aren’t over yet.”

“Leave. Please.” he grunts into the crook of your neck, like your hands drawing patterns down his back had broken some dam. “M’not a good man.”

You press your lips to his forehead, searing and a desperate attempt to soothe the man. “I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’m yakuza, sweetheart. Doomed to follow my parents here.” he mutters, strained and voice more unsure than you’ve ever heard. And once he started, it was like Satoru just couldn’t stop, rambling into your skin, “I hate it here, and you should, too. All these fuckin-”

“So go with me instead.”

“What if-”

“Toru.‘ you cut off his words, slurring and spilling out of his mouth. Gently, you pry him away from his little haven, reeling back to take a good look at the face he’s been hiding for so long. Hair mussed, curtaining his whirling eyes - all disheveled and vulnerable where he was once so suave.

Your eyes bore into his, unwavering. “It’ll be alright, Toru.”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. Only when his lips meet yours, soft, and so so sweet, do you realize that this is everything you ever want right now - possibly these past few weeks. “Y’can kill me if you don’ want his.” he mutters into your open mouth.

It’s so desperate - a messy clash of teeth and saliva, Satoru was drinking you in like you were the last drop of water on Earth. He tasted so sweet, like candy almost, and the gentle caress of a lover. You were addicted like you could do this forever and ever and-

And then he’s pulling away. A disappointed little whine leaves you involuntarily as he parts, delicate strings of saliva snapping in the space between you two. Satoru’s mouth drops into a soft oh! at the noise, surging forward minutely like he was about to kiss you senseless again. Only to halt with a pained grunt, just a hair’s breadth from your lips.

“M’sorry.” Claiming your lips once again, like a man possessed. Drinking in your breathless gasps. Like he never wanted to let go. “F-fuck, sweetheart. Y’don’t know how crazy you drive me.” he pants.

“Why did you pick me?” you blurt out, a question that had been nagging at the back of your mind every time Satoru slipped his hand in yours, introducing you as his loving wife. “Was it just the debt?”

He’s kissing your pulse now, canines hovering over the erratic little cadence. Breathing you in like you were intoxicating. “No.” he’s licking a long, languid stripe up your neck. Pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down every inch of skin he could reach.

“Then why?” your words come out in almost an embarrassing plea. But by the way his breath hitches, you know that Satoru loves it.

“Because.” he breathes, “You treated me like a human.”

He’s capturing your lips with his again, nipping at your bottom lips. You squeal as he pulls, suddenly wanting him to tease you like this everywhere. To have him absolutely ruin you like you know he could - treat you like the wife he claimed you were.

But Satoru wasn’t done yet - far from it. He chuckles, kissing down your neck, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Remember that night? You probably don’t, was rainin’ so hard I thought I’d drown out there.” Worshiping the valley between your breasts as he hastily unbuckles your bra. “That night was when the marriage proposals had come in. They said I’d either carry the legacy or be forced to leave the family. Kicked out of my own home.”

And you’re reeling from both his words and the way Satoru was rocking his hips into yours now, something hot, and so achingly hard pressing in the damp area between your legs. “Thought I was gonna take ‘em all out that night.”

“Take them all out?” your breath hitches.

“Every. Single. One.” Fingers dancing across the hem of your panties. “Wouldn’t have felt bad about it either.”

Satoru’s licking down your navel now, humming in confirmation into your skin. “But then…” he groans, taking in the first fucking sinful sight of your drenched panties. So flimsy and already dripping for him - and after just a few kisses, really? You were heaven on Earth. “But then along came you. So pretty and all worried f’me. The daughter of that diner owner I’d loaned money too.”

You watch, heart racing as Satoru swallows in awe. Darkened gaze locked on the way your slick beads out of your pussy, bare thighs trying to close - give yourself some semblance of dignity. But no- how could you? When Satoru’s holding them apart.

“And then I knew…” he’s sliding his index underneath your panties up and down, grazing your swollen folds. Pooling your sweet sweet juices on his fingertip before popping it into his mouth. Eyes fluttering shut at the taste, and you’ve never seen him look so blissful. “I just had to have you.”

Rip!

The cold air brushes against you before you even know it - only when you feel Satoru’s hot breath against your dripping cunt does it hit - this bastard just ripped your panties off. And he was dangling it like a badge of honor, breathing in your juices so animalistically.

Your lips wobble as he just admires your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing. “Hah- please.”

“Please what?” he grins, and you can feel him licking little circles around your inner thigh. So close. “The wife of a yakuza boss has gotta know how to use her words.”

“You’re awful.”

“And yet you married me.”

With such a cute lil’ whine that makes Satoru’s cock twitch so painfully, you buck your hips closer to his hot mouth. “Wan’ your mouth on me, to eat me out. Please, Toru.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, “There’s my girl.”

You gasp when he surges forward, burying his pretty face nose-deep in your pussy. Holding your breath as he lazily licks up your folds - long, sloppy movements of his tongue all the way from your base to your swollen clit. Swirling deftly around the sensitive nub.

Drunk off your pussy with the way he’s so messy - seemingly unable to decide between sucking harshly on your poor, ravaged clit to dipping into your sloppy hole. And it’s driving you mad, keening and pulling at his soft locks. You haven’t been touched this good in ages, and Satoru was well and fully intent on ruining you.

“Shhh, don’t worry, wifey.” words muffled into your cunt, “Your husband’s gonna take care of you.” He’s throwing your legs over his broad shoulders.

“Real good care of you.” Then he’s plunging knuckle-deep in your plushy pussy, the tips of his long fingers massaging your plushy walls. Messy enough that your slick is trailing down his wrist. Roaming for that one spot he knows will have you moaning deliciously. Pressing down, hard. “Found it. Gonna have you screamin’ my name til’ the entire estate hears.”

You tug on his hair, urging Satoru’s mouth towards your cunt - partially because you wanted him there, partially because you really needed him to shut up right now.

And shit how could he ever say no to his pretty wife?

Satoru is grinning, you can feel it on your throbbing clit as he wraps his pretty pink lips around it. Pumping his fingers in and out, hitting that little spot each and every time. Looking like he was absolutely in heaven as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over and-

“Sh-shit. Toru-”

“Mmm, yes- fuck, love it when you call me that.” he groans. And oh he’s looking at you like he wants to devour you - eyes half-lidded, such a pretty blush disting his cheeks - and making out with your pussy just as much. Tilting his head back, back, back so that your juices slide down his throat. “Feels good? Ya like when m’ruining your pretty pussy?”

“Yes!” you squirm. Shaking, bucking your hips into his touch so desperately. “Wanted it s’bad.”

He’s becoming frenzied now, drinking in your cute little whimpers like he was addicted. But it wasn’t enough - it never was and fuck Satoru wanted more more more-

“Move your hips, yeah- jus’ like that.” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Letting you pull and angle him just as you please.

“Gonna be the best fuckin’ husband you’ll ever have. N’ anyone that says otherwise, m’gonna fuckin’ kill.” The vibrations have your body jerking violently. “Make you cum harder than y’ever have. C’mon, say yes.”

And with that, he’s alternating between lapping at your clit and bullying his tongue through your swollen folds. Stretching you, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Jaw grinding deeper into you as he eats you out like his last meal. “Ngh- fuck, yes yes yes-”

“Beg for it, beg for your husband.”

“Wanna cum- Ah! Please, wanna cum, Toru.”

One hand so messy toying with your dripping entrance - not having the patience or the sanity to even draw circles anymore. Just quick, hurried patterns to get you off. The other digging into your hips, so hard you were sure it’d leave marks for tomorrow. Making you drag your sloppy pussy senselessly all over his mouth. Using him.

“Hngh- Toru! Ah- fuck fuck Toru Toru T-” You’re shaking - crying out as you cum. A guttural, strangled moan of your husband’s name. So violent, and hard that you don’t even realize at first. Just that you’re rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears.

And he doesn’t stop - not even once. If you were in any better state of mind you’d wonder whether it hurt - whether his fingers were cramping up, and his tongue was tired. If they were, he didn’t show, only letting you chase your high as roughly as you want.

Greedily lapping up all your juices. Even when you’re blinking your vision back, chest heaving as you try to regain our breath. “S-Satoru.” you mewl, stars behind your eyes with each flick of his tongue.

“Jus’ a bit more. Wanna taste all of you.”

You weren’t going to make it out alive.

Big, fat tears pricking at your eyes from the overstimulation as Satoru finally rises from what you almost worried would be his favorite seat. “All done. Now, keep that pretty lil’ cunt on display f’me, my girl.”

And your cunt is clenching in- fear? Anticipation? As your husband finally unties his yukata, letting it slide off those milky, toned shoulders. And shit he was such a fucking masterpiece. The dim-lighting bouncing off every curve and dip of those carved abs. Delicate swirls of his tattoo inching from his collarbone, down, down, down, hugging Satoru in a way that made you so half-lucidly jealous. All the way till the last inky thorn meets the neat tufts of white hair peeking up from the hem of his underwear.

“Touch me.” he groans into your ear. The words barely leave those pretty lips before your hands are everywhere. Dancing down his tattoo, groping at this pecs - too much to worship, not enough time.

“Toru…” you trail off, hand reaching out to brush his waistband. Tugging just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, hitting his sculpted abdomen. Red, and so so angry, fat tip weeping down his length, already so soaked in precum. He was so intimidatingly long - longer than anyone else you’d had before. Thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself.

And he sees right through you.

“Now now, none of that.” he tuts, pushing your bare thighs as far apart as they’d go. He spreads your cunt so shamefully with his thumb. Spitting once, twice. Some of it splatter against your thigh as Satoru mixes his saliva with your slick. “Don’t worry, wifey, m’gonna make it feel good for ya.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he drags his fat head down your folds. Wetting himself, all the preparation he was going to give you because fuck Satoru needed to be inside your pretty lil’ pussy right now.

Then you feel like you’re being split apart - as if Satoru’s cock was pushing all the way to your lungs as he presses through the first ring of muscle.

“Ah! Ngh- Toru, s’too big!” you yelp, eyes locked on the way your lips were stretched so lewdly around his tip. Clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in, inch by fucking inch. No mercy. Absolutely none at all.

And while he sounded like he was on cloud nine, you were having your head spin, torn between wanting to run away from his massive cock and just push yourself down for more more more. His lips claim yours - absolutely animalistic because God he needed to shut up your pretty whines or else Satoru was going to cum right here right now.

“Breathe, sweetheart, breath. Ngh- You can take it.” Satoru pants into your mouth, fucking into you in mindless, shallow little thrusts just to fit inside your snug cunt. Sounding like he was losing his sanity each time your heavenly walls milked him. “So fuckin’ tight. Jus’ relax f’me. Oh yeah, jus’ like that. You can take it you can-”

You gasp for air when he finally bottoms out inside you, tears streaming down your face and clawing at his back.

Satoru only coos, letting you mark him up all you want. Pace increasing relentlessly, “Aww, my good lil’ wife. Taking me so well, huh?” Starting to rock his hips just a bit faster into yours, “Always knew y’would.”

“Can y’feel me, right-.” Balls smacking against your ass, his finger tracing an invisible line halfway down your tummy. “-here?” Thumb stroking where he could feel himself bulging inside you, pressing down. Hard.

You almost sob at the pressure, jolting - you should’ve expected that the yakuza boss would fuck so mean.

And shit you can just do nothing but take it, hips jerking wildly as Satoru pounds into you with reckless abandon. Clutching at his shoulders, the sheets, his hair - just anything.

“C’mon~ Don’t run away from me,” he grunts, strained like he’s struggling to maintain restraint. Lacing his fingers on top of your head to slide you impossibly deeper onto his cock. “Jus’ fuckin’ got you, so don’t you dare run away.”

You can only nod. Eyes glazed, cockdrunk and letting him thrust so sloppily. “Won’t run away Toru…” you babble, “Wan’ you to make me yours.”

“Mine? Gonna be all mine?”

“All yours, Toru.”

And maybe you were an idiot, maybe you were a mastermind - because with a choked out little moan of what sounded like your name, Satoru’s pulling you both to sit up. The gravity makes you bury his cock deeper and faster into your tight pussy.

With the new angle, your husband’s hitting all the right spots easily, almost as if he knew your body better than you did. Veins rubbing so deliciously against your walls, shifting around your hips to fuck up into that poor, abused spot.

“Ya like this, huh?” he groans, fingers now toying with your ravaged clit. Rolling it around harshly between two fingers. “Always knew this cute pussy could take me s’well. Just didn’t know it would feel this fucking heavenly.”

Faster, sloppier. Bouncing you on his rock-hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside. So, so desperate and debauched.

And exactly where you wanted to be.

You leave delicate pink bites down this pale neck, alongside those roses - marking him in your own way as you edge closer and closer. It was too much. Everything was too much.

“Toru-” you sob. And he already knew what that meant. With how your voice breaks so adorably and the way you’re clenching around him hard enough that it’s almost difficult to ruin that cute pussy.

“Close?”

“Mhm…”

“Well then.” thrusts getting sloppy, with no reason or rhythm now. Grip on your body tightening like a vice. “Cum f’me like a good lil’ wife, then.”

And that makes you throw your head back in ecstasy - it makes you cum. Thighs quivering, jolts of electricity running down all the way from your overstimulated cunt to your hazy mind. It has you chanting Satoru’s name like a lifeline while his teeth dig into your flesh. Hard enough that you distinctly wondered whether he was out for blood.

Letting out low, muffled moans into your neck while he cums as well. Hot ropes of seed filling up your poor, bloated pussy, painting your walls such a sinful white. Cumming and cumming so hard you wondered whether you’d make it out alive.

And because of the obscene position, you could feel the way it dribbled down your legs. Thick globs landing in a pool on the overpriced sheets below, smearing so lewdly between you two. Hips still fucking up into you - not even thinking about it as he pushes his seed deeper and deeper.

You managed to raise your eyes, still dazed to meet his - exhausted, and dark with lust and something else that you really weren’t in the right mind to decipher right now.

And then Satoru’s lips find yours again, biting and tugging lazily. Tasting so unfairly of candy and sweet, sweet trouble. Body melting into you like all the worries have been lifted from his shoulders. He’s looping his arms tighter around your waist, crushing you into an almost-painful hug against him.

Something soft. Something new. Something that makes a little part of your heart twinge to break the kiss and pull away mere millimeters. “We better not divorce after this.”

“Of course not.” He chuckles into your lips, resting his forehead against yours like he was trying to map the constellations in your eyes. “I haven’t even given you my wedding gift yet.”

Smirking, you lock your legs tighter around Satoru’s toned waist as he lets the two of you fall back into the mattress. Sinking into it - and each other - with both exhaustion and something of a quiet, unspoken little fondness. Batting your lashes up at him, “Mhm, I remember someone talking about giving me four mercedes as a wedding gift and I’m leaving if not.”

“Well then, better get to it. Four for my in-laws to get on their good side, too,” he nuzzles the bite mark on your neck. “Because I plan to stay like this for a long, long time.”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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readwritealldayallnight · 4 months ago

Text

Declined

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

wc: 9.2k words (whoopsies)

warnings/tags: 18+ MDNI, stalker!Simon but he does it with the intention of loving you so therefore I also tag this as fluff, the usual swearing, smut, f!oral receiving, p in v sex, unprotected sex, finishing inside

Continuation of this idea

He almost hadn’t seen you, that very first time

He was begrudgingly on his sixth day of mandatory leave, something he had been pushing Price on for too long now, the Captain finally putting his foot down and saying the Lieutenant could no longer avoid it. Following a couple of particularly brutal operations recently, the higher ups were becoming increasingly concerned as to his mental stability, stating Ghost’s actions and his own written reports reflected an impulsivity and darkness they were steadily losing confidence in.

Ghost found the claims ridiculous. They had shaped him into exactly what they needed him to be on the battlefield, hadn’t they? They’d taken the scrawny runt of the litter and shaped him into a lean, mean, killing machine who never blinked twice as the blood of those lives he’d taken became as permanent of a stain on his skin as the ink from a tattoo gun. What did they fuckin’ care how his bloody mental health was?

Price insisted that the younger man not sulk inside of his flat for the entire duration of what he tried to convince him could be treated as a well deserved rest, encouraging him to get out at least once a day, if only to stretch his legs and prevent him from going truly stir crazy.

“Ye do understand they won’t let you back until they think you’re at least tryin’ to put the work in?” The Captain had told him the last time he saw him, doing his best to remind his second in command of the situation they’d been put into. “Take up fuckin’ yoga if ye think it’ll help ye. Just find something to distract yer mind and have them clear ye to come back sooner than later.”

A distraction huh?

Now, he’s sat at a table in the corner of an already too small and too cramped cafe, nursing a less than mediocre cup of tea on his daily outing, only just looking to help pass the time faster until he could be back on base where he belonged. For no particular reason other than perhaps divine intervention, he had only happened to glance up that time the bell above the door rang rather than the other hundred times it had gone off this morning, and that was when Ghost saw you

You, who appeared as though you’d only stumbled into the shop because a strong gust of wind had pushed you in his direction, your skittish, frazzled appearance making you stand out amongst the crowd of bored looking caffeine addicts stood waiting in queue, hardly sparing you a glance as they awaited their next 5£ fix

You were pushing your hair out of your face as you caught your breath, accompanied by the sound of the bell ringing as the door finally shut behind you, a noise nearly akin to angels strumming their harps up above when Ghost caught his first proper glimpse of your visage

There was something about you that piqued his interest then and there, his eyes never leaving you as you continuously struggled with the stack of books, journals and loose papers nearly slipping from your grasp, your other arm occupied with the so full it could burst tote bag that kept sliding off your shoulder

He had to stop himself from actually scoffing at your appearance, you came across as so opposite to how he carries himself, silent and stealthy, cool and collected, priding himself on being able to slip in and out of rooms unnoticed, even with his huge frame. And here you were, stumbling in like a bull in a china shop and appearing before him like the epitome of a hot mess on legs

He watched you the entire time you stood in queue, he watched you place your order and pay, noting the way his cold, dead to the world heart tried to skip a beat when you smiled at the barista, he watched you glance about the cafe as you waited for your beverage, your gaze somehow never landing on the one that had been focused on you since you walked in

Now, there are countless explanations as to why Ghost did what he did next, many of them could be explained away as being innocent enough, no real ill-intent or harm done, the Lieutenant was simply bored and looking for something to occupy his time with, to entertain his mind, like the higher ups had ordered

Unfortunately for you, he believed he had just found his distraction

It was really almost too easy, any simple civilian could have done it, his SAS skills not even needing to come into play you were making this so simple for him, you might as well have been asking for it

First, he saw your eyes light up when the barista called your name out along with your drink order, giving Ghost the first half of the information he needed. Next, he was watching you walk by his table to collect your beverage, paying him no mind at all as he glanced towards the stack in your arms, your last name practically popping out at him from the top corners of nearly all your loose papers, granting the large men exactly what he’d been hoping to see

You were none the wiser as you happily skipped out of the cafe, bidding the girl behind the counter a happy Sunday along the way, unaware as to the pair of eyes following your every movement, and the traumatized mind behind them who had already begun his plotting

One week

Seven days go by since that first Sunday he saw you in the cafe

And in that time, Simon’s kept himself busy, learning as much as he can about his newest distraction, his new little hobby, his pet project

Equipped with your first and last name tucked into the folds of his brain, it had been all too simple, nearly comical how easy it was for Ghost to look you up online and learn all he wanted to know about you

Thanks to the world wide web, in a weeks time Ghost had been able to discover all those essential details he supposes other men would have had to learn through taking you on date after date, finding out which school you’re attending for your masters degree, gaining access to your class schedule, giving him a glimpse into your routine Mondays through Fridays, discovering which local book store you’re working at part time on the weekends

You’re evidently a clever bird, having your few social media accounts set to private mode, but you’re sweet to think something like that could keep someone like him from getting what he wants

Soon enough, he’s got access to every photo and video you’ve ever uploaded to the web through the years, happy to note that you’ve never posted anything that would hint towards there being a man in your life right now

And really, it isn’t entirely your fault that you’re so open and honest in some of your posts, believing that no one apart from your family and close friends will be reading it, as you had excitedly posted photos of your new apartment last year, writing in the caption how you were eager to start this new chapter of your life, living on your own, all by yourself, not even a dog to keep you company when the floor boards creak at night and branches tap against the windows, just and old blind cat you’d rescued

While your friends had commented on how cute and cozy your decor had been, his own eyes skipped over the overpriced pillows and throws and instead locked on to the windows and doors, noting the standard, or altogether missing, security systems in place

Ghost is thinking about what the easiest way to gain access to your flat’s floor plan would be, he could pretend he’s an interested tenant and reach out to the landlord, hmm but then he’d have to actually talk to someone, something he’s been able to avoid doing so far, avoid leaving any trace- when the sound of the bell ringing above the door lets him know you’ve walked in

Much like last time, his eyes following your figure is the only perceptible movement he allowed himself, guarded by the shadows of his hood over his head, no one would ever be able to notice the steadfast attention he pays to your every single movement

You spend a total of 9 minutes 38 seconds in the cafe this time around, from the time you enter until you’re walking back out with your warm drink in hand, each second being ingrained into Ghost’s mind

A small part of him had almost tried to fool himself in the beginning, attempting to convince himself that this would be enough, learning about a curious little bird from behind a screen and silently watching her bounce around a coffee shop once a week should have been enough to keep his warring mind occupied, to keep the Lieutenant distracted until the higher ups decided enough time had passed to offer him a chance back

That was until, he’d heard you laugh

You were nearly out of the cafe, so close to being an itch he could almost consider satisfyingly scratched and over with, when a woman and her overzealous toddler came bounding round the corner, practically knocking into you with your full arms

But rather than becoming upset at your nearly spilled drink or almost ruined academic papers, you reassured the woman, got down to the tots level to make sure they were alright, and then you laughed with them

Your fucking giggle was to him what children heard when the ice cream truck came driving by, your smile stretching further than it previously had before his eyes, your voice sounding as melodic as the bell above the door did, and that was when Ghost knew, he was fucked

All of the world’s information online couldn’t put into words what he was seeing in front of him with his own two tired eyes; you were sweet

Too sweet, tooth-achingly sweet, sweet enough to trust this cold, dark world and offer it a bright smile in return

He’s seen people killed for far, far less

But not you

He wouldn’t allow such a cruel fate to befall such a darling bird, he wanted to keep you sweet, keep you smiling and giggling without worries of predators watching from the shadows, mouths salivating and jaws itching to clamp down on something soft

Not when you’d flown to close to him twice now, near enough that he can practically feel the wind beneath your wings as you float out of the cafe again, unaware that you’ve stepped into the large, gilded cage that is Ghost’s attention

Another week passes

Ghost takes his curiosity away onto the streets for the first time and counts to sixty before he follows you out of the coffee shop that Sunday, careful to stick close to the buildings and shadows, mingling in with the crowds and keeping a reasonable distance from you as he follows in your steps

He lurks near the crowded bust stop across the street from the moment you walk into your shift at the bookshop, and remains there until the second you step back out hours later, locking up the store behind you and beginning your stroll home

He waits outside your flat, noting which window on the second floor lights up with the soft glow of a lamp not long after you venture into the building, letting him know exactly which one is yours, and which one he’ll be keeping a close eye on from now on

Another week passes

Ghost has most of your routine memorized by now

He knows what time you leave in the morning depending on your classes that day, knows you often don’t make it home until after dark on those days

He knows your shifts at the bookstore every weekend never change, with your Sunday morning visits to the cafe before work being one of the few luxuries you apparently allow yourself

Ghost hangs around your flat often enough that he allows some of the neighbours to begin recognizing him in passing, letting them assume he must live in the building as well

All the better for him really, when the nice older couple doesn’t blink twice as he carefully grumbles about being locked out one night and they grant him their key code to unlock the front doors

Another week passes

Ghost knows you’ve been complaining to your landlord about how the building’s laundry machines are giving you a hard time, though you don’t tell the balding man about how it seems your undergarments are the only thing disappearing from your loads-

He knows where you do your shopping, and how you avoid a certain cashier who never gets the hint when you don’t return his attempts at flirting

He knows your Sunday morning coffee order by heart, knows exactly around what time you’ll be popping into the cafe, always around 8:25am before your 9am shift stocking books six blocks away

Another week passes

Ghost knows you haven’t noticed yet that the nuisance of a cashier at your local grocer hasn’t shown up to work in days now, the Lieutenant having ensured that he wouldn’t be bothering you anymore

He knows you’re running low on panties, considering he has nearly an entire weeks worth of your unwashed garments tucked safely in his nightstand

He knows you’ve started to notice the door leading out to your second storey balcony isn’t always locked when you return home, even though you could have sworn it was secured before you left that morning

He knows you’ve begun to question whether you left that lamp on when you rushed out for school, or if you’d closed your bedroom curtains before bed at night, or where those leftovers in the fridge went-

Ghost knows it’s nearly time to act - his clever bird is slowly catching on as he grows less and less careful, more daring - but it’s on one of those nights that he feels bold enough to slide your balcony door ajar enough for him to slide inside and watch your chest rise and fill with each breath as you sleep peacefully unaware, that his phone rings and nearly ruins everything

It was only in recent weeks that Ghost felt confident enough, or perhaps stupid enough his Captain say, to observe you more closely, taking a more ‘hands-on’ approach. At night, he more often than not occupied the nooks and crannies of your domicile as you tossed and turned in your sleep, mere steps away from the man who simply wished to watch you dream for now

He can’t explain his fascination with you even to himself - it’s as if he awoke one morning to discover he- someone had drilled a hole into his skull and poured your liquid form directly into his cranium

He sometimes wishes you were as easy to catch as a common insect, wishes that he could examine you under a microscope, to pin your extremities down and take a scalpel to your soft flesh to finally peer inside and see what makes you tick- but he knows he must tread lightly, keep you from bleeding out on the table too soon

Always careful and sure of his movements as he inched your bedroom door open that night, he had been preoccupied on watching you for any sudden indication of disturbing and waking you, he’d been entirely caught off guard by the sudden buzzing going off in his pocket

He hadn’t been expecting anything from his cell that night, considering that this was the first sign of life his the device had shown in the month he’d been forced on leave, but he thanked whatever God might still be listening to him that the ringer was off like it always was, saving him from the disaster that would have been his ringtone suddenly waking you just before two o’ clock in the morning to a masked stranger lurking in your doorway

Though the phone call hadn’t woken you, it had startled Ghost enough to throw him off, had him stepping back in surprise and making the near fatal mistake of stepping on one of your cats squeaky toys

The cheap pet store toy goes off in the otherwise deadly silent room, only the light of the moon creeping through your curtains casts a faint glow across your sleeping figure, which to Ghost’s horror, begins to stir softly

Ghost has backed out of your bedroom, slipped out the balcony door, silently shut it behind him and jumped back down onto the street with the agility of a trained professional in their element, all before the call has even been sent to voicemail

He’s ripping the device from his pocket and slamming thick fingers onto buttons as the sudden surge of adrenaline catches up to him- as he realizes just how fucking close that was - daring to glance up and spot a single light turning on in the window he knows is your bedroom

“What?” He asks harshly into the receiver, uncaring to check what the caller ID says- only one person has his cell number anyhow

“I’ll be honest,” The Captain’s accent comes through clear as day, sounding all too chipper for the current time on the clock. “I was expectin’ at least a slightly warmer greetin’ from you.”

“After a month of hearing jack shit from you?” Ghost knows he’s being slightly crueller than he needs to be. He is happy to hear Price’s voice, but the inconvenient timing of this call has him on edge, has him wishing this conversation would end already. His body may be out of your flat, but his mind is still up there with you, wondering if you’ve gone back to sleep yet, if you were convinced it was just the cat moving around at night. “Wha’ is it, Cap?”

There’s silence on the line for a moment, shuffling and the tell-tale sound of the older man letting out a deep sigh as he settles in says, “You’ve been… quiet Ghost. Was expectin’ to have heard from you by now.”

“Ain’t I supposed to be bloody takin’ it easy? As you’d put it? Why would I call when you’re the one that fuckin’ sent me away.” He surprises even himself with his harshness towards a man he holds so much respect for, one of the few people he holds to such a high standard. But the inconvenience of the timing of this call has Ghost on edge, has him uneasy, spitting out any words that will end this call and allow him to let out the breath he feels he’s still holding in.

“Fair ‘nough.” The Captain answers, having already suspected that this would likely not turn into the most joyous of phone calls. “Though for the record, you know it was never my call, Ghost. I pushed against it, vouched for you, they just-” the older man lets another deep sigh before he decides to end that train of thought and get to the point of why he called in the first place. “They’re saying they’re willing to have you come in now, with the time that’s passed. Retake your psych eval. You tell them whatever they want to hear to pass you, and you’re back in, you hear me?”

He can almost picture it, the longer Price goes on

He could pick up the duffel bag he’s had packed and sitting ready by the door since the moment he’d been put on this mandatory leave, drive to base, bullshit his way through whatever fuckin’ questions are meant to determine whether he’s fit for duty or not (even if he risks returning with a mind even darker than when they sent him away-), and be back on the battlefield by the end of the week, gunshots ringing in his ears once more and blood under his fingernails

The thing is however, there’s an itch under his skin he hasn’t been able to scratch yet, a melody stuck on repeat in his mind he hasn’t been able to perfect the tune to quiet yet, a sliver he put into his flesh himself and hasn’t found a way to pry out without making a mess

“Wish it were that simple.” The masked man grumbles under his breath, leaning his head back against the scratchy brick of the building, staring up at the starless sky, the only light he can see is one leading him back towards you

“What was that?” Price attempts to clarify, believing he’s misheard his Lieutenant. From his perspective, this is the news his second in command has been waiting to hear this entire time and he suffered through days of boredom and inactivity. He figured this would be a quick call that ended with his missing task force member returning as soon as possible

“‘Fraid I ain’t quite ready yet, sir. Got something I need to take care of first.”

“You- how do you mean, Ghost?” He asks again, in slight disbelief that the man on the other end of the line isn’t itching to return as he believed he would be.

“Took your advice, Cap. Found a distraction. Can’t go being upset now, to find out I’m distracted.”

It takes him longer than it should, to come up with what he considers as Plan A

Every scenario he dreamt up in his head, every possible meet-cute that could occur, none of it seemed good enough for inserting himself into your life and ensuring his spot became a permanent one

What if he caught you at a bad time and you hardly spared a glance at him?

What if he intimidated you, the way he tended to throw most people off?

What if you found him strange, creepy, scary?

What if you didn’t like him and he ruined any chance he ever had at doing this right?

He couldn’t risk such a thing, not when he intended on keeping you around for a long, long time

He had to ensure that your first meeting went well, was one where you would be just as infatuated with him as he’d been with you

In order for this to work, he had to have you approach him

Either way, he was going to have you, he would just rather if you went willingly and happily

The idea had struck him on a Saturday, as he watched you and your coworker locking up the bookstore one evening, overhearing a snippet of your conversation had a lightbulb appearing above his head

You stood by the shopfront as your coworker tugged on the door handle, making sure it was locked tight for the night, before she mentioned to you; “God, I wish payday wasn’t a week away.”

“Tell me ‘bout it.” You’d agreed, readjusting the strap of your constantly slipping tote bag on your shoulder. “I hope I’ve got enough money in my bank account to cover my coffee tomorrow morning.”

Bingo

He’d shown up to the cafe extra early the next morning, though he always arrived at least a half hour before you did, wanting to fade into the background of the bustling morning crowd before you popped in

He’d considered finding a way to hack your bank cards and have them malfunction, but then thought better of it, curious if he could go about this another way that was less likely to leave a digital footprint

He knew the barista working the counter this morning was a newer hire, hadn’t even been here for a full month yet

He tried to look as non-intimidating as he could as he walked up to her, though that was no easy feat considering his stature alone

He ordered his drink, his fee for being able to occupy the corner table as long as he liked, before he told her he had a strange request to make

He was confident that she wouldn’t tell him no, that she was still new enough to the job that she wouldn’t want to deny a paying customer

He explained that there’d be a woman coming in later, and that he wanted to pay for her order

Ghost could see how the naive girl was almost fooled into believing he was sweet for a moment, perhaps caring even, asking him if he was wanting to start one of those pay it forward trains where everyone pays for the person behind them- before he cut her off

“No.” He’d clarified firmly, seeing her eyes widen only slightly before hastily putting her customer service face back in place. “Only her.”

He said he wanted to her pretend as though your cards weren’t working when you would go to pay- to tell you they had declined or something, before he’d step in and pay for you

“She’s an old friend o’ mine. Haven’t seen her in a while. Was hoping you could help me with this sort o’ … ‘prank’ if you will.”

Any hesitation the woman might have still been harbouring quickly disappeared when a 20£ note was flashed to her

Nearly a half hour later, he watches his plan unfold without a hitch

You think nothing of it the first time the barista tells you your payment didn’t go through, becoming confused when it declines a second time, and increasingly flustered each time after that when every method of payment you have can’t cover your 5£ morning drink

Ghost watches this unfold with a satisfied smirk hidden under his plain medical mask - he thought the balaclava might be a bit too much for your first meeting - enjoying seeing you flounder momentarily, unaware of how everything you know is about to change as he steps closer, extending his gloved hand next to you, close enough to feel your heat radiating through your jacket, before he’s tapping his card against the machine and speaking to you for the first time

“I’ve got tha’ for ya.”

And suddenly, as simple as flicking a switch on, as easy as waking up from a peaceful sleep, Ghost now gets to watch all his hard work pay off right before him, as your eyes meet finally meet his for the first time

He has to actively fight to hear your incessant apologies and thank you’s aimed his way over the thundering of his heart beating in his damaged eardrums, has to refrain himself from grinning as wide as a Cheshire Cat beneath his mask and give himself away too soon

Though his poker experience is usually limited to late nights under foreign stars with the 141, Ghost knows how to play his cards right, especially with you

He turns you down at your first offer to pay him back, letting you stew in the awkward discomfort of a stranger saving your ass in front of other strangers for a moment longer, before you’re saying the exact words he wanted to hear coming from your lips, as though he’d handed you the script himself

“Do you come here often? I just mean that- I come here a lot- sometimes. And if you’re here next time I’m here, then maybe I can pay you back, buy you a drink.”

With a hurried promise to meet him here at this time next week, and a sheepish smile sent his way as you duck out of the busy cafe to head to work, Ghost slips the barista another 20£ in thanks before he’s out of the shop as well, following you from a distance, each step he takes feeling lighter than the next

You can’t keep pretending anymore

Even your friends are starting to take notice

Well, if you can count the people who are forced to spend time with you, your classmates and coworkers, as friends

“You all good over there?” Your colleague asks you as you’re restocking books on the shelves one afternoon, having noticed the way you jumped in surprise when a customer rounded the corner unexpectedly

“Yeah I-” You take a steadying breath, one hand still clutching your frantic heart as it races in your chest. “I’ve just been paranoid recently. Think school’s getting to me.”

You can tell she doesn’t quite believe you, based off the way she’s still looking at you, before she decides to drop the subject for now, going to greet the couple that just walked in

You’re not sure you’d believe yourself either, if you were the one on the outside looking in

While it was true that you were in a particularly busy portion of the semester at the moment, your assignments and grades were unfortunately the furthest thing from your mind

You’d been able to play it off at first, blaming your constantly preoccupied mind and overloaded schedule, how else could you keep forgetting such silly things like turning the lamp off though you could’ve sworn you had- and believing you’d left yourself two slices of pizza when the plate in the fridge obviously only had one on it but wait you only ordered a small and ate half last night how could- and the plants that you knew you kept neglecting suddenly began blooming back to life when you knew you hadn’t watered them in ages

Those strange occurrences, those little blips in your memory were easier to pass off, less difficult to wrestle around in with in your psyche and instead pass off as moments of forgetfulness, a busy student and part time employee with too much on her plate and not enough of a social life

But then things went from being strange, to downright concerning

You knew you had locked the balcony door last night, hell you checked it every damn night, a habit you’d had long before you lived on your own in the middle of a busy city, so why were you not only often finding it unlocked, but one night you found it slightly ajar, the morning breeze rustling the curtains as though they were taunting you step closer

Speaking to some of your other neighbours in passing, none of them had anything close to similar complaints about the laundry machine stealing their undergarments as a price to pay for clean laundry, your panties apparently being the only victims, something you were trying to convince yourself wasn’t as bizarre as it clearly was, especially when you were folding laundry one day and discovered you had quite literally not a single pair of knickers left

And then there were the dreams

If you could even call them that

Dreams where a large, dark stranger creeps into your home, into your bedroom, and simply watches you

Lurks in the corners of your flat and observes your every move, your every breath, never making a single sound, as silent as a ghost

And the stranger never does anything, never says anything, only ever just stands there, until you wake up and you can swear you see his shadow disappearing out of the corner of your eyes as you open them

It doesn’t take long for you to start noticing the shadow when you’re awake too

Disappearing around bends and corners, slipping through grocery aisles and alley ways, blending amongst crowds and backgrounds, vanishing when you turn your head to catch sight of him

You feel like you’re losing your mind

“Why don’t you come out with Jordan and I tonight?” She tries again, coming to drop another box full next to your feet. “Take your mind off of school. We’re going to try that new pub down near Walton Street.”

“I would, but-” You cut yourself off, spotting your manager coming to ring up a customer at the front. The two of you exchange knowing glances and small smiles, knowing your sweet old man of a boss doesn’t truly mind when his employees chit chat together, he says he likes seeing you all getting along, but you still try to keep up appearances

You put your thumb and pinky out to look like a phone before shaking it by your ear, letting your coworker know you’ve got plans for the night as she playfully rolls her eyes at you and mouths “I see, I see” with her hands up in mock surrender, before she’s retreating to gather more boxes from the back

It’s the same plans you’ve had almost every night for going on nearly two weeks now

While it was true that the sudden strange occurrences in your life were preoccupying most of your mind these days, you were still in fact a busy student, and so while you hadn’t entirely forgotten about the stranger you’d promised a coffee to the week prior, you couldn’t hide your genuine surprise at seeing him there that next Sunday

He was sat at a table in the corner, his hands free of any drink, allowing you to pay him back, just as he said he would

What he hadn’t prefaced the last time however, was how quickly he’d make you fall for him

While he might not have been the type of guy you would have originally gone for, unable to deny the intimidating aura that follows him around, you were all too pleased to discover that behind that hardened exterior was someone you got along with without even having to try, discovering he agreed with everything you said, had a lot in common with you, listened attentively to every word you spoke, not to mention he was certainly not hard on the eyes

You weren’t able to sit with him long that morning, explaining to him that the cafe was usually your much needed caffeine stop on your way to work, though you’d walked to the bookstore that morning with a pep in your step, and a new number in your contacts, under the name Simon

It wasn’t even a full 24 hours later when he’d first called you up

You were doing dishes in your flat, getting ready to turn in early that night when your phone rang

You couldn’t help the blush that overtook you at hearing his gravelly voice come through the line, tickling your ear as he apologized for already calling you so soon, he just couldn’t remember the name of that book you’d mentioned yesterday and it was bothering him because he wanted to read it before he saw you again

Next thing you knew, close to three hours had gone by, and you felt like a teenager when you both admitted neither wanted to hang up yet, satisfying one another with a promise to call again soon

Soon, it turns out, was the very next night

And the night after that

And soon, you can Simon were talking on the phone every night before bed, hours and hours racking up as you learned more about each other

It was a nice distraction from the source of your anxieties you refused to fully acknowledge yet, a welcome way to take your mind off the stress you’d been experiencing

If you weren’t already so distracted, you might have been paying just a little closer attention

You might have noticed how skilled he was at deflecting personal question aimed his way, or how he was able to answer without truly answering, always quickly turning the spotlight back to you, making you feel seen and listened to in a way no man had done before, taking the attention away from him time and time again

You might have noticed he agreed with you a little too often, never actually voicing any opinions until he knew what yours was first, never taking a stance unless he knew what yours was

What you really should have noticed was the way he seemed to know things about you that you couldn’t remember telling him, chalking it up to being so tired some nights you must have forgotten sharing that with him

In the end, Simon was saying all the right things at the right time, and you were all too happy to hear what you wanted to hear

It was barely ten minutes passed 9 when you were turning the key in the lock for the night, making sure the doors wouldn’t budge before you tightened your hold on your bag and began the trek home, the butterflies in your stomach begin to flutter at the thought of hearing Simon’s voice through the phone soon enough

Luckily, you were only about eight blocks away from home, and the summer sun had only just begun setting as the last of the customers were dwindling out of the shop, meaning you weren’t walking in total darkness quite yet

Yet somehow, something in the air tonight felt different, had the hairs on the back of your neck rising as though anticipating a predator lurking around the corner, ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey

You tried you continue convincing yourself you were nothing short of delusional, paranoid, that watching too many true crime docs was getting to you

But then, just as you were waiting for the pedestrian crossing sign to change, out of the corner of your eye, you saw your shadow

You whipped your head around too quickly, straining your neck but desperate to catch a glimpse and prove you weren’t crazy, but as always, there was no one there

The small crowd around you began crossing the street, unaware of the adrenaline begin to course through your veins as you hobbled along with them, noticing with regret that no one else continued in the direction you would have to turn, leaving you to traverse the next few blocks alone

You hurried your pace, trying to shake the undeniable feeling of something being wrong, when for the first time, you heard your shadow

Light footsteps that grew heavier the more you paid attention to them, the kind that weren’t casually strolling by as you might have hoped, but rather were on a determined path, and to your utter fear, were gaining speed

You never once dared turn your head this time, fear convincing you that should you stop and look back, he would be right there over your shoulder, a shadow coming to life just in time to take yours away

With your building in sight, you said fuck it and broke out into a sprint, hurrying towards the main doors and frantically entering in your code before the worst fo your fears could come true, never glancing back as the doors unlocked and you made a mad dash inside and up the stairs

You were barely through your apartment door before your phone was in your hand, dialling the last number you’d called, the only number you called these days

He answered before the first ring had finished

“‘ello?”

“Simon.” You hated the way your voice sounded, trembling around his name and giving away the clear distress you were in, but you couldn’t help it. Your poor heart was racing a mile a minute, you had tears threatening to spill over your lash line at any moment, you were trembling like a leaf and wanted to seek out the only comfort you’d had recently

“Wha’s wrong?” He immediately asked, evidently hearing your panic through the phone

“Simon, I just-” you let out a gasp, no longer in control of the tears that were starting to run down your cheeks. You double, triple checked the lock on your door was secured before on trembling legs, you slowly made your way towards the balcony doors, blood running cold when you spotted the latch undone. “I know this sounds insane but I really need you, I- I swear someone’s been following me and I think he’s outside my flat and I- I’m so scared Simon I don’t-”

“You’re alrigh’ love.” He cut off your rambling, the confidence in his voice lending you a sliver of strength for a moment. “Jus’ breathe, yeah? I’ll be righ’ there.”

True to his word, Simon is knocking at your flat door in less than four minutes, another anomaly you would have noticed had you not been in such a frantic state of mind

“It’s me love. Jus’ me.” You hear his voice say through the door, standing up on tip toes to peer through the peephole and confirm for your own peace of mind that it really truly is your knight in shining armour, hardly paying any mind to the fact that this is the first time you see him without a mask on the lower half of his face

You’re practically banging the door against the wall as you swing it open in a hurry to get him inside, grabbing him by his jacket to pull his figure closer to yours, barely giving him a chance to shut it behind him before you’re clinging to him like a lost pet whose been returned to their owner

You can hear him shushing you, a large hand coming to soothe your hair as another grabs you by the waist and holds you tighter, trying to reassure you between your sobs that you’re alright, that he’s here now, that you’re always safe with him

There’s a fleeting moment where you can’t help but think about how this isn’t you, how you’ve always been fiercely independent, how you’ve never needed to rely on others for comfort before, let alone a man you met all of two weeks ago, but the thought is gone just as quickly as it appeared, when Simon pulls back to hold your face gently in both of his hands, thumbs carefully rubbing tears off your cheeks as he looks at you with such sincerity, you couldn’t care less if you’ve known him for two weeks or two years, right now you just need someone to tell you everything is okay, that you’re not insane

He leads you towards the couch, planting you sideways across his lap as he leans your head on his shoulder and rubs a soothing hand across your back

“Now, try again, love. Tell me wha’s happened.”

And when he’s asking you so sweetly, touching you so nicely in a way no one has in who knows how long, how could you every deny him?

You tell him everything, all of it, the bizarre coincidences you can no longer explain away, the strange happenings that you cannot chalk up to forgetfulness, the odd feeling of being constantly watched you cannot shake, you tell him all of it

And Simon, he listens to it all, every concern of yours, every worry you’d had, he nods along showing you he’s listening, never interrupting you, always rubbing some part of your skin to let you know he’s here, he’s here and he’s got you

By the end of it, you’re no longer crying, your heart has begun to slow to a more normal rhythm, the goosebumps dotting your skin only a result of the large man caressing you as you avoid dribbling snot onto his jumper

“You must think I’m crazy, right? I- I even think I sound crazy.” You admit, avoiding looking at him as you pick at a loose thread on his collar

“Not at all, love.” His words have your eyes lifting to meet his, finding nothing but honesty in his steady gaze.

“W-what?”

“Said I believe you.” He reiterates, giving your hip a slight squeeze before he’s dragging his fingers down across your thigh, rubbing soothing strokes against your flesh. “Everythin’ you jus’ told me, I don’ wanna scare you bird, but I think you migh’ be righ’. Sounds like someone’s been followin’ ya.”

He must see it in your face, the way your heart practically drops to the floor at his words, because he’s gripping the meat of your thigh a little tighter, opening his mouth to continue before you can spiral further

“But you’re so smart, love. You did exactly the righ’ thing, callin’ me. You knew I wouldn’ let anythin’ happen to ya. I’m here now, I’ve got ya.”

His words are akin to stepping into a steaming warm bath at the end of a gruelling day, the exact comfort you needed in that moment, easing you slowly back into a state of calm, though you don’t feel quite out of the woods yet

“Let me take care of ya, huh? Here, follow me.” He gives your thigh one last squeeze before he’s helping you back up onto more stable legs, never going without at least on hand touching you as he guides you towards your balcony door, making a show of peering outside for any lurking dangers before he snaps the lock in place and draws the curtains shut

“C’mon, let’s check all your windows, eh? Can’t be too sure.”

And so you follow him room to room, watching him with growing gratitude as he goes from window to window, ensuring it’s properly shut and locked before moving onto the next, scanning each room for any sign of a disturbance, letting you know everything is clear each time, until there’s only one door left to go through

Simon inches the door to your bedroom open with the toe of his boot, letting it hit the wall before he steps inside, doing a full scan before he nods towards you to follow him in

You take a seat at the end of your bed as you watch him move through your space, checking your window and closing your curtains, even going as far as to open your closet and peek under the bed, something that forces a fleeting smile on your face in spite of the circumstances

“Think that’s everythin’, birdie.” He admits, coming to sit down next to you on the bed, thighs touching, his muscled arm sneaking around your shoulders to pull you into him. “My brave girl. You’ve been goin’ through all this by yourself, huh?”

“Mhm.” You confirm, feeling too exhausted after the rush of emotions and adrenaline let down to say anything more, too tired to notice the way he’s taken to calling you his all of a sudden, especially when Simon’s embrace is so warm, so inviting

“Poor bird. Must’ve been so scary, not knowing who’s out there.” He coos into your ear, brushing your hair back from your neck, letting you feel his hot breath against your skin. “Aren’t you so glad you called? That I’m ‘ere now?”

“Mhm. Thank you, Simon.” You murmur, the events of the day really catching up to you now

“You never have to thank me, love. I’m here with ya. Not goin’ anywhere.” You feel your lashes flutter shut when his chapped lips come to press a chaste kiss to your temple, as gentle as a butterflies wings as this behemoth of a man comforts you. “You jus’ let me take care of ya now, love. Let me make it all better. Make ya feel good.”

There’s a fraction of a second where your mind catches back up to you, where logic floats up to the surface of your consciousness when you feel Simon’s hand sneak under your shirt, something on the tip of your tongue about how this is only the third time you meet face to face, how you haven’t gone on a proper date yet, how you’ve only known him two weeks-

Any common sense flies out the window however when his lips connect with yours

As his calloused fingers manage to rid you of your top before tangling in your hair, your own are grasping on tightly at his collar, allowing him to take control of the kiss, to take control of the situation, to do as he’s promised and make you feel good, make you forget about everything that’s had you so on edge and allow yourself to be taken care of

Simon hasn’t steered you wrong so far, has he? He’s been nothing but kind, nothing but attentive, nothing but sweet and caring and present and-

Fuck can he kiss

Your heart is racing for an entirely different reason as his fingers reach behind you to unclasp your bra, letting it fall haphazardly amongst your sheets before he’s pulling his lips off of yours, kissing and nipping along your jaw, your neck, down your collarbone and sternum until his hot breath is tickling one of your nipples and he sucks it gently into his mouth, teeth playfully skimming the raised bud

You can’t help the way you melt like putty in his hands, unknowingly as touch starved as he is, unable to hold back the sounds of your enjoyment when his other hand comes up to tweak your neglected breast, squeezing and pinching until it’s as taut as the one he’s still slobbering all over

Your fingers are pulling at the fabric of his jumper, arching into his touch and gasping when he lets your breast go with a ‘plop’, before his mouth is trailing wet kisses down your sternum, down your stomach, before his skilled fingers are tugging down your pants

“No panties, hm?” You never could have imagined his voice could be deeper than it already was, but the sound of his gravelly accent has chills running up your spine, blush deepening when you see the dark look in his eyes as he peers down at your bare, weeping slit

You have half a mind to explain that you haven’t had time to run to the shops and replace all your missing knickers, but quickly lose any sense of time and place when his broad shoulders are pushing themselves between your thighs, opening them up for his head to drop down and his lips to wrap around your throbbing clit

You can feel him smirk against your folds at the sound you let out, something between a moan and a gasp, before he’s pulling out more delicious noises from you with his tongue alone

“Mmm, you really do taste as good as you look.” He murmurs against your dripping folds, eyes dancing with mischief before his lips are on you again

You feel like your entire being has been pulled apart and put back together in the blink of an eye, your would be stalker having you fearing for your life, and now Simon having you holding on for dear life

You can both hear and feel him groaning against your pussy, licking up your arousal, probing his skilled tongue around your entrance before plunging it as deep as the muscle will go, reminiscent of a man starved as he devours you from the inside out, with no sign of being satiated any time soon

“Simon!” You plead, toes curling, legs shaking. You can hardly believe this is happening, that you’re on the precipice of cumming on this man’s tongue so soon, when suddenly his thumb sneaks down and slides across your clit engorged clit, rubbing steady circles until you’re seeing stars behind your eyelids, eyes rolling to the back of your head and his name the only word you know as you fall headfirst off that cliff known as ecstasy

You’re gasping for breath, still coming back to yourself when he finally pulls himself away, licking his lips as though this was a five star meal he’s just tasted, the look in his eyes telling you he’s likely to be a returning customer

With the way he’s brought you to orgasm faster than any vibrator ever has, you’re hardly in any place to protest when you hear the sound of his belt being undone, his zipper being pulled down, a ringing in your ears when your eyes land on his throbbing, erect member

You barely get a chance to gasp at its size before Simon is on you again, strong hands dragging you further up the mattress before he’s kissing you senseless yet again

You can feel him pumping his cock with one hand as he takes his time tasting you, having you taste yourself on his tongue

He pulls one of your legs up around his waist, opening your centre up to him before you can feel the head of his prick sliding through your folds, teasing your sensitive clit until you’re practically shaking, rolling your hips up against him

He’s swallowing your gasp when he notches himself at your entrance, wasting no time before he’s sinking himself inch by devastating inch, plunging further and further than you thought was possible, until he’s all the way in, hips flush with yours as he’s sheathed himself completely inside you, a perfect fit

While sweet might have been a word you used for the Simon who talks to you on the phone at all hours, who buys you coffee when your cards decline, you cannot bring yourself to believe that that same sweet Simon is the same man who begins thrusting in and out of you with such vigour, such force, it knocks the breath right out of your lungs as your headboard begins banging against the wall

“Fuck!” He’s grunting in your ear, the sounds of skin slapping and your wetness squelching echoing in the room. “Fuckin’ knew it. Knew you’d be this tight. So warm, so wet for me. Perfect fuckin’ pussy.”

“Simon! Oh, Simon!” His name is the only word your lips can make sense of, the only thing your mind can understand. You’re already headed towards another climax, your body feeling like an instrument he’s spent years mastering the art of playing

“Yeah, you gonna come again, pretty bird? Come on my cock? Just for me?” He’s picking up his pace, intent of meeting you there with his own release, grip tightening on your waist as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your tight walls increasingly gripping his cock. “Say it. Say it’s just for me. Say it.”

“It- it’s for you. Just for you, Simon! You!”

“Fuckin’ righ’ it is. My perfect girl.” He praises, sucking dark purple circles onto your neck, fingers unrelenting in their teasing against your clit. “You want it, pretty girl? Then fuckin’ take it.”

Your vision goes white, body practically going numb the pleasure is so all consuming as it shoots through every nerve ending and back, every star in the galaxy appearing before your eyes as you come on his cock. You’re so lost in your orgasm, you hardly notice when he groans out your own name, hips stilling as he shoots his load into you, rutting helplessly against your overused cunt to drag out every second of ecstasy, making sure you take very last drop he has to give you

If you were exhausted before, you’re practically dead to the world now, uncaring that Simon doesn’t even pull out his softening member as he maneuvers the two of you under the covers, smoothing your hair back as he kisses all over your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips

He rubs soothing hands up and down your naked back, telling you how good you did, how good you are for him, how good he’ll be for you, before he’s reaching to turn your lamp off, casting the two of you into darkness as sleep fights to drag you under

You’re on the brink of slumber, too spent to really think about anything that’s transpired tonight, though just conscious enough to feel the smallest of alarms try and go off in the back of your foggy mind at Simon’s words, the last of your self preservation instincts trying to weave its way to the front of your mind, waving the red flag as high as it’ll go

“Good thing I came over soon as you called. Who knows what could’ve happened.”

Your eyes snap open

You’d never told Simon where you lived

~~~~~

If you’ve made it this far, I’d like to offer you a sticker of appreciation

Thank you, thank you, thank you!!! Thank you for your patience on this fic, I cannot even tell you how many times I felt like this story was ready to be posted, but I’d reread it and wouldn’t be satisfied with how it was. This is probably the draft I’ve spent the most time on, and so again I really appreciate the patience in waiting for the upload

But here she is!!! And I hope she was worth the wait

I know this is different from the usual fluff I post, both with a darker Ghost and smut still not being my forte, but I really do sincerely hope this part 2 was everything you guys hoped for! I had a lot of fun writing it, turned into one of my longest ones, and now I’m excited to get to my inbox and answer more requests from you lovely folks

- M 🫶🏻

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #call of duty fic #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #cod simon ghost riley #cod simon riley #readwritealldayallnight

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shokocide · 2 months ago

Text

ONLY YOU - GETO SUGURU

summary. Geto Suguru built a world with hatred, chose conviction over compassion. But when you smiled at him—looked at him like he could be human, he’s tearing it all down, piece by piece, just to be near you.

word count. 12.9k (whoopsie daisy)

content. mdni fem! reader, canon-divergent au, slowburn, geto being torn between ideology and love, angst, mutual pining, tension tension tension, forbidden romance, emotional whiplash, pet names, fluff, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, cowgirl, praise, creampie, pillow talk, geto falls so hard

author's note. started bawling watching hidden inventory arc again so i thought of this

They infest the world like vermin. Powerless, ignorant, and yet so loud. So demanding. Non-sorcerers—monkeys, as he calls them—have always been the root of everything cursed. A plague that breeds more curses with every selfish desire and fear they exude.

Geto Suguru once believed it was his duty to protect them. To save them from the horrors they couldn’t see. But experience breeds bitterness. Enlightenment, as he now calls it, showed him the truth: salvation doesn't lie in protection.

It lies in eradication.

A world without monkeys, a world without curses. It’s a beautiful dream, one he's willing to stain his hands for.

And nothing—no one—was ever meant to come between him and that dream.

Until you did.

The first time he sees you, it’s by pure accident.

You’re not supposed to be there. That part of town, that street, that hour—it belongs to his world now, infested with the filth of curses and the chaos of the jujutsu underground. Yet there you are, a non-sorcerer in every sense of the word, standing beneath the awning of a store with a grocery bag in your hand, humming to yourself as if the world isn’t rotting around you.

Suguru notices you from across the street. He shouldn’t have. He was mid-conversation with one of his followers, something about an exorcism gone wrong—but then his eyes flicker to you. Just for a second. He looks away.

And then looks back.

There’s something about the way you move. The softness. The calm. You’re not like the others—screaming into their phones, laughing too loud, careless in a world that demands caution. No. You're not like them at all.

He can’t explain it, but for the first time in years, the word “monkey” doesn’t come to mind.

He watches you turn the corner and vanish from sight. His follower asks him if something’s wrong.

Suguru only says, “No. It’s nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing. It’s the start of the unraveling.

You don’t hear him at first.

You're crouched down, trying to retrieve a tangerine that’s rolled out of your bag and into the gutter, muttering something under your breath about how this always happens when you try to save plastic. You don’t even register the footsteps behind you until a voice—smooth and strangely calm—cuts through the night air.

“You. I haven’t seen you around here.”

You freeze. Straighten. Turn slowly.

There’s a man standing a few feet away. Long, dark hair tied back loosely into a half-bun, strands falling around his face, and dressed in traditional monk’s robes that seem too pristine for the dusty setting—he stands out, like a figure misplaced in time.

“Uh... I don’t come this way often,” you say cautiously, fingers tightening around your bag. “Just passing through.”

Suguru studies you. You can feel it—his eyes tracing every detail of your face, the slight tremble in your fingers, the way you still haven't stepped back even though you probably should. Most people flinch under his stare. Most people recognize something dark in him.

You don’t.

And that’s what makes it worse.

He should walk away. Let you disappear down that alley and never think of you again.

He hums, the sound low in his throat. “That so?” A small, unreadable smile tugs at his lips. “Not many outsiders stumble this deep into our territory. Especially not alone.”

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, a chill racing up your spine despite the sun overhead. “Didn’t realize this was anyone’s territory.”

“It is now,” he says simply, gaze never leaving yours. “You should be more careful. Not everyone around here is as kind as I am.”

The words land oddly. Kind. There's nothing particularly kind about the way he watches you—intensely, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle you didn’t know you were part of.

But still you don’t move. Something about him roots you to the spot.

“You live around here?” he asks.

You nod slowly. “Not far.”

He hums. “Strange. I’d remember seeing you.”

There’s a pause. His gaze lingers just a second longer—heavy, unreadable—and then:

And without another word, he turns and walks away—robes whispering against the ground, the sound of his steps fading as quickly as he appeared.

You're left staring after him, unsure if you feel safer or more on edge than before.

It happens at a gathering—not loud or chaotic, but something ritualistic in nature. People flock around low fires and soft chanting, incense curling into the air like ghosts. You’re there again. This time, you linger. You observe. A stranger standing just close enough to the edge to be noticed.

He sees you first.

You haven’t spotted him yet—your gaze is fixed on a group of followers weaving through the crowd, your expression unreadable. Suguru watches you from a distance, arms folded inside the loose sleeves of his monk's robe, hair half-tied and swaying as the breeze catches it.

You’re back. He doesn’t know why that matters to him, only that it does.

He makes his way toward you—not with urgency, but purpose. There’s a small pause before he speaks, voice low enough to only reach you.

“Curious little thing, aren’t you?”

You turn, surprise flickering across your face before recognition softens your features. You don’t smile—but you don’t frown either.

“You,” you say again, breath catching on the word. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I live here,” he says, tone even. “You’re the visitor.”

You don’t answer right away. His eyes search yours—calm but calculating. As if trying to decide what box to place you in. Friend, enemy, or something else entirely.

“I wanted to understand,” you say quietly, “what this place really is.”

He tilts his head slightly. “And what do you think so far?”

“I’m still deciding.”

That gets the ghost of a smile from him. Something restrained, but present.

He takes a step closer. “It’s dangerous to linger in places you don’t understand.”

“I’ve been in worse,” you say, lifting your chin just a little.

His eyes narrow, intrigued.

He nods, gaze lingering a beat too long.

And then he turns, leaving you standing there, heart thrumming a little too loud in the quiet.

The day is warm. Quiet. The kind of peace that feels too fragile to last.

You take your time along the sidewalk, admiring how the sunlight filters through the trees, the way it paints soft gold over laughing children and weary parents sprawled across picnic blankets. For once, it feels like the world isn't spinning too fast.

But then you see him.

Under the shade of a tree, seated alone—him.

That man again.

His gaze sweeps the park slowly, dark eyes sharp and distant, like he’s cataloging each face with a kind of silent disdain. He looks… out of place. Not just in posture, but in presence—something about him hums with restrained tension, like a string pulled too tight.

You hesitate, curious. The last time you met, he intrigued you. Now, you’re drawn in by the quiet contradiction of him: monk’s robes draped over a body too tense, too sharp, to belong to someone at peace. A face too beautiful to hold that much bitterness.

Still, you walk toward him.

He notices you when you’re a few steps away. The tension doesn’t leave him entirely—but something in his expression shifts. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. His eyes lose some of that cold edge, replaced by something else.

Curiosity. Amusement. Interest.

He doesn't speak. Not yet. He's too busy trying to figure you out.

Why you? Why does the sight of you not repulse him like the others? Why does your presence settle into his chest instead of rotting beneath his skin like everyone else’s?

It can’t be your face—no, he isn’t that shallow.

It’s something else. Something quiet. Something dangerous.

And before he can overthink it—

“Hi!” you greet, voice soft and light. Your smile is easy, unguarded. Like you’ve never had to be afraid of someone like him.

Suguru’s heart kicks hard against his ribs.

“So we meet again,” you add, tipping your head to the side. “Quite the coincidence.”

He hums, eyes still locked on you, like he’s trying to read between your words.

You shift your weight slightly, brows raised, smile unwavering.

“Twice is a coincidence,” you say. “Thrice is fate. Maybe we should get to know each other.”

Something tightens in his chest. Normally, that kind of line from a non-sorcerer would have him scoffing, turning away, brushing it off with a sneer. But you’re different. He doesn’t want to turn away.

He wants to stay. To answer you. To know why you make the noise in his head quiet down for a moment.

So, for once, Suguru Geto doesn’t walk away.

Instead, he shifts, patting the spot next to him on the grass.

“Then maybe,” he murmurs, “you should sit.”

You blink at his response, a little surprised. You hadn’t expected him to entertain you, let alone invite you. But you don’t question it. Instead, you lower yourself beside him, settling into the grass, a respectful distance apart.

For a few seconds, you sit in silence.

Then, your voice cuts through it gently, “So… do you come to this park often?”

His eyes flick toward you, amused. “That’s a terrible opening line.”

You laugh. “Maybe. But it worked, didn’t it?”

A soft huff escapes him. Almost a chuckle.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “So… what do you do?”

He pauses, considering you. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m curious.”

That piques him more than it should. His gaze lingers on you—your open expression, the lack of wariness in your eyes.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

A beat of silence. Then he shrugs, eyes drifting back to the crowd in front of him. “Let’s just say I lead a very... isolated life.”

You smile. “That’s not ominous at all.”

Another quiet laugh, and you swear it’s the first time you’ve truly heard it. Soft. Warm. Like it doesn’t belong in someone like him.

“You have a name?” you ask.

He glances at you again, something unreadable passing through his expression.

“…Suguru.”

You repeat it quietly. “Suguru.”

The way it rolls off your tongue makes his chest tighten.

“And you?” he asks, almost cautiously.

You give your name, and something strange happens when he hears it. His gaze sharpens for a moment—like he’s locking it into memory. Like it’s important.

And then, like the sharpness never existed, he relaxes again, leaning back on his palms. The sunlight filters through the trees, catching on his dark hair, the soft sway of his robe.

“Do you always talk to strangers in parks?” he asks.

“Only the ones who wear monk robes and look like they have secrets.”

He huffs a quiet laugh again. “You’re strange.”

You smile, eyes on the sky. “So I’ve been told.”

And beside you, Suguru thinks maybe—just maybe—strange isn’t so bad after all.

It’s late when the fire dies down. Most of the followers have retreated to their quarters, leaving only ash and silence in their wake. Suguru remains seated, legs folded beneath him, back straight despite the exhaustion tugging at his limbs.

But he can’t rest. Not with you on his mind.

He should’ve known this would happen. Should’ve turned you away the second he saw that spark of curiosity in your eyes. Should’ve told you to run, to stay far from places like this—from people like him.

Instead, he let you stay. Let you speak. Let you look at him like that—like he wasn’t some twisted, broken thing. Like he could still be good.

Foolish.

He exhales slowly, pressing his knuckles against his lips, as if trying to physically restrain the thoughts crawling up his throat.

He doesn’t even know you. And yet—

The way your voice softens when you’re unsure. The slight tilt of your head when you’re thinking. The way you listen—not just to respond, but to understand. He remembers all of it.

Why do I care?

Inferior. Helpless. A breeding ground for curses. The root of everything he’s come to despise.

But you?

You make him hesitate.

That alone is dangerous.

Suguru’s hand tightens into a fist, jaw clenched. He closes his eyes and tries to smother the thought before it fully blooms—but it’s already too late.

What am I doing? he thinks. Why does it feel like I’m slipping back into the person I used to be?

A person who protected people like you.

He tells himself it’s weakness. A fleeting curiosity, nothing more. It’ll pass. It has to.

But when he pictures your face—gentle, confused, lit by firelight—it doesn’t feel fleeting at all.

It feels like the beginning of a crack.

One that threatens to ruin everything he’s built.

It had been happening slowly—so slowly he hadn’t even noticed it at first.

The way his feet wandered to the same park when he had no reason to be there. The way he scanned faces in a crowd, hoping—no, expecting—to see that familiar smile again. That warm, soft voice still echoing faintly in his mind days after their last meeting.

And Manami noticed.

She always noticed.

“Suguru,” her voice cuts into his thoughts one evening, when the sun is dipping behind the rooftops and the village has quieted. “You’re different now.”

He barely glances her way. “How so?”

She scoffs. “You know what I mean. You’ve been zoning out during gatherings, missing details, forgetting things. You hardly speak unless spoken to. And it’s been happening ever since—” she pauses, eyes narrowing, “—ever since you met that monkey at the ritual two weeks ago.”

There’s a sharp shift in his energy.

His brows draw in, eyes narrowing. “Don’t call her that.”

That alone is enough for her to raise her brows, a slow, sardonic smile tugging at her lips. “Oh? Her, is it?”

Suguru doesn’t respond. His jaw ticks. His posture grows stiff and tall.

“Oh, please,” Manami drawls. “Don’t tell me you’ve caught feelings for someone like her.”

His silence is louder than a scream.

Manami crosses her arms, unimpressed. “She’s a non-sorcerer, Suguru. A human like all the rest. You said it yourself—curses are born of them. They are the root of all evil. Have you forgotten?”

His voice is low. Cold. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Then what is this?” she snaps. “You think you’re subtle? You think we don’t see the way you soften when she’s mentioned? The way you’ve started hesitating?”

His lips part as if to defend himself—but there are no words.

Because she’s right.

Because he is hesitating.

Because something in him fractures every time he hears you laugh, or watches the way your eyes light up when you speak. You were supposed to be like the rest. But you’re not. Why aren’t you?

And worse than that… he doesn't want you to be.

It was quiet here. Tucked away behind the village's outer border was a secluded hillside where the wind whispered through tall grass, the sun dripping gold over the landscape. A rare pocket of peace in a world Suguru had deemed far too polluted.

He stood at the edge of the hill, arms crossed, eyes far off into the horizon—but his thoughts weren't on the view.

They were on you.

Every smile, every word, every accidental brush of your fingers against his arm played like a loop in his head. He hated it. Hated the way you lingered.

He was a leader. A savior. A visionary. What would his followers think if they saw how his mind drifted—who it drifted to? A non-sorcerer. A monkey. The very thing he’d sworn to cleanse from this world.

He shouldn’t feel this way.

And yet—

“Oh,” your voice cut gently through the breeze. “I didn’t realize you would be here.”

He turned, eyes catching yours.

You were smiling—but it faltered the moment he said nothing.

He should ignore you. He should walk away. But he didn't. Couldn't. And when your expression shifted—confusion curling into something softer, something hurt—something twisted painfully in his chest.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Did I… do something wrong?”

He should’ve stayed silent.

But his voice came out low, harsh. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What…?”

“You don’t belong here,” he said, sharper this time. “Not in this part of town. Not around people like me.”

Your face crumpled with the force of the words, confusion morphing into disbelief. Why did it sting so much?

You’d only spoken a handful of times. Just simple conversations, nothing deep. So why did it feel like your heart had dropped into your stomach?

“What do you mean by… don’t belong?” you asked quietly, voice trembling.

But he didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

His jaw clenched, and without another word, he turned and walked away.

Each step felt like a betrayal.

Each step felt like a dagger he drove into his own chest.

Because the further he got from you, the more unbearable the distance became.

And he couldn’t help but think—

If he looked back even once… he wouldn’t be able to leave.

The temple was quiet.

The kind of silence that weighed heavy on Suguru’s shoulders as he stood alone in the dimly lit chamber, candlelight casting flickering shadows across the walls.

He’d been pacing—he didn’t realize it until he stopped, breathing uneven, fists clenched at his sides.

What he’d said to you echoed in his mind.

You don’t belong here.

A lie. One wrapped in truth, but still a goddamn lie.

You did belong—at least, you did to him. Somehow. Somewhere between those small, accidental conversations and the way your voice softened just for him. You’d become the only thing that made him feel real. Not a leader, not a prophet, not a killer. Just… a man. A person.

And now you were gone.

He dragged a hand through his hair, gripping the strands at the roots like the pain might anchor him.

He had to push you away.

Had to protect his ideals, his vision, his purpose.

Curses wouldn’t vanish if he let himself fall for a non-sorcerer. The world wouldn’t change if he let himself be selfish.

But—

Was it worth it?

Suguru stared blankly at the altar before him, its presence suddenly meaningless. Cold. Hollow.

Was it worth pushing away the only person who made him feel human again after nearly a decade of drowning in blood and faith and fury?

His throat tightened.

And for a brief, broken second…

He wasn’t sure anymore.

You try.

Every time you see him, you try.

A soft “hi” that gets ignored. A hesitant smile met with indifference. A greeting that dies in your throat as he walks past you, eyes trained ahead like you don’t exist.

And still, you try.

Sometimes, you catch him looking. Just for a second. A flicker of something in those dark eyes before he schools his face and turns away like it never happened.

The confusion eats at you. The pain makes a home in your chest.

What did you do?

Why won’t he even look at you?

It’s maddening.

The way you keep seeking him out. Like you haven’t realized yet—like you still think there’s something good in him. Something worth reaching.

He wishes you’d stop.

He wishes he had it in him to be cruel. Maybe then you’d let go.

But you don’t. You keep smiling. You keep trying.

And it breaks something in him.

Because every step you take toward him feels like it drags him further away from who he’s supposed to be.

The day is quiet. The air hangs heavy with tension as you find him once again, standing beneath a shrine’s shaded archway.

His jaw tightens when he sees you, but he doesn’t walk away this time.

Not this time.

“I want to talk,” you say, voice soft.

He exhales slowly. “What do you want?”

You blink. Your mouth opens—then closes. You hadn’t expected him to ask that. Not after everything.

But you gather the courage. You’ve held it in too long.

“I want to know why you’ve been pushing me away,” you say, voice trembling. “I want to know what I did wrong.”

Silence.

The kind that stretches and suffocates.

Suguru’s eyes fall shut. He stays like that for a moment, shoulders stiff, hands clenched at his sides. He’s thinking. Battling.

When he speaks, it’s low. Almost a whisper.

“You didn’t do anything.”

Your breath catches.

“Then why—”

“Because I’m not the person you think I am.”

His voice hardens. Cold. Controlled. But there’s something beneath it. Something cracked.

“I used to believe jujutsu existed to protect people like you. But now… I know better.” His eyes meet yours, and they’re not empty. They’re burning. “The world is rotting because of non-sorcerers. Because of monkeys who can’t see what’s crawling around them—what we have to fight.”

You flinch at the word.

“But then you came along,” he bites out, like the confession tastes bitter on his tongue. “And I don’t know why, but I can’t hate you. I should. Everything in me says I should.”

A pause. His voice drops, quieter, more raw.

“But I can’t.”

You say nothing. The ache in your chest is too loud. His eyes flicker, searching your face for something—maybe disgust. Maybe fear.

But you’re still there.

And he hates that too.

You take a shaky breath, eyes never leaving his. He’s expecting you to run, you can feel it. Expecting you to look at him the way everyone else eventually did—with fear. With disgust. Like he’s a monster beyond saving.

But you don’t.

Instead, your voice comes out quiet. Soft. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

Suguru’s expression falters, barely. “What?”

You take a step closer. “You don’t have to do all of this—carry this weight alone, live with this hate. I—I don’t know how to convince you. I probably can’t. But I know you have it in you to see the bright side of things.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The bright side?” he echoes, voice sharp. “There is no bright side. There never was.”

“But you used to believe in one,” you say. “You wanted to protect people. That has to mean something.”

He shakes his head, almost violently. “It meant something when I thought people like you were worth protecting. When I thought they deserved it.”

“And now?”

“Now I know better,” he says coldly. “The world doesn’t deserve jujutsu. It never did. Curses exist because of you. Because of all of you.”

“Then why not hate me?” you whisper.

That silences him.

You step closer. “If it’s so easy, if we’re all the same to you—then why not hate me too? Why not get rid of me like you would the others?”

His lips part, but no words come out.

“I’ll tell you why,” you say, softer now. “Because you don’t believe all of that. Not deep down. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing here trying to convince yourself it’s true. You wouldn’t be struggling so hard to push me away.”

He flinches. Barely noticeable—but you see it.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” you whisper, “or how much it hurt. But I know what I see when I look at you. And it’s not a monster.”

His hands curl into fists. He looks away. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” you plead. “Let me understand. Let me be there for you.”

His throat bobs with a hard swallow. You don’t know if he’s trembling or just trying not to. The silence stretches again, thicker this time.

When he speaks, it’s barely above a whisper.

“You’ll get hurt.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But maybe it’s worth it.”

That—that—makes him look at you. And this time, his eyes don’t burn with hate. They shimmer with something unbearably human.

Fear. Guilt. Longing.

And beneath it all, something he’s too scared to name.

His eyes don’t leave yours now.

There’s something in them that wasn’t there before. Something soft. Fragile. Like the dam he’s built for so long is beginning to crack.

You take one tentative step closer, careful not to startle the moment.

“Can I…?” You don’t finish the question. Your hand lifts gently, hesitantly—just high enough to reach for his. You’re not sure if he’ll take it, swat it away, or disappear entirely.

But he doesn’t move.

And that’s an answer in itself.

Your fingers brush his knuckles.

He inhales sharply.

They’re calloused, strong—but they twitch under your touch, like your skin burns him in a way he can’t fight. Still, he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans closer.

Your hands don’t fully link. They just rest there, barely touching—just enough to feel the tremble in each other’s palms.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmurs. “You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Maybe,” you whisper, “but I think I want to.”

His eyes fall to your lips, then dart away like he’s ashamed of even thinking about it. Like he’s afraid that giving in, even for a second, would shatter everything he’s built—his ideals, his anger, his carefully crafted distance.

But he doesn’t step back.

You shift, just slightly, to be closer. The space between you is barely there now. Your faces just inches apart, the air shared, electric.

Neither of you moves in.

Neither of you moves away.

A breath. A beat. A heartbeat too loud.

And then, his voice—hoarse and low, like gravel under his tongue.

“This is dangerous.”

You meet his eyes. “I know.”

And for a moment, just one flicker of a second, his forehead tips forward. Barely brushes yours. You don’t know if it’s accidental or not—but it sends your pulse into chaos.

He lingers there. Breathing you in.

Still not kissing you. Still not letting go.

And somehow, that restraint is more intimate than anything else could be.

His hand shifts in yours, and you almost think he’s going to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his fingers tighten around yours—just for a second. Just enough to make your breath hitch. Just enough to tell you everything he’s trying not to say.

And then, he lets go.

The absence of his touch feels like a hollow echo down your spine.

“I should go,” he says quietly, almost like it pains him.

“Oh… oh, alright,” you manage, voice softer than you intended.

He takes a step back, but his eyes don’t leave yours. There’s a war in them—between the man who’s supposed to hate you and the one who just held you like you meant something.

And still, he stares.

Until he finally looks away.

Turns.

Walks.

And you’re left standing there with the ghost of his touch clinging to your fingers and a heart that refuses to slow down.

You lie awake that night, eyes tracing the ceiling in the quiet of your room, but your mind is somewhere else—with him.

The look in his eyes when he held your hand lingers like smoke in your lungs.

He’s not a kind man. Not anymore. You know that. He’s said as much, shown it in the way he speaks about the world. About people like you.

Monkeys, he called them. You.

But when he looks at you… it’s different. Softer. Torn.

And for some reason, you believe—you know—that the boy he used to be is still in there somewhere. Buried under the weight of bitterness and pain, but not gone.

You saw it.

You felt it in the way his hand tightened around yours like he was scared to let go.

There’s light in him still. Flickering. Struggling. But it’s there.

And maybe you’re foolish for thinking you can coax it out of him. That your presence—your words—could ever be enough to untangle the darkness that’s wrapped around his heart like a vice.

But hope is a stubborn thing.

And you have so much of it—for him.

Because no matter how much he pushes you away, how much venom he spits when he speaks of your kind…

You know he’s capable of more.

You’ve seen it.

And you’re not ready to give up on him yet.

He sees you before you see him.

Or maybe you notice him first—he doesn’t know anymore. All he knows is that this time, you don’t smile. You don’t wave. You don’t walk up to him like you always do, like he’s something familiar and safe.

No. This time, you look away.

You stand your ground where you are, eyes fixed on something else—anything else. Your shoulders are squared, posture firm, but he knows better than to think you’re unaffected.

Because he can feel the shift. The distance.

You’d always been the one to reach out. Always the one to bridge the gap. But not today.

And he hates the silence more than he thought he would.

Suguru stays still for a moment, watching you from across the space. The wind brushes through your hair, and for a fleeting second he’s struck by the quiet resolve in your expression.

There’s no malice there. No bitterness. Just… a calm understanding. Like you’d come to terms with something.

And that unsettles him more than your presence ever did.

Because he’s thought about you. More than he should’ve. More than he wants to. And when he walked away that day, he’d told himself it was for your own good. That he was protecting you from someone like him.

But now he wonders if he’s only succeeded in pushing away the one person who saw him for more than what he’d become.

He wants to go to you. Say something—anything. Break the silence that’s eating at his chest like acid.

But what could he even say?

That he misses the sound of your voice?

That your absence feels like a wound he doesn’t know how to treat?

That he’s afraid of what he feels when he looks at you?

Instead, he just stands there. Still. Silent.

And you don’t look back.

Not even once.

He wonders what’s changed.

Why you won’t look at him. Why you won’t smile.

But the truth is—you’ve been wondering too.

You’ve thought about him more times than you’d care to admit. About the way he looked at you that night, how his touch lingered just a little too long, how it meant something. And then how he left—cold, distant, like none of it mattered.

You realized then: he’s pushing himself away from you. Building those same walls you tried to gently tear down.

And it hurts.

Of course you still want him to change. To see the beauty in things, the warmth, the light. To remember what it feels like to hope. But you don’t want to force that change onto him. You don’t want to be a burden—a non-sorcerer girl clinging to an idealistic dream of saving a man carved from tragedy.

You know he can be better. You’ve seen it—in those brief moments when his gaze softens, when his voice lowers just for you. It’s there. Beneath all the anger and grief and resentment… there’s still something left of the kind boy he used to be.

But you want him to find that boy on his own.

Not for you. Not for anyone else.

You want him to choose himself.

So you stay where you are. You don’t look at him. You don’t approach.

Because if he wants to change—if he truly wants to be better—

He’ll come to you.

And he does. He takes a step toward you.

Then stops.

Your back is turned, your shoulders stiff. You’re not smiling. You’re not laughing. You’re not you—not the version of you he’s grown used to. And for a man like him, who once craved solitude, the silence now feels suffocating.

He swallows hard.

Why aren’t you coming to him?

Why aren’t you trying anymore?

Because deep down, he knows—he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

Not after the words he said. Not after he looked you in the eye and tore down every glimmer of connection you built between each other. He told himself it was the right thing to do. That keeping you away was protecting his ideals, his world, his mission.

But now… with you just a few feet away, still and distant… it doesn’t feel right anymore.

He stares at the back of your head, fists clenched at his sides.

He wants to go to you. To say something, anything. But what would he even say?

"I’m sorry I made you believe I cared, just to shove you away?"

No. That would be a lie.

He does care.

Too much.

And maybe that’s the problem.

You glance over your shoulder, just once—and the look in your eyes is like a dagger to the gut. Not angry. Not cold.

Hurt.

It shatters him.

Because even now, even like this—you’re not trying to make him feel guilty. You’re not yelling or demanding anything from him. You’re just standing there, brokenhearted but still kind. Still hopeful in that quiet, selfless way.

You deserve better.

And he hates that he might be the reason you stop believing people can change.

But he’s not ready yet.

So he turns.

And walks away.

And each step tears something inside him apart.

It’s raining. Hard.

Cold droplets soaking through your jacket, clinging to your skin, chilling you to the bone—but you don’t care. You just needed air. Space. Somewhere to think, to breathe, to try and forget the ache that’s been lodged in your chest since the last time you saw him.

You don’t know why you’re walking in this part of town.

Maybe you hoped to see him. Maybe not.

But the moment you do, every thought stutters to a stop.

He’s there.

Standing just under the edge of a narrow awning, soaked anyway, like he didn’t bother to move when the rain started. His hair—dark and long, tied up loosely—is drenched and clinging to the side of his face. His monk’s robe sticks to his frame, heavy with water. He looks like a ghost.

But his eyes—those weary, haunted eyes—lock onto you like you’re the only thing still real in this world.

You stop walking.

Your heart skips.

He opens his mouth, hesitates, then takes a step into the rain toward you.

“Why are you out here?” he asks, voice low, rough—like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

You shrug. “I could ask you the same.”

He runs a hand through his wet hair, exhaling harshly. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

You say it too quickly. He notices.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The rain keeps falling between you. Loud. Unforgiving. Then—

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says suddenly, his voice trembling in a way you’ve never heard. “But I thought if I pushed you away, I’d stop feeling whatever this is.”

You blink, stunned. “Suguru…”

“I’m not a good person,” he goes on, stepping closer, slow but desperate. “I’ve killed people like you. I still believe the world would be better without non-sorcerers—but I can’t make myself believe it when it comes to you.”

Your breath hitches.

He’s standing in front of you now, so close you can feel the warmth of his body even through the downpour. His fingers twitch at his sides. Like he wants to touch you. Like he’s begging himself not to.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he whispers, rain dripping from his lashes, “I just… I needed you to know.”

Your heart breaks.

And heals.

And breaks again.

You take one small step forward, tilting your head up to look at him fully.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’ve known.”

Then your hand reaches for his.

And this time—he doesn’t pull away.

His fingers close around yours, almost hesitant—like he’s still not sure he deserves this. Deserves you. But when you don’t pull away, when you step in even closer until there’s barely an inch between you, something in him cracks.

You look up at him, rain clinging to your lashes, sliding down your cheeks like tears you never shed.

He breathes your name. Like a prayer. Like a curse.

You don’t even know who leans in first. Maybe it’s both of you.

And then—

His lips press to yours. Soft. Careful. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he touches you too roughly.

Your hands curl into the soaked fabric of his robe, gripping onto him like he’s the only steady thing in this storm. And he is. He always was, even when he pushed you away. Even when he hurt you.

The kiss deepens. It’s not perfect—it’s desperate. Messy. His lips are cold but the way he kisses you is warm. Feverish. Real. You feel every inch of his restraint shatter beneath your fingers, every breathless exhale like a confession he can’t bring himself to speak.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both gasping. Rain dripping off your faces. His forehead rests against yours.

“You should hate me,” he whispers. Broken.

You shake your head, voice trembling, “No. Stop giving me reasons to.”

And he kisses you again. This time harder. Like he’s sorry. Like he’s trying to make you understand everything he can’t say.

It’s rougher—less careful. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Etch the shape of your mouth into his soul before his ideals take him too far again. Your back hits the wall of the temple just behind you, the cold stone forgotten under the heat of his touch. His hands tremble where they hold your waist, like even now, he’s scared of crossing a line.

You pull back just enough to look at him—lips kiss-bitten and wet from the rain, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes full of conflict.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you ask, breathless. “Why do you keep coming back if you’re just going to leave again?”

His eyes close like your words cut deeper than any blade. “Because I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathes.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. “Stay.”

It’s such a simple word. But to him, it sounds like an entire world he's no longer a part of.

“I can’t,” he says, barely audible.

You swallow hard. “Because of them? Your followers? Your mission?”

His silence is answer enough.

You shake your head slowly, eyes searching his. “You’re still human, Suguru. You still have a heart. I’ve seen it.”

He lets out a shaky breath, resting his forehead against yours again, clinging to this moment like it’s the last warmth he’ll ever feel.

“I wish I never met you,” he says.

You flinch.

“But I did. And now everything’s falling apart.”

You press your hand against his chest, right over his heart. “Maybe it’s not falling apart. Maybe it’s just… changing.”

He stares at you, throat tight, and for the first time in years, he doesn’t know what he believes in anymore.

Because in your eyes, he sees something terrifying.

Hope.

His lips brush yours again—softer this time. Less frantic. Like he’s trying to apologize with every slow pull and part of his mouth. His hand cradles the back of your head, thumb grazing your cheek as he murmurs against you, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

Each kiss is a confession.

A plea.

A goodbye that he doesn’t want to say.

You feel it in the way he holds you—so tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

And then— A sound.

Far off, muffled at first. Laughter. Chatter. Footsteps on gravel.

His entire body tenses.

He freezes, then pulls back just enough to listen. His jaw clenches. You watch the warmth in his expression flicker—replaced by that practiced calm, the cold calculation of the man you know he’s tried to be.

“They’re coming,” he murmurs, glancing toward the temple entrance, voice low and urgent.

He takes your hand, leading you around the back of the temple, behind the high wall where the moss grows thick and the shadows stretch long.

When he turns back to you, he’s not just Suguru.

He’s the man hiding a war behind his eyes.

“You should go,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Before they see you here.”

You open your mouth, unsure what to say—your heart still thudding from the closeness. From everything.

“But—”

“Please.” His voice cracks. “I can’t protect you if they find out. You don’t belong in this world.”

Your breath hitches. And for the first time… you don’t argue.

You just nod, slowly, even though it hurts.

He watches you for a second longer—like he wants to memorize you. Burn the sight of you into the back of his eyes.

And then you slip away into the trees, and he turns, just as the voices draw nearer.

The mask returns. But his hands still shake.

Each time you find yourselves alone, it’s the same.

A glance across the market crowd. A brush of hands as you pass by the temple walls. A meeting in the still hours of dusk, behind shrines where the wind carries whispers and incense smoke.

And when your eyes meet—it’s over.

No words.

Just his mouth on yours, desperate and gentle all at once. Like he’s searching for salvation in the curve of your lips. Like he’s asking for forgiveness without saying a word.

Every kiss is stolen. Every moment borrowed.

There’s no room for forever here—only fragments.

But it’s in those fragments that something begins to bloom. A quiet understanding. Mutual. Unspoken. Heavy.

You both feel it.

In the way his fingers linger on your wrist after pulling away. In the way you hesitate before leaving, always turning back for one last look. In the way his voice softens whenever he says your name.

It gnaws at you both—this thing. Because it’s real. It’s there.

But the world you come from, and the world he’s built… they were never meant to touch.

Still, you touch.

Still, you reach for each other like you’re defying the very stars that set your fates.

And every time, it hurts more.

Because even love—especially love—isn’t enough to fix a broken world.

Not yet.

It’s late.

The halls of the temple are silent, dimly lit by flickering candles that cast long, wavering shadows along the walls. Outside, the world sleeps. But Suguru doesn’t.

He sits alone in the meditation room, eyes heavy, thoughts heavier.

And for the first time in a long while, he lets himself wonder.

What if?

What if he never looked down on them?

What if he’d held onto that old, crumbling ideal—that jujutsu sorcerers existed to protect, not condemn? That their power was meant to shield the powerless, not judge them?

What if he’d stayed?

Stayed beside Satoru. Beside Shoko. Beside the boy he used to be.

The one who looked at the world and believed it could be saved.

His fists curl.

Because he knows it’s too late. He knows too much now—about how vile humans can be. About how curses breed from their ignorance, their hatred, their selfishness.

And yet…

Yet there’s you.

Smiling, despite the darkness around you. Kind, even when faced with cruelty. Looking at him—not with fear, not with disgust—but something gentler. Something he doesn’t deserve.

You make him wonder if he was wrong.

And god, that scares him more than anything.

Because if he was wrong… then all of this—all the blood, the death, the conviction—was for nothing.

He exhales sharply. Runs a hand through his hair, tugging it back as if he can wrench the thoughts out of his skull.

But your face won’t leave him.

Your voice. Your warmth.

The quiet question that lingers in his chest like a bruise:

What if I had stayed?

What if I still can?

The sound of the creek is the only thing filling the silence.

Suguru walks with no real destination, hands tucked into the sleeves of his monk’s robe, the cool breeze tugging gently at loose strands of hair that fall from his half-tied bun. He’s restless again—wandering, thinking, searching.

And then he sees you.

You’re seated at the edge of the creek, knees pulled up to your chest, chin resting on them as you stare at the water. There’s a calm smile on your lips. A peaceful kind of smile—the kind that looks rare, like you don’t wear it often.

It tugs at something in him.

You glance up, sensing someone near. When you see it’s him, your eyes brighten. The smile stretches just a little more, as if his presence has shifted something inside you—like it made your quiet moment even better.

“Hi!” you say, like you’re genuinely happy to see him.

Suguru’s chest tightens.

He wonders how you can still smile like that—how it always looks like the world isn’t as cruel as he knows it to be. He doesn’t know how you do it. Or why it makes him want to stay.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmurs, stepping a little closer, but not sitting down. Not yet.

“Well, I live around here,” you say, nudging your chin toward a modest house visible just beyond the trees. “So I come here pretty often.”

“You live alone?” he asks, the question slipping out more protective than intended.

You nod. “Yep.”

His eyes drift toward the house, then back to you. For a moment, he says nothing. He just watches—the way the sunlight dances on your hair, the way you look at him like he’s just Suguru. Not the man who’s built a cult. Not the sorcerer who’s abandoned his own kind. Just… him.

He sits beside you.

Quietly. Close enough that your shoulders almost brush, but not quite. His eyes stay on the creek, though he’s only half-seeing it.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he says finally, his voice quieter. “It’s not always safe.”

You hum, like you’re not entirely sure if he means the world… or himself.

But you smile again anyway. “You’re here though. So I feel safe.”

And that just wrecks him.

The two of you sit there for a while.

Not talking. Just existing.

The water trickles past in a lazy rhythm, birds chirp overhead, and the wind carries the scent of earth and flowers and something sweet he can’t quite name.

Suguru doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s felt this. Stillness. Like time isn’t chasing after him with bloodied hands and whispered curses. Like the world’s not crumbling under the weight of its own cruelty.

You tilt your head toward him, watching him with soft curiosity.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” you tease lightly, bumping your shoulder into his.

He huffs a quiet laugh, barely more than a breath, but it’s real.

“I talk when I have something to say.”

“Oh? So you’ve had nothing to say this whole time?” You raise a brow at him, smile tugging at your lips again. “I’m wounded.”

He glances at you then, and for a split second—just a second—his expression softens. “You talk enough for both of us.”

“Rude,” you murmur, though you’re grinning now, looking back at the creek.

It’s quiet again, but this time it feels warmer. Like something unspoken is beginning to bloom between the silence.

Suguru speaks, his voice quieter now. “Why here?”

You blink. “Hm?”

“This place. The creek. Why do you come here so often?”

You pause for a moment, thoughtful. “Because it’s quiet. Peaceful. And it feels… safe, I guess.”

There’s a slight pull in his chest at that word again. Safe.

“And you?” you ask softly. “Why are you here?”

His lips press into a thin line.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe I was looking for peace, too.”

You don’t say anything to that. You just look at him—really look at him—and there’s something in your gaze that feels too knowing. Too tender. And Suguru finds he can’t quite meet your eyes anymore.

So you change the subject.

“I had a dream last night,” you say, voice lighter now. “You were in it.”

His head turns, curious. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling at the memory. “You were... different, though. Not that you’re not you now. Just... happier. Lighter. You laughed a lot.”

Suguru swallows.

You laugh a little. “I know. Weird, huh?”

But he shakes his head slowly. “No. Not weird.”

You tilt your head again. “Do you laugh a lot, Suguru?”

“I used to,” he says quietly, gaze fixed on the water. “A long time ago.”

There’s something in his tone—wistful, aching—and you know better than to press. So instead, you place your hand beside his on the grass. Not touching. Just close. A silent offering.

And though neither of you say anything else, Suguru lets his fingers inch just a little closer to yours.

Almost touching but not quite.

Your fingers are so close. A breath away. Neither of you move. Not really. But your proximity is louder than any words could be.

Suguru feels it—the weight of silence between you, the charged stillness hanging in the air like the moment before a summer storm. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be sitting by a creek with someone who’s slowly unraveling the iron threads he's wrapped around his heart.

But you're not doing anything. Just sitting there. Looking at the water, at the sun dancing across the surface.

At peace.

And when you turn to look at him again, your smile is small but it’s real. A quiet kind of affection behind your eyes. “You look like you're carrying the whole world on your back.”

He breathes out a quiet scoff. “Aren’t I?”

You study him for a moment, and your voice is gentler this time. “You don’t have to.”

A pause.

“You could set it down. Just for a while. With me.”

Those words. They undo him.

He looks at you then, really looks at you—soft sunlight catching the curve of your cheek, the way your lips part slightly, waiting, nervous but brave.

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second too long.

And then—

He leans in.

Slow. So slow it almost doesn’t feel real.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

You just tilt your chin up slightly, breath catching in your throat.

His forehead brushes yours.

“You make me forget,” he whispers, and his voice is rough like he’s confessing a sin.

And then—he kisses you.

It’s soft. Barely there at first. Just a gentle press of lips, tentative and careful, as if he's terrified the moment will shatter if he pushes too hard.

But when you kiss him back—when your hand comes up to rest against his chest like you’re trying to ground him—it deepens. Slow and reverent, like you're tasting the ache he's buried for years.

No one’s watching. No prying eyes. No judgment. Just the two of you, tucked away by a quiet creek, hearts trembling and wide open.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer, like he’s trying to memorize the way this feels.

Like peace.

“…Suguru,” you whisper.

He opens his eyes. There’s something broken and tender in them.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs. His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle as ever. “But I don’t think I can stop.”

You’re still catching your breath—and then he sees it. That look in your eyes.

Like you're not done.

And god, neither is he.

His mouth finds yours again—no hesitation this time. It’s hungrier, rougher, full of everything he’s been trying to suppress for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe since the first time you smiled at him like he wasn’t a monster.

Your fingers fist into his robes instinctively and his hand slips behind your neck, cradling you gently even as the kiss deepens, as if you’re something both sacred and dangerous.

You fall back against the grass with a quiet gasp, and he follows you down, one hand bracing himself beside your head, the other still tangled in your hair.

He's above you now. Breathing hard. Eyes flickering across your face like he's memorizing every inch of you, desperate to carve this moment into his soul.

And you don’t look afraid. You don’t look unsure.

You look at him like he’s something worth holding onto.

“Say something,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

But you don’t. You reach up instead—fingers ghosting across his cheek, and then pulling him down again.

The kiss that follows is slower. Deeper. The kind that says I’ve missed you even though you were never mine to begin with.

And it breaks him just a little.

Because in this moment, with your body beneath his, hands in his hair, lips moving like a prayer against his—

He forgets the war. He forgets the blood, the ideology, the lies he tells himself to stay sane.

All he knows is you. And he’s terrified.

Because what happens if he lets himself love you?

The dream is cruel.

He doesn’t realize it’s a dream at first. It feels too real—the heat of the sun overhead, the sharp scent of smoke in the air, and the frantic sound of footsteps pounding across temple stone.

And then—your voice.

Panicked. Calling his name.

He turns the corner and there you are. Knees scraped, arms bound by a rope, blood smeared across your cheek. You're on your knees before his followers, eyes wide in terror.

“You said she was a local,” one of them sneers. “Said she wasn’t important.”

“She’s not,” another spits. “She’s a monkey. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Wait—please—” you whisper, eyes darting around. “Suguru—?”

But Suguru doesn’t move.

He watches. Frozen. Helpless.

One of the followers raises their cursed tool.

“NO!”

The scream rips from his throat too late.

The world goes red.

He bolts upright in bed, breath ragged, sweat cold down his spine. The room is dark and silent, but he can still hear it—your voice, breaking. His name on your lips.

His hand trembles as he runs it down his face.

It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But what if it wasn’t?

What if they find out?

What if they already know?

And what if he loses you—again?

His fist clenches, heart pounding. He doesn’t know if he’s angry or terrified or both. All he knows is this: he can’t let that happen.

But how does he keep you safe…

When the real danger is him?

He shouldn't be here.

Not dressed like this—hood pulled low, robes traded for simple jeans and a dark sweatshirt, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Not standing outside your home under the cover of night, hoping no one saw him slip away from the temple grounds. Not risking everything for the sake of a face that keeps haunting his thoughts.

But here he is.

His footsteps falter at the edge of your doorstep. The lights inside are dim. The house is quiet. He could turn back now. Pretend none of this happened. Pretend the dream didn't shake him. Pretend you don't exist in his thoughts the way you do.

But then his hand rises—and he presses the doorbell.

A few seconds pass. Nothing.

Maybe you’re asleep. Maybe this is a sign. He should go—

He rings it again.

There’s a faint thump, the groan of floorboards, and then a sleepy voice muffled behind the door: “Who is it?”

The door opens slowly, and you blink against the porch light, hair tousled from sleep and an oversized t-shirt hanging loose around your frame.

Your eyes widen. “Suguru?” You stare at him—eyes squinting, confused and half-dreaming. “What are you doing here?”

Your words barely leave your lips before he pulls you into his arms—tight, desperate, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

His hood falls back slightly, revealing that familiar face you’ve only ever seen half-shadowed in moonlight or sunlight leaking through trees. But now he’s here. Real. Shaken.

“Suguru?” you whisper against his chest, your hands instinctively curling around the fabric of his sweatshirt. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His grip only tightens, and you feel the faint tremble in his breath. That’s enough to make your heart clench.

“Come on,” you murmur, gently tugging him inside. The door closes behind you with a quiet click, but he still hasn’t let you go—not really. His arms are still around you, like the thought of breaking that contact might splinter him all over again.

It’s only after a beat of silence, standing there in your quiet hallway under the soft golden light, that he speaks.

“I had a bad dream,” he says, voice low, almost a whisper. His breath hitches. “About you.”

Your heart skips. You pull back slightly to look up at him, your hands still resting against his chest. “What kind of dream?”

But he just looks at you, eyes shadowed with something heavier than he’s ever let you see before. Like he’d rather burn the world than ever see you hurt.

Your eyes soften, your voice gentle, threaded with concern. “What happened? In the dream, I mean.”

Suguru’s jaw tenses. His breath shudders—like the thought alone is unbearable. His gaze drops, eyes flickering somewhere over your shoulder, not quite able to meet yours anymore. That vulnerability he’s always kept behind iron walls is leaking through the cracks now.

You reach up slowly, your fingertips brushing along his forearm. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. I’m here for you.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. His throat bobs with a hard swallow.

“I saw them find out about you,” he says finally, voice quiet and raw. “My followers. They knew. And I wasn’t fast enough—I couldn’t stop it.” His hands curl into fists at his sides. “They hurt you. You were crying. Calling for me.”

He opens his eyes again, and the pain there is like nothing you’ve ever seen in him.

“I woke up, and I didn’t even know if it was just a dream.”

You don’t hesitate. You wrap your arms around him again, anchoring him to the present. To you.

“It was just a dream,” you whisper. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

He exhales shakily against your shoulder. “I don’t want to lose you,” he says, almost too quietly for you to hear. “Not you.”

Your hand rises before you even realize it, fingers brushing through his hair, warm against his skin as you cradle his cheek. His breath hitches at the contact, eyes flickering to yours, searching. For what—he isn’t sure. Reassurance? Permission? A lifeline?

“Suguru…” is all you manage to say.

Just his name.

But it’s everything.

Then you lean in—urgent, unthinking, needing—and your lips crash into his.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His arms wrap around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, like you’ll slip right through his fingers if he doesn't hold you tight enough. The kiss deepens instantly, wild and breathless, all-consuming. You feel the tension bleed from his body and into yours, your fingers slipping into his hair as his own hand settles on the small of your back, anchoring you to him.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a confession. A plea. A breaking point.

You press closer, sighing into his mouth as he kisses you like he’s starving—like this is the first real thing he’s tasted in years. And maybe it is.

When you part for air, foreheads pressed together, his thumb brushes your jaw. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispers.

You smile, soft and breathless. “I think I do.”

The quiet between you lasts barely a second.

Because then he’s kissing you again—harder this time, desperate. It’s messy, teeth clashing and tongues tangling, like he’s trying to pour every unspoken feeling into your mouth. You gasp into the kiss, and he swallows it whole, backing you up until your back hits the nearest wall with a muted thud.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your hips, like he needs you closer, like he still can’t believe you’re here and real. Your fingers tug at the fabric of his hoodie, fisting it tight, grounding yourself in the heat of him.

His mouth tears from yours only to trail down—over your jaw, your throat—hot, open-mouthed kisses that leave you trembling. His breath is ragged against your skin, lips ghosting over your pulse. You feel his tongue flick at your collarbone before he sucks gently at the skin, pulling back just enough to leave behind the faintest bruise.

“Suguru—” you breathe, chest rising and falling fast, your voice shaky with want.

He groans against your skin, his grip tightening. “I shouldn’t want you like this,” he murmurs, voice low and ruined, “but I do.”

And god, you want him too.

So bad it hurts.

You don’t even remember how you made it to the bedroom.

All you remember is the feel of his hands—urgent, reverent—as he pulled you in, lips never straying far from your skin. He kissed you like he was afraid it would be the last time. Like this moment was all he had.

Your clothes fell away piece by piece, the quiet rustle of fabric hitting the floor the only sound between the hungry kisses. His eyes never left yours, not even for a second—like he needed to memorize every part of you, every breath, every tremble.

And then he lays you down. So carefully. Like you’re something precious. His hands glide along your sides, your arms, your stomach, pausing at each new inch of exposed skin to press kisses into it—soft, slow, like he’s marking you with his mouth. Worshipping you.

He pulls back to lift his hoodie over his head, throwing it somewhere behind him. His breath is shaky when he rests his forehead against yours. “Can’t do this anymore,” he murmurs, voice breaking with the weight of his confession. “Can’t keep pretending like you don’t mean anything. Like I don’t… feel this.”

You reach up, fingers tangling in his hair, and he leans into the touch like he’s been starved for it.

“I’m gonna change,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the hollow of your throat. “For you. I want you in my life.”

And the way he says it, it doesn’t sound like a promise. It sounds like a vow.

Your breath stutters as his lips trace slow, reverent patterns down your body—each kiss a promise, each touch laced with trembling devotion. You feel his warmth everywhere, like he’s trying to brand your soul with the shape of him.

And then, through the haze of desire and something deeper, your voice breaks the quiet.

"Suguru… what about your followers? What would they do?"

He pauses, lips hovering just above your skin. His fingers twitch where they hold your hips, but he doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t stop.

“Doesn’t matter right now,” he murmurs, voice thick and ragged, “I’m gonna protect you, sweetheart. Gonna do anything for you. Won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The words land heavy. Solid.

And the strangest part is that it doesn’t feel strange at all.

To protect you—a non-sorcerer. The very people he built his new world to fight against. The ones he taught himself to loathe.

But now? Now it feels like it was always meant to be this way. It only took you. You, with that voice, that heart, that warmth—to make it bloom again. To make him remember what it felt like to care.

To love.

He presses another kiss to your thigh, then lower, lower��until his breath ghosts over the most intimate part of you. His voice rumbles softly against your skin.

“Suguru…” you gasp, a breathless, vulnerable sound.

He glances up, eyes dark and blown wide. “Yes, sweetheart?”

And then you say it.

“I love you.”

Time stops.

His lips freeze against the inside of your thigh.

You feel his breath there, hot and uneven, his hands tightening slightly at your hips as your words sink in—like he wasn’t ready for them, like he’d been craving them all the same.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes wide, blown with something far deeper than lust now—something raw and aching. His hair is messy, dark strands falling into his face, and he’s never looked more human. Never looked more vulnerable.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice barely audible over the rush in your ears.

Your hand finds his, fingers lacing together.

“I love you,” you say again, stronger this time. With your whole chest. Because you mean it.

A beat passes, and then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you like he’s falling into you—like you’re the only thing keeping him from shattering. Every part of him shakes. His heart, his breath, his resolve.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against your lips. “God, I love you.”

His hands skim your waist, warm and steady, fingertips sinking into the soft curves of your hips like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower—down the center of your stomach, slow and reverent, leaving a trail of kisses that burn in the most tender way. He murmurs your name against your skin, like a prayer, like a secret he’s only ever willing to whisper when no one’s looking.

You feel his hands slide beneath your thighs, lifting you gently, guiding you closer to the edge of the bed with careful control. His grip is firm but tender, like you’re something fragile, like he’s afraid he’ll lose you if he lets go.

His mouth hovers just above where you need him most, warm breath fanning across your skin. He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh—slow, open-mouthed, lingering—then another, closer. And another. He’s not rushing. No, Suguru takes his time, as if every second of this is something sacred. His hands stroke up and down your sides, grounding you, steadying you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “Could spend forever just looking at you like this.”

Your legs tremble under his touch. You whimper his name, a soft, broken plea.

His lips finally meet you where you’re aching, and your world folds in on itself.

The first lick is slow—torturously slow—like he’s tasting something forbidden for the first time, letting the flavor of you bloom across his tongue. His groan vibrates against you, deep and low in his throat, sending sparks flying up your spine. Then he does it again—slower, deeper, more purposeful.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently, and he groans again, like he loves that, like he wants more of it.

His tongue moves in slow circles, soft and rhythmic, never once breaking eye contact when you manage to look down. His gaze is molten—completely undone. You see it in his eyes—he needs this. Needs you. Not just your body but everything. Your warmth. Your love. The part of you that believed in him.

“You taste like heaven,” he rasps between kisses, and it’s almost cruel the way he says it, so tender it makes your chest ache. “Never letting you go. Not after this.”

And then his lips seal around you again, and everything else disappears—his past, his beliefs, the twisted version of justice he’s clung to for years. In this moment, all that remains is you and him.

He’s not just worshipping your body.

He’s holding on to what little light is left inside of him.

And letting you guide him back to it.

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders as he buries himself deeper, tongue moving in slow, precise motions—too slow. It’s not rushed. It’s deliberate. Worshipful.

He groans low in his throat when you arch into him, his name falling from your lips in a broken whisper. Suguru’s hands tighten around your thighs, keeping you in place, keeping you grounded. But his touch never feels possessive—only reverent.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice ragged and full of awe. “Let me take care of you.”

And he does.

Each flick of his tongue, each subtle shift of pressure, feels like he knows you better than anyone ever has. He listens to the way your breath catches, the way your hips jerk, the way you moan his name when he hits that perfect spot again and again. He’s learning you like a language—translating every twitch, every gasp, every soft, needy whimper.

You’re unraveling under him.

Your fingers thread tighter in his hair, hips rocking subtly against his mouth as your pleasure builds, slow and steady, like a wave pulling back before it crashes. He hums again—fuck, the vibration goes straight through you—and his tongue speeds up just slightly, chasing your release with more intent now.

“Suguru—” you gasp, chest heaving, the coil in your stomach tightening.

“I know,” he breathes, lifting his eyes to you, gaze dark and full of something deep—want, need, love. “Come for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

And that’s all it takes.

You shatter with a breathless cry, back arching off the bed, thighs trembling around his head as he holds you through it. His mouth doesn’t leave you—not right away—his tongue working you gently through the aftershocks, slower now, softer, until you whimper from the sensitivity and tug gently at his hair.

Only then does he lift his head, lips glossy with you, eyes full of a tender kind of devotion that makes your heart ache.

He leans up, kisses your thigh, your stomach, your chest—until he’s hovering over you again, one hand brushing your hair back from your sweat-slick forehead.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice hoarse, gaze searching yours.

You nod, dazed, lips parted as you try to catch your breath. And then you reach for him again—because even after everything, you still want more.

You don’t give him a chance to move. Not this time.

Your hands slide into his hair, pulling him into another kiss—messy, heated, tasting yourself on his tongue. He groans against your lips, deep and low, hands gripping your waist like he’s not sure if he wants to hold you still or pull you closer.

But you’re already moving—rolling your hips up into his, feeling how hard he is against you, how much he’s holding back.

“Let me,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “I wanna take care of you now.”

He looks at you like you just reached inside his chest and held his heart in your hands. There’s awe in his eyes. Something close to disbelief.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You hush him with another kiss, softer this time. “Please.”

And how could he ever say no to you?

You push him back until he’s laid down on your bed. Your hands roam over his body and you watch the way his muscles flex under your fingers, every inch of skin revealed like something sacred. You trail kisses down his throat, his collarbone, dragging your nails down his chest just enough to make him hiss.

“Fuck,” he breathes, head tilting back when you nip at his skin.

You kiss lower. Slower. Tasting every inch of him, every scar, every dip of muscle like he’s something divine—your god now.

By the time you’re undoing his pants, he’s panting, watching you with a look that’s all-consuming. Like he still can’t believe you’re real. That you’re here. That you want him.

And then you’re straddling him, hovering above him, dragging yourself down slow—so slow—until he’s seated inside you and both of you are gasping, clinging to each other like the world outside doesn’t exist.

“You feel like heaven,” Suguru groans, hands digging into your hips. “Can’t believe you’re mine.”

You lean down, kiss him again. Rock your hips in slow, deep rolls, your body matching his rhythm like you’ve always known it. His hands slide up your back, one slipping into your hair as his lips find your neck, kissing, sucking, whispering your name like a prayer.

“You’re everything,” he breathes. “You—fuck—you make me want to be good again.”

You ride him slowly. Sensual. Every grind, every moan, every kiss dragging the moment out. This isn’t just need. It’s something more.

Something that makes his eyes blur and his hands tremble.

Because for once, Geto Suguru isn’t drowning in hatred or vengeance or ideals.

He’s drowning in you.

You’re still moving above him, hips slow and languid, a rhythm that isn’t rushed. A rhythm that worships.

And Suguru… God, he’s unraveling beneath you.

Head tipped back, lips parted, breath ragged—like he’s holding on by a thread. Every time you roll your hips, his fingers dig into your skin just a little tighter, like he’s scared this is a dream. That he’ll wake up and find you gone.

But you’re not.

You’re here. You're real. And you’re touching him like he’s something beautiful, something worthy.

“Look at me,” you whisper, breath catching as your hand cups his cheek, thumbing the curve of his lower lip. “Suguru…”

His eyes flutter open. And when they meet yours—it’s devastating. There’s so much feeling in them. Raw. Unfiltered. Like he’s never been seen so completely.

“God, you’re so—” your voice catches, fingers splayed across his chest as you ride him, pace stuttering and breath shaking.

“So what?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing, but there’s a strain there too, like he’s barely holding himself back.

You swallow, eyes dragging down his body. “Big,” you whisper. “You’re so big…”

His breath stutters—just for a second—and then he leans in closer, lips brushing your ear. “And you still take me so well, sweetheart. Made for me, yeah?”

And then he’s kissing you again, lips brushing yours in soft, desperate strokes. “Oh my God,” he breathes against your mouth. “Fuck, sweetheart—you’re gonna ruin me.”

You rock your hips again, slow and deep, moaning into his kiss. “Maybe I want to.”

Your hands slide down his chest again, feeling the way his abs tighten under your touch. His hands travel your back, your waist, your thighs—like he’s memorizing every inch, every curve.

He’s whispering now, between every kiss, every thrust:

“So perfect.” “Don’t deserve this.” “But I’m so fucking glad you’re mine.” “Want to stay like this, want you forever.”

Each word makes your heart ache.

You kiss him again, deeper, letting your tongue slide against his as you move faster—just a little. Just enough to make him groan your name. Just enough to hear that sweet sound he only makes for you.

And when your rhythm falters—when your breath stutters, and your body tightens around him—he knows.

He knows you’re close.

He kisses you through it, hand cupping the back of your head, the other gripping your hip like he’s anchoring you both. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “Let go for me. Come on—come on, I’ve got you.”

And you do—falling apart in his arms with a whimper of his name, your body trembling as the pleasure crashes through you, hard and consuming. You cling to him, face buried in his neck, gasping through the aftershocks.

Suguru follows just after, undone by the sight of you, the feel of you, the love in every inch of you. He holds you tight as he shudders with his release, spilling into you with a moan that sounds like it comes from the deepest part of him.

Like this is everything he’s ever needed.

Like this is home.

You collapse onto the bed beside him, breathless and exhausted.

The silence stretches long between you, but there’s no weight in it—just warmth, just the sound of your breathing and his, the subtle rustle of sheets when he shifts beside you. His arm stays curled around your waist, his fingers splayed across your skin like he’s still grounding himself in the fact that you’re real. That you’re here.

“I had someone,” he says, voice quiet. “Someone who tried to stop me before I became the man I am now.”

You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze in the soft dark. He’s already looking at you.

“Satoru,” he adds. “He was my best friend. We were supposed to protect people together.”

You don’t speak. Just listen. His voice is rough, like each word tastes bitter on his tongue.

“He stood in front of me the day I walked away. Said I didn’t have to do it. That I could still turn back. That it wasn’t too late.”

His jaw clenches, barely perceptible in the pale moonlight.

“I told him it was already done. That the world didn’t deserve saving. That people like you—non-sorcerers—weren’t worth it.”

A pause. A breath.

“I wanted to believe that.”

You reach for him without thinking, brushing your fingers against his hand. He doesn’t pull away.

“But now… here you are,” he murmurs. “Saying the same things he did. Smiling at me like I’m not already ruined. Like there’s something left in me worth pulling back from the edge.”

He’s watching you with something fragile in his eyes. Something old and aching and afraid.

“Maybe I didn’t want to admit I was wrong. That the world still has people in it who are good. Worth protecting.”

Your thumb traces over his knuckles gently.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper. “You’re still here, Suguru.”

He closes his eyes, just for a second, like he’s trying to hold on to that thought. To the hope in your voice.

When he opens them again, his gaze is softer.

“I know now that I can come back,” he breathes. “And it’s all because of you.”

His forehead presses to yours, his breath warm and shaky.

“Only you.”

author's note. just realised this au means no shibuya incident and no one dies. i think.

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

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a-whiff-of-a-dream · 2 years ago

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Guess whos back in the city of Baldurs Gate baby!!

#Act 3 here we go again!#But this time we might actually finish the game before starting a new run whoopsie #Also its kinda funny to me bc my Tav Astra comes from Baldurs Gate #same as Karlach and Wyll who are in my party #all three of them are so happy to be back home after so long!!#and then theres Gale whos like 'nice #civilization. not waterdeep but whatever i guess'

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bunny-1111 · 9 months ago

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Whoopsie - Theo Nott x clumsy!reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Fluff + slight angst

Description: You can't help your clumsiness, but when you land with a bruise on your face, you're reminded that your boyfriend Theo really hates to see you hurt.

...

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridors of the Slytherin dungeons, each step clumsy and uneven. You weren’t exactly the most graceful of creatures, but today had reached new heights of disaster. It was one of those days when the universe seemed to be playing tricks on you—making every doorframe, stair step, and corridor seem like an obstacle course designed specifically for you to fail.

And fail, you did.

It had started innocently enough. You had forgotten your Charms textbook in the dormitory, and in your haste to retrieve it before your next class. The last thing you needed was detention from McGonagall for being late or forgetting your book, and you were sprinting down the corridor. Too fast, too distracted, and—

BAM.

Your face met the hard, unyielding brass of the doorknob. Pain radiated through your skull, and you stumbled back, clutching your nose. "Ow, ow, ow," you hissed under your breath, blinking back the sudden tears that sprang to your eyes.

By the time you had made it to the mirror in the girls’ bathroom, a glorious bruise was already blossoming across your cheekbone and the area around your eye, swelling quickly and turning an alarming shade of purple. You groaned. Great. How were you going to explain this to anyone? Even worse, how the hell are you going to explain this to Theo?

You decided to skip class altogether and carefully make your way to Madam Pomfrey.

You managed to slip into the common room unnoticed at first, pulling your hood up in a futile attempt to hide the evidence of your clumsiness. But, of course, it didn’t take long for someone to notice. It was Theo, he always noticed everything about you, no matter how much you tried to downplay it.

“Baby, why weren’t you in class, Enzo ended up taking the seat I saved for you and Merlin he chewed my ear off about Quidditch being fixed last Saturday,” he rambled on.

Don’t reply, don’t look up, you thought to yourself. It was impossible; this was happening right now.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, voice low and alarmed as he crossed the room in quick strides, his hand gently lifting your chin. You felt the warmth of his fingertips against your skin, but his expression was anything but warm. His brow furrowed in concern, soft brown eyes locking on the bruise that marred your face.

"I’m fine!" you blurted, though the words came out far too high-pitched to be convincing. You tried to pull away, but Theo wasn’t having it. His grip on your chin tightened ever so slightly, his thumb brushing against the edge of the bruise with a gentleness that made your chest tighten.

“Who hurt you?” His voice was low, barely more than a whisper, but the intensity in his tone made your stomach flip. His eyes searched yours, dark and stormy. Theo wasn’t the type to raise his voice in anger. No, his was the kind of quiet fury that built up slowly, seeping into the air like a cold, creeping fog.

"I did," you confessed, trying to laugh it off, but the tension in the room was suffocating. You could feel his anger brewing, and you knew what was coming next.

“I’m fucking serious, don’t lie to me!” Theo snapped, taking a step back as if putting some distance between the two of you would help him calm down. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he began pacing, his jaw tight. “There’s no way you did that to yourself.”

“I did!” you repeated, trying to sound more convincing this time. Rubbing your hand quickly against your bruise. Not a good idea, as you instinctively winced at the touch. “I ran into a door. A doorknob, to be exact. It’s not that serious, Theo,” you try convincing.

Theo froze mid-step, staring at you like you had just said something utterly ridiculous. Which, to be fair, you probably had.

“A doorknob?” he repeated slowly, his eyes narrowing as if he was waiting for you to take it back, like it was some kind of joke. But when you just nodded, Theo let out a long, frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. He shook his head as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re telling me… you smashed your face into a doorknob?”

“Yes,” you mumbled, feeling your cheeks heat with embarrassment. God, you wished the ground would swallow you whole.

“It's embarrassing already, alright? Leave me alone,” you huff.

Theo stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to believe you. Eventually, he sighed and dragged a hand down his face, turning away abruptly. “Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath before storming off, leaving you standing there with a gnawing pit in your stomach.

Theo didn’t go far. He was in the common room, pacing like a caged animal, still visibly agitated. His eyes flickered over the other Slytherins lounging nearby, most of whom had noticed his outburst but said nothing. That didn’t last long.

“Oi, what’s got you in a twist, Nott?” Blaise called from the couch, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. Beside him, Draco looked equally intrigued, lounging back with his arms crossed.

Theo glared at them but didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to look at you again, his jaw still set in that hard, unyielding way. The others followed his gaze, and it wasn’t long before the topic of conversation turned toward your rapidly bruising face.

“Wha- what the hell happened to her eye?” Blaise was the first to ask, looking genuinely confused as he gestured toward you.

“She said she ran into a door,” Theo growled, clearly still not convinced.

Draco, who had been staring at you with a mixture of concern and amusement, furrowed his brows. “Wait, what happened to who’s ey-?”

Before he could finish his question, Mattheo, who had just entered the common room, cut in with a dramatic, “Holy shit! What happened to your eye?” His tone was a mix of shock and humour, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of your injury.

You could feel everyone’s eyes on you now. Heat rushed to your face as you tried to explain yourself once again. “I fell,” you say quickly, raising your hands in a placating gesture, as if that would make everyone drop it and move on.

But of course, they didn’t.

Mattheo raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “You fell? Into what, a troll?”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “I ran into a doorknob, okay? I wasn’t paying attention, and it just… happened.”

Blaise let out a low whistle, his smirk widening. “You really need to work on your coordination, love.”

You rolled your eyes, though the action hurt more than you expected, causing you to wince. Theo, noticing the movement, shot Blaise a glare that could have frozen over the entire Black Lake. “It’s not funny, Zabini.”

“Hey, I’m just saying…” Blaise shrugged, holding up his hands in mock defence. “You know, we could get you a helmet or something, just to be safe.”

"We should wrap you in bubble wrap", Pansy joins in laughing

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m fine, really.”

But the conversation was far from over. Despite your protests, the teasing continued—though most of it was good-natured. Still, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Theo’s eyes on you, watching every movement, every wince. He hadn’t said much since his initial outburst, but you could feel his worry like a tangible weight in the air.

Eventually, the others got bored of the topic, and the common room returned to its usual low buzz of chatter. You took a deep breath, thankful for the reprieve, but when you glanced toward Theo, you saw that he was still tense, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he watched you.

“I’m going for a smoke,” he stated as he stormed out of the common room. Well, we’ve done it, stressed him to the point of smoking. You thought he’ll be back soon, sinking deeper into the couch.

Later that night, when everyone had dispersed to their dorms, Theo found you sitting by the fire, absentmindedly poking at the flames with a poker. He sat down beside you without a word, the warmth of his presence instantly comforting. For a while, neither of you spoke, the crackling of the fire filling the silence between you.

Finally, Theo broke the quiet, his voice low and careful. “You really need to be more careful.”

You looked at him, your heart giving a small, traitorous flutter at the concern etched into his features. “I know.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair again. “I hate seeing you hurt.”

There was something in his voice that made your chest tighten. You smiled softly, nudging him with your shoulder. “It’s not that serious, Theo. It was just a stupid accident.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze fixed on the fire. Then, after what felt like forever, he turned to look at you, his expression softening. “Promise me you’ll be more careful next time.”

You chuckled, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I promise.”

Theo wrapped an arm around you, pulling you

closer. “Good. Because I don’t think I could handle seeing you like that again, seriously.”

You gently kiss him, as you make your way towards his dorm, he wraps an arm around your shoulder, everything seeming good again.

That is until you tumble over your own feet, almost meeting the floor, but this time, Theo was there, tightening his grip on you, catching you before disaster could strike for the second time today.

You laugh as he stares at you, eyes widening. He cannot believe you actually fall over your own feet. He softens with a deep sigh.

“What am I going to do with you, my clumsy girl?” he laughs himself, kissing your head.

Author note: um like 4 theo fics posted in the last 24 hours.... getting that grind LMFAO

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madamechrissy · 9 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ Satoru Gojo Drabbles/ Headcanons ˚୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

all of my shorter oneshots/drabbles and hcs

Emperor! Gojo - you've been set to marry the new emperor Satoru Gojo, but he wants nothing to do with all of that, he doesn't even come to your first meeting - rude!

Stripper! Gojo- Satoru Gojo is the leader of a male revue, and you're promised to be a bride to Naoya Zenin - and just want one night of freedom before

Pornstar! Satoru - Satoru is a pornstar who loves his life till he meets you and you mess his career all up - you're losing yourself and he's losing himself (now a fic)

Bully! Gojo- NSFW - Gojo is a complete dick and bullies you in college, and you honestly fucking love it, lil masochist Part Two Part three

Priest! Gojo- NSFW You have a confession to make to Father Gojo you sinner, but don't worry, he'll fill you with love and light!

Pervert! Gojo- also have some Pervert! Geto here - NSFW Satoru can't help but fuck you and send videos to his bestie Suguru, and make you cum in public

Sugar Daddy! Gojo- NSFW - Gojo loves to spoil you constantly, with his mone, with his mouth, and with his cum <3

Vampire! Gojo - Vamp Gojo rly wants your blood, oh and he also totally wants to marry you- yay!?

Yandere Roomie! Gojo - Yandere Satoru may or may not have got you kicked out of your apartment so you have to live with him, you may or may not rly care bc of that dick

Escort! Satoru - You hired Satoru for a date, but both of you fall. He has one rule - no kissing! Drabble mini series where Escort Satoru gets down bad for a client - five parts

Mafia! pretty boy Gojo- from Losing Control Mow - Mobster Gojo x Bartender reader, Gojo instantly falls and knows he must save you from dangerous people

Fratboy! Gojo- cute and freaky hcs of fratboy Gojo x Sorority reader from Took You Like a Shot - Part Two

You're mine, got it baby?- Yandere Gojo x short fem reader (request!) NSFW you asked the neighbor to change your porch light, Satoru needs to teach you better

One Night at the club - Yandere Gojo x Tall fem reader (request) NSFW - Satoru meets you at a bar and you knock a dude out- hott!

How to get a raise: Satoru Gojo x smol boob reader (request) NSFW you wear a new bra at the office, Gojo doesn't like it!

Just one more time: NSFW -Satoru needs to go again and again, just one more time plz

Bad Idea Right -NSFW- you trip and fall into ex boyfriend Gojo's bed, whoopsie!

His Instrument - Yandere Gojo x Musician Darling- nsfw- Gojo goes to all your operas, it's totally normal don't worry!

You Cryin baby? - NSFW - Satoru Gojo x Busty reader- Satoru really likes your titties and loves seeing your tears

I'm Into it: NSFW - Satoru and you are best friends, and there's only one place to sit, his lap- teasing/college au.

Yan!Gojo wants Geto's girl - NSFW- Just Gojo jerking off to a pic he stole off Geto's phone of youuu (mini series)

Ice Cream: SFW- You are pregnant and miserable, Satoru calls you an orca LMAO

My first kiss went a little like this- SFW- arranged marriage, jujutsu sorcerers, you can break Gojo's barrier- sweet, fluffy cute

Tell me how you hate me - NSFW- just Gojo hating you and loving your coochie lol

Need a Seatbelt when I ride it - nsfw - some cute and freaky ass domestic smut with you and soccer dad Satoru

Morning after Christmas with Satoru - nsfw the morning after Christmas, how long do you all have before the kids wake up? Enough time to make more babies

Even though I'm wifey you can hit it like a sidechick - CEO Gojo and his assistant/wifey love office breaks

Dom Gojo/sub reader reader is edged like a mf and dommed by a jealous Satoru

Virgin Gojo and Virgin Reader - nsfw- Gojo and your first time- cute and sweet little drabble

Fratboy Gojo waxes you- nsfw- Where your baby daddy waxes you since you're a lil too far along to shave <3

Aftercare With Satoru - NSFW drabble of Toru bein' freaky

Figure You Out- light smut- College AU, Reader and Toru are both nerds tbh, FLUFFY and sweet, some sexual tension, lots of unspoken feelings - 3k wc

Lead It Southbound an alt universe with reader from Baby You're a Star, with secret Onlyfans star Nanami and Pornstar Satoru where they share you on cam - PWP, obsessive Nanami and Satoru - 4.5k

An Arranged Marriage with Gojo: NSFW - You are arranged to marry Gojo, sight unseen, and run into a hot white haired guy at the bar the night before, you both decide to have some fun before your 'wedding' (longer drabble)

Losing focus every time you speak, girl - nsfw - Yan Gojo mad that your boss Sukuna flirts with you at the Christmas office dinner! (longer drabble)

First Time -Satoru Gojo x Virgin reader- NSFW - you want your best friend to be your first, and find out you've both had feelings all this time (longer drabble)

For Me? - nsfw- Satoru Gojo really loves making you feel better on your period, but maybe it's a little selfish, since he loves fucking you during it so much. (longer drabble)

Masterlist of all my full series/ fics // Long Oneshots of Gojo here - Masterlist Gojo Full length fics here - Masterlist // by me a glass of wine here - Kofi Link

#gojo x reader #jjk smut #satoru x reader #jjk x reader #gojo drabbles #smut drabble #story requests #gojo satoru #gojou satoru x reader #jujustu kaisen #gojo smut #satoru x female reader #x female reader #x fem!reader #masterlist #divider by cafekitsune

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cupcakesmoothie · 7 months ago

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I don't know why and where it says I'm tagged in this, but I'll take it I LOVE THIS SO MUCH???? HELLO????

This so speaks to me for some reason. God. It's the softness, the eerie softness that feels like it shouldn't be there that feels like something is off, but is still comforting despite it all and I??? AUGH.

I actually LOVEEE the segment explorations because it's like the ultimate every version of me cares about you in some way for whatever reason. You mean something to me. I'm not even a Dottore girlie but GOD insane people when they're in love and that makes them less and somehow more insane at the same time

Like yeah maybe I like being someone's special girl but UGH when. When being around them makes him just a little bit more calm. More careful. Perhaps, a bit more human too. MC is SOOOOO emotional support animal coded here it's so crazy. The way this is a continuation of one of my favourite Dottore one-shots? This is a sequel I didn't know I NEEDED

BUT! BUT ALSO!! I love the mystery in this. The ominous vibes. Don't even get me STARTED on that symbolism segment, this thing has reread value and I need to come back and go even more insane about this when it isn't 5:30 am

So little is answered, but it feels very much like being in the perspective of one of the workers (Actually I love the formatting of this but give me a second), it's like, the receptionist is always there, we don't know why, we don't know how, we just know that they mean something for whatever reason. It's like every time we don't know something it's because we're in an outsider's perspective, and every time we're in Dottore's shoes it's just an unbelievable amount of tenderness that doesn't need to be explained. (That's what I got from it, at least)

This fic feels very spacy(?). Like floating about at no particular point in time, where nothing is in chronological order. Maybe it's because I feel like I can relate to MC (They just like me fr)(This is probably not a good thing) because of my downright concerning sleeping habits, but I feel like the way this is written adds a lot to vibe(?). I'm trying to explain it but it's like? Being asleep that much and having those moments of lucidity. I don't know if this is intentional (<Has a tendency to reach very far) but the way this is written feels like that, just moments of clarity while everything feels so hazy (Big big compliment).

But obviously, I have to mention the actually soft moments. We immediately start off with MC always being covered in Dottore's Fatui coat, which does look like the best blanket ever tbf, and that's already such a cute thing to do, not least because it serves the purpose of letting everyone know the importance of the one under it, specifically as kinda a way to stake claim, but also a gesture of care. That's a very long-winded way of saying I like that it shows that Dottore cares about them enough to give up a very important jacket, and why it should matter that you don't mess with them.

And the fact that they reach out to anything blue the moment they wake up? And they were moved out of the lab (further away) for their safety?? The way Dottore stops to count their breaths, wastes time to watch them sleep, the way they Zandik doesn't try to manhandle them, and the way he doesn't need to???

I was LOCKED IN the entire fic but Dottore putting his chin on their head got me, okay? I squealed. And him not moving cause he didn't want to wake them?

It's just such an AMAZING trope when a no-nonsense, downright asshole has just this ONE person he doesn't get mad at. This ONE person he will waste precious time for. This ONE person who just. Matters.

And maybe they're the only one who cares. The only one who will put up with him.

And maybe they're what it's all for. This one person is just the point of all this. And judging by the vibes of this fic and the less than comforting symbolism, it sounds like he's starting to lose the one thing that's keeping him together.

Fluff (debatable) disguised as angst guys, you love to see it.

So yeah. I don't know why I was tagged in this, but maybe this is why. I fully enjoyed this

I hope that fanfic writers forever understand that I love them with every word I type. I love you

Ttorschlusspanik [ Commissioned ]

[ Hcs for Dottore where the reader is very sleepy/sleep-deprived and is constantly falling asleep in battle, on dates, or maybe during research and experiments! ]

Word Count: 4k

Ayato Ver: Pale Blue Slumber [Masterlist]

Thank you so much for commissioning me! You’re so sweet, and I truly appreciate the tip, but I can’t accept this level of generosity. Please let me know if I went under the word count. Also, thank you for your patience—I got really sick this week and am still recovering.

Torshlosspanik. noun. 1. A desperate feeling that something desired is fading, missing, or being taken away. 2. A feeling of frustration when something one has is departing.

A slumbering figure, a nearly empty desk, and foreboding fabric are the greeting signs to the infamous lab. It’s ironic, really. The concept that the Doctor’s domain comes with a “receptionist” setup stationed in front of imposing steel doors, giving the illusion that this place is as normal—and as morally sound—as any other doctor’s office. At best, it’s laughable to think anyone would believe this place accepts patients willingly, let alone frequently enough to require check-ins. Yet, a shabby but sturdy wooden desk stands innocently in the corner of the entrance, its chipping edges lined with plastic chrysanthemums and white lilies. The artificial flowers are faded, their colors dull from years of neglect, as if mocking the very notion of hospitality. Behind the desk sits an equally worn-down office chair, large enough for someone to curl up in. Its fabric is stained and frayed from years of misuse, the cushion lumpy and barely holding its shape but still useable. All for a receptionist, if you can call them that, who spends more time asleep than actually working as an employee in this most unlikely place. Legs curled up on the seat, arms crisscrossed over the knees in a fetal position. A chin tucked towards the chest, hidden from the view of passersby. Back facing toward prying eyes, leaving only the pronounced slouch of their spine visible, an angle practically begging to develop scoliosis. But the most harrowing detail isn’t the position. It’s the unmistakable black-and-white fur coat draped over them like a blanket, the fabric’s presence carrying an air of authority and fear. A coat only gifted to the Eleven Fatui Harbingers. The desk itself is of no help either. There’s no clipboard, no pens, no paper-nothing that could even remotely resemble the tools of an actual receptionist. It’s an empty stage prop, barely held together by the weight of its own absurdity. And yet, for all its flaws, it stands as the gateway to a place no one in their right mind would willingly step into.

No one dares attempt to wake you. Successfully doing so is practically a death sentence, especially if you go whining to Dottore about the unprompted “alarm clock.” He has a reputation for ensuring the offender never makes a sound again. The only ones bold enough to try and emerge unscathed are his fellow Harbingers, though even they tread lightly when it comes to disturbing your slumber. It’s both impressive and deeply concerning how much of a deep sleeper you are. The bustling footsteps of agents pacing outside the lab, their sharp voices discussing assignments, don’t stir you. The deafening clangs of machinery, coupled with the revolting squelches of severed monster parts being dissected, fail to trigger even a flicker of awareness. Not even Tartaglia’s incessant yammering, loud enough to make glass shudder, elicits so much as an irritated swat from you. Instead, you remain in a state of unyielding sleep, utterly detached from the chaos around you. Your peculiar habit has become such a fixture in the lab that the staff barely remember you exist. You sit perched at their entrance and exit, as still and silent as a gargoyle guarding a forgotten ruin. To them, you are little more than part of the backdrop. A slumbering figure whose presence is a curious mix of ominous and benign.

While it's obvious that the answer to rousing you is to find Dottore himself, or one of his segments if he isn’t around, the interesting part is how you wake up. You're not immune to the initial dizziness that comes with awakening. When you finally open your eyes, blinking the sleep away from your eyelashes, you’re always disoriented. Your eyes feel glazed over, as though you’ve gone blind from keeping them closed too long. Yet, there’s always a common theme: you always reach out toward the nearest blue object. Whether it's an odd trinket or a test tube of acidic liquid, your hand automatically tries to grab it and pull it close to you. It’s part of the reason your desk is stationed outside the lab, away from anything potentially dangerous hidden behind heavy steel doors. Artificial blue has been on the rise lately. Luckily, in nature, blue is very rare. Less than one in ten plants has blue flowers, and even fewer animals are blue. Unfortunately, the biggest nuisance has blue eyes—dead as they are. Tartaglia may not like the doctor, but he does like you. Maybe it’s because your sleep demeanor can be categorized as cute, or maybe you remind him of the simple life in an organization that’s so uptight. Regardless, that little fox has been clawing at the wooden legs yapping for attention. It's only made worse you don't bother to dissuade him, only indulging in his playful antics. It's led to many, many, lectures from one particular segment.

It's fascinating watching how each segment interacts with your sleepy demeanor. While each segment has varying features and appearances, under the same clothes and mask, they would be indistinguishable if they stood still and never spoke. The only true way to discern them is through their actions and mental processes. Hence, it's easy to tell who is who by the way they go about holding you.

Omega is by far the least attentive or affectionate toward you. Perhaps it’s because he’s the most selfish of them all. There’s still an ongoing debate over whether his dislike for you stems from the fact that you stand in the way of fulfilling his desires or if his ambitions extend beyond simply overtaking the divine gaze. Or perhaps the divine gaze isn't actually his goal in the first place. Either way, it’s two sides of the same coin. When it’s Omega’s turn to fetch you, he does so as if you were any other patient. Completely beneath him. One arm rests behind his back, while the other holds a piece of paper clenched tightly in his hand. His mouth is set in a firm line as he gazes down at your slumped form. Although the air around him is calm and silent, it doesn’t take a genius to know that if he could get away with it, he’d drag you through the halls by your hair. Alas, that kind of act would get him permanently disassembled, so he settles for unceremoniously flipping you upright. The arm resting on the small of his back is removed and curls under your stomach. With one swift motion, you’re treated like one of Signora’s shopping bags. The sight of a limp body folded in half under an arm that surely digs into the stomach is the best way to know if it’s the Omega segment or not.

Beta, on the other hand. Beta. That maniacal and neurotic freak adores you but couldn’t care less about you. His research typically focuses on fusing humans with machinery to create “better versions” of themselves, and he fully believes in that philosophy. You would look so much better if he were allowed to be your sole care provider. If your drowsiness were caused by a medical condition like heart disease, asthma, pain, or a nerve condition, he could simply replace them, and you’d be perfect. If it were a mental issue, well, he’d love you no matter how unresponsive you might be. It wouldn’t be much different from you being asleep anyway. When it’s Beta’s turn to fetch you, he does so with a waltz. He walks purposefully toward your desk. Loud and firm, his hands fisted at his sides with unrestrained glee, swinging in time with each step. Even with a mask that obscures most of his face, it’s clear to see the overexcited grin stretching across his lips. It’s almost like there’s static buzzing in time with his artificial heart, fuzzy yet electrically sharp. There’s no fanfare, as soon as he’s within arm’s reach, he grabs the nearest piece of skin and hauls you out of the chair. By some miracle, you’re always still asleep from the rough handling, which is more than enough for Beta to wrap his other arm around your waist. Your chests press together, and he swings your body to and fro in his mad dance. The sight of a limp body dragged into a dancing plague that’s surely pulling your stiff joints out of place is the best way to know if it’s Beta or not. Beta has been recently banned from coming within a six-foot radius around you.

The original Dottore, Zandik, is a unique case. All of the segments originated from him but at different points in time. However, they are still parts of his thoughts and mannerisms. There really is no order in which the segments are ranked, as they can’t compete with each other. What’s more pointless than trying to beat yourself? You’ll still lose in the end. Zandik is a strange mix of every segment yet none at all. When he wants to see you, he does so slowly, with all the time in the world. His methodical steps echo lightly on the concrete floors of the lab, his arms still at his sides yet loose enough that the slightest wind could blow them away. It’s as eerie as it is tranquil. Everything about the original whispers of restrained patience—that when he arrives at the front of your desk, he simply waits. Usually, it takes you hours or even days to wake up on your own, but when it’s Zandik standing at the edge of your daydream, your eyes slide open. Small ripples in the pond. You’re still lethargic, blindly feeling your way back into your body as your eyes ricochet off the walls until they land on blue. A weighted hand reaches out to grab that ashy blue, and another hand meets your fingertips.

It would be cute if it were anyone else. The sight of a man with curly light blue hair, carrying a bundled-up figure dressed in a white coat with a fluffy black collar, legs dangling from either side of his waist while his hands rest on the lump’s presumed back and thighs. It would be so cute indeed, if it were anyone else but Zandik. But for him, it only looks lonely, despite the two of you pressed together.

The moments when you're awake only happen on two occasions: either you just happened to wake up at that time, or it’s check-up day. What kind of doctor would Dottore be if he didn’t conduct physicals for his only patient who manages to live long enough each year? The check-ups happen twice a week, always two days apart. Never past two days of separation. Ever. Your exact relationship dynamic with Dottore remains as obscure as ever as to why he cares so much. Whether you’re old friends who knew each other before Dottore set foot in Snezhnaya or even when Dottore was called a different name. Or maybe a dead lover resurrected as a zombie in the pursuit of selfish greed and glorious progress; both are possible options. The zombie theory at least explains why you’re constantly drowsy. The staff have never seen you eat anything before, and with the abundance of... zombie food, it's not outlandish as much as it is disgusting. The old friend theory would explain why you can stomach being around someone who can fly off the handle at any moment. The most willing yet unwilling patient. No matter how often Dottore has to wrestle you upright, only for you to slump back asleep the next second, he never loses his temper. If he has to strap you into a straitjacket and hang you from the goddamn ceiling to keep you sitting with a straight back, he will. But by no means will he get anything more than slightly miffed. If he has to force-feed you your medicine because you’re too loopy to remember how to swallow, he’ll shove his fingers into the back of your throat with nothing but a blank smile. The only good thing about your sleep-deprived state is that you’re probably so out of it that you can’t feel discomfort. It saves on using the limited supply of anesthesia the lab carries.

Dottore, for lack of a better word, is displeased with your constant need for sleep. He is deeply frustrated with each check-in and the stagnation of your results. For him, bad results are no different from good ones—they’re still a means of moving forward. Something that will tell him which direction to take rather than wandering around aimlessly in the dark. But in your case, there are no significant changes, as if everything he’s done has been for nothing. He could have closed his eyes and spun a wheel for the same results. The day before your check-in is always the calm before the storm because the staff knows that when the next day comes, they’d better keep their heads down or risk losing them. No one is quite sure if your sleepiness stems from mutated genetics or if it’s a side effect of being around Dottore for too long. Stir-craziness and breakdowns are common in the lab, whether among "patients" or "employees." Everyone eventually goes mad, cooped up within the same cell-shaded walls and working under possibly the worst boss imaginable. Add to that the fact that the Fatui don’t believe in “mental health” days, and with no coping mechanisms in sight, it’s unfair to expect anyone to function effectively. Most people eventually devolve into screaming or manic episodes. Perhaps your escape is more literal. A peaceful retreat from reality through sleep. You’re not even sure why you’re constantly sleep-deprived, especially when you spend more time slumbering than awake. At first, you thought you might be narcoleptic or taking the wrong pills; a diagnosis from scratch must take a long time, right? That was until Dottore bluntly called you an idiot. He told you it’s a bad habit to self-diagnose every minor inconvenience. You should let him do all the thinking and simply listen to him. And truthfully, with the haze clouding your mind, it’s too difficult to think clearly anyway. So, you nod and do as you’re told. It’s easier that way.

It doesn’t happen often, but it occurs more than it should, considering who Dottore is and the reputation he holds. If you wish to cross him, you’d better make it count—because it’ll be your last. He’s in the middle of a meeting with Pantalone, arguing over the lab’s finances when a frantic knock interrupts. Apparently, there’s been a scuffle at the entrance of the lab. To Pantalone's knowledge, there aren't any guards or any agents stationed at the doors except for that sleepy receptionist. Perhaps the doctor's staff finally had enough and decided to take their anger on someone who couldn't fight back? Pantalone's not a good enough person to not find amusement in the situation, infinitely curious as to what Dottore's reaction will be to all of this. Whatever the banker decided to gamble on, his expression doesn't twitch as he follows behind his fellow Harbinger as they walk leisurely through the halls, as if the world has come to a standstill. It’s almost amusing that when your life is potentially on the line, he suddenly decides to take a midday stroll. The only indication of his amusement is the slight shake in his shoulders, hinting at a silent laugh. Dottore punches in the lock code and throws open the steel doors before the automatic switch can activate, slipping through as soon as the gap is wide enough. He stops at the shabby wooden desk that’s now gained a few new dents.

This time, you’re curled up on top of the table, your office chair thrown across the room. Broken. It’s no matter, he’s been meaning to replace it anyway. The chair is just another expense to add to his name. He collects you into his arms effortlessly, and you instinctively sink into the familiar hold. A quick scan from head to toe confirms that you’re unharmed, save for a few strands of hair out of place. Behind him, Pantalone lets out a noise of approval as he surveys the scene. In the center of the room stands a robot with a striking design. A star-shaped frame with six triangular segments forms a perfect symmetry. Glowing cyan cores illuminate the metallic structure, positioned at its center and edges. The intricate details combine sharp, crystalline elements with mechanical precision, radiating an aura of both elegance and menace. As expected of the Doctor. Pantalone can’t help but wonder where this machine was hiding when Signora ventured to Inazuma. Perhaps if it had been deployed then, she might have returned in one piece.

Although Dottore no longer needs to sleep to survive, there are times when, as he passes by your sleeping form, he’ll pause. He stands still, staring for what feels like an absurd amount of time, meticulously detailing and recording every breath you take within a single minute. It’s always 17. Sleep occupies about one-third of a person’s life, a significant portion of time that, in Dottore's mind, could be devoted to something useful. Something productive, instead of wasting it frolicking in dreams that neither matter nor will change anything. Yet, even he can’t deny that, occasionally, a break from reality can serve as a fragile bandage over a wound that refuses to heal. A fleeting comfort in an otherwise relentless existence.

It’s as awkward as it is unnatural. Despite his title as "The Doctor", his hands weren’t designed for gentle touches of flesh and bone. Yet he tries. His fingers twitch involuntarily as he tilts your body to the side, just enough for him to slide in beside you. Carefully, he rests your body against his shoulder. He expects you to jolt awake, his shoulder is bony and hardly a suitable place to rest your head, even when compared to the flaky cushion of the office chair you’ve somehow grown fond of. But you don’t. Of course, you don’t. You simply lay there, your head nestled against his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No protests, no shifting away, just stillness. The transfer of heat begins, as described by the laws of thermodynamics. Hotter, faster-moving molecules collide with cooler, slower ones, transferring energy in a quiet exchange. No fireworks, no blaring alarms, just the science of touch, as mundane and profound as ever. Zandik dares to lower his chin, letting it rest lightly against your head. His mask doesn’t obscure the quiet moment, though he can feel the unnatural curve of his lips twitching upward ever so slightly. Down here, in the deepest layers of the lab, not even the howling winds of Tsaritsa’s snowstorm can reach. It’s eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of your breathing. For a moment, he wonders what it would be like if you woke up now. If your half-lidded eyes would squint at him in confusion, or if you’d simply close them again, surrendering to the haze of sleep. But you don’t stir. Instead, he lets himself linger, suspended between an unusual warmth and the cold detachment of his own thoughts

"Breaks" are not something you can indulge in down in the labs. The closest the staff ever got was when one of the Harbingers passed away, and even then, it lasted only half a day before they were right back to work. Still, if you ask nicely, Dottore will nod toward an empty seat, silently giving you permission to make yourself comfortable. You take the opportunity to describe the dreams you’ve had while Dottore tinkers away in the background. You talk about a train whose tracks stretch far into the stars, far beyond the snow-obscured sky you glimpse through the scarce, frosted windows scattered about the lab. Sometimes, you dream of a whimsical city filled with cute shops and tiny bunny-like robots waddling through fissures in space. You’re certain he isn’t really paying attention, his hands busy with instruments, and his focus locked on his latest project. Sometimes, you suspect he forgets you’re even in the room despite your rambling. A small part of you wants to stamp your feet and pout like a child. After all, you’re only awake for a few fleeting hours each week, and even then, all he can think about is his experiments. His endless, obsessive tinkering. The man’s only "hobby" is experimentation, and you wonder if he’s even capable of entertaining anything else. At least Omega and Beta would give you some attention. Omega might tell you to be quiet with that dismissive tone of his, while Beta would enthusiastically scribble down every word you say, his excitement unnerving yet oddly gratifying. Still… your gaze drifts toward Zandik’s back as he works, the muscles beneath his coat shifting subtly with each precise movement. You pull your knees up against your chest, wrapping your arms around them as you rest your cheek against your folded arms. For a moment, you simply watch him in silence, the quiet hum of the lab filling the space between you. Eventually, your eyes grow heavy, and you let them slip shut. A faint smile tugs at your lips as you wonder where your dreams will take you this time. You wonder if Zandik would come with you.

On the rare occasion that Dottore chooses to sleep of his own will, most likely due to substances that induce drowsiness and force his body into a state of rest, it’s always a remarkably uneventful night. He doesn’t dream anymore, nor does he wish to. Dreams, like the past, serve no purpose to him now. On certain days, if he concentrates hard enough, he can faintly discern whispers from the other segments he's created. However, they are nothing more than distractions, a cacophony that only aggravates his already meticulous mind. When he wakes, it’s as though he hasn’t truly slept at all. His eyelids parted smoothly, his pupils sharp and alert as if no time had passed. Yet there is an unusual sensation, warmth. Dottore does not run warm, and the lab, built for functionality rather than comfort, certainly doesn’t harbor it either. He turns his head, curiosity fleeting, and finds you huddled against his side. Your arms are wrapped around his waist in a loose embrace, and your face is pressed against his chest, seeking solace in his stillness. The white coat with its black feathered collar, the one you wear more often than he does, is draped across your body, serving as a makeshift blanket. His hands remain clasped on his stomach, and he realizes with mild irritation that he can’t move without risking the possibility of waking you. For a moment, he lingers. The seconds on, and his mind races ahead to the tasks awaiting him. The pursuit of progress waits for no one, not even himself. Every moment spent lying in this bed feels like a year’s worth of lost discovery.

With calculated precision, he shifts. His movements are methodical, almost robotic, as he carefully bundles you in the coat, ensuring the hood doesn’t cover your face and obstruct your breathing. In a single fluid motion, he lifts you into his arms as he rises from the bed. He spares a brief glance at your sleeping form, red eyes devoid of emotion. Your breathing is steady at 17 breaths per minute—a rhythm he has memorized and measured countless times before. Still as serene as ever. But then, for just the faintest of moments, his gaze softens, almost imperceptibly, before he turns his attention back to the work that never ceases to call for him. What a peaceful way to escape the world, the thought as cold and clinical as his expression.

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Hi, thank you for reading! I'll reblog this with further writer notes but I wanted to include the research bits in order of appearance. I can't guarantee the full accuracy but I hope I didn't get anything wrong.

Chrysanthemum & Lily

In many Asian cultures, especially in China and Japan, chrysanthemums are symbolic of death and mourning. In China, the flower is closely linked to the Day of the Dead, and in Japan, it is used in funeral rites. While in some contexts chrysanthemums can symbolize longevity or fidelity, their association with death makes them unlucky in certain circumstances, especially when given as gifts or during celebrations.

Lilies, especially white lilies, are often associated with death and mourning, particularly in Christian symbolism, where they are linked to funerals and burials. While lilies also symbolize purity and rebirth in other contexts, their frequent appearance in funeral arrangements.

Head-Down Position

The sleep position reader takes is a parody of the Head-Down position of babies in their third trimester. The head-down position (cephalic presentation) is the most common and ideal position for birth, where the baby’s head is facing downward, towards the birth canal. This allows the baby to navigate the birth process more easily.

Dancing Plague

Also called the Dancing Mania, this refers to a series of events in the 16th century where groups of people, primarily in Europe, suddenly and uncontrollably began dancing for extended periods, sometimes for days or weeks, often to the point of exhaustion, injury, or even death. The most infamous and well-documented outbreak of the Dancing Plague occurred in 1518 in Strasbourg, then part of the Holy Roman Empire (modern-day France).

Algorithm of Semi-Intransient Matrix of Overseer Network

The robot Pantalone sees is the early concept art for ^ but also known as the "Tomb Guard of the Desert King.".

The number 17 is considered unlucky in Italy because of its association with the Latin word for 17, which is "XVII". Rearranging these Roman numerals gives the word "VIXI", which means "I have lived" or "I am dead" in Latin. This gives the number an ominous connotation, as it can be seen as a symbol of death or misfortune.

Honkai Star Rail & Zenless Zone Zero

Yes, reader was describing these two games as their dreams lol.

#Yeah this isn't a tagging post I need to go as insane about this as possible #Long post #Whoopsies #Dottore x reader #Love this #I'm not checking for spelling bro maybe I'll come back when it's not closer to wake up time than sleep time (and I haven't slept)

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