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sixeyesonathiel · 12 hours ago

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hymns for the hungriest angel — ⅠⅠ

pairing — dark satoru x student teacher reader

synopsis : he’s never cared about being loved—love was for people without power, without purpose. but then spring arrives, and so do you: soft-voiced, unimpressed, threatening to call child services like he’s not the strongest. you, with your sunlit kindness and fragile normalcy, look at him like he’s not a god, but a man. and maybe that’s worse. eden was never meant for things like him—but he’s always taken what he wasn’t allowed to want.

or: when divinity grows tired of being worshipped and decides, instead, to covet.

tags -> f!reader, dead dove: do not eat, unreliable narrator, past gojo satoru/ieiri shoko, cognitive dissonance, stalking, manipulation, possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, power imbalance, seven deadly sins, religious imagery & symbolism, found family, eventual smut, other additional tags to be added.

wc — 14.1k | prev | series masterlist | next

a/n: i’m sooo curious what you guys think about this one!! it’s a little softer, but there’s something sinister simmering underneath :P also... i’ll miss you all sm again, our power just came back yesterday after 10 days but i couldn’t beg grandma for a data plan this time so i’m headed for another forced hiatus 💔 stay safe, drink water, and if anyone wants to manifest unlimited data for me in their prayers, i won’t stop you 🙂‍↕️🩷

early summer turns him into something more deliberate than calculating, the days stretching out as he begins syncing to the rhythm of your life—not by accident, but by careful design. he watches how easily you fold into the children’s routines, how tsumiki starts reaching for your hand in crowded spaces, how megumi—guarded and cautious—begins offering his drawings without being asked. he doesn’t orchestrate these things, not exactly, but he nudges them. suggests family movie nights, conveniently leaves your favorite snacks on the counter, feigns exhaustion so you’ll take over bedtime. he knows how to weaponize proximity, especially when it comes to someone as soft as you.

and you are soft—so hopelessly moved by affection, by need, by small acts of reliance that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow always do. satoru watches you fold laundry with tsumiki, listens to the way you gently correct megumi’s math homework, notes every time you bring home an extra set of chopsticks “just in case.” and with each moment, each kindness, your guard lowers by a fraction—not because he’s earning your trust, but because he’s letting you give it to him. letting you believe you’re choosing this.

it’s not that he’s done pretending. it’s that the pretending is starting to feel real.

he tells himself it’s strategy—that your blooming fondness is just another step in a long game—but it falters every time he catches you waving from across the street, grocery bags cutting into your wrists. something about the way you smile—tired, flustered, but glad to see him—makes him want to be the kind of man who waves back just because. not the strongest. not the godlike anomaly. just someone who lives across the hall and gets to carry your bags upstairs.

he knows it’s dangerous, this careful rehearsal of normalcy. but the more you invite him in without realizing it—the more you say yes to the children, and by extension, to him—the more he starts to forget which parts were supposed to be false.

and that’s the most dangerous illusion of all.

the heat wave hits tokyo like a curse, oppressive and clinging, and your building’s ancient air conditioning gives up on a tuesday afternoon with a mechanical wheeze that echoes through thin walls. satoru finds you in the hallway, looking wilted and frustrated as you try to coax your unit back to life with percussive maintenance—three sharp raps against the side panel, a pause, then two more for good measure.

your hair’s escaping from its usual neat braid in damp tendrils, and there are stress lines around your eyes that have been getting deeper lately. dark half-moons of exhaustion that speak of too many late nights grading papers and worrying about children who aren’t even yours.

“having trouble?” he asks, leaning against his doorframe with practiced casualness. his hair catches the hallway’s fluorescent light like spun moonbeams, each strand so pale it seems to absorb brightness rather than reflect it. you’re wearing a pale blue sundress today—probably the coolest thing you own—and the heat has brought out a flush across your cheeks that makes him want to do something stupid. something that would definitely violate the careful distance you’ve been maintaining.

“it’s fine,” you say, which is obviously a lie since you’re currently glaring at the machine like it personally offended your entire bloodline. your fingers drum against your thigh in a nervous pattern—index, middle, ring, repeat. “my landlord says he’ll get someone out here next week, but…”

“but you’ll melt before then,” he finishes, and his eyes—twin storms contained behind deceptively lazy lids—track the way you press your lips together in frustration. like winter oceans under a clouded sky, they hold depths that most people never learn to navigate.

you pause, clearly torn between your mistrust of him and your desire to not die of heatstroke. your hands fidget with the hem of your dress, tugging it down even though it’s already perfectly modest. pragmatism wins. “if you really don’t mind…”

and here’s where sloth reveals itself—not in laziness, but in the terrible ease with which he could solve all your problems. the six eyes dissect your broken unit in microseconds: blown capacitor, frayed wiring, a coolant leak that would cost three hundred dollars to repair properly. it would take him thirty seconds to fix this with cursed energy, less time to simply buy you a new unit, no effort at all to ensure you never want for anything again.

he’s the strongest. he could reshape reality around your comfort if he chose to. but that would mean revealing himself, and more than that, it would mean admitting how much power he has. how little effort it takes him to change things that normal people struggle with. how fundamentally different he is from the person you think you’re dealing with.

so instead he rolls up his sleeves—expensive cotton, probably worth more than your monthly salary—and fiddles with some wires, pretends to know about mundane repair work. his fingers, elegant and long, move with careful deliberation instead of their usual precision. pretends that fixing your air conditioning is an accomplishment rather than the kind of minor miracle he performs without thinking.

“thank you,” you say when cool air starts flowing again, and your smile is the first genuinely warm one you’ve given him. relief and gratitude painting your features in soft watercolors—the tension leaving your shoulders, your eyes crinkling at the corners, one hand pressed briefly to your chest like you’re steadying your heartbeat. “i owe you one.”

“dinner,” he says immediately, and his voice carries just a hint of breathlessness that he didn’t intend. “let me cook for you. for all of us, i mean. the kids would like that.”

you hesitate, and he can see the internal debate playing out across your expressive face—duty warring with desire, professional boundaries tangling with genuine affection for his wards. you bite your lower lip, a habit he’s catalogued during parent-teacher conferences, and your eyes dart toward his apartment door like you’re measuring the distance between safety and temptation.

but megumi chooses that moment to poke his head out of the apartment, dark hair mussed from an afternoon nap, asking what’s for dinner in that carefully neutral tone that masks his curiosity. tsumiki joins him seconds later, bouncing on her toes with the kind of enthusiasm that makes adults remember what joy looks like.

“can sensei stay?” tsumiki asks, brown eyes wide and hopeful as she tugs on your dress. “please? you could teach me how to make those cookies you brought last week!”

you laugh—genuinely laugh—at their tag-team approach, and the sound dissolves the last of your resistance like sugar in warm water. “alright,” you concede, reaching down to smooth tsumiki’s hair with unconscious tenderness. “but i’ll help cook.”

it’s the first time you’ve been in his space, and satoru watches you take in the apartment with those sharp, assessing eyes that miss nothing. it’s clean—spotless, really—well-furnished with pieces that cost more than most people make in a month but somehow manage to look lived-in rather than sterile. stocked with proper food and children’s books and all the things a responsible guardian should have. he’d made sure of that, curating normalcy like a museum exhibit.

you seem surprised by how… normal it all is. the apartment is carefully curated domesticity—expensive pieces disguised as humble choices. the granite countertop could be mistaken for nice formica in this light, the hardwood floors scuffed just enough to suggest a life lived rather than a showroom staged. your fingers trail along the kitchen counter, and you pause at the refrigerator covered in tsumiki’s drawings and megumi’s perfect kanji practice, held up by magnets from local businesses rather than the custom pieces he could afford.

he’d spent weeks arranging this illusion—replacing designer furniture with ikea alternatives, hiding the wine collection that costs more than most cars, making sure the children’s artwork took precedence over any hint of his actual wealth. every choice calculated to suggest a single father doing his best with limited resources.

“what are we making?” you ask, settling your small purse on the counter with careful precision, still maintaining that professional distance even as tsumiki tugs on your dress.

“katsu curry,” he says, already pulling ingredients from the refrigerator—pork cutlets he’d picked up from the local butcher rather than the wagyu he usually prefers, potatoes and carrots that look appropriately humble. “the kids’ favorite.”

“mine too!” tsumiki bounces, clapping her hands together. “sensei, do you know how to make curry? gojo-san makes the best curry in the whole world!”

you smile at her enthusiasm, and satoru watches your professional mask slip just a fraction. “i make a decent curry,” you admit, voice warming. “my grandmother taught me.”

he files that away—grandmother, traditional recipes, probably learned to cook young out of necessity rather than hobby. “would you mind starting the rice?” he asks, gesturing toward the cooker. “the ratio always gives me trouble.”

it’s a lie, of course. he could make perfect rice blindfolded, but it gives you something to do, makes you feel useful rather than observed. you nod, rolling up your sleeves to reveal those careful bandages around your wrists again—evidence of how much you sacrifice for others without even thinking about it.

“megumi, wash your hands,” satoru calls, and the boy appears from the living room where he’d been reading, dark hair still mussed from his nap. “then you can help with the vegetables.”

the kitchen fills with the comfortable chaos of cooking together. satoru demonstrates how to bread the pork cutlets, his movements precise but not showy—letting his knife skills speak for themselves without revealing just how effortless it all is. he’s opened the kitchen window, and the evening breeze lifts his hair like silk scarves in wind, each strand catching the golden hour light.

“you’re very good at this,” you observe, measuring rice with the careful attention of someone who’s made too many meals stretch too far. there’s something almost wistful in your voice as you watch him coordinate multiple dishes while keeping the kids entertained—asking tsumiki about her day, correcting megumi’s knife grip with gentle patience.

“sensei, look!” tsumiki holds up a carrot she’s been cutting, the pieces uneven but enthusiastic. “i’m helping make dinner!”

“beautiful work,” you tell her, and the genuine warmth in your voice makes something twist in satoru’s chest. you crouch down to her level, adjusting her grip on the knife with the same care you’d show your own child. “remember to keep your fingers curved like a cat’s paw—that way you won’t cut yourself.”

megumi, not to be outdone, presents his perfectly diced onions with quiet pride. “is this right, sensei?”

you examine his work with exaggerated seriousness, nodding approval. “restaurant quality, megumi-kun. your knife skills are excellent.”

the boy’s cheeks flush with pleasure at the praise, and satoru realizes this is exactly what he’d been counting on—your inability to resist caring for his children, the way you automatically shift into nurturing mode despite your wariness of him. you can’t help yourself from being gentle with them, from treating them like they matter.

and if caring for them means spending time in his space, accepting his hospitality, letting your guard down inch by careful inch… well. that’s just convenient, isn’t it?

the sloth isn’t in his actions—it’s in how effortless it all is for him. how he can provide this stability and comfort without breaking a sweat, while you probably agonize over every grocery bill, every small luxury you can’t afford. he could give you everything you’ve ever wanted and it would cost him nothing. less than nothing—pocket change from the interest on accounts he’s forgotten he owns.

the oil hisses as he lowers the breaded pork into the pan, and the familiar scent of home cooking fills the air. tsumiki chatters about her friends at school while stirring the curry base under his watchful eye, and megumi quietly sets the table with the focused concentration he brings to everything.

“careful of the heat,” you murmur to tsumiki, one hand hovering protectively near her elbow as she stirs. your voice carries that teacher tone—gentle but firm, protective without being overbearing.

“i’ve got her,” satoru says softly, and for a moment your eyes meet over the little girl’s head. there’s something there—recognition, perhaps, of how naturally you’ve both fallen into this rhythm of shared care.

but he doesn’t tell you that this domesticity costs him nothing, that the groceries you’re helping prepare represent less than he spends on coffee in a day. just lets you think he’s learned to be domestic through necessity, lets you believe you’re seeing him try rather than watching him hold back the full force of what he could offer.

the timer chimes, and he lifts golden cutlets from the oil, setting them on paper towels to drain. the rice cooker clicks off with perfect timing, and the curry bubbles contentedly on the stove—a symphony of ordinary miracles that feel anything but ordinary when you’re here to witness them.

over dinner, the small table feels almost too intimate—four place settings instead of his usual solitary meal, the warm glow of overhead lighting casting everything in honey tones. the katsu curry is perfect, of course—the cutlets golden and crispy, the curry rich with depth that comes from techniques he’s learned from actual masters, though he lets tsumiki take credit for the stirring.

“this is incredible,” you say, taking another bite with obvious pleasure. your chopsticks—the nice wooden ones he’d deliberately chosen over the expensive lacquered set hidden in his cabinet—move with practiced ease. “you both did such beautiful work with the vegetables.”

tsumiki beams, sitting a little straighter. “i’ve been practicing! mama used to let me help before…” she trails off, the brightness dimming slightly before rallying. “i remember how she showed me to hold the knife.”

your expression shifts—that familiar teacher-look of someone cataloging a child who’s learned to be too self-sufficient too young. “you’re very skilled for your age,” you say gently. “both of you are.”

megumi nods seriously. “we had to learn. before gojo-san came.” his matter-of-fact tone carries weight that children shouldn’t have to bear, and satoru watches you process this—the confirmation of what you’d suspected about their previous situation.

megumi, methodical as always, has arranged his curry and rice in precise sections on his plate. “sensei,” he says quietly, “do you cook for yourself? at your apartment?”

there’s something almost protective in the question—this serious little boy who notices everything, who’s probably wondering if you’re taking proper care of yourself the way you take care of everyone else.

you pause, chopsticks halfway to your mouth, and satoru sees the truth flicker across your features before you school them back to neutrality. “sometimes,” you say carefully. “i’m usually pretty tired after school, so… simple things mostly.”

convenience store bento boxes, he’d guess. instant ramen. the kind of barely-meals that teachers survive on when they’re spending their own money on classroom supplies instead of proper nutrition. it takes everything in him not to offer to cook for you every night, not to simply solve this problem the way he could solve all your problems—with money, with power, with the casual reshaping of reality around your comfort.

instead he says, “you should come by more often. for dinner, i mean. the kids love having you here.”

“can you, sensei?” tsumiki asks, practically bouncing in her seat. “can you come for dinner again? tomorrow? and the day after that?”

“tsumiki,” megumi chides, though there’s hope in his dark eyes too. “don’t be pushy.”

you laugh—that bright, unguarded sound that makes satoru’s chest feel tight. “well, when you put it like that…” you pretend to consider seriously, tapping one finger against your chin. “i suppose i could be convinced. especially if there’s more of this curry involved.”

both children cheer, and satoru files away the way your eyes soften at their enthusiasm, how readily you abandon your professional boundaries when faced with their genuine affection. you tell stories about your students—how little yamada finally mastered his multiplication tables after weeks of patient tutoring, how shy sakura spoke up in class for the first time this semester to defend a classmate from teasing.

your sleeve rides up when you reach for the soy sauce, revealing that small bandage around your wrist again—evidence of carrying too many supplies, too many burdens that aren’t technically yours but that you shoulder anyway. when you catch him looking, you tug the fabric back down with embarrassed quickness.

“where are you from?” he asks during a natural lull, genuinely curious about the accent that still colors your vowels like honey in tea. his chin rests on his palm, and those impossible eyes focus on you with an intensity that makes you fidget with your napkin.

“small town in niigata,” you say, a fond smile crossing your face as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “rice paddies and mountains and nothing much else. population maybe three thousand on a good day.”

“sounds peaceful,” tsumiki says wistfully. “was it pretty? with lots of flowers?”

“the prettiest place in the world,” you tell her warmly. “especially in spring, when the cherry blossoms bloomed along the mountain paths. my grandmother and i used to have picnics under them every year.”

past tense, satoru notes. grandmother who taught you to cook, who probably raised you when your parents couldn’t or wouldn’t. another piece of your careful independence, your deep-seated need to take care of others because someone once took care of you.

“what made you come to tokyo?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.

your smile falters slightly, and you look down at your hands clasped in your lap. “wanted to make a difference, i guess. felt like… like there was more i could do here. more kids who needed help.” you shrug, suddenly self-conscious, shoulders drawing inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. “probably sounds naive.”

“not naive,” he says quietly, and his voice carries a weight that makes you look up, startled by the sincerity there. “idealistic, maybe. but not naive.”

something passes between you then—a moment of understanding that feels dangerous in its intimacy. like maybe he sees something in you that others have missed, recognizes the quiet strength it takes to uproot your entire life for the sake of children who aren’t yours. like maybe you’re not as alone as you sometimes feel in this concrete maze of indifference.

megumi, ever observant, breaks the moment by asking for seconds, and the domestic rhythm resumes. but satoru catches you watching him as he serves the boy more curry, notices how your expression has shifted from wariness to something softer, more considering.

after the kids go to bed, you help him clean up, and the quiet domesticity of it makes his chest feel tight with something he doesn’t want to name. the kitchen window remains open, evening air carrying the distant sounds of the city—traffic, voices, the ordinary symphony of people living their lives.

“you don’t have to help,” he says, but makes no move to stop you as you gather plates from the table. “you’re a guest.”

“guests who cook should clean,” you reply, a small smile playing at your lips. “my grandmother’s rule.”

you’re humming softly as you rinse dishes—some melody from your childhood, probably, something learned in that small mountain town with its rice paddies and cherry blossoms. the sound is unconscious, natural, and it fills the space between you with something that feels dangerously close to belonging.

he takes the clean dishes from your hands to dry them, and the choreography is effortless—you wash, he dries, both of you moving around each other in the small kitchen like you’ve done this a thousand times before. your sundress swishes with each movement, and occasionally your fingers brush his when passing a plate or bowl.

“you’re humming,” he observes, voice quieter than necessary in the intimate space.

you pause, looking slightly embarrassed. “sorry, it’s a habit. drives my students crazy sometimes.”

“don’t apologize.” he sets a dried bowl in the cabinet, movements deliberately careful. “it’s nice. peaceful.”

the melody resumes, softer now but still there, and satoru finds himself memorizing it the way he catalogs everything about you. another piece of your small-town childhood, another fragment of the life you left behind to come help children like his.

“can i ask you something?” you say suddenly, hands stilling in the soapy water.

“of course.”

you’re quiet for a long moment, choosing your words carefully. “are you… are you okay? with all this?” you gesture vaguely, encompassing the kitchen, the apartment, the life he’s built around two children who aren’t his. “it can’t be easy, suddenly having to care for them. they’re good kids, but…”

but they’re damaged kids, you don’t say. kids who’ve learned to be too independent, too responsible, too careful with the adults in their lives. kids who still flinch sometimes when voices get raised, who hoard food without realizing they’re doing it, who’ve been let down by every adult who was supposed to protect them.

except him. somehow, miraculously, they trust him.

“most days,” he says, and the honesty in his voice surprises even him. “some days i wonder if i’m doing enough. if i’m…” he trails off, runs a hand through his hair—not calculated this time, but genuine uncertainty bleeding through his careful composure. “if i’m what they need.”

because it’s true, isn’t it? he can level city blocks with a thought, can see through any deception, can kill or heal with equal ease—but none of that translates to knowing whether tsumiki needs a hug after a nightmare or space to process. none of it helps him understand why megumi goes quiet sometimes, or how to navigate the careful balance between guidance and freedom that children require.

the strongest sorcerer alive, and he’s been brought to his knees by bedtime stories and scraped knees and the terrible responsibility of being someone’s safe harbor.

you turn to face him fully, dish towel forgotten in your hands. “you are,” you say with quiet conviction that hits him like a physical blow. “you should see how they light up when they talk about you. how proud tsumiki was of helping with dinner, how megumi actually smiled when you praised his knife work. that’s not something you can fake.”

your words settle somewhere deep in his chest, in a place that’s been hollow for so long he’d forgotten it existed. this is what he’s been starving for—not just your presence in his carefully constructed domestic theater, but this. your belief that he’s worthy of the trust those children have placed in him.

“they’ve been through so much,” he continues, and the vulnerability is real now, unguarded. “sometimes i lie awake wondering if i’m doing right by them. if someone who actually knew what they were doing might be better qualified to…”

“don’t.” the sharpness in your voice cuts through his spiral, and when he meets your eyes, there’s something fierce there. protective. “don’t you dare think that. they need stability, consistency, someone who won’t abandon them. and you…” you shake your head, searching for words. “you’re giving them that. a home. safety. love, even if you don’t call it that.”

love. the word hangs between you like a bridge he’s been afraid to cross, and for the first time since he’d taken guardianship, someone else has named what he’s been too terrified to acknowledge. because loving them means he could lose them. means he could fail them the way every other adult in their lives has failed them.

means he’s not just the strongest anymore—he’s satoru, fumbling through parenthood with no manual and no guarantee he won’t break something precious.

“thank you,” he says softly, and every word is weighted with truth. “for saying that. for seeing that.”

you’re looking at him like you’re seeing him for the first time—not the potentially negligent guardian you’d confronted in spring, not the too-smooth neighbor you’ve been wary of, but someone trying his best in an impossible situation. someone worthy of compassion.

someone who might deserve the warmth you give so freely to everyone else.

“this was nice,” you say when you’re ready to leave, lingering in his doorway like you don’t quite want the evening to end. your cardigan—soft yellow cotton that makes your skin look warm—is draped over your arm, and you clutch your small purse against your chest, but there’s less distance in the gesture now. less armor.

“thank you for dinner. and for fixing my air conditioning. and for…” you pause, searching for words, and he sees the exact moment you make a decision. “for letting me see this. them. you.”

there’s something different in your voice—softer, more open. like the vulnerability he’d shown you in the kitchen has shifted something fundamental in how you see him.

“they’re lucky to have you,” you continue, and the simple statement hits him with unexpected force. “and you’re lucky to have them. that kind of love… it’s rare.”

love. you called it love, this thing between him and the children. not obligation, not duty, but something precious and real and worth protecting.

“anytime,” he says, and means it in ways that would probably scare you if you understood the full scope of his intentions. his hair falls across his forehead as he leans against the doorframe, and for once he doesn’t push it back, lets it soften the sharp angles of his face.

“goodnight, satoru,” you say, using his given name for the first time, and the sound of it on your lips feels like a small victory.

he watches you disappear into your apartment, waits until he hears the soft click of your lock engaging, and only then does he allow himself to smile—not the practiced curve he wears for the world, but something real and hungry and dangerous.

you’re starting to trust him, bit by bit. starting to see him not as a threat to be monitored but as someone worthy of your care, your concern, your approval. the same softness you show his children is beginning to extend to him, and the addiction of it courses through his veins like the finest drug.

because he doesn’t just want to possess you anymore. he wants to be the person you come home to every night, wants to be the one you trust with your gentleness, your dreams, your fierce protective instincts. wants to be worthy of the love you give so freely to everyone else.

wants, wants, wants with a greed that should terrify him but instead feels like the first honest thing he’s experienced in years.

soon, he thinks, and the word tastes like forbidden fruit on his tongue. soon you’ll stop seeing him as just a neighbor and start seeing him as something more. someone who might deserve the apple you offer so freely to everyone else.

late summer hums with a quiet intimacy he hadn’t anticipated, and satoru finds himself lingering—not to monitor, but to experience. the heat wraps around the building like a lazy arm draped across familiar shoulders, and in the haze of long days and soft routines, he realizes something has shifted. the game is no longer about infiltration. he’s already inside.

your wariness is gone now, worn down by weeks of shared dinners and the easy rhythm you’ve fallen into. you leave your door unlocked when you know he’s coming over. you bake cookies for him—not just for the kids. you even saved the last one once, tucked it behind the rice cooker with his name written in smudged ink on a sticky note, and he nearly lost his mind over it. not because of the cookie, but because you’d thought of him separately from them.

and that’s the problem, isn’t it? that’s where the greed sets in.

because it’s not enough anymore to be tolerated. it’s not enough to be included. he wants to be yours. completely. wants the cookie and the kiss on the cheek and the sleepy murmurs of his name at 2 a.m. he wants the keys to your apartment and the ones to your heart and all the ones you haven’t forged yet. he wants the version of you that exists when the kids are asleep and your back is turned and no one else is watching. the one who lets him fix your broken fan, who lets him see you barefoot, bent over a mixing bowl with flour in your hair and no armor on.

he tells himself it’s still within bounds—that this is what happens when you care for people, when you build routines and share meals and carry each other’s weight. but deep down, he knows. knows the hunger he feels isn’t normal. that it’s the same kind of want that made him hoard cursed techniques as a teenager. that it’s no longer enough to have you close. he wants to own the closeness. to ensure it doesn’t go anywhere.

so he plays it slow. patient. careful.

he never tries to kiss you. never asks for more than you’re willing to give.

but he watches how your gaze lingers a little longer now. how you don’t flinch when he touches your wrist to pass the soy sauce. how you sit beside him instead of across. and it feeds something in him, something that purrs in satisfaction every time you say his name like it means comfort instead of caution.

it’s greed—the kind that grows slowly, roots deep, and convinces itself that if the fruit fell into your palm, it must have always belonged to you.

he’s grown sloppy with his missions, and he knows it. yesterday’s grade-two curse should have been a twenty-minute affair—something to savor, to dissect with surgical precision while he catalogued its fears and fed on its desperation. instead, he’d obliterated it in four minutes flat, blue crackling through the abandoned warehouse like the wrath of an impatient god. no finesse. no study. just raw, brutal efficiency because you’d texted him about helping tsumiki with her science project, and the curse was keeping him from your soft voice explaining photosynthesis over his kitchen table.

the other sorcerers have started to notice. nanami’s disapproving frown has grown sharper, though he’s too professional to voice his concerns. yaga’s calls have become more frequent, tinged with something that might be worry if the old man were capable of such sentiment. but satoru doesn’t care about their concerns, not when he has sticky notes with your careful handwriting decorating his bathroom mirror like prayers.

“thanks for letting me borrow your copy of norwegian wood! i left some thoughts in the margins—hope that’s okay”

“i loved the takoyaki you made last night. teach me the recipe some other time”

“you have the most beautiful hands. sorry, that’s weird to write down. ignore me”

that last one he’d found tucked between pages forty-three and forty-four, and he’d stared at it for so long his eyes had started to burn. not from strain—the six eyes don’t strain—but from something else entirely. something that feels like being seen instead of simply observed.

he hoards them all. every casual compliment, every moment of trust, every instance where you choose him over the dozen other options available to you. when you’d asked him to watch the kids instead of your usual babysitter last week, citing some flimsy excuse about saving money, he’d felt something predatory and warm unfurl in his chest. you trust him with what you love most. you trust him to be gentle with fragile things.

the irony isn’t lost on him. satoru gojo, who levels city blocks when he’s feeling restless, who eradicates curses with the casual indifference of someone swatting flies, who could unmake the world with a thought—being trusted to braid tsumiki’s hair and help megumi with his reading homework. being seen as safe. as normal.

and god, he wants to be normal for you. wants it with a greed that surprises him in its intensity.

“you look tired,” you tell him one evening in early september, when the heat finally breaks and you can both sit on his balcony without melting. you’re grading papers in your lap, red pen moving in neat, precise strokes, and the domestic simplicity of it makes his chest tight. “have you been sleeping okay?”

he’s been hunting special-grades in shibuya until three in the morning, then lying awake watching the numbers on his alarm clock tick toward dawn, but he can’t tell you that. can’t explain that sleep feels like wasted time when he could be cataloguing the way moonlight catches in your hair through his window, or memorizing the rhythm of your breathing through the too-thin walls.

“work’s been busy,” he says instead, which isn’t exactly a lie. his fingers drum against the metal railing, a restless rhythm that matches the pulse of cursed energy beneath his skin. “lot of... consulting projects. travel.”

you hum sympathetically, glancing up from a math worksheet covered in a second-grader’s careful addition. “what kind of consulting do you do again? you’ve always been vague about it.”

the question should make him pause, should trigger the careful deflection he’s perfected over years of hiding his true nature. instead, he finds himself studying the genuine curiosity in your expression, the way you’ve folded your legs beneath you in that unconsciously graceful way that makes his mouth go dry.

“risk assessment,” he says, because it’s technically true. “i evaluate threats and... neutralize them.”

“sounds important.” your voice holds that particular tone of respect you use when discussing things beyond your expertise, and something ugly and possessive rears its head in his chest. he wants to be the expert in your life. wants to be the one you turn to when the world becomes too complicated or dangerous. “no wonder you always look like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

the accuracy of that observation hits deeper than it should. his laugh comes out sharp, brittle around the edges. “someone has to.”

you set your pen down, giving him your full attention, and the intensity of your focus makes him feel stripped bare. naked under the weight of genuine concern. “but who carries yours?”

the question lands like a physical blow—no, something subtler and more devastating. like a scalpel finding the exact spot where his ribs protect his heart. for a moment, he can’t speak around the sudden tightness in his throat.

“i don’t—” he starts, then stops. his fingers curl around the railing until his knuckles go white. “it’s not that simple.”

“isn’t it?” you shift closer, close enough that he can smell your shampoo—something clean and floral that makes him think of normal things, safe things. “everyone deserves someone who cares about them. who worries when they work too late or don’t eat enough or push themselves past their limits.”

the earnestness in your voice makes him want to laugh and scream in equal measure. you have no idea what you’re offering. no concept of what it would mean to truly worry about someone like him, someone whose limits are measured in the structural integrity of reality itself.

but the greed whispers: she could learn. she could be taught to understand. she could be yours to protect and yours to be protected by.

“is that what you’re doing?” he asks, voice carefully light despite the way his pulse has started to rabbit beneath his skin. “worrying about me?”

your cheeks flush pink in the dying light, and you duck your head with that particular brand of shyness that makes him want to tilt your chin up and study every expression that crosses your face. “maybe. is that... okay?”

okay. as if your worry isn’t the most precious thing anyone’s ever offered him. as if the thought of you lying awake wondering if he’s safe, if he’s happy, if he’s eaten dinner, doesn’t make him want to tear the world apart just to lay it at your feet.

“yeah,” he manages, voice rougher than intended. “that’s okay.”

the smile you give him could power half of tokyo, soft and pleased and tinged with something that might be relief. “good. because i do worry. probably more than i should.”

you return to your papers, but he can see the continued flush across your cheekbones, the way your fingers tremble slightly as you pick up your pen. the vulnerability of the admission hangs between you like a bridge he’s not sure he’s worthy of crossing.

but he wants to cross it anyway. wants to take that worry and nurture it until it grows into something bigger, something that encompasses not just concern but need. until you can’t imagine a life that doesn’t include him in it.

“hey,” he says, waiting until you look up again. “want to grab dinner tomorrow? there’s this place in harajuku i’ve been meaning to try. we could make it a celebration.”

“celebration?”

“tsumiki aced her science test. the one you helped her study for.” it’s true, though he’d already been planning to ask you out before the test results came home. the kids are just a convenient excuse, a way to frame this as something innocent and friendly instead of what it really is.

your face lights up with genuine delight. “she did? oh, that’s wonderful! she was so nervous about the photosynthesis section.”

“thanks to you. you’re good with them. really good.” he leans forward, letting sincerity bleed into his voice. “they’re lucky to have you.”

“i’m lucky to have them too. they’re...” you pause, searching for words. “they make everything worth it, you know? all the stress about money and jobs and whether i’m making the right choices. when tsumiki shows me her art projects or megumi actually smiles at something i’ve said, it reminds me why i wanted to be a teacher in the first place.”

the admission makes something warm and predatory unfurl in his chest. you’ve just confirmed what he’s suspected for weeks—that the kids aren’t just students to you anymore. they’re anchors. reasons to stay in tokyo even when everything else feels uncertain.

and he’s the one who gave them to you.

“so dinner tomorrow?” he presses, watching the way you chew your bottom lip while you consider.

“i shouldn’t. we’ve been spending a lot of time together lately, and people might... they might get the wrong idea.”

“what kind of wrong idea?”

you shoot him a look that’s equal parts exasperated and fond. “you know what kind.”

he does know. the same idea that mrs. tanaka from 3b has been harboring for weeks, based on the knowing looks she gives him when she sees you leaving his apartment in the mornings. the same conclusion that yuki reached when you mentioned him during your last phone call home, apparently with enough frequency that she felt compelled to warn you about “getting involved with complicated men.”

the same truth he’s been carefully cultivating without letting you see the full scope of his intentions.

“would that be so terrible?” he asks quietly.

the question hangs between you like a live wire, electric with possibility. he watches your expression shift through surprise, confusion, and something that might be longing before settling into careful neutrality.

“satoru...”

the way you say his name—soft, slightly pleading—makes heat pool low in his stomach. makes the greed rear its head with fresh hunger.

“we’re good friends,” you continue, not meeting his eyes. “really good friends. but that’s... that’s all.”

he’s quiet for a moment, studying the careful way you keep your attention on your papers. watching the way your hand trembles slightly as you grade. “is that what you want? for us to be friends?”

your pen stills against the worksheet. “it’s what’s appropriate.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

you do look at him then, and there’s something vulnerable in your expression that makes him want to reach out and take. take your uncertainty and your careful boundaries and your insistence on what’s appropriate. take everything you’re trying to hold back and make it his.

“it doesn’t matter what i want,” you whisper. “you’re megumi and tsumiki’s guardian. there are... boundaries.”

“boundaries.” he repeats the word like he’s testing how it tastes, rolling it around his mouth before deciding he doesn’t like the flavor. then he smiles, slow and sharp and devastating. “i’ve never been very good with those.”

something flickers across your face—part alarm, part fascination. like you can sense the predator beneath his carefully constructed normalcy but can’t quite name it.

“the kids—”

“adore you. and you adore them.” he shifts closer, close enough that his knee brushes yours. close enough that you’d have to lean back to break eye contact. “that’s not going anywhere, regardless of what happens between us.”

“what’s between us is friendship.”

“is it?” his voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes your breathing shallow. “because friends don’t usually look at each other the way you look at me when you think i’m not paying attention.”

your cheeks flush scarlet, and you start to turn away, but his fingers catch your chin—gentle but implacable. the touch sends electricity racing up his arm, and he has to fight not to let his cursed energy respond to the contact.

“friends don’t usually write notes about each other’s hands either,” he continues, thumb brushing along your jawline. “or worry about whether they’re sleeping enough. or find excuses to spend every evening together.”

“i don’t—”

“you do.” his certainty is absolute, backed by weeks of careful observation. “and there’s nothing wrong with that. there’s nothing wrong with wanting something more.”

you’re trembling now, caught between leaning into his touch and pulling away. “this is complicated.”

“it doesn’t have to be.”

“yes, it does. your life... god, satoru, your life is so much bigger than mine. you travel constantly, you make more money than i’ll probably see in my lifetime, you’ve got this whole sophisticated world i couldn’t even begin to understand. and i’m just... i’m just a student teacher who can barely afford her rent.”

the vulnerability in your voice makes something violent turn over in his chest. not anger at you—never at you—but at the circumstances that make you feel small. at a world that taught you to measure your worth against bank accounts and career trajectories instead of the light you bring to everyone around you.

“you’re not just anything,” he says fiercely. “you’re the person who makes tsumiki laugh until her sides hurt. you’re the one who got megumi to raise his hand in class for the first time all year. you’re the woman who leaves me notes about my hands and worries when i work too late and makes me feel like maybe i’m worth something more than what i can do for other people.”

tears gather in your eyes, and one spills over, tracking down your cheek to where his thumb can catch it. “satoru...”

“let me take you to dinner,” he says quietly. “not as the kids’ guardian or your friend or any other safe label you want to hide behind. let me take you because i want to, and because i think you want me to.”

for a moment, he thinks you might say yes. can see the word forming on your lips, the way your body leans infinitesimally toward his, softening like you're seconds away from giving in.

then your phone rings.

the sound slices through the moment like a blade, jarring and bright and annoyingly chipper—some bubblegum pop track tsumiki insisted you use. he wants to throttle it. or at least drop it in a glass of water and pretend it was an accident.

you flinch like you've been caught doing something wrong, and the retreat is immediate. sharp. instinctual.

“i should…” you gesture helplessly at the phone, already pulling away.

“take it,” he says, voice tight and all too pleasant. but he wants to snatch it from your hands and lob it into traffic. or toss it off the balcony just to watch it shatter on the pavement. instead, he shoves his hands deep into his pockets, where they won’t betray him—where you won’t see how close he is to snapping the moment in half just to keep it for himself.

you answer with a shaky “hello?” and he watches your expression shift as the caller identifies themselves. watches your shoulders straighten and your free hand smooth down your skirt in unconscious preparation.

“oh, hi yuki. no, it’s fine, i was just... grading papers.”

yuki. your friend from home, the one who’s been filling your head with doubts about tokyo and inappropriate relationships with complicated men. satoru’s jaw ticks with irritation.

“what? no, i’m not... we’re not...” you glance at him, cheeks flushing again. “he’s just a friend. we’re friends.”

the words hit him like a slap, even though he knows they’re for show. knows you’re performing normalcy for someone who couldn’t begin to understand the gravitational pull between you.

but the greed doesn’t care about performance. it hears rejection and rears its head with fresh hunger.

“i can’t really talk right now,” you continue, standing and walking to the far end of the balcony. “can i call you back tomorrow?”

he doesn’t listen to the rest of the conversation, too busy cataloguing the way you’ve put distance between you. the way you keep glancing back at him like he’s something dangerous that might pounce if you turn your back too long.

when you finally hang up, the spell is broken. the moment has passed, and you’re back to being careful. back to maintaining those boundaries he’s apparently so bad with.

“i should go,” you say quietly, gathering your papers with hands that still shake slightly. “it’s getting late, and i have an early meeting tomorrow.”

he wants to argue. wants to point out that it’s barely eight-thirty and you’ve spent later evenings on his balcony before. wants to finish the conversation you were having before yuki’s poorly-timed interruption.

instead, he says, “of course. let me walk you to your door.”

it’s a politeness, nothing more—your apartment is literally next door—but you nod gratefully. as if you need the escort. as if you don’t trust yourself to make the journey alone.

at your door, you pause with your key halfway to the lock. “satoru, about what we were discussing...”

“dinner tomorrow,” he says firmly. “seven o’clock. i’ll pick you up.”

“i don’t think—”

“it’s just dinner. between friends.” the word tastes bitter on his tongue, but he forces it out anyway. “to celebrate tsumiki’s test score.”

you search his face for a moment, looking for some hint of deception or ulterior motive. he lets his expression settle into something harmless and patient, even as every instinct screams at him to press his advantage. to crowd you against your door and kiss away your protests until you remember how good his hands felt on your skin.

“okay,” you say finally. “seven o’clock. but dutch treat.”

“absolutely not.”

“satoru—”

“friends can buy each other dinner,” he says reasonably. “especially when one friend makes considerably more money than the other and wants to celebrate something important.”

you open your mouth to argue, then seem to think better of it. “fine. but somewhere casual. no place that requires a dress code.”

“deal.”

he waits until you’re safely inside before returning to his own apartment, where the silence feels heavier than usual. the balcony still smells like your shampoo, and your empty teacup sits abandoned on the small table like evidence of something interrupted.

tomorrow, he tells himself. tomorrow he’ll have you in a restaurant, away from phones and interruptions and the carefully maintained boundaries of this building. tomorrow he’ll have hours to chip away at your defenses, to make you remember the way you leaned into his touch before yuki reminded you to be careful.

tomorrow he’ll start teaching you that some boundaries are meant to be crossed.

the greed purrs in satisfaction, already planning. already hungry for more.

the next evening arrives wrapped in the golden light of early autumn, and satoru finds himself checking his reflection for the third time in ten minutes. he’s chosen his clothes carefully—dark jeans that cost more than most people’s monthly salary but look appropriately casual, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up to suggest effortless sophistication without trying too hard. he wants to look like the kind of man who belongs in your world, not the god-among-mortals that he actually is.

at exactly seven o’clock, he knocks on your door. the sound echoes in the hallway, and he can hear you moving around inside—quick, nervous footsteps and what might be a muttered curse as something falls over.

when you open the door, his breath catches.

you’re wearing a sundress he’s never seen before, something in soft blue cotton that brings out the warmth in your skin and moves like water when you shift your weight. it’s simple, probably inexpensive, but it transforms you into something ethereal. something that makes his cursed energy hum with appreciation beneath his skin.

then his gaze drops to your feet, and something complicated twists in his chest.

your sneakers are old—not vintage, just old. the white canvas has gone gray with age and washing, the rubber soles worn thin in places that speak of long walks and frugality, of routes planned carefully around train fare and practicality. they're the shoes you wear to work, the ones that carry the authority of a responsible adult, a teacher, a woman who budgets and plans and denies herself softness because professionalism always comes first.

he realizes, with a flicker of something sharp in his chest, that you wore them tonight not out of comfort, but out of necessity. because even on a date—even in a dress that floats like summer—you’ve had to choose function over beauty. because money is tight, and dinner with him doesn’t change the fact that you're still someone who counts coins at the end of the day.

they clash horribly with the rest of you tonight—the softness of your sundress, the delicate way you hold your hands behind your back, the effort you clearly put into appearing put-together. but it’s the way you’re standing—slightly pigeon-toed, just off-center—that twists something deeper in him. the shoes embarrass you. and you’re trying to hide it behind a brave smile.

and fuck, he thinks. professionalism has no place on a night meant to blur lines. not when he’s waited weeks to see you like this—soft, off-duty, his.

his greed doesn’t dull—it refines. smooths into something quieter, more dangerous. not the kind that devours, but the kind that curates. the kind that wants to swathe you in silk and gold not for aesthetics, but to erase the very possibility of you ever needing to choose practicality over beauty again. to strip away every trace of professionalism, every reminder that you’ve lived a life where sacrifice was normal.

“you look beautiful,” he says, and it’s not just the truth—it’s a strategic disarmament. because the way you glow under the compliment, the way shy pleasure breaks across your face like sunrise, is worth more than anything he’s ever exorcised. worth every ounce of power he’s hoarded.

“thank you.” your fingers pick at the hem of your dress, a nervous habit he’s catalogued with obsessive precision. “i know the shoes don’t really match, but they’re the most comfortable for walking, and i wasn’t sure how far—”

“actually,” he interrupts, voice as smooth as the silk he’s already imagining on your skin, “would you mind if we made a quick stop first? there’s something i want to show you.”

he says it lightly—like it’s a whim, an afterthought—but the decision has already calcified into resolve. this isn’t generosity. this is correction. this is him taking one look at the world you’ve bent yourself around and deciding he’ll bend it for you, from now on.

confusion flickers across your face, but you nod. and the trust in that gesture—the ease with which you let him lead—makes something in him ache. he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of faith, except smother it in luxury until it forgets it ever had to be earned.

the something he wants to show you turns out to be a boutique in ginza, all gleaming glass and understated elegance. you stop dead on the sidewalk when you realize where he’s brought you, and satoru watches the way your body language shifts—shoulders hunching slightly, arms crossing over your chest in unconscious self-protection.

“satoru, i can’t afford anything in there.”

“you’re not buying anything. i am.” the certainty in his voice surprises even him. he hadn’t planned this, hadn’t calculated the manipulation or weighed the advantages. the decision had crystallized the moment he saw your worn sneakers, born from some primitive need to provide. to care for you in the most basic, material way.

your eyes widen, and you take a half-step back. “absolutely not. we talked about this—”

“we talked about dinner. we didn’t discuss shoes.” his hand finds the small of your back, warm and steady and just firm enough to guide you forward. the contact sends electricity racing up his spine, and he has to resist the urge to let his fingers splay wider, to claim more of your warmth. “humor me. please.”

the interior is all cream marble and soft lighting, with shoes displayed like art pieces on illuminated pedestals. a sales associate approaches immediately—immaculate in her pressed blazer and professional smile—and satoru can feel you shrinking beside him. can practically hear the internal monologue telling you that you don’t belong here.

his jaw ticks with irritation. at her, at a world that taught you to make yourself smaller, at his own desperate need to fix this for you.

“good evening. how may i assist you today?”

“we’re looking for sandals,” satoru says smoothly, as if dropping into high-end boutiques is the most natural thing in the world. which, for him, it is—though he’s never brought anyone with him before. never wanted to share this particular privilege. “something elegant but comfortable. for the lady.”

the associate’s gaze flicks to your dress, then down to your worn sneakers, and something shifts in her expression. not quite disdain, but a coolness that makes satoru’s cursed energy flicker dangerously beneath his skin. he could reduce this entire block to rubble for that look. could make her understand exactly how precious you are to him.

instead, he steps half an inch closer to you, a subtle claim of protection.

“of course. what’s your budget range?”

“there isn’t one.”

the woman’s eyebrows rise slightly, but she recovers quickly. “wonderful. if you’ll follow me, i’ll show you our latest collection.”

as she leads you deeper into the store, you grab satoru’s wrist. your fingers are cold, and he can feel your pulse rabbiting against his skin. the contact makes something warm and possessive unfurl in his chest—you’re reaching for him for comfort, trusting him to anchor you in this unfamiliar world.

“this is insane,” you whisper. “these probably cost more than my rent.”

“probably,” he agrees, then covers your hand with his free one, thumb stroking over your knuckles in what he hopes is reassurance. “but you deserve beautiful things. let me give you this.”

there’s something in his voice—raw and almost pleading—that makes your protests die in your throat. he’s not performing casual generosity or calculated seduction. this is need, pure and simple. the need to see you comfortable, confident, cared for.

you stare up at him for a long moment, searching his face for something you can’t quite name. he lets you look, lets you see past the careful facade to the hunger underneath. not the predatory greed that wants to consume you, but something softer. something that wants to worship.

“why?” you ask finally.

because you don’t know what he is. because you’ve never looked at him with reverence or fear—only confusion, curiosity, and that infuriatingly gentle concern that makes him feel human instead of holy. because your happiness has begun to matter more than the rules he’s lived by his whole life. because he’s greedy—not for praise or submission, but for every unguarded smile you give without realizing its value. because the idea of you feeling small or out of place makes something ancient and vicious rise in him, ready to flatten the world just to make space for your comfort.

“because i want to,” he says instead, which is true if incomplete.

the associate returns with an array of options—delicate strappy sandals in buttery leather, elegant flats with subtle metallic details, wedges that would add inches to your height without sacrificing comfort. you hover uncertainly over the choices, clearly overwhelmed, and satoru finds himself cataloguing your preferences. the way your fingers linger on simpler designs, how you unconsciously gravitate toward nude tones that would complement your skin.

“try these,” he suggests, selecting a pair of powder blue sandals with thin straps that wind around the ankle. the leather is soft as butter, dyed the exact shade of a summer sky—the exact shade of his own eyes when the light hits them right. they’re beautiful, understated enough to seem casual but crafted with the kind of attention to detail that speaks of serious money. perfect for someone who wants to blend in while still being exquisite.

“i don’t know how to...”

“here.” he kneels without thinking, the movement fluid and natural, and the entire boutique seems to still around them.

your sharp intake of breath draws his attention upward, and he realizes how this must look. him on his knees before you in a posture of devotion, hands gentle as they lift one of your feet. the sales associate has gone very quiet, and he can feel her watching this tableau with fascination.

but he doesn’t care about her or the other customers or anyone else in the world right now. all of his considerable focus has narrowed to this moment—to the delicate architecture of your ankle, the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your skin, the trust inherent in letting him remove your armor.

because that’s what these worn sneakers are, he realizes. armor against a world that values appearance over substance, protection against judgment from people who measure worth in thread counts and brand names. you’ve been walking through life apologizing for not having enough, and he wants to give you permission to stop.

“satoru,” you whisper, and his name sounds like a prayer in your voice.

“let me,” he says quietly, beginning to unlace your worn sneakers with the same careful precision he brings to dismantling curses. there’s something profoundly intimate about the act—removing your old shoes like he’s peeling away a layer of insecurity you’ve built around yourself.

your feet are small in his hands, delicate as bird bones, and he’s struck by how fragile you seem in this moment. how easily he could hurt you if he wasn’t careful. how easily he could break you, snap those thin ankles between his fingers like kindling if the predator in him ever slipped its leash. the realization makes him gentler, more reverent, but underneath the tenderness lurks something darker. something that wants to keep you exactly like this—vulnerable and trusting and completely at his mercy.

the blue sandals slide on like they were made for you, the leather soft as silk against your skin, and his breath catches at the sight. the color matches his eyes perfectly, marking you as his in a way that’s both subtle and absolute. like a collar made of silk and gold, beautiful enough that you’ll never want to take it off.

he adjusts the ankle straps with reverent fingers, making sure they’re secure but not too tight, and finds himself imagining other ways to bind you to him. other straps, other restraints made of devotion and dependence instead of leather. his thumb traces the delicate ridge of your ankle bone, and he feels your pulse jump beneath his touch.

for a second, it almost feels fairytale-like—something out of a story where kindness is rewarded with magic, where a god in white robes appears to slip glass slippers onto aching feet. but there’s no pumpkin carriage waiting outside, no midnight deadline or hopeful escape. this isn’t a fairytale. this is ownership masquerading as salvation. and the slippers he offers aren’t made of glass—they’re soft, expensive leather dyed the color of his eyes, meant to keep you tethered. meant to remind you, with every step, whose hands first unlaced your armor.

you’re not escaping poverty—you’re being ushered into his curated paradise, one where you’re allowed to be lovely as long as you stay close to him. where your needs are anticipated and met before you even realizes you have them, creating a web of dependence disguised as care.

when he’s finished, he doesn’t immediately rise. instead, he stays kneeling, hands resting lightly on your calves, looking up at you with something that might be worship in his crystalline eyes. you look like a goddess in those blue sandals, like something that belongs in marble temples instead of cramped apartments. like something that should be cherished and protected and never allowed to doubt its own worth.

the color matches his eyes perfectly—a coincidence he’ll never admit to engineering—and seeing you wear his shade makes something primitive and possessive roar to life in his chest.

“perfect,” he breathes, and he’s absolutely not talking about the shoes.

the spell almost breaks when the sales associate clears her throat delicately. “shall i wrap up the sneakers for you?”

“no need,” satoru says, rising to his full height in one fluid motion, already dismissing your old life with casual ruthlessness. “we won’t be needing them anymore.”

“actually,” he adds, voice slightly hoarse but steady, turning toward another display like the idea had only just occurred to him, “we should get you something practical, too. for work.”

you blink, still seated, still fragile and wide-eyed in his favorite shade of blue. “satoru, you don’t have to—”

“i know.” he says it simply, almost indulgently, like humoring a child’s resistance. “but i want to.”

he selects a pair of flats in soft navy leather—elegant, understated, sturdy enough for long days at the front of a classroom. they’re beautiful without drawing attention, refined without being gaudy. and once again, exactly your size. another quiet chain in the prison he’s crafting around you, woven from comfort and consideration until you forget there was ever a time you walked alone.

“we’ll have the flats delivered,” he tells the associate, without even glancing your way. “i won’t have her carrying anything tonight.”

your lips part, maybe to argue, maybe to express something that hasn’t yet taken shape—but nothing comes out. you’re too overwhelmed by the opulence, too unsteady in your new sandals and the way they mold to your feet like a second skin. too overwhelmed by the sheer weight of his attention. you don’t even think to question why a man who shops like this—who spends without blinking, who moves through boutiques like a prince in exile—would live across the hall from you in a building where the rent is reasonable and the walls are thin.

the saleswoman says nothing. but her lashes lower with something caught between envy and calculation. a soft little scoff behind her smile, as if wondering what spell you cast to make a man like that kneel and spend.

there are no shopping bags when you leave. the sandals are on your feet, the flats will arrive at your door, and your old sneakers—your last grip on practicality—are gone without fanfare. discarded like yesterday’s skin.

satoru guides you out of the boutique with an easy hand at the small of your back, and something warm unfurls in his chest. not just satisfaction at a manipulation well-executed, but something headier. something like joy. not because he’s tricked you—but because you’re letting him.

“i can’t believe you just did that,” you say as he leads you toward the restaurant, your voice breathy with something between wonder and alarm. “those cost more than i make in a month.”

“they’re just shoes.” the lie comes easily, though they’re anything but. they’re a claim, a promise, a down payment on the life he wants to build around you.

“they’re not just anything, and you know it.” you stop walking, forcing him to turn and face you, and there’s something searching in your gaze that makes his pulse quicken. “why did you really do that? and don’t say it’s because you wanted to.”

he’s quiet for a moment, studying your face in the golden light of the street lamps, weighing truth against strategy. when he speaks, his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it, threaded with a vulnerability that isn’t entirely calculated.

“because you were embarrassed. because you deserve to feel as beautiful as you look. because...” he pauses, letting something genuine bleed through the careful construction of his words. “because i’ve never wanted to give someone something before. not really. and seeing you in those shoes, seeing you happy... it felt like the most important thing i’ve ever done.”

it’s not the whole truth—how could it be, when the whole truth would terrify you—but it’s true enough. true in the way that matters, in the space between what he wants and what he’s willing to admit to wanting.

the honesty in his admission makes you go very still, and he watches emotions chase each other across your face—surprise, confusion, something that might be longing. you want to believe him. he can see it in the way your body leans toward his despite your mental protests, in the soft parting of your lips like you’re about to speak but can’t find the words.

“thank you,” you whisper instead, and the simple gratitude in your voice makes something in his chest constrict with feeling.

the restaurant he’s chosen is perfect—upscale enough to make the evening feel special, but casual enough that you don’t feel out of place in your simple dress and new sandals. the hostess leads you to a table by the window, where city lights paint everything in shades of gold and amber, and satoru finds himself cataloguing every detail. the way you run your fingers over the linen tablecloth like you’ve never felt anything so soft. how you study the menu with careful attention, probably calculating costs despite his insistence that money doesn’t matter. the unconscious way you keep glancing down at your feet, still adjusting to the reality of wearing something so beautiful.

over dinner, he draws you out with surgical precision, but finds himself genuinely captivated by your responses. asks about your childhood in the countryside, your parents’ rice farm, the festivals you attended as a girl, and listens with rapt attention as you describe the way fireflies would dance over the paddies in summer, the weight of tradition in every ceremony and celebration.

“it sounds idyllic,” he says, though there’s a wistful edge in his voice that surprises even him. he’s genuinely envious of your simple, grounded childhood—so different from his own, where the world had already labeled him a weapon before he understood what being a boy even meant. he hadn’t been allowed a childhood. not really. only during those fleeting years at jujutsu high, with suguru and shoko by his side, had he felt something close to adolescence—loud, reckless, painfully tender in hindsight. but they hadn’t been children. they were already teenagers carrying too much, mistaking temporary freedom for permanence. even then, happiness had been precarious, something that only existed within the fragile ecosystem of “us three against the world.” and when that broke, he learned what it meant to be strong enough to hold everything, and too dangerous to keep anything.

“what about you? what was your childhood like?” you ask, tilting your head slightly—not prying, just curious in that gentle way of yours that makes even his worst memories feel less sharp.

for a moment, his expression goes carefully blank, muscle memory kicking in to hide the reflexive pain. then he forces himself to relax, to let you see past the armor. “different. very different.”

“different how?”

“lonely,” he admits, twirling noodles around his chopsticks with absent precision. “i was... gifted. in ways that made it hard to relate to other children. my family had expectations that didn’t leave much room for normal experiences.”

the vulnerability in his confession is calculated but not false. he was lonely, is still lonely in ways that your presence has only begun to touch. there had been suguru and shoko once—a brief, shining period where he’d believed he could have both power and happiness. but they’d been teenagers then, all of them, playing at normalcy without understanding the true cost of what he was. the difference is that now he knows better, and you don’t need to.

your hand covers his across the table without hesitation, and the contact sends heat racing up his arm. “i’m sorry. that sounds incredibly isolating.”

his fingers turn beneath yours, palm pressing against palm in a gesture that feels like acceptance, like benediction. like forgiveness for sins you don’t even know he’s committed. “it was. until recently.”

the weight of his gaze makes heat bloom across your cheekbones, and he savors the sight like fine wine. you’re so responsive to him, so present in a way that makes every interaction feel significant. he’s used to people performing for him, trying to impress or appease or manipulate in return. but you just are—genuine and warm and completely unaware of your own power.

“satoru...” you start, then trail off, seeming to lose your nerve.

“i know you think this is complicated,” he says quietly, thumb stroking across your knuckles in a rhythm that matches his heartbeat. he can feel you trying to maintain your boundaries, can sense the internal war between what you want and what you think is appropriate. but he’s patient. he’s always been good at self-control, and you’re worth the wait. worth letting your feelings ripen like fruit on the vine until they’re ready to be plucked. “and maybe it is. but complicated doesn’t mean wrong.”

you’re quiet for a moment, and he can practically hear the internal debate. the practical part of your brain cataloguing all the reasons this is a terrible idea, warring with the emotional part that’s already half in love with the fantasy he’s weaving. he knows which side will win eventually—can see it in the way your thumb unconsciously strokes across his knuckles, the way you lean into his touch despite your mental protests.

“what happens when you get bored?” you ask finally, voice barely above a whisper. “when the novelty of slumming it with the poor teacher wears off?”

the question hits him like a physical blow—not because it’s unfair, but because it reveals how thoroughly he’s failed to convince you of your own worth. the casual self-deprecation in your voice makes something violent turn over in his chest, and for a moment his cursed energy flickers dangerously close to the surface.

then it settles into something colder. more determined.

“you think very little of yourself,” he observes, voice carefully controlled. “and very little of me, apparently.”

“i think realistically. we’re from different worlds—”

the words hit something raw in him. not because they’re untrue—because they’re too true. you live in the light, in the warm hum of ordinary things like groceries and late-night baking and neighbors who smile. he lives in blood and shadows and centuries-old systems, in a world where love is just another vulnerability to weaponize.

and still—he wants to stay here. in your world. just a little longer.

“so?” his grip on your hand tightens fractionally. “the best relationships are built on differences. complementary strengths.” his thumb finds your pulse point, pressing gently against the evidence of your nervousness. “you make things feel... easier. like maybe i don’t have to try so hard to be understood.”

he doesn’t say normal, doesn’t say human, even though that’s the shape of the ache behind his ribs. you wouldn’t understand the weight of those words, and he likes that about you—likes that your kindness is instinctive, not conditional. that you’ve never seen him as anything more (or less) than just satoru.

the raw honesty in his voice makes your breath catch, and he watches you struggle with the desire to believe him. wants to reach across the table and shake you until you understand that you’re not some charity case or temporary diversion. you’re the first person in his adult life to matter more than his own power, more than his own comfort.

you’re the first person he’s ever wanted to keep.

“the kids,” you say weakly, grasping for your last line of defense.

“adore you. need you. and that’s not going to change regardless of what happens between us.” his fingers intertwine with yours, grip firm and reassuring and just possessive enough to make his point. “if anything, this makes it better. makes us more like a real family.”

the word family hits you like lightning, and he watches it work its magic across your features. can see you picturing sunday mornings around his kitchen table, helping with homework and planning birthday parties and all the small domestic rituals that make a life. can see you imagining belonging somewhere, being needed and wanted and loved.

he can see it—how close you are to giving in. how the life he’s built around you is beginning to feel less like an intrusion and more like inevitability.

you’re still fighting it, though. still clinging to the safety of definitions and distance, as if they’ll protect you from the quiet gravity of what’s already happening.

“we’re still just friends,” you say, as if saying it out loud will make it true.

“of course,” he agrees, smile easy, voice smooth as silk. he doesn’t push. doesn’t argue. just takes your hand in his, presses a gentle kiss to your knuckles like the gentleman he’s pretending to be. “whatever pace makes you comfortable.”

he doesn’t need to rush. you’ve already stepped into the garden. you just don’t know it’s been curated to bloom around you. so he smiles again—soft, patient, perfect. “i’m not going anywhere.”

the walk home is charged with new possibility, and satoru finds himself hyperaware of every detail. how you keep glancing down at your new sandals with something like wonder. the way you unconsciously match his pace, your body seeking synchronization with his. how you don’t pull away when his arm brushes yours with each step, the contact sending little jolts of electricity through his nervous system.

you’re quieter than usual—shy, maybe even a little unsure. he knows the extravagance of the evening has thrown you off balance, and a more generous man might feel guilt for using generosity as a kind of leverage. but when you don’t re-establish the usual boundaries, when you look up at him with pink cheeks and a tentative smile, he knows he’s winning. you’re reassured by his earlier promise to move at your pace, and he takes full advantage by not pressing, letting the illusion of control soothe you while subtly guiding every step.

he’s testing his own self-control with every casual touch, every lingering look. you’re so close he can smell your shampoo, can count your eyelashes when you glance up at him. so close he could pull you into the nearest alley and show you exactly how much restraint he’s been exercising. but he won’t. not yet.

the gojo estate taught him early that indulgence is a privilege the strongest can’t afford. his childhood was a masterclass in detachment, and after suguru—after everything—he’d accepted that real desire was a weakness he couldn’t afford. but tonight, walking beside you in the soft buzz of city light, the hunger almost feels holy. almost. patience has always been his greatest weapon, and you’re worth the careful cultivation.

but he wants, god, he wants. not just your affection, not just your gratitude—but the confirmation that this version of him, the curated prince you see and not the weapon they forged, is enough. that if he handed you the glass slipper, you would take it and never question who handed it to you. he doesn’t need to be innocent. he just needs to be yours.

“the shoes okay? not too uncomfortable?”

“they’re perfect.” your voice holds genuine amazement, like you can’t quite believe something so beautiful belongs to you now. “i feel like cinderella.”

“does that make me the prince?” he turns toward you slightly, his tone light, but there’s a tremor of something deeper beneath it—something almost boyish in its hope. he wants to hear you say yes. wants you to crown him the fairytale ideal, even if he knows what he’s doing is far from noble. even if every step of tonight was designed to bind rather than liberate. your perception of him is the only truth he’s ever craved.

you glance up at him, taking in the sharp planes of his face in the streetlight, the way his hair catches the glow like spun silver. there’s something almost otherworldly about him in this light, something that makes you think of myths and legends and powers beyond human understanding.

“more like the fairy godmother,” you say finally, and he laughs—rich and delighted and completely unconscious of the irony.

because he’s not freeing you from anything. he’s binding you to him with threads of silk and gold, weaving a web of dependence and desire that will be impossible to escape. not the fairy godmother at all, but something far more dangerous. something that wants to keep its princess locked in the tower, safe and beautiful and his.

at your door, the evening hangs suspended between ending and beginning. you turn to face him, key heavy in your hand, and he can see the uncertainty in your eyes. the desire warring with caution, possibility fighting against self-preservation.

“thank you,” you say. “for dinner, for the shoes, for... everything.”

“thank you for saying yes.”

he wants to kiss you. wants to press you against your door and claim your mouth until you forget every reason this is complicated. wants to mark you as his in the most primitive way possible.

instead, he waits. lets you wage your internal war, lets you think you’re still in control of this moment.

“it’s just—” you start, then stop, biting your lip in that way that makes heat pool low in his stomach. “we’re friends. that’s all i can... that’s all i can give right now.”

he knows it’s a lie. can see it in the way your eyes linger on his mouth, in the unconscious lean of your body toward his. can smell the sweet scent of your arousal mixing with your perfume. but he lets you have this fiction, this last pretense of boundaries.

“of course,” he says softly, voice gentle as silk. “just friends.”

relief flickers across your face, followed immediately by something that looks suspiciously like disappointment. you’re at war with yourself, caught between what you think you should want and what you actually do want. it’s delicious to watch. intoxicating in a way that puts his favorite brands of sake to shame.

then you do something that catches him completely off guard.

you reach up—have to stretch on your toes even in the heeled sandals because god, he’s tall—and tug gently at his collar, pulling him down to your level. the action is hesitant, almost shy, but there’s determination in it too. like you’ve made some internal decision that surprises even you.

“it’s all i can give,” you whisper again, voice barely audible, and press your lips to his cheek.

the kiss is soft, chaste, but it sends fire racing through his veins like nothing has in years. not since shoko’s tentative touches when they were teenagers, fumbling through the motions of something neither of them truly understood. but even that pales in comparison to this—to you choosing to cross your own carefully maintained boundaries, choosing him despite every logical reason not to.

what undoes him completely is the way you have to pull him down to reach, the trust inherent in the gesture. the fact that he could break you in half without even trying, but instead he lets himself be guided by your small hands, lets himself be made smaller and more human for this one perfect moment.

he’s completely still under your touch, afraid that moving will break the spell, will remind you that this is exactly the kind of intimacy you claim to want to avoid. his hands hover at his sides, trembling with the effort of not reaching for you, of not spinning you around and pressing you against the door and showing you exactly what your innocent kiss does to him.

when you pull back, your cheeks are flushed pink in the hallway light, and he can see the shock in your own eyes—like you can’t quite believe you just did that.

“good night, satoru,” you whisper, and slip inside before he can respond.

he stands there for a long moment, hand rising unconsciously to touch his cheek where your lips had been. his skin burns where you kissed him, and he can still feel the phantom pressure of your fingers on his collar, the trust in the way you’d pulled him down to your level.

the control he’s been maintaining so carefully all evening threatens to snap entirely. he wants to break down your door, wants to show you exactly what your “friendship” does to him. wants to pin you against the wall and kiss you until you admit that this thing between you is anything but innocent.

instead, he forces himself to walk the few steps to his own door, fingers shaking slightly as he fits his key in the lock.

inside his apartment, he slumps against the closed door and lets himself feel the full force of what just happened. you’d initiated that kiss. you—careful, boundaried, insistent-on-just-friends you—had reached for him first. had pulled him down to you like you couldn’t bear to let the evening end without some form of contact.

it’s more intoxicating than any sweets he’s ever consumed, more addictive than any power he’s ever wielded. the knowledge that beneath all your protests and careful distance, you want him too.

back in his own apartment, the silence feels different—charged with possibility instead of empty. he can hear you moving around next door, the domestic symphony of someone settling in for the night, and the sound makes something warm and possessive settle in his chest.

tomorrow there will be complications. questions from the kids about why you’re both smiling differently, curious looks from neighbors, the delicate work of turning this fragile beginning into something permanent. but tonight, he has the memory of your fingers on his collar burning against his skin and the knowledge that you’ve taken the first step into his carefully constructed paradise.

autumn is coming. he can feel it in the cooling air, can see it in the way the leaves are just beginning to turn. soon everything will ripen and fall, including you. including whatever careful resistance you’re still clinging to.

he’s always been good at waiting for the perfect moment to strike. and when the time comes—when your feelings have ripened enough, when your defenses have softened enough—he’ll be ready to pluck you from your old life entirely.

the greed purrs in satisfaction, but underneath it, something softer blooms. something that feels dangerously like genuine affection. like the first stirrings of a love so consuming it will remake the both of you.

and if it comes wrapped in possession and manipulation and the quiet certainty that he’ll never let you go—well, paradise has always come with a price.

taglist: @gojoikawa @sleepykittyenergy @saltwaterships @perqbeth @kamuihz @luvuyuuji @ssatorus

#౨ৎ — love letters #tw dead dove #dark gojo satoru #gojo x reader #dark gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #gojo x female reader #jjk x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader smut #jjk x reader smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen fanfic

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cheriladycl01 · 1 day ago

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Please don’t leave me - Azriel x Reader Part 2

Plot: Daughter of Day and Night, Hellion being your father and a Illyrian Warrior being your mother made you one of the most controversial people to walk Prythian. Hellion protected you for most of his life but with war on the rise it's getting harder.

AZRIEL POV

The Inner Circle had gone back to the night court knowing there was a lot they had to talk about, both politics and family dramas that seemed to always crop up in these situations for them.

Azriel couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. He was flying blindly next to Cassian.

And all he could think about was his mate over in the court that happened to be the complete opposite of his.

She was beautiful there was no denying that. She had such sharp features, foxy almost cat like eyes and cheekbones that were strong which he could tell were from her Illyrian mother. And then the rest was a perfect mix of Cisca and Helion blessing her with dark curly hair, brown eyes and warm tanned skin.

Azriel landed in the House of Wind Cassian next to him and they spot the others who have winnowed their way here along with Amren, Mor and Nyx who had stayed behind.

“Right, I think it’s time that … Feyre, Cisca, Azriel, Cassian and I retire to the office to discuss what occurred tonight” Rhysand admits.

“What happened is everyone alright?” Amren asks, a look of surprise on her face. These things often had someone coming home in a fit and it was shocking to see just how calm everyone was. It was actually a little off to Amren, not that she’d admit that.

“Politics as usual Amren” Rhsyand says before winnowing him and Feyre to the study. Cassian, Cisca and Azriel follow shortly behind, Azriel tagging at the back almost still in his own thought and not ready for a group conversation about this just yet.

Rhysand did his brother a favour by actually talking politics, the closer bond between the night and day court thanks to Y/N Princess of the Day Court. An alliance between them was necessary and Thesan seeing two solar courts united will want in on it as well making the northern three territories of Pythian unified.

“Cisca, your daughter …” Rhysand says tentatively making both Feyre and Cisca freeze. Feyre knew how heartbroken Cisca was over not seeing her daughter, as a mother herself Feyre was the person she opened up too the most.

“Yes, my lord” she answers her gaze watching her booted feet on the floor. Her wings twitching in annoyance.

“I’ll invite her to stay here. She’s going to be a crucial part of this unity between Day and Night. Both you and Azriel hold a key part in that” Rhysand explains and confused looks cross around the room.

“I understand me, but … why Azriel?” Cisca asks looking up at her high lord.

“Azriel has felt the mate bond with her” Rhysand explains softly making everyone in the room still.

Azriel had waited the longest out of the brothers for a mate. First he was obsessed with Mor, which was unrequited love for many years. Then the obsession with Elain and the fact that the third sister HAD to be for the third brother, only for her to fall hard for Lucien despite everything he’d done to show her his interest. And Gwyn who’d later found her own destiny along a different path that Azriel was not on.

And then there she was, as bright as the sun yet as calm as the moon. Azriel had been stumped. He’d never been like this before and it almost made the usually stoic and brooding shadowsinger … giddy?

“She’s your mate?” Cisca asks in disbelief.

“The bond snapped as we walked in. I- it didn’t snap for her” Azriel explained.

“That’s why you followed her out … to me. That’s why you listened. I thought you were just being nosy but you were going to try comfort her weren’t you?” She asks and Azriel looks down.

“You can be honest with us Az” Feyre smiles, looking at him with genuine happiness. She could see the two of you together and what a beautiful sight it was.

“Oh Rhysand we should invite her over to dinner and to stay. Just for a few nights!” Feyre says to her mate. To anyone else it probably sounded like an offer or question Feyre had directed to Rhys. But the High Lord knew better than to question his High Lady.

“Of course darling. I’ll let Helion know immediately” he smiles patting her thigh letting her know he approved.

“That might be difficult” Cisca says her wings dropping and a gnarly frown on her face.

“Why?” Cassian pushes.

“My daughter and I … we don’t exactly get on” she breathes out awkwardly.

“Don’t get on? Everyone likes you Cisca. Come on” Cassian jokes and laugh until he catches on that no one else has found his joke funny.

“Oh. You’re serious! I- I’m truly sorry” Cassian blubbers.

“Surly we can convince her? I’ll go myself!” Feyre says determined to get you here in both mother and mate distance.

“She won’t come for me” Azriel said, and Rhys took in the glimmer of pain on his face. “She doesn’t even seem to know I exist let alone that I’m her mate”

“I’ll talk to Helion, I think I have the perfect excuse to get her to come here” Rhys smiles his eyes twinkling with a mischief to them.

Azriel was dismissed and left to go back to the main room, Cassian following in his wake.

Feyre had run off to grab Nyx off his sisters to put him to bed. Cassian had immediately found purchase next to Nesta who was curled up reading a book. Elain was next to the fire silently sipping on her tea. Her face lit up as Azriel entered the room and a wave of nausea overtook him.

How was he going to explain this all to Elain. Things had started to fizzle out between them. From whose end, he didn’t know but it didn’t feel like they were outwardly looking for each other anymore.

“Elain, can I have a moment” Azriel says and both Nesta and Cassians head pops up in interest.

“Of course. How about a walk in the garden” she smiles sweetly and he nods. She holds her hand out to him, as if to guide him.

In that moment however, touching any female that wasn’t his mate no longer felt right now that he’d found her.

Elain brow raises in curiosity before talking his hand in her own, guiding him down to the gardens.

Y/N POV

You were lounging in the pools of the day court Lucien, your half brother beside you.

“You’ve met my mother right?” You ask looking at Lucien who rolled his shoulders back before turning to face you. His long ginger hair was down and the bottom half was wet from both of you having been swimming.

“I have yes. She tends to my mate and her sisters” he says gruffly. He’d spoke to you about his mate Elain and how he’d given her time to come to terms with the mate bond but she just didn’t seem interested in even trying to talk to him. So she knew her brothers kindness and how he’d waited for the newly fae female to approach him.

“But what is she like? I’ve never …” you start but it’s like your words are stuck.

“You’re lucky you knew Helion for as long as you did unlike me. But alternatively if you’d grown up under your mother’s care, she would have also cared for you the same. She’s a spectacular female, very strong and hardworking. It’s unfortunate you don’t give her the chance to prove to you what she could truly be like” he sighed, knowing that his life with Beron had been painful enough and he would have done anything to have Helion in his life earlier than he was now.

“I’m scared” you admit, pulling your hair back up into a loose updo that had your dark curls cascading out of the makeshift clip you’d used to secure it up out of the water.

“Of?” He asks and you frown thinking for a moment what you were truly scared off.

“That she’ll disappoint me… that I’ll disappoint her? I don’t really know. I just know that she hasn’t made the effort for 100 years so why should I make the effort now” you admit and he nods.

“That’s right, but you’ll also get to explore the part of your lineage that you’ve always questioned” he smiles knowing what it was like the first time he came to the day court seeing all the wondering pools and dome shaped roofs on the white sandy buildings.

“Y/N! Lucien come quickly” your father shouts and you both immediately swim to the edge of the pool hopping up wrapping a robe around you.

“Father?” You ask panicked as you and Lucien run over to him.

“The night court needs both of you immediately! Their general has a nasty curse on him that needs to be broken!” Helion advises and you go to question it but he shakes his head.

“You’ll be staying there for some time. Rhysand wishes to have you read some old tomes as well. Lucien you will escort you sister and go with her, do you understand?” Your father directs both of you. With a sigh you both nod and without anymore questions you winnow to the night court.

Taglist:

@illyriassweetheart @anothergojostan @alexof90s @cherry-hotline @jaybarding

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dark-night-hero · 55 minutes ago

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Imagine Yandere! Zayne who happened to be one of doctor in the hospital you're consulting on.

Imagine it starts with headaches.

Imagine it started with small, persistent ones on yout temple. Fatigue that doesn't go away, no matter how much you sleep. Then the forgetfulness begins, keys left in the fridge, your alarm never ringing even though you swear you set it.

Imagine you think you're losing it. So you go to him. Because Zayne Li has always been calm. Rational. Reliable. With his lab coat and his quiet voice and the soft spoken way he looks at you like he already knows what's wrong before you finish your sentence.

Imagine you trust him. You always have. Ever since you bumped into him that one afternoon in the hospital. And that's one of your first mistake.

Imagine the way he leans back in his chair, clipboard resting on his knee, glasses glinting under the clinic light. "You're under stress." Zayne says, gently. "But I think it's more than that." You blink, unsure. "More than that?" He nods slowly, eyes soft. Too soft.

"You've been feeling isolated. Disconnected. Detached from people around you. From yourself." You pause. That's… Not wrong.

"But.. How would you know that?" You ask. "I didn't say-" "You didn't have to." His smile is reassuring. "I've seen it before." Your throat tightens. "Is something… Wrong with me?" He doesn't answer right away. Just folds his hands together, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. "No." He says finally. "Not wrong." Then, quieter. "Just… Vulnerable."

Imagine the way the world starts to feel smaller.

Imagine the way your friends stop texting back. Your boss pulls you aside about your performance. You start forgetting appointments, missing meals, sleeping at odd hours. And Zayne... He's always there, always picking up the pieces.

Imagine Yandere! Zayne who gives you supplements, says they'll help. They taste bitter. You take them anyway.

"I think the people around you don't understand how delicate your condition is." He tells you one day, after you mention a friend telling you to 'snap out of it.'. "They're not trying to hurt you." He continues. "But ignorance can be cruel, can't it?" You nod. Eyes burning. "They don't know what it's like to feel lost in your own head."

Imagine, you agree. Of course you do. Because Zayne understands you better than anyone. He listens. He explains what was happening to you when you can't find the words. He makes it all make sense.

Imagine what you don't notice the way he's rewriting your reality. You just feel safer with him than anyone else.

"You've been pulling away." Zayne says one night after hours. His office is quiet, lights low, the city a blur outside the windows. "Not from me. From them." You nod, exhausted. "I just… I don't trust anyone anymore." "But you trust me." You look up. "Always."

Imagine his smile was small. Controlled. His eyes soften like you've passed a test.

"That's good." He says. "Because I think they're only making it worse. Your symptoms… They're flaring whenever you're around them." "But I can't just cut people off." You whisper. "They'll think I'm-" "Sick?" He finishes for you. "They already think that, don't they?" You go silent.

Imagine, Zayne leans forward, voice low, gentle. "You've tried everything. Therapies. Meds. Social support. And none of it worked." He pauses. Looks at you carefully. "Except me." He added and you breathe in shakily. "Then maybe it's time you stop fighting it." You blink. "Fighting what?" "Fighting the fact that you need me."

Imagine he lets you stay over that night. His guest room is clean. Warm. Clinical in a way that comforts you. His tea tastes faintly herbal. Your body feels heavy and soft like something inside you has stopped resisting.

Imagine he knocks on your door later. You're half asleep, brain fogged. "Just wanted to check on you." He says, stepping in quietly. His hands feel cool on your forehead. His thumb brushes under your eye. "You looked like you were crying." "I… I don't know what's happening to me." You whisper, voice breaking.

Imagine, Zayne sits at the edge of the bed. "I do." You swallow. "Tell me." His hand moves to your wrist, then gently up your arm, a trail of reassurance and subtle control. "You've been misdiagnosed. Overmedicated. Mistreated. Because no one wanted to admit the truth." "What truth?"

"That you're safest when you're with me." He leans in. His breath brushes your cheek. "I'm the only thing keeping you sane." Your vision blurs. "Then don't leave me." You whisper. "I never will." He says. "Even if you ask me to."

Imagine what you don't realize he was the reason your pills made you foggy. You don't realize he pulled strings to get your file flagged as 'difficult.' You didn't realize he made the world crumble around you just to catch you in the fall.

Imagine you only know that in Zayne's arms, you finally feel okay. That his voice is the only one that makes sense. That when his hand slips under your chin and tilts your face to his, you don't pull away. You close your eyes. And let him take the rest of you.

Imagine it was subtle. Always subtle.

Imagine you only realize your mail isn't coming when your bank freezes your card. You only notice your friends are gone when their messages stop arriving. When you search your inbox and find nothing. As if they were never there. But Zayne is.

Imagine he always is. When the lights flicker. When you wake up gasping. When you stand in the shower too long and forget what you were doing. He was always there. Quiet. Calm. Hands like silk, voice like wind against glass.

"I think the world's just too much for you lately." He says gently one morning, as he brushes your hair behind your ear. "All that stimulation. All those people who don't really understand what you need." "I'm just tired." You whisper. "I know." His voice is barely audible. "That's why I'm here."

Imagine your phone stops working one morning. No notifications. No signal. You mention it over tea, barely a passing complaint but Zayne frowns like it's a serious concern. "Must be a hardware issue." He says calmly, setting down the cup he made for you, something floral and faintly sweet. "I'll take a look." And you never get it back.

Imagine you try to leave once. Not far. Just outside. A walk.

but Imagine, the door won't open. The keypad beeps red. And when you ask, Zayne only hums and scribbles something in your chart. "You had an episode." He says gently. "You tried to go out barefoot. Do you remember?"

Imagine the way your stomach twists. "No, I- wasn't I wearing shoes?" He frowns with quiet sympathy. "They were in your hand." Your pulse quickens. "I… I'm sorry, I didn't-" "It's not your fault." Zayne says immediately, reaching over to hold your hand in both of his. His skin is cold. "That's why I'm keeping you safe, remember?"

Imagine the way you nod, fast. "Right." "You don't have to be scared." He says. "I'm monitoring everything. Your vitals, your sleep. You're stable when you're here." Your voice trembles. "Then why does it feel like I'm not?"

Imagine the way his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Because deep down, a part of you is still resisting. But it's okay." He gently squeezes your hand. "You'll unlearn that. You'll learn to trust me fully."

Imagine Zayne had given you a new pill the next day. "This one's for your mood." He says, carefully placing it on your tongue himself.

Imagine, it tastes bitter. It always does. But you sleep for thirteen hours. And when you wake, he's beside you. His hand on your thigh. His other fingers gently stroking the back of your neck. Too familiar. Too soft.

"I thought I dreamt this." You mumble, dazed. "Shh." He whispers, brushing his nose against your cheek. "It's easier when you stop trying to wake up."

Imagine the way you feel something like a sob rise in your throat. But he's already kissing your temple, already pulling the blanket higher up your body. "Rest." He murmurs. "Let me carry the hard parts." You nod. Because that's what you do now.

Imagine days soon became a blur. You don’t know if it's Tuesday or Sunday or some other invented day he's placed on the clock.

Imagine Zayne says the clinic is short staffed. That the city's chaotic. That people wouldn't understand your progress and might interrupt it.

Inagine he was the only one allowed to touch your charts. The only one who gives you food. The only one who unlocks the door. And when he undresses you before bath time, he doesn't ask. He just says. "Arms up." And you obey like it's a reflex.

"It's just easier this way, right?" He says one night, rinsing your hair, his fingers massaging your scalp in slow, rhythmic movements. "To stop fighting it?" "I guess…" "You're safest here. You know that." "Yes." You whisper. "You belong here. With me." "… Yes."

Imagine the way he kisses your shoulder then. Lingering. Warm. Too intimate to be innocent. You shiver. He holds you tighter. "See?" Zayne whispers, voice low against your skin. "You're adjusting beautifully."

Imagine, you still get flashes sometimes. Panic. Sudden certainty that something is wrong. That this isn't what healing looks like. But then he appears. Sits beside you. Takes your pulse. And you forget again.

Imagine you forget the friends you used to have. The version of yourself that used to laugh. The world that existed before his hands were the only ones that ever touched you gently.

"You're progressing well." Zayne says one evening, brushing his fingers down your spine as you sit curled up in his lap. "You said that yesterday." You mumble. He hums, lips near your ear. "I say it every day because it's always true."

Imagine the way you lean into him. Sleepy. Faint. "Would you ever let me go?" You ask softly. His hands still for just a second. Then he presses a kiss to your neck, and says. "Why would you ask that?" You don't know.

and Imagine, you never ask again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

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sweetdispatch · 22 hours ago

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A weekly dinner

What's in my makeup bag? pairing: Sidney Crosby x fem!reader summary: When you accepted the fact that relationships are not for you, Sidney appeared in your life and changed your mind warning: none

Relationships were never something important for you. It was more of a friendship with benefits. It was easier to date a guy instead of searching for a one night stand. You always tried to love those guys but you couldn’t. You saw flaws in them and you just couldn’t ignore it.

Each time, you felt like the relationship was getting too serious, you were ending them. You didn’t want them hurt just because you couldn’t love them. It became a pattern for you and slowly, you accepted that you’ll never be truly happy and you’ll never love anyone. Your heart was unavailable for love.

Everything had changed when you met Sidney. At first, you were seeing him as a colleague, as someone who’s in the same group of people. It was another dinner with your coworkers when one of them invited Sidney. When you looked at him, you noticed straight away how handsome he was.

During the dinner, you were listening to every word Sidney said. He was smart but he wasn’t showing off how smart he is. He had knowledge about almost every topic and with passion he was telling his opinions. You never met someone like him and you were intrigued by him. With time, everyone was going back home after paying for the dinner but you and Sidney stayed in the restaurant.

“I haven’t heard your opinion about more hours of sport in schools” Sidney said to you. Your coworker was bragging about how her child is miserable that there’s not so many sports classes and has to pay for his training.

“It’s tough for me to speak about it. I didn’t like sports in school and for me, the less the better but now, as I’m older, I see how important they are. I don’t have kids and I don’t know what it looks like now so I just stayed quiet” You explained and took a sip of your wine.

“I see. I understand your view. It’s interesting you know, with time we’re growing up and we can notice things that were useless for us in the past are important now” Sidney said and you nodded. “I propose to pay for the dinner and go somewhere else to chat. I want to know you better because you see things way differently than I do and it’s fascinating. Unless you have something to do” Sidney proposed.

“We can go somewhere” You told him. You wanted to go back home because you had work in the morning but you were interested in him and you wanted to get to know him better.

That night, you and Sidney were talking about everything and nothing. You were having many conversations about controversial topics and even if you had different opinions, it wasn’t a screaming match to prove one another who’s right. You were calmly explaining to each other why you think this way.

Sidney was intrigued by you. You were way different than other women he knew. You never tried to show off, you were yourself. He was impressed by that. In his life, he was always surrounded by women who were trying so hard to be like him to have his interest but you didn't care about it.

This dinner turned into your weekly dates with Sidney. Even if none of you called it like that, it was like a date. He was always driving to pick you up, never let you pay and was listening to your every sentence. The two of you bonded on just talking. You were much younger than him but he didn’t care. All he cared about was your personality.

It’s been three months since you two started going out every week and you developed a crush on Sidney. You felt like he’s the missing piece in your life. Never before have you felt so heard by any man. With excitement you were waiting for another dinner with him. The topics never ended, you two were talking about everything and nothing.

Sidney felt similar towards you. He felt like you’re the perfect woman for him because you were interested in him as a person and not as an athlete. All the small things like you arguing to pay or you not wanting him to drive on the other part of the city just to pick you up showed him that you don’t want his money.

It was another dinner for you two. Sidney picked you up from your work and drove you to the restaurant where you two met. This place had a meaning for him now and wanted this date to be another chapter in your relationship. Like always, you’ve been sharing your opinions and experiences. You didn’t sense anything suspicious.

“How do you feel about relationships?” Sidney asked you and you froze. You didn’t know what to tell him.

“Um, yeah…” You started. “I’ve been in a couple but I never felt the special bond or connection so I don’t know how I exactly feel. Why are you asking?”

“I’ll get straight to the point. I find you very attractive. Not only your appearance but your personality too. With you, I feel completed and I want to take the next step with you. I want you as my partner” Sidney told you truthfully.

“I feel very similar but I’m scared” You sighed. “I was always running away when the things were getting too serious and I don’t want this for us”

“Let’s try. Let's see where things will lead us. We both want each other and we can take it slowly. I’m not proposing to you or planning our future. I just want you as a person who I can visit anytime, who I can kiss, who I can spoil” Sidney smiled at you.

“I like your way of thinking. We can try it but can you promise me that if this won’t work out for us, we will stay friends?” You asked him.

“Of course” Sidney grabbed your hand and caressed it. You smiled at this gesture and felt like you finally felt someone to fill the gap in your heart with love.

taglist: @lukeycharms43

#sidney crosby #sidney crosby x reader #sidney crosby imagine #sidney crosby fanfiction #sidney crosby oneshot #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #pittsburg penguins #what's in my makeup bag?#v' work

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urf4vghoul · 2 days ago

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SAJAnimals

Pairing: Poly!SAJA Boys Tone: Fluff • Humor • Bonding AU: K-pop Idol Universe yes i know they have their lion characters but i was feeling creative or whateva & making this bc i got scammed out of a Hetmongi Aniteez plush :(

⸻

“Okay, hear me out—my character is a shark,” Baby said, tossing his sketchbook onto the coffee table. “But he’s cute. Like, plushie cute. Still has sharp teeth, though.”

“No one’s surprised,” Romance drawled, lounging on the couch with his feet in Jinu’s lap. “You literally bite people when you get excited.”

“That was one time.”

“Three times.”

Abby grinned as he leaned over to look at Baby’s sketch. “Wait, that’s kinda adorable. You gave him little goggles?”

“He’s a deep sea shark! He needs accessories!”

Jinu, who’d been quietly sketching in his corner of the room, finally looked up. “I like it. Let’s keep that one. He looks like you—chaotic and misunderstood.”

Baby beamed. “He gets me.”

Mystery held up his own paper without saying anything. It was… surprisingly clean. A sleek, shadowy dog with a little crescent moon on its forehead, one eye glowing and the other closed.

“Whoa,” Abby said. “That’s kinda badass.”

Romance leaned over. “Wait… is that supposed to be you?”

Mystery shrugged, not quite looking up. “Maybe.”

“I love him,” Jinu said softly, brushing his thumb over the drawing. “He looks quiet, but he definitely judges everyone.”

Mystery finally smiled.

Romance flipped open his own sketchpad dramatically. “Behold: mine is a deer prince. He’s elegant, beautiful, maybe a little vain. Loves fashion. Has long eyelashes. And a tiara.”

Baby blinked. “So it’s just you, but Disney?”

“Exactly.”

“God, I hate how pretty it is,” Abby groaned. “He’s got sparkles.”

Romance winked. “He deserves sparkles.”

Jinu chuckled, finally flipping his own pad around. “Okay… mine’s a little dragon. But like, soft. No wings, just stubby horns, and he breathes bubbles instead of fire.”

Everyone paused.

“…You made a comfort creature,” Abby said quietly.

“I’m stressed,” Jinu replied simply.

They all nodded in understanding.

Finally, Abby held his up—an energetic wolf with a wide grin and fluffy hair, tail wagging like it couldn’t stay still.

“He’s the hyper one,” Abby said. “But he’s loyal and loves snacks. And the rest of you try to keep him from doing stupid stuff, but he never listens.”

Baby laughed. “So it’s literally you.”

“Exactly.”

By the end of the night, they had five characters:

• Roo, the fashion deer prince (Romance)

• Vee, the shadow-dog who vanishes and reappears (Mystery)

• Bumi, the little shark with goggles and bitey teeth (Baby)

• Jiji, the bubble-breathing stress dragon (Jinu)

• Howl, the overly energetic snack-hoarding wolf (Abby)

They laid the sketches out on the table, all five mascots side-by-side.

“You know,” Jinu said, staring at them fondly, “we kinda look like a real family now.”

Romance rested his chin on Jinu’s shoulder. “We already were.”

Abby shoved a chip into Baby’s mouth before he could say something chaotic. Mystery wordlessly placed his hand on the table near the drawings, fingers brushing against the paper like a quiet I love you.

They would become plushies. Stickers. Animated shorts. And fans would adore them. But right now, in this moment, they were just five dorks sitting in their living room, creating tiny cartoon versions of themselves to keep each other company.

And somehow, that made them feel even closer.

#sajaboys #polysaja #poly saja boys #baby saja #abby saja #mystery saja #romance saja #jinu x romance x abby x mystery x baby #huntrix #kpop demon hunters #mira kpdh #rumi kpdh #zoey kpdh #kpdh #huntrx #kpdh imagine #kpdh fluff

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noelys-little-tummy · 1 day ago

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Silver Springs - Part 2

Pairing : 90’s Liam Gallagher x Reader

Genre: not really fluff but somewhere in there

Word count: 2,066

Warning: language, some mentions of drug use, womanising and general, Liam being Liam.

Summary: Six weeks had passed and you had become utterly miserable. There’s only one person who can talk any sense into you

Six weeks. It had been six, long, painful, excruciating weeks since you left him. Time did not heal all wounds as the saying went. Your heart did not mend itself. Your body never stopped yearning for him. Your lips never ceased wanting to kiss his. He had completely wrecked you for anyone else, not that your brain even let you consider anyone else as all it did was taunt you with thoughts of Liam. Your Liam. The Liam that brought you a cuppa in bed every morning without being asked. The Liam that would randomly stare at you and start smiling to himself as if he had won some grand prize. The Liam that would tenderly run his fingers through your hair while telling you how beautiful you were and always made sure you fell asleep first. He was soft with you. He was gentle, tender and sweet-tempered. He was Liam Gallagher to the rest of the world but to you, he was simply “your Liam”. Except now, he wasn’t. And that destroyed you.

It had been another day of moping. You found it difficult to summon up energy and all you wanted to do was sit and stew in your own sadness. Your brother and sister-in-law had been trying their best but you knew they were beginning to get frustrated with you. “You’ve got to move on” “this isn’t healthy” and “we love you, it kills us to see you like this” were all thrown around that night as you sat and barely ate dinner. You would be the first one to have came out with the lines if the roles were reversed, but you paid them no mind.

You had just stepped out of a bath when you heard the front door go and voices carry up the staircase. As you listened you heard your name mentioned and then as you listened closer you realised you recognised the voice.

“It’s ok…” you found yourself standing at the top of the stairs. Hair wet and covered by your brothers dressing gown. Standing in the thin corridor, trying to plead his case to speak to you, was Noel. He had always fought your corner. He had always been your champion. But his silence after you split with Liam had hurt you. So now, with him standing in your brothers house, you felt it was only right to listen to whatever he had to say.

You gestured to the front room. You didn’t want an audience. Not when you weren’t sure you would be able to hold it together. Deep down you were desperate to hear about him, yearned to know if Liam had moved on. Perhaps if that was the news Noel was to deliver then you might be able to do the same yourself. But, it was not.

Noel sat on the other end of the couch to you. Close enough to be a comfort but not close enough for it to be weird. “I’ll just say it…and you know I would never fucking admit this and I will deny it if you tell anyone, but I’m worried about him.” It wasn’t what you were expecting.

“I’ve never seen him like this over a girl before, anyone before. He’s properly fucking catatonic.” You weren’t sadistic by any means but there was a small, tiny part of you that thought at least now he knows how it felt. He was getting a taste of how he made you feel. But the feeling evaporated as quickly as it summoned up. “It wasn’t fair, Noel. Him going out like that. The drinking, the drugs, the fucking women.” Noel agreed. He had to know how it felt for you. Of all people, Noel had to know.

Liam had been taking you for granted for far too long. You were the girlfriend that would always be there for him, fight for him, be his shield when he needed it. You were the girlfriend who would stay at home while he went out and did whatever the fuck he wanted. You were the girlfriend who wouldn’t nag, never complain and would always drop everything for him. You were the girlfriend who loved him for him, not who he was.

“He’s a cunt.” Noel said plainly. “Fuck, if anyone knows how much of a cunt he is, it’s me!” That was the truth. “But he’s less of a cunt when he’s with you.” It hit you in the heart. The arrow piercing you square in the middle of the chest. You felt like you might crumble at any moment. Noel’s words having such a dizzying effect on you. Tears threatened to spill and you bit into you bottom lip in an attempt to stem them. But ultimately they spilled anyway.

“He has never loved anyone the way he loves you, well, apart from himself.” You couldn’t help but let a small laugh bubble up from deep inside. Tears mixed with the sudden light-hearted momentary reprieve. Noel continued; “And Mam but you’re up there in third place.” It had been the correct order, you knew that, but it probably no longer was. You knew Liam wouldn’t trust you now and the relationship you had had was sand in the wind. You broke him as much as he broke you.

“Noel, I can’t…” you wanted to say you couldn’t do it again. Couldn’t do the partying, the whoring, the lifestyle anymore. You needed more from him. “He’s not taken anything since the day you left. Probably the longest he’s been clean since we were kids.” It was a bit of a shock purely because Liam enjoyed getting high as much as he enjoyed breathing. Weed didn’t bother you much but the cocaine, that did. He would flip too quickly on it and you never knew if he was going to end up in a fight. But as much as the drugs were an issue, it was the women that cut you to the bone.

“And the girls?” You timidly asked, not truly wanting to know the answer. “He has carpel tunnel from wanking, he’s not gone near one.” Noel laughed at his own joke but you didn’t. Six weeks without taking a single drug was one thing but six weeks without sex for Liam? Well, that would be killing him. You knew he must have been serious. But, as always when Liam was concerned, you took it with a pinch of salt.

“Just because he’s laid off the snow and kept it in his pants doesn’t mean he’s changed though, does it?”

“It’s a step in the right direction.” Noel always knew the right thing to say. It was probably why he was the songwriter of a generation. A part of you wished Liam had also been graced with a bit of whatever it was Noel possessed that made him seem wise beyond his years. Ultimately, what Noel was saying was right. It was a step in the right direction. Actually, was a gigantic leap in the right direction as far as you were concerned. It showed you he knew what the problems were and that he was trying hard to fix them. It showed maturity - something that wouldn’t necessarily be the first thing anyone thought of when they thought of Liam. It showed growth and that was something you had always wanted to see ignite in him.

“Let me take you home, eh?” Noel said gently “see for yourself.”

By the time you arrived back at the house in Maida Vale (that belonged to Liam but had been your home for over the past year), Noel told you he would wait in the cab for a while but you had to do it yourself. He didn’t want Liam thinking he was interfering even though he had done just that. It was a Friday night and the lights were on so he was at home. Friday night and at home. It was a bit odd. You pushed the thought aside and rang the doorbell after taking a large, grounding breath in and back out.

Liam pulled open the door and he looked shocked to see you standing there. “Hi.” Was all you could say. Your heart still yearned for him. Your body so desperately wanted to touch him. Your mouth wanted to kiss him. But your brain, well, that screamed and yelled at you to be careful and cautious.

“Fuck…” He breathed and stepped aside to let you in.

“Can we talk?” You asked as he shut the door behind you. “Y’know I’m not good at all that.” He wasn’t complaining about it. In fact, he seemed quite open to it, but he was just being honest and telling the truth so you had to give him that. “I know, Liam. But I think this time…maybe you could try?” You picked your words carefully and kept your tone light. He nodded and conceded to your request.

For a man who claimed he wasn’t good at talking, the pair of you had indeed been talking. For nearly an hour. He listened, actually listened, and let you tell him how his behaviour made you feel. But when it came to telling him about how the other women, well, that had you in tears.

“The drinking and the drugs is one thing, Liam. But the women, you have no idea what that does to me!” You exclaim without raising your voice. “I know it’s situational for you but it makes me feel like you don’t love me, don’t respect me. I feel fucking worthless when your in the papers with women in the back of taxis and I don’t even know where you are. I’m so sick of hating myself, thinking there must be something fucking wrong with me. These women have something I don’t, they do something I don’t do. I…” the tears streamed down your face and the words caught in your throat. The more you tried the more you couldn’t catch a breath. It didn’t take Liam long to realise how distressing it was for you. He could be a cold hearted bastard sometimes but he did truly have a soft side. He moved across the sofa and pulled you into him. His hand held you against his chest and he kissed your temple.

“I’m sorry…” he whispered “I am so fucking sorry.”

Somehow the pair of you ended up laying together on the sofa. You were on top of him, your head pressed still to his chest as he continued to hold you. What had to be said, had been. There was no room for anything else. Nor was it needed. There was no verbal “let’s get back together” it had just happened. You were home and not in the physical sense but in the mental and spiritual sense. He was your home and you felt like this time would be different.

“Let’s go away somewhere, this week coming.” He spoke as he pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Where?” You replied with a stifled chuckle. He was very spontaneous and made quick decisions but when you breathed him in you thought it was the perfect idea. It gave you a chance to reconnect. Get away from all the other interference.

“Dunno. Anywhere. An island, somewhere warm.” You liked the sound of it “You in a bikini, all wet from the sea. Me sitting like a walrus on a sun-lounger with a beer. I just want to be with you, no distractions, no one else, just us.” And truly you couldn’t think of anything your heart desired more than what he had just described. In your head you were glad you came back, glad you had been talked into it, glad Noel cared enough about his brother to interfere just the right amount and bring the two of you back together.

#liam gallagher #lg #liam gallagher rpf #liam gallagher x you #liam gallagher fic #liam gallagher fanfiction #liam gallagher x y/n #liam gallagher x reader #Liam Gallagher fluff

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watermelinoe · 7 months ago

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i think if discipline could cure a sleep disorder it would have worked for me by now

#you're supposed to just force yourself to get up at the same time every day and that makes your body accept the routine eventually #but i did that. for years. getting up and going to school. and it never got easier #and all i have to show for it is a pain disorder that will keep my ass in bed if the sleep debt accumulates too much #i did what i was supposed to and i got worse #but everyone thinks you're a lazy sack of shit. why can't you just drag yourself out of bed.#except i dragged myself out of bed over and over and it never got better. it never gets better.#but you have to listen to people who have never stayed up all night and day to hard reset their schedules #tell you not to take naps no matter how tired you are #and imagine if you were at the peak of your day energy-wise. but everyone else has gone to sleep and they're telling you to go to sleep.#because this is your only chance to sleep before you're expected to be awake for fifteen more hours #and everyone thinks you're just not trying hard enough!!!

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prisonhannibal · 10 months ago

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!! DONT SKIP !! donations urgently needed They are only at €5,561 out of €50,000 goal

I was contacted by Nader to draw pictures for and help spread his brother Abdulsalam Al-Anqar’s fundraiser to save their family. Nader is a 17 year old boy who lives in Gaza with his family: parents Ahmed (54) and mother Iman (49), brothers Abdulsalam (26), Mohammed (14), and Omar (21) and Abdulsalam’s wife and their one year old daughter Iman. Imagine it was your sibling, your friend, your son, who should be in school or with his friends, who instead has to hide from bombs and ask for help online to save his family. His family have suffered through one year of genocide. All of you are their hope to get to safety.

This fundraiser is vetted by @gazavetters, number four on the spreadsheet here

Abdulsalams daughter Iman is only one year old and has lived most her life in a war zone. She is suffering from malnutrition. It’s every fathers worst nightmare to see their child starve and not be able to feed her. Please help him feed his daughter and get her to safety. No child should grow up hearing the sound of bombs. Every child has the right to food and safety. You can help give Iman the childhood she should have, where she can sleep in a safe bed at night with a full stomach.

Their father Ahmed has cancer and needs surgery and medication. It is not possible to get the treatment he needs in Gaza. every day his illness is left untreated, the cancer will continue to spread through his body, so he very urgently needs money for treatment and travel. If you help them get to their goal, you are saving their fathers life. Don’t let this family who have already lost so much lose their father, husband, and grandfather

Nader has showed me pictures of this explosion close to them, thankfully they were able to get away. Every day they stay in Gaza their lives are at risk from israeli bombs. Every day and hour counts. I know there are compassionate and kind people who are willing to help. every euro helps, YOUR donation will bring them one moment closer to safety. With love and hope I’m asking you to give what you can, I believe in the kind people of the world and I beg you to not let them die. If you can’t donate, please share so it may reach people who can.

Never forget that palestinians are not numbers on a list of deaths. Please think of each of them, think of their names and faces and know that you can help them. I think of them every day. I think of the hopes and dreams they should achieve, I think of their education, their future, and the love they show when they work hard every day to get help. You may feel powerless to stop this genocide, but you have the power to save Abdulsalam and his family. I dream that the day will come soon where they may use their days to rest and recover from what they’ve been through, where they can share a meal and laugh and the children will play, instead of having to use their time to beg the world to listen and help them. We can make this possible.

50 000 euros is a lot of money for one person to give, but for all of us together, it can be done. Please don’t look away.

(drawing above by @neechees)

Thank you for reading their story. Please don’t keep scrolling without sharing

here is the link again to their fundraiser

tagging for reach:

@90-ghost @heritageposts @gazavetters @neechees @butchniqabi @fluoresensitive @khanger @autisticmudkip @beserkerjewel @furiousfinnstan @xinakwans @batekush @appsa @nerdyqueerr @butchsunsetshimmer @biconicfinn @stopmotionguy @willgrahamscock @strangeauthor @bryoria @shesnake @legallybrunettedotcom @lautakwah @sovietunion @evillesbianvillain @antibioware @akajustmerry @dizzymoods @ree-duh @neptunerings @explosionshark @dlxxv-vetted-donations @vague-humanoid @buttercuparry @sayruq @malcriada @sar-soor @northgazaupdates2 @feluka @dirhwangdaseul @jdon @ibtisams @sawasawako @memingursa @schoolhater @toesuckingoctober @waskuyecaozu

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novaimperia · 2 months ago

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★ asking roommate!sukuna to give you some space. literally.

“don’t you think if i could, i would have by now?” he fires back in a drawl, rolling his eyes.

right now, you two are squished together in a dark supply closet in the campus atrium, bodies pressed so tightly there’s barely any room to breathe. you keep hushed, listening out for any shuffling less than a metre from where you are holed up with your roommate; the door’s locked and there’d be no reason to suspect you’re both in here but neither of you want to take the chance.

because, outside the door, is a girl with a furious appetite for revenge. she had seen you in the hallway around the corner and questioned you. apparently, your roommate owed her a date on friday night but he hadn’t turned up. that was the third time he’d made a promise to her he didn’t keep. not one for the drama, you were intent on keeping yourself out of it, but because the universe hates you, she narrowed her eyes and said that her friends saw you and him coming out of a movie theatre that very evening.

of course she didn’t listen when you stammered that you didn’t plan to be there with him. you just wanted to be dropped off because it was late but then, for reasons you can’t really imagine, he chose to stay. she didn’t believe you. a ping went off. distracted with her phone for a moment, you skedaddled out of there, wanting to keep your head on your shoulders for a little longer. in comical fashion, when turning the corner, you saw the second person she has on her kill list.

things quickly got out of hand after that.

he didn’t fight very much when you yanked him in here nor did he seem very surprised to hear that a girl was out to get him.

“ugh, where did she go?” the scorned woman screeches. “i’m gonna beat that whore up, i swear. she totally stole sukuna from me.”

‘stolen’ man huffs in amusement. you smack his chest.

she must be on the phone. briefly, you wonder how many people are building up hatred for you on campus by the simple virtue of living with the pink haired promise-breaker. guess his reputation is contagious. crossing your figures, you hope this won’t be a regular occurrence. and, showing no signs of leaving, if the frustrated stomping of feet pacing the hallway is anything to go by, your head slumps against sukuna’s chest in defeat. innocent of all charges, you’re not sure why you felt the need to hide, much less with him when he should be facing the consequences of his actions on his own.

it’s not as if he deserves your protection – the stubborn bastard won’t move back just an inch even though he obviously knows he’s threatening to flatten you out like a bug against the wall with his towering body.

“just text her an apology or something,” you hiss.

you can’t see it but you do feel his pierced brow quirk up. “i’m not gonna apologise ‘cause she can’t take a fucking hint. woman’s been hounding me since forever.”

“well, maybe you shouldn’t be asking her out and then flaking. ever thought of that?” mumbling against his shirt, you’re forced to breathe him in. he smells of burnt wood, the leather strap of a guitar, and nicotine. it’s both exhilarating and calming; you’re gonna fall asleep at this rate.

something gentle and calloused brushes your hair away from your face. it lulls you deeper into slumber. his words vibrate against your cheek, a little aggressive with a tinge of vulnerability. “i didn’t. she made those plans on her own. don’t wanna go on a date with her.”

“oh.”

minutes pass. you can’t hear anything outside anymore. neither of you rush out. despite how cramped the fit is, it’s oddly comfortable. on second thoughts, maybe you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day here. with him.

“quit fucking moving; you’re practically humping me a like a dog.”

never mind.

you flick his nipple in retaliation and yelp when metal meets fingernail. he snorts. a little embarrassed, you retort, “you have a boner pressed right up against my stomach – who’s really the dog here, s’kuna?”

shoving him away, you emerge from the storage closet and take a deep inhale of relatively fresh air. she’s not here anymore. good. hopefully you won’t run into her for a while. you look back. your roommate doesn’t step out, instead he flexes his jaw and rolls his shoulder back, avoiding your eye. the tips of his ears are pink. gruffly, he mutters, “go ahead. wait by my car. i’ll be out in a sec.”

blink. blink.

a sponge smacks into your face when you laugh like a madwoman.

#jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk drabble #jjk oneshot #sukuna drabble #sukuna oneshot #sukuna x you #jjk x you #jjk sukuna #jjk sukuna ryomen #jjk sukuna fluff #jjk sukuna x reader #jjk college au #Sukuna college au #Sukuna x reader

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dollfacefantasy · 8 months ago

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clark kent x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, car sex, mating press a/n: ummm yeah i need him so bad it makes me ill <3

for as long as you'd known clark, you'd never known him to lose his temper. he was forever-patient, your boyfriend. understanding to almost a frustrating degree. especially with you, his little love.

he was already pretty easy to get along with, but on the rare occasion you did have issues, clark seemed to have a natural instinct for deescalating you. he never raised his voice, never spoke an unkind word about you, never gave you a look harsher than what could be described as stern.

all it took to calm you down was a glimpse of his natural puppy-dog eyes and pretty plush lips. his thick arms would circle around you and hold you to his chest. he'd sway back and forth with you a little, a small smile on his face as you melted into the embrace. whatever semblance of tension or irritation that had been bubbling up easily dissolved into a puddle between the two of your bodies.

so, all that to say, you didn't really believe clark possessed any kind of rough edge or combative instinct. despite his large stature, you couldn't really picture him ever being rough.

that was until tonight.

you and clark had planned to drop by some event at the talon, but your sweet boyfriend had warned you earlier that he found out there'd probably be some trouble there later. some potentially dangerous situation that he wanted you avoiding at all costs. it was for your safety. he just wanted you to stay home where he wouldn't be worried while him and chloe investigated.

but did you listen to him? of course not. you went anyways, not in the mood to listen to his vague explanations as to how he even discovered this information in the first place. you put on a cute little dress with some new shoes you bought specifically for the night and took off.

unfortunately for you, clark had turned out to be right. not even thirty minutes after you arrived, chaos broke out. people flew through walls and glass shattered everywhere, all because of some guy who looked like his body could stretch and bend like a rubberband. it totally sucked. but none of that was even the worst part. you survived the craziness of whatever that person's problem was. the real danger came when the dust settled and you saw clark across the room staring at you.

he looked pissed.

he was at your side in an instant, but closing the distance didn't soften him any. it kind of did the opposite since up close he could see a bloody scrape stretching across your cheekbone.

you could see he was worried first and foremost, but behind that concerned top coat a fire burned. as soon as your small wound had been tended to, his long fingers clasped around your bicep. he pulled you to your feet and all but dragged you out of the coffee shop.

"clark i-" you started in an attempt to explain yourself.

"save it," he said, voice as cold as you'd ever heard it, "i asked you for one thing. that's it. stay home for your own good. don't come out here and pointlessly risk your life."

"it wasn't that bad," you defend weakly.

"but why even take the chance?" he asked with true exasperation, "i shouldn't need to convince you that your safety is more important than whatever they had going on tonight."

he didn't continue the lecture beyond that. just walked with a clenched jaw and motivated stare in the direction of his truck. like always, he opened the door for you when you got there. though this time, he practically scooped you up and dumped you into the car.

he was silent as he drove, fingers tight around the steering wheel. you could practically feel the frustration rolling off of him. the urge to lash out for once was near spilling over. he pulled the car over, and you figured you were really in for it. in a way you were right, just not how you thought.

clark didn't bother yelling, didn't try to start a fight. he glared at you for a few silent seconds before leaning across the seats and crashing his lips against yours. he kissed you like he wanted to steal the breath from your lungs.

after a blur of clothing being shifted around and positioning body parts awkwardly in the confined space, you found yourself in the meanest mating press of your life.

you were folded in half beneath all of clark's weight. the points of your new heels scraped up the truck's ceiling while your knees squished against your chest. little squeaks and whines slipped their way out of you as his tip battered against your cervix. he was so deep you swore you could feel your insides rearranging to make room for him.

"clarkkkk," you mewled before biting your lip, desperately searching for some way to ground yourself. one set of your fingers gripped strands of his dark hair while the other held a fist of his flannel.

"what, baby?" he panted. for once, clark wasn't fawning over you between thrusts. he wasn't cooing or praising you for taking him so well. instead, he had his face against your neck and his hands wrapped around your waist, bucking into your dripping heat with enough force to rock the car.

you tried to force out words to convey what you were thinking. too big. too much. so deep. harder. faster. none of those made it though. only choked moans and then a sharp squeal when he rolled his hips and struck that extra-sensitive sweet spot inside you.

"someone's gonna see if they drive by," you whimpered, squirming underneath him.

"maybe you should hold still then and let me finish, huh?" he grunted, "no one's gonna see. everyone's in town dealing with the mess from tonight. the one i told you was gonna happen."

"i didn't think-"

"i know you didn't," he interrupted, "didn't use that pretty little head at all, did you?"

words of defense eluded you right now, his nonstop thrusts keeping your mind cloudy. instead you chose to whine, your lip quivering he rolled his hips deeper yet again.

"oh yeah?" he asked, as if you'd said something coherent.

you opened your mouth again to speak, to really argue back this time, but you were cut off by your own desperate cry when his hands tugged you closer and speared you even further on his cock. you could feel him grinning against your neck at the noise.

"i know, baby. i know you're sorry. you don't have to explain. thinking's too hard for you right now, yeah?" he cooed, his tone bordering on mocking.

your pout got more severe but so did the needy sounds escaping your mouth. you felt those long fangs of his scrape against your throat. his tongue then glided across the area, making you shudder.

"clark-" you tried to say something else, but he cut you off. he raised his head up and kissed you deep again, swallowing the words right from your mouth. when he pulled back for air, he rested his sweaty forehead against yours.

"you can be such a brat," he breathed, "so much whining even though i know you love this."

the truck creaked as his movements continued to jostle it. you felt his breath fanning across your face and watched as his eyes fluttered shut. you knew he was getting close, but so were you. your cunt squeezed around him rhythmically, coaxing him too the edge along with you.

"you gonna cum, baby?" he finally muttered against your lips.

you nodded eagerly, more than ready to release. it only took a few more hard thrusts to get you there, and clark followed along no problem. in the afterglow, he laid on top of you for a minute or so, trapping you in a cage of searing body heat.

when he finally did sit up, the two of you fixed your clothes and stretched your limbs. he looked over at you with more tenderness. your boyfriend's gentle temperament had seemingly returned with the relief his peak brought.

he cupped your jaw with his fingers, looking over that cut on your face. leaning in, he gave it a small kiss before starting up the car again.

"i'm just trying to look out for you, you know? just... please listen next time. i don't know what i'd do if you got hurt. you had me worried sick."

"i will. i'm sorry i scared you," you replied softly. your eyes studied the loving look in his eyes and the way his features seemed so at peace now that all his adrenaline was out of his system.

you grabbed his hand across the seats and traced little patterns on his knuckles for the drive home. he let you play with his fingers but shot you a glance.

"i'm serious. next time you get involved with something like that i won't let you off so easy," he teased.

you smiled and nodded, wanting to put his mind at ease. though in the back of your mind, a small part of you considered trying again some time, just to see what "not so easy" looked like to him.

#clark kent x reader #clark kent smut #clark kent x you #clark kent imagine #superman x reader #dc x reader #dc imagine #dc smut #smallville x reader #ch: clark kent 💌

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orphicmeliora · 5 days ago

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You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 2

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 6.6k

NOTES: people. if you want to be tagged please please please just leave a comment under the masterlist post because it's really hard to keep track of who wants or does not want to be tagged. please it's a request.

part 1 | MASTERLIST | part 3

two years ago

It started, like most things in your marriage, with silence.

Zayne’s back is to you, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. The navy-blue sheets have slipped low on his hips, leaving the smooth expanse of his back exposed in the soft, amber wash of early morning light.

He looks so peaceful like this. Sleeping. His features are unguarded, carved free of the cool, impassive mask he wears in waking hours. His lashes rest against his cheekbones. His lips—so rarely parted in anything but clipped conversation—are slightly parted now, soft and pink and so heartbreakingly human.

Your hand hovers halfway between you.

There’s an itch in your fingers you can’t scratch. A need you can’t name.

You want to touch him.

Brush the dark strands of hair away from his forehead. Trace the strong, elegant line of his brow, the bridge of his nose, the stubborn angle of his jaw. You want to learn his face like a map you’ve been handed in the dark.

And his lips.

You wonder if they’d yield beneath your thumb. If they’d part for you, just once. If the same mouth that barely speaks your name could be coaxed into something more.

But your hand doesn’t move. It stays frozen in the space between you. Caught on the edge of an invisible line he never drew aloud but made damn sure you understood.

You lie back down, folding your fingers against your own chest.

There’s a ring on your finger. A symbol of permanence, of intention.

You wonder what it means to him.

Because he sleeps in the same bed as you but never touches you. Wakes up before you do and leaves without a word. Comes home late, eats dinner at the hospital—if at all—and disappears into his study like the thought of sitting across from you might drown him.

You’ve asked yourself a thousand times why he married you.

You know the reasons the rest of the world believes. A good match. A stable alliance. Respectable. Practical.

But you still remember the way your heart had stuttered when he slipped that ring onto your finger. You’d told yourself it meant something. That surely no one would vow themselves to another without hope buried somewhere under all that ceremony.

You were wrong.

And is there anything more cruel than intentional neglect?

Because there are moments—glimpses—that keep you tethered. When he refills your tea without asking. When he checks if your car tires need air. When he walks you to the elevator and presses the button without looking at you.

Care without closeness. Duty without warmth.

It’s not enough.

But still—you stay.

You stay through the quiet dinners you eat alone. Through the long stretches of silence when the only sound in the house is the clock ticking into midnight. You stay because some traitorous part of you believes this is just the prologue. That the story will begin soon.

So instead of leaving, you learn to dream.

And in your dreams, Zayne is different.

In your dreams, he looks at you like you matter. Like you’re something he’s chosen, not inherited.

He speaks your name with weight—like it tastes like honey on his tongue, not obligation. There’s laughter. Real, full-bodied laughter that shakes his shoulders and lights up his eyes. There are inside jokes. Shared looks across rooms. His hand on the small of your back when someone looks at you too long. The brush of his fingers against yours when he passes you tea in the morning.

He listens in those dreams. Not like it’s a chore, but like your voice is a favorite song he’s trying to memorize.

And at night?

Dream Zayne touches you like he’s drowning and you’re the air.

He kisses you like he has something to prove—like he can’t believe you let him touch you, and he’s terrified it might be the last time. His hands are everywhere—possessive, reverent, hungry. He doesn’t just make love to you—he claims you.

He whispers your name like a prayer. Like it hurts to say it, but he can’t help himself.

In dreams, you are his home. His haven. His choice.

But with the inevitable sunrise, morning always comes.

And with it, the rustle of Zayne’s footsteps across hardwood. The quiet zip of his bag. The soft click of the door closing behind him.

When you open your eyes, the bed is cold.

The dent where he slept is already fading.

And so, you lie still, the echo of a kiss you never received still burning on your lips.

The boutique is elegant—marble floors, high ceilings, and racks of designer gowns arranged like works of art. You trail your fingers over silky fabric and shimmery beading, pretending not to notice the way Zayne hovers a few paces behind, hands shoved in his coat pockets like he has no idea what to do with them.

He’s clearly out of his element, but you catch him stealing glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

“Does it have to be long?” you ask, turning toward a rack of slinky, floor-length options.

He shrugs. “It’s formal. Wear what you like.”

You hum under your breath. That helps. Not.

Zayne doesn’t offer opinions, just follows you silently, occasionally brushing past you in narrow aisles. Every time he does, there’s a static hum in the air—an awareness of nearness that sits too close to your skin.

You pause by a velvet dress, running your hand over the soft material. When you glance at Zayne, you catch him watching your fingers, his gaze unreadable.

It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing.

You step away.

And then your eyes land on a display tucked slightly behind a pillar.

It’s not part of the formalwear section.

It’s... lingerie.

Your gaze sticks before you can pull it away. Among the sheer lace and silk, one piece stands out—midnight black, scandalous in its cut, with delicate embroidery tracing along the edges. The kind of nightgown that whispers promises just by existing.

You don’t mean to stare.

You definitely don’t mean to lean in a little.

But you do.

And that’s exactly when you feel him come up behind you.

His presence is quiet, but unmistakable—his breath warm against your temple, the subtle shift in the air as he steps close enough for your senses to latch onto him.

Zayne’s voice is quiet, rough-edged. “Do you... want to get that?”

You flinch, turning so quickly your bag nearly smacks him.

“What?” you choke, mortified. “No! I mean—what would I even need it for?”

Your voice is too high. Your face is on fire.

Zayne’s ears flush pink. He looks slightly stunned that he even asked. His jaw tenses like he’s mentally cursing himself.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts.

“You meant exactly what you said,” you mutter, trying to will the ground to swallow you whole.

“I just... saw you looking at it.”

“And?”

“And I thought maybe... you liked it.”

You do. You do like it. That’s the problem.

But there’s no way in hell you’re admitting that—not when your heart is thundering and your skin is betraying you with every shade of red imaginable.

And then—

As if summoned by the sheer mortifying timing—a saleswoman walks up, bright and chipper. “Oh, that piece is very popular with newlyweds! Especially for honeymoons or staycations,” she says, beaming at the both of you. “It’s from our Moonlight Temptation collection. Very sensual, very soft. Would you like to try it on, dear?”

You make a strangled sound in your throat.

Zayne doesn’t say a word. But his hand rubs the back of his neck, ears still visibly flushed.

You shake your head rapidly. “Nope. No, thank you. That’s—uh—not why we’re here.”

The saleswoman glances between you both, smile widening as if she sees something neither of you wants to admit. “Of course,” she says, brightly. “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll pull a few gowns I think will suit you.”

You don’t dare look at Zayne as she walks away.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. That was... awkward.”

You finally meet his gaze, still flustered, but curious despite yourself. “You really thought I’d buy that?”

He doesn’t tease. Instead, his voice dips—low, honest.

“I thought it would look good on you.”

Your breath catches.

It’s not just the words—it’s the way he says them. Not flippantly. Not as a joke. But like the truth he’s only just realized himself. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it either.

You say nothing, heart pounding in your ears, because what could you possibly say?

Instead, you turn back toward the rack of gowns, fingers fumbling with the fabric to hide the way they’re shaking.

Eventually, Zayne moves back to the front of the boutique, giving you space. You try on a few options, thankful for the privacy curtain and the moments to catch your breath.

But even as you pull a deep maroon dress over your hips and smooth the fabric down, your mind drifts—

To the warmth of his voice in your ear.

To the way he looked at you—not with clinical indifference, but something else.

Something dangerous.

Something tender.

And you can’t help but wonder...

If he really meant it.

If he wants more than a dress and a date for a night.

If maybe—just maybe—he’s finally beginning to see you.

You tried on four dresses after the maroon one.

The first was too frilly. The second, too stiff. The third had promise until you looked in the mirror and saw someone trying too hard.

But the fourth?

The fourth was different.

It slid over your skin like it belonged there. Heavy but fluid, with a neckline that didn’t scream for attention, just whispered confidence. The sleeves barely brushed your shoulders, and the fabric pooled at your feet in a way that made you stand a little taller without realizing it.

It was green.

A deep, quiet green—rich like the forest after rain.

You weren’t thinking of his eyes when you chose it. You weren’t.

But standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps, you felt it creeping in anyway.

That familiar, impossible shade.

You swallowed.

It didn’t matter. The color didn’t matter. His eyes didn’t matter.

Not when they never looked at you long enough to leave behind anything real.

You drew in a slow breath, trying to steel yourself. Then you pulled the curtain aside.

Zayne was seated in the corner, elbows resting on his knees, scrolling through something on his phone. He didn’t notice at first. The saleswoman did. Her eyes widened subtly.

You stepped out fully.

Zayne looked up.

And froze.

His phone slipped slightly in his hand, fingers going lax before curling around it again. He said nothing at first, but his gaze didn’t waver. It dragged over you slowly—shoulders to waist to floor and back again, lingering a fraction too long at the curve of your collarbone.

His lips parted. Just slightly. Like there was something he wanted to say but didn’t have the words for yet.

And then, softly, “That’s the one.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That’s the dress,” he said, straighter now. More certain. “It’s… perfect. You look beautiful.”

Your mouth went dry.

Zayne wasn’t the kind of man to throw around compliments. Especially not like this—low, reverent, honest.

You wanted to say something light in return. A quip, a brush-off. Anything to defuse the weight of his words.

But you couldn’t.

Not when he was still looking at you like that.

The saleswoman clapped her hands gently. “It’s stunning on you,” she said, stepping closer. “Would you like us to hold it at the counter?”

You nodded, barely trusting your voice.

Back in the fitting room, you rested your hands on the vanity. The dress still clung to you, warm from your skin. You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment, unsure of the person looking back.

She looked...hopeful.

You hated that.

When you stepped out again, changed into your regular clothes, Zayne had already paid for the dress. You opened your mouth to protest, but he took your hand and the bag with a firm look.

“Let me do this.”

You exhaled through your nose and didn’t argue.

The walk back to the car was quiet, your steps echoing lightly in the underground parking lot. He opened the passenger door for you, and for once, you didn’t fight him on it.

Inside the car, the silence stretched.

He didn’t start the engine right away.

“I didn’t expect today to go like this,” he said quietly, fingers drumming the steering wheel.

You gave a dry laugh. “Neither did I. I came in for a dress and walked out completely humiliated over lingerie.”

He huffed a breath. “You weren’t. Humiliated, I mean.”

You glanced at him. “You turned pink.”

“...I didn’t,” he muttered, rubbing his cheek. “That was just unexpected.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap. “I wasn’t looking at it for any reason. It just caught my eye.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“If you ever did want something like that,” he said, voice slow, deliberate, “I’d want to be the one you wear it for.”

You turned your head so fast it nearly gave you whiplash.

He stared straight ahead, like he couldn’t believe he’d just said that out loud.

The tension tightened again, dense and warm and impossible to ignore. You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

So he started the car instead.

And the dress sat quietly in your lap like a secret neither of you were ready to say out loud.

You had no business being this nervous.

You told yourself it was just a hospital gala. A formal evening, full of handshakes and speeches and finger food no one actually liked. You’d show up. You’d smile. You’d leave. Simple.

And yet, here you were, in front of the full-length mirror, heart pounding like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

The dress lay draped across your body like it had been born for it. Soft and sculpted. Modest but magnetic. The color deepened in the dim light of the bedroom, pooling in folds at your feet and tapering upward to delicate straps that swept across your shoulders.

The only thing between you and perfection?

The zipper.

You grunted under your breath, tugging at the stubborn fabric. It caught just at the middle of your back—too far down to see, too far up to reach properly.

“Need help?”

You turned at the sound of Zayne’s voice.

He was leaning against the doorway, half-dressed in slacks and an unbuttoned white shirt, sleeves rolled, collar open. Dark strands of hair still damp from his shower fell over his forehead. The sight punched the air from your lungs in a way you refused to acknowledge.

You hesitated. “It’s stuck.”

He walked in slowly, unhurried. Controlled.

“Turn around,” he murmured.

You did.

His hand found the base of your spine first. Just resting there. Warm. Heavy.

You tried not to react.

Then—deliberately, achingly—he dragged the zipper up.

It was a slow climb. A whispering slide of metal against fabric. His fingers brushed up along the line of your spine with every inch, trailing fire in their wake. You felt his breath fan against your nape. Close. Too close.

You shivered.

He didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he said lowly, “This dress was made for you.”

You met his eyes in the mirror. “You’re just saying that.”

He shook his head. His fingers stilled between your shoulder blades, not letting go just yet. “No. I’m saying it because I won’t survive the night if anyone else sees you in it.”

You stared at him, pulse thudding in your ears.

His gaze burned. Hungry and unreadable. It made the air feel thick and too tight against your ribs.

“I was supposed to be divorced by now,” you say quietly, breaking the silence, your voice tighter than you want it to be.

He pauses behind you. You don’t have to see his face to know his jaw clenched.

Then, low—measured—unapologetic:

“Not anytime soon.”

You inhale, sharply, ready to fire back, but he steps closer before you can speak. His chest brushes your shoulder blades.

His voice is right beside your ear now, velvet-wrapped steel.

“And I promise you…” he murmurs, “…it’ll be you who tears them up. Willingly.”

Your heart stutters.

You hate how it rattles you. Hate that your pulse trips like a caught rabbit. Hate more that you can’t—don’t—move away.

“You clean up well,” you said lightly, trying to break the tension.

His eyes flicked to the mirror. “So do you.”

You swallowed.

Neither of you looked away.

The moment drew out too long. His hand still hovered at the middle of your back. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just resting. Like he couldn’t make himself let go.

Like he was trying to memorize what this felt like.

And then—his voice, softer than silk. “You’re shaking.”

You closed your eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Liar,” he breathed.

You felt him step closer—so close that the heat of him seeped into your skin. His free hand came up to gently brush a curl from your shoulder. The back of his fingers grazed your collarbone.

You shivered.

He noticed. His eyes darkened.

“I don’t want this to be pretend anymore,” he said quietly, looking at your reflection.

You gripped the vanity edge.

“Zayne…”

“If you tell me to stop, I will.” His breath ghosted over the shell of your ear. “But don’t lie to me and say you don’t feel it too.”

You turned, barely, enough to face him over your shoulder.

“I don’t know what I feel,” you whispered. “You’re the one who spent all this time acting like I didn’t exist.”

Regret flickered through his features.

“I didn’t know how to have you without losing you,” he murmured.

You frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It does to me.” His voice cracked slightly, his hand finally falling from your back. “Everything I’ve ever cared for has slipped through my fingers. I thought if I wanted you too much—if I reached for you the way I wanted to—I’d ruin it.”

You stared at him.

At the vulnerability he didn’t often show. The grief he tried to carry alone. The love you never saw in words but now finally recognized in his silence.

“I’m still here,” you whispered.

He smiled. Not out of amusement. Out of something far more tender.

“You won’t always be. Not if I keep doing this wrong.”

You didn’t have an answer for that.

But you did take a breath. One shaky inhale. Then turned fully, letting the dress rustle around you like a secret. You reached up and fixed his collar for him.

“Let’s not be late,” you said gently.

Zayne’s jaw clenched. Not from anger. From restraint.

“Right,” he said, voice thick. “Let’s go.”

You walked out the door together. But neither of you said what hung between your lungs:

You’d never been more dressed up.

And never felt more bare.

The event was exactly what you expected—opulent, polished, and exhausting.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above a sea of suits and gowns, everyone wearing their best smiles and most neutral opinions. Strings played softly from the corner, the delicate hum of a cello echoing against marble floors. Waiters circled with glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres that looked more like abstract art than actual food.

You stood beside Zayne, who looked maddeningly comfortable in his element. Crisp tux, silk tie, not a hair out of place. Calm, unreadable expression. Like this wasn't his seventh sixteen-hour surgery week. Like he hadn’t just confessed things in your bedroom you were still trying to process.

Socialites and colleagues floated by, eager to shake his hand, congratulate him on the recent research breakthrough, ask about future conferences. He handled them all with clinical politeness, his palm resting lightly on the small of your back whenever someone new approached.

You didn’t speak much.

You smiled. Nodded. Sipped water and counted down the minutes until you could leave.

Until he appeared.

You didn’t even catch his name the first time—he spoke it too quickly and too close, leaning in without invitation. Mid-forties, sharp suit, smug confidence of a man too used to hearing yes. An investor, he said. Big donor to the hospital. Enthusiastic about “Dr. Zayne’s innovative direction.”

But none of that interest was on Zayne now.

It was on you.

“You must be the wife,” he said, his smile bordering on a leer. “I’ve heard so little about you. A shame, really.”

You offered a thin, polite smile. “That’s probably because I prefer to keep a low profile.”

“Modesty. I like that.” His eyes scanned the length of your gown. Lingered. “But you shouldn’t hide something so… stunning.”

You took a step back, nearly bumping into another couple. “Thank you, but I—”

“You know, Dr. Zayne’s lucky. If I had someone like you on my arm, I’d never make it out of the house.” A chuckle, like he thought he was charming.

You stiffened.

He didn’t take the hint.

Your eyes darted toward Zayne, but he was deep in conversation with the hospital director across the room, his back to you.

“Do you dance?” the man asked smoothly. “Tell you what—why don’t we give the good doctor a break, and I’ll borrow you for one song? It’s just a dance.”

You could feel the heat rising in your chest, but not from flattery. From sheer, cold discomfort. You didn’t want to cause a scene. Didn’t want to embarrass Zayne in front of his colleagues. So you opened your mouth to decline—diplomatically, gently—

“I believe my wife said no.”

Zayne’s voice cut through the room like a blade. Low. Calm. Terrifyingly sharp.

You blinked.

He was suddenly beside you. Standing too tall. Too still.

The investor turned, surprised. “Ah, Dr. Zayne— I didn’t mean any harm—”

“No,” Zayne said again, with a frosty expression that sent chills down your spine. “You meant to ignore the discomfort on her face and corner her under the guise of a compliment. There’s a word for men like you, but I’m trying to be polite.”

The man’s face turned a mottled red. “I think you’re overreacting—”

“I think you should go find someone who actually wants to talk to you. Which isn’t her.” Zayne stepped forward slightly, his shoulder brushing yours. Protective. Possessive. “And definitely not me.”

The man muttered something under his breath and retreated fast, disappearing into the crowd with his ego tucked between his legs.

The hum of conversation resumed.

You stood frozen.

Zayne turned to you, brows furrowed. “Did he touch you?”

You shook your head. “No.”

He exhaled, jaw still tight. “Good.”

Silence stretched.

Then, quieter: “You should’ve signaled me.”

“I didn’t want to make a scene,” you said, voice hushed.

“I don’t care about scenes,” Zayne snapped, more emotionally than you’d ever heard from him. “Not when you’re uncomfortable.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

His eyes softened. “Because you’re my wife.”

It wasn’t said with ownership. It was said with reverence. A claim wrapped in vulnerability.

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you looked down at your shoes, trying to collect your breath. “Thank you.”

“I should’ve been watching you more closely,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“You’re not my bodyguard, Zayne.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I am your husband.”

And for once, he said it like he meant it.

Not like an obligation.

Like a vow.

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

He offered his arm to you, and after a beat, you took it.

“Come on,” he murmured near your ear, “let’s dance.”

You blinked. “Wait—you dance?”

He smirked. “Not well. But I’d rather you be stepped on by me than leered at by anyone else.”

A laugh escaped you—genuine, light.

And just like that, some part of the ice between you began to thaw.

The music shifted to something slow and sweeping, a soft waltz that melted through the golden lighting of the ballroom. Zayne’s hand rested at your waist, the other curled gently around yours as he led you toward the center of the dance floor. You hesitated only for a breath—then let him pull you close.

Your bodies fell into rhythm surprisingly well. He wasn’t lying—Zayne wasn’t exactly a graceful dancer, but he made up for it with focus. Precision. As if he was memorizing your every movement and adjusting for it. The small crease between his brows deepened when he accidentally stepped slightly to the side. His thumb skimmed over the back of your hand.

“I’m trying,” he murmured under his breath, eyes fixed on you.

“I know,” you said, unable to keep the smile from your lips. “That’s what makes it endearing.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Endearing. Great. Just what every man wants to hear.”

“Would you prefer infuriatingly hot?” you teased softly.

His fingers tightened just a little at your waist.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

The tension coiled between you was no longer just a thread—it was a live wire, vibrating with the kind of electric heat that made your skin flush.

For a moment, the world softened. The music drowned out the buzz of conversation. Zayne looked at you—not through you, not past you. At you. Like you were something he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold.

Your heart started to ache with it.

Because just as you let yourself settle into that rare, precious warmth—

“Is that really her?” someone whispered, too loud to ignore.

You didn’t recognize the voice, but the words struck like a slap.

“I mean, she’s pretty, but… for Dr. Zayne?”

“She wasn’t even at the last two galas. Maybe she’s just a placeholder. The family probably wanted someone traditional—quiet.”

A scoff. “Can’t imagine her fitting in here long-term.”

Someone laughed.

Your stomach dropped. Ice flooded your veins. The music dimmed in your ears as white noise took over.

You froze mid-step.

Zayne’s hand on your back tensed. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you slowly turned your head and locked eyes with the pair of women standing near the bar. They immediately looked away—but not before you caught the smirk. The judgment. The quiet condescension.

You couldn’t breathe.

The past few months—your loneliness, the silence, the empty dining table, the aching questions about why he married you—all of it surged back in a single wave.

You pulled your hand from Zayne’s.

“Excuse me,” you said, tightly. “I need some air.”

“Wait—”

You were already walking away. Not fast, but with purpose. Each step burning, each breath harder than the last. You could feel the stares, feel the whispers lingering like perfume in the wake of your departure.

Zayne caught up just outside the building, where the night air bit sharp and cold against your flushed skin.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing your arm gently. “Talk to me.”

You turned around, eyes stinging. “Why? So I can pretend to be graceful while your world watches and whispers about how I don’t belong?”

Zayne blinked, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You didn’t hear them?” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Of course you didn’t. Because you do belong here. They all love you. They admire you. No one questions your worth.”

“I don’t give a damn what they have to say.”

“But I do!” you snapped.

The words came out louder than intended. You saw him stagger.

You lowered your voice. “I do. Because I already feel like a ghost in your life, Zayne. Like I’m always waiting in the background, watching you exist in this perfectly curated orbit that I was never meant to touch. And tonight, when those women looked at me like I was… disposable? It felt true.”

His expression shifted—anger, confusion, something more vulnerable.

“You’re not disposable.”

“Then what am I?”

Silence.

The wind whispered through the trees lining the parking lot. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your heart slamming against your ribs. Zayne looked at you like he wanted to say something, but the words weren’t coming fast enough.

You shook your head and turned toward the curb. “I’m calling a cab—”

“No.” His voice was low, steady.

You turned back, startled.

“I’ll take you,” he said, already pulling out the car keys from his pocket.

You didn’t argue.

You spent the second anniversary of your marriage burning with a fever.

A cruel twist of irony, really. You'd managed to go your entire life dodging sickness with near supernatural luck, but all it took was one chilly evening, a forgotten shawl, and rain-soaked clothes to send your body spiraling into a fever that left your limbs weak and your head pounding.

At first, you thought you'd sleep it off. Wrapped tightly in all the blankets you could find—you let the fever burn through your skin in silence. You didn’t call out for help. You didn’t expect it. Not from him.

But Zayne noticed.

Of course he did. A man like him didn’t miss details.

When he came home that evening, he found you curled up, shivering beneath layers of blankets, your breathing ragged and uneven. You didn’t hear the door open. You didn't see the flowers, the gifts. You didn’t see the expression on his face when he stood in the doorway, brows pinched, jaw tight.

But you did feel his fingers, cool and clinical, touch your forehead.

"You have a fever," he muttered, more to himself than you.

Your eyes cracked open, lashes damp with sweat. "It’s nothing. It'll pass."

"You're burning up. How long have you been like this?"

His voice wasn’t cold. Not warm either. Neutral, but threaded with something you hadn’t heard from him before: urgency.

"Since last night, maybe. I didn’t think—"

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

You blinked up at him, dazed.

"Because you don’t want me to bother you."

There. The words landed between you like a glass shattering on tile. Zayne went still. For a long beat, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, "That’s not what I meant."

You closed your eyes again, too exhausted to argue. "Didn’t you?"

He stood, his footsteps echoing out the room. You thought that was it. The end of whatever strange moment had bloomed between you.

But then he returned. With a cold compress, a thermometer, and a bottle of medicine that rattled as he uncapped it.

He didn’t say anything as he pressed the cool cloth to your head. As he helped you sit up and pressed the glass to your lips. As he waited, silently, for you to swallow.

You watched him through bleary eyes.

He didn’t have to do any of this.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Zayne looked up from where he sat beside the bed.

His eyes searched your face like he was trying to decipher something written between your freckles. He looked tired. Not physically, but emotionally. Like carrying the weight of his silence had cost him something.

"I never wanted this marriage to hurt you."

You flinched. Not from the pain—your head was already screaming—but from the admission itself. A truth, finally. You clung to it like a rope.

"Then why do you act like you’re not in it at all?"

Zayne’s jaw tensed. He looked away. "Because I’ve only ever ruined the people I loved. I thought... if I stayed away, I wouldn't ruin you too."

Your breath caught. That wasn’t an answer you were expecting.

"You think loving someone ruins them?"

His gaze flicked back to you, dark and unreadable. "In my experience, yes."

You let the silence sit for a beat. Then: "That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard."

Zayne didn’t flinch at your honesty. Instead, he sighed, the sound low and tired. He stood then, slowly, his hand hovering at your shoulder. You didn’t flinch. He tucked the blankets around you more securely.

"Rest. We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better."

You nodded faintly. But before he turned away, you reached out and caught his wrist.

"Zayne."

He looked down at you, startled.

"Don’t disappear again."

He nodded once.

"I won’t.”

Liar.

Because as soon as you recovered, he returned to work with a vengeance. Longer hours. Empty dinners. More silence.

That night, you saw the man Zayne could be.

But like everything else in your marriage—it was temporary.

Like a pulse.

Here, then gone.

You stepped into the house with your jaw set, your heels clicking a little too sharply against the tile. Zayne followed, quiet as a shadow but twice as heavy.

Your clutch hit the hallway table with a soft thud. Without a glance back, you turned down the hallway toward the guest bedroom.

“Don’t go to bed angry,” Zayne said behind you.

You stopped. Laughed—short, bitter. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Your fingers had barely grazed the handle when it happened.

A thin, crystalline film crept across the surface, shimmering pale blue in the dim light. The doorknob let out a crackle as frost bloomed over it like a warning.

You blinked.

Tried again.

Solid.

Frozen shut.

You turned slowly.

Zayne stood a few feet down the hall, hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just weaponized his Evol against you. His expression was infuriatingly unreadable—except for the small, dry quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” he said, like he’d just noticed it himself. “Seems like you’ll have to sleep in our bed after all.”

You stared at him, disbelief crashing into your ribs like a wave.

“I’ll take the couch.”

He tilted his head.

A beat.

Then, without a word, he flicked two fingers behind his back. You heard it before you saw it—that same sharp, cold whisper of ice forming.

You darted to the living room, half praying he hadn’t—

The couch was a glistening sculpture now. Icicles hanging off the armrest like smug punctuation marks.

“Are you serious?” you snapped, whipping around.

He leaned against the wall, ankles crossed, absolutely nonchalant. “It’s out of service.”

You glared at him. “Now what, then? You’re gonna freeze the floor?”

His brow arched—just a fraction. “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

You dropped to the ground in protest, but the second your fingers brushed the hardwood, a shiver shot up your arm.

Ice.

The entire floor was now ice.

You scrambled back to your feet, livid. “Are you going to turn the whole house into a damn ice rink?!”

He shrugged, and you hated how casual he looked. His voice, when it came, was quiet. “Our bed is an exception.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t look away.

And that—that was what stopped you. Not the ridiculous pettiness of his power trip. Not even the childish escalation of it all.

But the way his eyes softened, just slightly, in the quiet. Like he was hoping you'd see something underneath all the frost. Something unspoken.

You exhaled, sharp.

He didn’t move. Just watched you from across the hall, standing in the middle of a house half-entombed in ice, like this was the only way he knew how to ask.

Not with warmth.

But by freezing every escape.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a sigh. “This is psychotic,” you muttered, stalking past him toward the bedroom.

He moved aside, silent.

You stopped at the door. Paused.

Then turned your head, your voice flat. “Touch the blanket with your ice, and I’m adding carrots in every single meal.”

His mouth twitched, that almost-smile back. “Duly noted.”

You stepped inside.

The room is steeped in silence. Not peaceful silence—weighted silence.

The kind that vibrates in your chest like thunder that never breaks.

The lamp on the nightstand is still on, casting golden light against the walls. Shadows flicker gently as the breeze from the open window stirs the curtains. The bedsheets feel too crisp, too heavy. You’ve been lying there, backs to each other, for what feels like hours. Both awake. Both pretending not to be.

You stare at the same patch of wall, your thoughts spiraling. He’s just a breath behind you. Warm. Still.

Too still.

Then his voice breaks the quiet.

“Do you really want us to divorce?”

The question doesn’t come sharp. It’s… soft. Careful. Like he’s not sure what he’ll do if the answer is yes. Like the very act of asking might splinter something already fragile.

You don’t answer. But you breathe—deep, just once. Enough to say: I hear you.

He doesn’t fill the silence. Not yet. And for a moment you almost think maybe he’s done, maybe he’s going to let it drop.

But then he speaks again. This time quieter.

“Do you despise me? Do you hate the very thought of me near you? Is this what I’ve driven you to?”

His words crack at the edges—like he's been rehearsing them in his head for days but saying them aloud costs more than he expected. There’s no accusation in them. Just... damage control. The kind of questions a man only asks when he's already built the worst answers in his head.

You press your eyes shut, your throat tight.

You should speak. You should end the misery. But it’s hard, trying to sort through all the mess in your chest. You want to scream at him some nights. And others, like now, you just want to understand him. To figure out why he’s the way he is—why he disappears behind walls he doesn’t invite you through.

But even when you hated the silence, you never hated him.

You roll over, just slightly, so he can see your face in the lamplight—shadowed, but open.

Your voice doesn’t lash out. It lands soft.

“I don’t hate you.”

You pause. Let it sit between you like a bandage being pressed against a bruise.

“I'd sooner hate a thousand sunsets than ever hate you.”

And the way his breath leaves him—slow and shaky—isn't relief exactly. It's grief. It’s longing. It's all of it.

“But… if there's one thing I hated, it was the wedding. The grand venue, the unfamiliar people, the dress”—you stopped abruptly before your voice could take on an ugly tone. You didn't want to sound ungrateful. Or spoiled.

You could still hear her voice sometimes whispering—at times even screaming in your head.

Men don't like ungrateful women. So don't ever complain to him. A good wife speaks pleasantly—

“Continue.” Zayne turns toward you—no hesitation now. He closes the space between you like a tide claiming the shore.

One arm wraps around your waist. The other threads beneath your neck, pulling you gently, but decisively, into the curve of his chest. You feel the press of his mouth in your hair, the slow inhale like he’s memorizing the scent of your skin.

He breathes you in like you’re medicine. Like you’re salvation.

His fingers splay across your stomach, not possessive, not demanding—just present. Anchoring.

You stay stiff for a second—surprised. Then… your spine softens, your head leans back into the hollow of his throat.

Your fingers—clumsy and unsure—find his where they rest against your waist. You don’t squeeze. You just touch. Lightly.

“...I'd much rather have preferred to elope instead.”

And that’s all he needs.

He doesn’t say anything else. Neither do you.

But there’s an unspoken agreement in the way he holds you—tighter than usual. Like he knows what he’s done. And maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to stop hiding behind it.

Your heart beats in quiet rebellion.

You don’t move.

You don’t forgive.

Not yet.

But you stay.

And that’s the first truce you’ve had in a long time.

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anghimalaaynasapuso · 6 months ago

Text

HORNY PRIEST JOHN PRICE

breeding kink, sacrilege (?)

john joined the church after leaving the military, though he never spoke much about what led him there. some men left war and found peace in quiet towns, in family, in distance. john, meanwhile, found himself in the shadow of the cross, searching for something he couldn't name.

he knelt, prayed, studied scripture— not because he'd had a sudden divine vision, but because he’d needed something to tether himself to.

he's never been one to talk about faith in absolutes. the young priests, fresh out of seminary, speak with a certainty that makes him envious. they talk of god’s mercy like it’s a thing they’ve held in their hands, like they’ve never doubted it for a second.

john doesn’t have that luxury. his hands have held a rifle, pressed down on wounds, ended lives.

what right does he have to stand in the confessional and tell a man his sins are forgiven when his own are still heavy in his chest?

he doesn’t let it show. not when he stands before his congregation, not when he delivers the homily, and not even when he listens to the confessions of those who kneel before him.

the words come easy. “god is love. god is mercy.” he says them with the confidence of a man who believes them. perhaps if he says them enough, one day it'll drive home.

he's decently well-respected in his parish. john speaks in measured tones, and listens with the kind of patience that makes people trust him. he’s rarely if ever unkind, never raising his voice even when the children at sunday school test his patience or when the older priests debate doctrine with a stubbornness he doesn’t bother entertaining.

the congregation admires him for it.

he keeps a well-worn rosary in his pocket, fingers brushing over the beads when he’s deep in thought. it’s an old habit, one he never lost even when he stopped saying the prayers as often as he should. late at night, when he can’t sleep, he walks the empty church, the only light coming from the red glow of the tabernacle lamp.

he runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the pews, listens to the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, and exhales smoke into the dim air. it feels like a kind of penance, staying here long after everyone else has gone, keeping watch over something he’s still not sure he belongs to.

the first time you meet, it’s in the courtyard after sunday mass.

you’re new to the church. new to the neighborhood. moved in just a month ago, so he’s heard. he hadn't taken much notice at first— he rarely does. parishioners come and go, faces blending into one another over time.

but then he sees you. all wide eyes and bright smiles, the late-morning sun catching the warmth in your hair, laugh spilling out like a song. you shake hands with mrs. calloway, nod attentively as she chatters on about her garden, and there’s something about the way you tilt your head, the way your lips part in quiet amusement, that makes something ugly and raw twist in his gut.

john shouldn’t be looking. he knows he shouldn’t be looking.

and yet.

you catch sight of him, and your smile brightens, something open and eager in your face as you step forward. “father price.”

your voice is softer than he expects. sweeter. a fact not good for his health.

he nods. “you’ve settled in well, i see.”

“i have. everyone’s been so kind.” your hands clasp in front of you, fingers tangling. “i wanted to introduce myself properly. i should have done it sooner, but-” you shake your head, sheepish. “i guess i was nervous.”

nervous? of who— him?

he watches the way you glance down, the way your teeth catch the plump of your lower lip, the slight shift of your weight from foot to foot, and something slow and molten pools in his stomach.

and then, unbidden—

i want to fuck her mouth.

the thought slams into him. his fingers curl, blunt nails pressing into his palm. john's throat tightens, heat crawling up the back of his neck, shame dragging its claws down his spine.

he schools his expression, keeps his voice level. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.” a beat. his gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. “i hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

your eyes meets his then. for a moment, he swears you see it. the crack in his composure, the way his restraint stretches thin around you like fraying rope.

but then you just smile again— so fucking gentle— and bid him a polite goodbye before slipping back into the crowd.

he exhales, tries to control his breathing, before turning on his heel and heading inside.

it doesn’t get better after that.

oh no. in fact, it only gets worse.

because you linger. you stay. you join the congregation, sit near the front every sunday, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your lips parted slightly in quiet reverence as you listen to the sermon. you bite your lip when you concentrate, tuck your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, shift in your seat just enough to make his mind wander places it has absolutely no right to go.

and it haunts him.

creeps into his thoughts when he thinks he's already run far away from it. slips into his head when he least expects it. a slow, insidious thing, winding around his ribs, sinking its teeth into the softest parts of him.

john finds himself getting lost in his imaginations more and more as the weeks pass by. it starts with something simple. something small.

you, in his kitchen.

the space is yours as much as it is his now— he hardly steps foot in it unless you usher him in, your hands on his arms, guiding him to sit, to rest. the scent of warm bread and roasted meat fills the house, seeping into the wooden beams, the stone walls. the windows are cracked open just enough to let the breeze in, carrying with it the scent of the fields, the distant bells of the church.

you hum as you work, a quiet little tune under your breath, flour dusting your fingers, smudging along the curve of your cheek. you’re barefoot, the hem of your dress skimming your ankles, your apron tied neatly at the back. domestic. wifely. His.

"you’re spoiling me, love."

you laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him where he sits at the table, his elbows braced against the wood, his chin resting on his hand. john hasn’t even touched the sermon notes laid out before him, hasn’t even opened the book he’d planned to read. no, his attention has been on you— watching you move, watching the light catch on your hair, watching the way you fit so perfectly in his home.

"you work too hard," you murmur, turning back to the stove. "someone has to take care of you."

the words sink into him, low and warm, wrapping around something deep in his chest.

you do take care of him.

you set a plate before him, still warm from your hands, and press a kiss to the top of his head, your lips soft against his hair.

you fold his robes neatly after they’ve dried in the sun, pressing your hands over the fabric like a prayer. you pluck a stray thread from his collar before mass, your fingers deft and careful, your brow furrowing in quiet concentration.

you brush his hair back from his forehead when he sits too long at his desk, rubbing slow circles at his temple, your fingers easing away the weight of his work.

and in the evenings, after the dishes have been washed and the fire burns low, you climb into his lap with a soft sigh, tucking yourself against his chest.

"long day?" you ask, your fingers smoothing over the front of his shirt.

"mm." john presses a kiss to your hair, lets his hands settle at your waist, palms warm through the thin fabric of your nightdress. "better now."

and it is better, with you here, with your warmth seeping into his, your breath brushing his throat.

he wants all of it. the soft, easy domesticity. the routine of waking to you curled beside him, of pressing sleepy kisses to your bare shoulder before dragging himself out of bed. of watching you move through his home with the comfort of a woman who belongs there.

and, god help him—

john wants to fuck you too.

until you leaked him, until his seed dripped down your thighs, making a mess of soft, perfect skin. wants to bend you over his desk, press your face into the worn wood, break you open on his cock until you sobbed for him, begged him to fill you. he’d grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises.

he wants to whisper filth into your ear, his breath hot— gonna fill you up, love. gonna fuck you so full of me you’ll be dripping for days. you want that, don’t you? want me to breed you like the needy little thing you are?

he wants to press his fingers into your mouth, make you suck them clean before shoving them between your legs, fucking them into the soft clutch of your pussy until you cried for him.

and when he finally sinks his swollen cock inside you— he’d make you feel it.

john wants to fuck you raw, grind his hips against yours, keep you pinned beneath his weight, stuffed full of his cock. he’d press a hand to your belly, feel himself inside you, make you watch as you take a cock too big for you.

and when he’d spill inside you he wouldn't stop. oh no— he’d fuck it deeper, press his fingers to your swollen clit, make you come with him, make your body take every last drop of his seed.

because he wouldn't just fill you. he’d breed you. over and over, until you couldn't keep yourself up, too boneless to thrust back into him, too full to take any more.

but he was a man of god.

and men of god did not shove their sweet, willing parishioners over their desks, did not drag their teeth down soft skin, did not slap needy little cunts until they were wet and dripping.

they did not fuck desperate little things in church pews, in quiet confessionals, did not fist their hands in soft hair and shove pretty mouths onto their cocks, did not whisper filth between gasped-out prayers.

they did not spend their nights with their heads buried between trembling thighs, devouring the taste of sin, holding squirming bodies still as they licked deep, sucked hard, forced sweet, innocent things to come against their tongues.

they did not rut into them like beasts, gripping soft wrists, pinning them down, owning them with every brutal thrust. they did not press their hands to swollen bellies, fill their women over and over until their bodies were wrecked, too full of come to take another drop.

men of god did not fuck.

but god forgive him, he would.

all those thoughts come to this moment, this night—

john finds himself alone under the dim glow of candlelight, sitting on the pews, head tilted to the cross.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, like penance for the filth curdling in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks, far too loud in the sacred silence, but he doesn’t stop.

can’t.

his breathing is uneven, ragged in the dim hush of the empty church. each inhale feels like it scrapes against his ribs, sharp and burning, as though the very air is punishing him for the thoughts festering in his mind. his hands tremble as they move beneath his robes, fingers fumbling at the buckle of his belt. the metal clinks softly in the quiet, a sound far too loud in the sanctity of this space.

the leather gives way, and his cassock feels suffocating now, the fabric too heavy against skin flushed with heat. his fingers slip lower, dragging the waistband of his pants down his hips with shaky, desperate movements until he’s free— finally free— from the painful confines of his underwear.

his cock springs forward, already hard in his hand, flushed dark at the tip, the skin tight and aching. a bead of precum glistens there, catching in the flicker of candlelight like something obscene in the house of god. he wraps his hand around the base, his grip firm but not enough to ease the pressure coiled in his gut. the heat of his palm sends a shudder rolling down his spine, breath hitching as his thumb swipes over the sensitive head, smearing the slick wetness down the length.

his cock is long, veins pulsing along the shaft, the kind of thick that demands attention. his foreskin still covers the swollen head, slick with the evidence of his own arousal, precum smearing against the soft skin of his lower stomach. he hisses through his teeth as he wraps his hand around the base, fingers barely closing around the girth, feeling the steady throb of blood pulsing beneath his grip.

his balls hang full and tight, pulled close with need, the skin sensitive to the faintest brush of fabric. every movement is torment, the soft rub of his cassock against his bare thighs sending a shudder through him, making his hips jerk forward, seeking relief.

he strokes himself slowly, dragging his foreskin back to expose the flushed, leaking head, then rolling it forward again, savoring the sensitivity. his thumb swipes through the slick wetness pooling at the tip, smearing it down the length, adding just enough glide to make his fist slip easier over his cock.

his grip tightens, dragging the pleasure out like a prayer he’s too ashamed to speak aloud. the church is silent around him, the air thick with the scent of burning wax and old stone, but all he can think about is you.

on your knees before him.

john sees it so clearly, feels it like it’s already happened. the way you’d sink down, your eyes looking up at him through thick lashes, expectant. your soft lips parted just enough for your tongue to wet them before stretching around his cock. the thought makes his stomach clench, his fingers twitching as he strokes himself tighter, his foreskin gliding over the swollen head before he pulls it back again.

you wouldn’t be able to take all of him at once. he knows that much. He’s too thick, too long— your jaw would ache just trying, your tongue pressing firm against the heavy weight of him, struggling to make space. the first inch would be easy, maybe even the second. but when he pushes deeper, when his tip nudges the back of your throat and you gag, just a little, he knows he’d lose whatever control he has left.

he swears he can see it— your fingers curling against his thighs, the little choked noise you’d make when he holds you there, when his cock throbs against your tongue. your throat would flutter, swallowing around him, trying to adjust to the stretch. and oh, god, the way your lips would look wrapped around him, swollen with abuse and slick with spit and precum. john nearly loses himself at the image alone.

his hips jerk forward into his own grip, chasing the fantasy, breath coming through the vaulted ceilings of the church. he’d guide you through it, hand buried in your hair, tilting your head just the way he likes. gentle, at first. Letting you set the pace. But then when you get too comfortable, when you start to tease, pulling back just to trail soft kisses along his length— he’d snap.

he’d pull you down, bury himself deep in the hot sleeve of your mouth until your throat clenched around him and you whimpered against his balls. his other hand would cup your jaw, feeling the bulge of himself pressing against your cheek, watching as tears bead at the corners of your eyes, shuddering from the effort of taking him.

he wonders if you’d try to pull away, fingers gripping his thighs in a silent plea. would you struggle? would you whine? would you let him break you like this?

john groans, his grip tightening almost painfully. he pumps himself faster now, the obscene slap of skin against skin filling the empty church. his balls are drawn tight, aching with the need to spill, and in his mind, he’s not coming into his own palm.

he’s coming down your throat.

you’d swallow, wouldn’t you? just for him. he can see it— his cum thick on your tongue, your lips parting to show him before you close your mouth and swallow it down. maybe a little would escape, dripping down your chin, and he’d swipe his thumb through it, pressing it back to your lips.

“messy thing,” he’d murmur. “but you took it so well.”

the thought sends him over the edge.

his hips stutter, cock jerking in his grip as his orgasm crashes over him, hot and sudden. cum spills over his knuckles, , dripping onto the cold stone beneath him. his breath comes in harsh, broken gasps, his thighs trembling as he rides out the aftershocks, his vision hazy with the force of his release.

and when it’s over— when he finally stills, his body spent, his mind heavy with guilt— he drags his gaze upward.

The cross looms above him, watching.

if this is damnation, he’ll sin again.

#john price #john price x reader #captain john price #captain jonathan price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #john price x you #john price x y/n #cod x y/n #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #cod #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod x you #📌 price

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shortnspidey · 1 month ago

Text

PERILOUS SKIES

Bob Floyd X Fem!Seresin!reader || WC: 6.9K

SUMMARY: Dating Bob Floyd had been nothing short of perfect. The sweet, ever-attentive WSO felt like he’d walked straight out of a rom-com. That’s why, when your scheduled date night arrives and he doesn’t show, your mind immediately begins to spiral. It’s so unlike him, so out of character, that you can’t stop replaying every possible reason in your head. As the hours stretch on, worry takes hold, deep down, you can feel something’s wrong.

WARNINGS: Established relationship, cursing, talks of minor injuries, minor talks of violence, overall fluff, steamy kiss, slight angst, typical Hangman behavior, incorrect military details (sorry)!

A/N: Ugh! I need a man like Bob! 😫 I have been sucked back into my 2022 Top Gun era and Lewis Pullman has me in such a chokehold which is why this was written. Hope y’all enjoy! Divider by @thecutestgrotto <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob floyd masterlist

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d fall for a military man. Not because you didn’t respect them, you did. You’d seen what that kind of life demanded: the discipline, the bravery, the sacrifices. But you'd also seen the ego, the recklessness, and the emotional walls that seemed to come with the uniform. You knew their type, inside and out. Especially because you were raised right alongside one.

Jake “Hangman” Seresin wasn’t just your older brother. He was a force of nature, sharp smile, sharper jawline, and enough swagger to make heads turn before he even stepped foot in a room. He’d always been that way. The golden boy. The daredevil. The protector. And as his little sister, you were someone he guarded with his life. Especially, when it came to men.

Every birthday party, every school dance, every casual dinner date you attempted growing up had been intercepted by Jake. Sometimes he scared them off with a pointed glare. Sometimes it was a not-so-subtle, “I’m watching you.” And sometimes it was just his mere presence, standing a little too close, arms crossed over his chest like he was waiting for an excuse to break someone’s nose.

At first, it had almost been sweet, he was simply looking out for you. But as the years passed, it became suffocating. You weren’t fragile. You didn’t need saving. And yet, he treated you like some porcelain doll that might crack if someone so much as looked at you the wrong way. God forbid it was someone in the Navy. It was safe to say that you had grown so tired of flight suits.

That’s why you built a life as far away from that world as you could. Your work meant everything to you. You were a licensed therapist, specializing in trauma and stress-related disorders, an emotionally demanding job, but one that gave you purpose. You spent your days helping others unpack the things they carried, offering a safe space for people to speak their truth, even when it broke your heart.

You had your own small private practice just off base, tucked into a converted bungalow with soft lighting and calming artwork on the walls. It smelled faintly of lavender and worn paperbacks, and your bookshelf overflowed with psychology texts, handwritten notes, and dog-eared poetry collections. Your life was rooted in listening. In feeling. In forming connections.

And if, some nights, the weight of everyone else’s pain lingered in your chest, well, you’d made peace with that. You had your quiet apartment, your plants, your routines. You knew how to breathe through the noise. You were proud of what you’d built. Which made what happened next was all the more unexpected. You weren’t planning to go out that night.

It had been a long, exhausting week, three new clients, a crisis session, and a war veteran who hadn’t said a single word until your fifth session together. You were mentally and physically drained, emotionally raw. You had planned to stay in, maybe order Thai food and watch something mindless just to silence your thoughts. But your phone lit up with a message from Penny.

Swing by the Hard Deck tonight. First drink’s on me! 🍹

You almost said no.

But, surprisingly, something pushed you to say yes. So without thinking too much, you slipped into an orange sundress, threw on your favorite sandals, and drove the familiar road to the beach. As always, the Hard Deck buzzed with music, laughter, and the sound of boots hitting the wooden floors. The scent of sea salt and beer filled the air, and the jukebox was already playing something classic, probably something from Maverick’s rotation.

You knew half the faces there. A few pilots you’d grown up around. Some you had met through Jake. Speaking of Jake, of course he was already there, was holding court by the pool table, cue stick in hand, that ever-confident grin on his face. Same old scene. Same old bar. Penny spotted your first, waving you over as she started making your go-to drink. You smiled, walking over and giving her a hug behind the bar.

“Here, looks like you need it.” You smiled, accepting the fruity cocktail from her hands. As she attended to the other bar patrons, you sat in a nearby stool, fully intending to linger just long enough to be polite before heading back out so that you could crawl into bed by 10PM. Only, the universe seemed to have different plans, because that's when you saw him. He was tucked away in the corner of the bar, half-shadowed by the low glow of the neon beer signs above.

He sat with a bottle of beer in hand, long fingers loosely curled around the neck of it, his posture slightly hunched like he was doing his best not to take up too much space. His glasses were a little fogged from the humidity, slipping just slightly down the bridge of his nose. He reached up now and then to adjust them, eyes flicking around the bar like he was trying to blend into the furniture.

Not hiding, exactly, just keeping to himself. He wasn’t laughing with the others, wasn’t showing off at the dartboard, and he definitely wasn’t trying to flirt with anyone. In a room full of men with too much confidence and not enough subtlety, he was different. You couldn’t look away. There was something almost disarming about how awkward he looked. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands or where to rest his gaze.

But even in all that quiet discomfort, there was something gentle about him. You were too far in your head when he looked up, and caught you staring. Your breath hitched, just slightly. But instead of looking away like most people would, he offered a sheepish, crooked smile. And you smiled back, because how could you not? He dropped his gaze immediately, taking a sip of his beer like maybe he was embarrassed by the brief moment of eye contact.

It only made him even more endearing.

You turned back toward Penny behind the bar, trying to play it cool, but your voice betrayed your interest. “Hey Penny, who’s the guy in the corner?” Penny followed your gaze, then gave you a knowing little smile. “That’s Bob.” You hummed, faking interest, taking a sip of your drink. “Lieutenant Robert Floyd. WSO. Flies backseat for Phoenix.” She added casually, wiping down a glass. “One of the good ones. Real quiet, but sweet as hell. Kind of Jake’s opposite.”

That earned a short laugh out of you. “So, he's not a pilot?” You smiled behind the rim of your glass. “He is, technically. But he’s the kind that listens more than he talks.” Penny raised an eyebrow. “Why? Are you interested?” Instead of responding, you glance over your shoulder again. Bob was staring down at the condensation on his bottle, idly tracing circles with his fingertip like he’d rather be anywhere else, and yet, somehow, he didn’t look miserable.

Just… out of place.

“Maybe.” You murmured, trying to sound nonchalant, but the truth betrayed you in the form of heat creeping up the back of your neck. You lifted your drink to cover the slight twitch of a smile you couldn’t suppress. Penny leaned in with a smirk, wiping down the bar like she wasn’t studying your every move. “Then don’t wait too long,” She coaxed under her breath, voice teasing. “Use that Seresin charm. Guys like that don’t usually make the first move.”

You glanced back at him. He was still in the corner, tracing the rim of his bottle with his thumb, eyes low, posture slightly slouched like he was trying to shrink himself into the background. But something about him, it tugged at you. Maybe it was the way his eyes had flicked toward you moments ago, a little wide, like he couldn’t believe someone like you had noticed him. Like he wasn’t used to being seen.

Or maybe, just maybe, you were tired of playing it safe. Tired of living under your brother’s ever-watchful gaze. Tired of waiting for permission you never needed in the first place. Your fingers tightened around the glass as you made your decision. You slid off your stool, smoothing down your dress like it could steady your nerves, and crossed the bar, each step quickening your heartbeat. “Mind if I sit?” You asked, voice smooth, chin tilted ever so slightly in confidence, fake or not.

He looked up at you, caught off guard. His expression flickered,first surprise, then something gentler. He cleared his throat, straightening a little. “Uh—yeah. I mean, no. I don’t mind.” You smiled and took the seat beside him, the wood cool against your skin as you eased into it. “Thanks, I’m Y/N.” You extended your hand across the small gap between you. The contact was instant, his larger palm warm, slightly rough from flight gloves, his grip unsure but respectful nonetheless.

“B-Bob,” He mumbled out. “Well, Robert. But, um… everyone calls me Bob.” You smiled, loving how blush dusted his cheeks. “Nice to meet you, Bob,” You let his name linger, giving it weight as your gaze swept over his face, softer up close, his features earnest and boyish beneath his glasses which hid his captivating cerulean blue eyes. “So… you always hang out in dark corners, or is tonight a special occasion?” The edges of his mouth twitched with a quiet, amused smile.

“Just trying to stay out of the way.” You raised a brow, slightly leaning into him so your shoulders were touching. “Of who?” You teased, head tilting. “The loud ones? Or the terrifying older brothers?” That made his eyes widen slightly behind his lenses, and you didn’t miss the way he stiffened, the realization hitting like a gust of wind. He blinked once. Then again. “Y-You’re… Hangman’s sister?” You sipped your drink, nodding slowly. “Guilty as charged, Lieutenant.” You winked as Bob stared for a moment.

You could practically see the gears turning behind his eyes, fast, nervous, cautious. “You gonna run, Bob?” You asked, eyebrow lifting, lips curved just enough to keep it playful. You wouldn’t have blamed him. You were used to that look. You’d seen it before on a dozen other faces. Guys who decided no girl was worth catching hell from Jake Seresin. But Bob surprised you. He didn’t bolt. Didn’t stammer out a goodbye or glance over his shoulder like he was looking for an exit.

Instead, he just smiled, really smiled, and for the first time, something inside you fluttered. His whole face shifted when he did, gentle and sincere, like the smile had been waiting for the right moment to be let out. His shoulders dropped, and the tension in his spine eased as his nerves melted into quiet warmth. The corners of his eyes crinkled behind his glasses, and the golden bar light caught the faint dimple in his cheek, softening his whole demeanor.

Something about it, about him, felt honest. “Not unless you tell me to.” His voice was low, laced with a touch of humor, but no hint of fear whatsoever. And that was it. And you knew then… you were in trouble. Of course, right on cue, nothing good in your life ever slipped past Jake unnoticed. And the moment your brother spotted you talking to someone, especially someone in uniform, he made a beeline across the bar like a guided missile.

“Seriously?” He muttered under his breath, then louder. “She’s off-limits.” He slung an arm around your shoulder, the heavy weight of it both familiar and infuriating, while his eyes narrowed at Bob like he’d caught him trying to hack into the Pentagon. His voice was low and sharp. “I mean it, Floyd.” To Bob’s credit, he didn’t bristle or shrink away. He didn’t puff his chest or try to argue. He just gave a small, respectful nod, calm, measured. “Understood.” You expected him to walk away after that.

Hell, Jake even expected him to.

That was usually the part where most men retreated, tail between their legs, deciding no woman was worth facing down a protective older brother with a reputation like Hangman’s. But Bob surprised you. Later that night, long after the initial rush of aviators had moved on to games of pool and darts, and Jake had wandered off to trash-talk some poor soul at the dartboard, you found yourself by the jukebox, flipping through the cracked plastic covers of old CDs. Then, a quiet voice spoke up from behind you.

“I know your brother’s... protective,” Protective was one way to put it, you thought to yourself. You glanced up from flipping through the CD’s as Bob shifted his weight from one foot to another, hands in the pockets of his khakis, standing just far enough away to give you space, but close enough that you could feel the sincerity in his tone. “But I’d still like to buy you a drink and maybe talk some more. I-If that’s alright with you of course.” You looked up, surprised and maybe a little impressed.

It was more than alright.

You gave him a nod, and the two of you sat at the end of the bar, away from prying eyes and Jake’s over-the-top dramatics. Conversation flowed easier than you expected. Bob wasn’t flashy or performative, he was thoughtful. Funny in a dry, unexpected way. A little awkward, but charmingly so. That night turned into another. Then a real date. Then two. Then weeks of texts that made you smile at your phone like a teenager. Things didn’t move fast, they didn’t need to. With Bob, it was steady.

He remembered your favorite drink after the first time you ordered it. He walked you to your car every time, even if it meant doubling back on his own route. He asked about your day and actually listened, not just to respond, but to understand. He never interrupted. Never made you feel small. He laughed at your jokes, even the bad ones. He offered his hoodie on breezy beach nights without saying a word. And even had this quiet habit of checking on you.

Whether it was a text at the exact right time. A glance across a room that grounded you. And maybe most surprising of all, he made you feel safe. It didn’t matter that he flew backseat for one of the Navy’s best pilots. That he was part of a squad who took down a nearly impossible mission. That half the base jokingly called him “baby-on- board.” None of that defined him.

What mattered was that when you were with him, for the first time in years, you didn’t feel like someone’s little sister. You didn’t feel like someone to be guarded or shielded or spoken for. You just felt seen. Of course, that didn’t mean you were ready to throw it in Jake’s face. For a while, you and Bob kept things quiet. It wasn’t that you were ashamed, far from it. But you both agreed: Jake didn’t need to know just yet. You liked the way things were. Soft. Sacred. Yours.

Besides, the moment your brother found out you were seeing someone, especially someone on his squadron, he’d lose his mind. So you kept your dates discreet. Stolen kisses in parked cars. Quick coffee dates before his briefings. Whispered conversations during beach bonfires where no one was paying attention. And on one particularly slow afternoon, he stopped by your office. Your practice had just closed for the day. The soft hum of the white noise machine still filled the room, and the late sun poured through the windows.

Bob was leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, pretending to read the spines of your books, psychology texts, self-help, a few novels tucked in like secrets. “I still can’t believe you keep a weighted blanket in your office.” He teased lightly, eyes glued to your legs as you reached for your laptop. “Trauma work, remember? Nervous systems love pressure. Plus, it’s cozy.” Bob stepped closer, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. “You’re cozy.” You mirrored his smile, letting out a lovesick giggle before you could stop it.

“Are you trying to flirt with me using therapeutic language?” His blue eyes twinkled with mischief stepping closer. “Is it working?” You laughed, and before you could answer, his lips were on yours. It was supposed to be just one kiss. A quick goodbye before he headed back to base, enough to hold you off until you could get your hands on him later that night. But then your back hit the wall, and his hands cupped your jaw like he was memorizing every curve of your face.

You instinctively melted into him, fingers curling into his fitted white t-shirt that had no business making his biceps look that good. His lips pressed to yours, slow at first, soft and searching, but it deepened quickly. His hands found your waist, sliding over the thin fabric of your blouse, fingers splaying wide as if to anchor himself in the feel of you. Bob groaned quietly into your mouth, the sound low, needy, almost reverent. His tongue slipped past your parted lips, tentative but eager, and you welcomed him in with a soft, breathy moan.

Your hands fumbled for his collar, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the way he tasted. One of his hands slid up your side, fingers brushing under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingertips grazing the bare skin of your ribs. You shivered at the contact, arching into him instinctively. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking just below your ear as his mouth moved with yours, deeper, hungrier.

Your nails scraped lightly through his hair, mussing it from its neat comb, and that earned you another quiet groan that vibrated against your lips. The air between you felt heavy, time blurred. Nothing existed beyond the feel of his body against yours, the way he kissed you like he was starved for it, like he’d been holding back for weeks. Maybe he had. Your hips shifted, a little too eager, and you felt the subtle hitch of his breath as his hand gripped tighter at your waist, holding you there.

Which is how you didn’t hear the office door creak open until: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You both froze. Your lips were still tangled. Bob’s hand was still under your shirt. And Jake Seresin was standing in the doorway of your office, expression stuck somewhere between outrage and horror. You sprang apart, your heartbeat plummeted. And Bob, poor Bob, froze in place like someone had pulled the eject handle. Jake stood in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched, face unreadable.

A vein twitched in his temple. “Jake—” You started, breathless, smoothing down your blouse. “It’s not, well, it is what it looks like, but—" Busted. “Of all the people,” Jake let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, dragging a hand down his face, then pinching the bridge of his nose like it physically pained him to witness what was happening. “Baby-on-board? Seriously, Y/N?!”

You instinctively stepped in front of Bob, shielding him with your body like your brother might actually tackle him through your office window. “Jake. Don’t.” Bob, didn’t move. His back was straight, blue eyes wide behind fogged-up glasses, lips parted as if mid-apology. His cheeks were flushed, his t-shirt slightly wrinkled from where your hands had just been. “I, uh… hi, Hangman." He offered awkwardly, pushing his glasses up with a shaky hand.

Jake stared at him, hard. Like he was cycling through a mental list of disciplinary actions and weighing the pros and cons of each one. “I told you once,” He growled slowly, voice like ice cracking. “My little sister is off-limits.” You stepped in again, squaring your shoulders, chin lifting. “And I told you I’m not twelve.” There was a beat of silence. Then Jake turned to you, jaw tight, mouth slightly open like he wanted to argue, but the fire behind his eyes dimmed.

You saw it, the shift. That split-second of hesitation. The realization. You weren’t his kid sister anymore, sneaking candy into movie theaters or crying over scraped knees. You weren’t some fragile thing he had to wrap in bubble wrap and keep hidden from the world. You were a grown woman. And you’d made your choice. “I’m your big brother,” He muttered voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “I’m supposed to look out for you.”

Your expression softened, shoulders dropping. “You always have. Better than anyone, but you don’t have to protect me from Bob. He'd never hurt me.” You glanced over your shoulder, eyes meeting Bob’s. Jake exhaled sharply through his nose and looked between the two of you. At Bob, still standing there like a soldier awaiting his court-martial. And at you, arms folded, gaze unwavering. After a pregnant pause, a long, reluctant sigh left his chest. “Are you really into him?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I am.” Jake stared at him for another long second, then finally, finally, cracked the smallest smirk. “Jesus Christ. If this is happening, I don’t want to hear about it and I definitely don’t want to see it.” He turned toward the door, muttering under his breath. “Shit, I need bleach for my poor eyes.” Then, he paused and glanced back “If you break her heart, Floyd, I don’t care how good of a WSO you are, I will make you wish you had ejected mid-flight.” Bob swallowed visibly and nodded.

“Understood.” You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth lifted. It wasn’t exactly a blessing. But from Jake Seresin? It sure as hell was close enough. You smiled at the memory, lips curling as your thoughts drifted back. Since then, Jake had slowly eased up, still overbearing at times, but less of an asshole, finally starting to accept the reality that you and Bob were together. It wasn’t instant, but it was progress.

Maybe it was the way Bob never rose to Jake’s bait, or maybe it was how he treated you, with a kind of quiet reverence that left little room for protest. Because Bob was nothing but attentive. The kind of man who remembered how you took your coffee, who sent midday check-in texts just to ask how your sessions had gone, who looked at you like you were his entire goddamn universe. He made you feel like the only girl in the world, seen, cherished.

Which is why, when your usual Thursday night rolled around, the one night you always carved out for each other, and Bob didn’t show… something inside you spiraled. You’d cleaned the apartment, lit one of your favorite candles, even queued up Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith knowing it was one of his favorites. His favorite hoodie was draped over the back of the couch, the one he always “forgot” to take home because he liked the way it smelled after you wore it.

The popcorn was in the bowl. The wine was chilling in the fridge. Take-out menus were on the coffee table. Everything was ready. Except him. You glanced at the clock. Once. Then again. Then again, your eyes flicking to the screen, then to the door, like maybe he’d appear if you wished hard enough. Each time, you brushed it off with a quiet, He’s probably still at the hangar. You knew the drill. Sometimes they got grounded late, schedules shifted.

But the minutes stretched into an hour. Then two. Still no text. No call. Just eerie silence. And Bob? When it came to date night, Bob was never late. When your phone finally rang, the shrill tone sliced through the stillness, making you jump. You scrambled for it, heartbeat thudding against your ribs as your thumb slid to answer without even checking the caller ID on the screen. “Hey, handsome,” You breathed out. “Are you on your way home yet?” Only, it wasn’t Bob’s voice that answered.

“Aww, Y/N,” Came the familiar, cocky drawl you had grown familiar with. “I knew you were lying to me all those times you called me ugly.” Your jaw clenched. Your eyes rolled before your brain could catch up. “Jake,” You snapped, already pacing. “What the hell, where’s Bob? Why are you calling me?” Your brother’s voice cut through the line, irritatingly casual. “Sorry for the late notice, but your beau isn’t making it to date night.” The floor practically dropped out from under you.

“What?! Why? Jake, what happened?” You barely heard yourself over the rush in your ears. Your pulse kicked up, adrenaline beginning to surge. He ignored the edge in your voice, brushing off your panic like it was nothing more than static. “Just come to base. I’ll be waiting at the gate to escort you inside.” Then the line went dead. You stared at your phone for a second, willing it to light up again, to clarify, to make sense. It didn’t.

Just the reflection of your stunned face in the dark screen. “God, I hate when he does that.” You muttered, voice low and sharp as you shoved the phone into your back pocket. Without wasting another breath, you yanked Bob’s hoodie over your head, feet shoving into the nearest pair of sneakers, fingers scrambling for your keys. Your heart thudded in your throat as you raced down the stairs, and out the door.

The base wasn’t far, thankfully. About a twenty-minute drive. You didn’t floor it, but your foot stayed heavy on the gas, knuckles white around the steering wheel. Your thoughts circled and twisted with every mile: Was he hurt? Why didn’t Bob call you himself? Was Jake just being dramatic, or worse, trying to protect you from something serious? By the time you reached the gate, your nerves were all over the place.

True to his word, Jake was waiting just past the security checkpoint, casual as ever, like this was a run-of-the-mill errand. You flashed your ID to the guard, who barely glanced at it before waving you through. You didn’t even bother straightening the car when you parked. The engine had barely cut before you threw the door open and leapt out. “Jake,” You barked, striding toward him with a glare. “You have one minute to explain yourself before I kick the shit out of you. Where’s Bob?”

Your brother slung an arm around your shoulder like this was all completely normal. The audacity of it made your teeth grit. “Relax, baby-on-board is fine.” He muttered, steering you forward. “Don’t call him that. How many times do I have to tell you before it sticks?” You snapped, elbowing him lightly. Jake lifted both hands in mock surrender, grinning like this was all part of a joke only he found funny. “Alright, alright fine. Just… follow me.” And without another word, he led you deeper into the base.

Your steps faltered, just slightly, as dread started to pool low in your stomach. Because something wasn’t right. You could feel it. Your suspicions were confirmed the moment Jake led you down the familiar corridor toward the medical bay. The sterile scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the air, too clean, way too quiet. Your heart pounded harder with every step. Then you saw them, Maverick and Bradley, standing a few feet away near the nurses’ station, mid-conversation.

Or they had been. The second their eyes landed on you and Jake, their voices cut off like a switch had been flipped. “Mav,” You rasped, your voice laced with urgency as your eyes locked on his. They both turned fully now, posture straightening. Bradley offered a tense smile as he stepped forward to greet you, arms opening automatically. You didn’t hesitate, letting yourself fall into the hug, if only for the brief comfort of familiar arms and the steady heartbeat beneath his civilian clothes.

“Where’s Bob?” You asked again, for what felt like the hundredth time. The question burned now, raw and desperate, clawing up your throat. Maverick moved closer, his expression calm but lined with concern. “He’s alright,” He began, voice steady, measured, but the silence that followed said otherwise. The look, the flicker of shared worry between him, Bradley, and Jake did nothing to settle the growing storm in your chest. You could feel it building, pressure against your ribs.

Maverick exhaled slowly, like he didn’t want to alarm you but knew sugarcoating it wouldn’t help.“During today’s training, Phoenix and Bob suffered a bird strike. The impact triggered an engine fire, which spread fast and caused a total systems failure, both engines, and hydraulic controls.” Your breath hitched. “They had no choice but to eject,” He added, quieter now. “The medics brought them in immediately. They’re stable, conscious, and mostly okay. The doctors are keeping them overnight for observation.”

The words tumbled in slowly, too slow to process all at once. Bird strike. Engine fire. Ejection. The air felt thinner. The hallway longer. Your mouth moved before your brain could catch up. “C-Can I see him?” You asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. Maverick nodded, but you were already moving. Your sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as you bolted down the hallway, weaving past a nurse and ignoring the muted “Miss, wait—” that came from someone behind the desk.

When you spotted the door at the end of the corridor with Seresin scrawled hastily on the visitor clipboard and Floyd, R./Trace, N. listed beneath it, your chest constricted. You pushed the door open. You spotted Natasha first. She was reclined in the hospital cot closest to the door, propped up slightly by a pair of thin, starch-white pillows. Her skin looked pale under the sterile fluorescent lights, a stark contrast to the deep purpling bruise blooming along her cheekbone.

A butterfly bandage held a small cut together above her eyebrow, and her arm, though not in a cast, was wrapped in gauze from wrist to elbow. Still, she was awake. Alert. Breathing. “Nat,” You exhaled, already moving toward her. Her head turned at the sound of your voice. The split-second surprise in her expression melted into something warmer, despite the lingering pain behind her eyes. She pushed herself up with a small wince, the thin hospital blanket slipping off her shoulders.

“Y/N, hey,” She murmured, voice raspy but steady. Your arms were already wrapping around her before you could stop yourself. Your movements slowed as soon as you felt her body tense slightly, stiff from the impact, from the adrenaline still likely fading. She let out a breathy laugh against your shoulder, one arm curling weakly around you. “I’m glad you're here.” She murmured, voice muffled against your sweatshirt. You leaned back slightly to look at her, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, careful not to graze the fresh scrape on her temple.

It was safe to say that ever since you and Bob had started dating, you and Natasha had become inseparable. It started with casual conversations at the Hard Deck that turned into late-night wine nights, venting sessions, and a friendship built on fierce loyalty and shared eye-rolls at the men in your lives. Part of it, no doubt, came from the fact that she and Bob were more than just teammates, they were a crew. They trusted each other with their lives, and somewhere along the way, that trust naturally extended to you.

“I’m just glad you’re both okay.” You whispered. Natasha gave you a faint, lopsided smile, tired but genuine. “Yeah, well, Bob took the worst of it. I was lucky.” Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t even seen him yet. The cot next to hers was shielded slightly by a privacy curtain pulled partway across, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe fast enough. Your eyes darted toward the edge of the curtain. “He’s awake. A little banged up. But, he’s been asking for you since we were brought in here.”

That was all it took. You gave her hand a gentle squeeze and whispered. “I’ll be right back.” Then, without hesitation, you stepped around the curtain, ready to face whatever was waiting on the other side. As soon as you rounded the curtain, your eyes found him. Bob was sitting upright, well, trying to. He winced slightly bracing himself on one elbow as he straightened in the cot, ignoring the tight pull of gauze around his ribs and the IV in his arm. Sensing the presence of someone in the room, he stopped fidgeting, blue eyes meeting yours.

You moved without thinking. The world blurred as you rushed across the room, the cool floor beneath your sneakers giving way to the warmth of his outstretched arms. He barely had time to brace himself before you collided with him, sinking into his chest, arms wrapping around his torso with desperate urgency. He winced, but his hands immediately came up, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, the other wrapping tightly around your waist.

His grip was firm, steady, anchored, as if the contact itself might undo the fear that had rooted in both of you. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin beneath the sterile tang of antiseptic. His heart was pounding hard beneath your cheek, fast and erratic, matching your own. “Shit, Bobby,” You whispered, voice trembling. “I thought—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence. “I know,” He murmured into your hair, his voice cracking with emotion.

“I’m sorry I scared you, sweetheart.” Then, more softly, almost sheepishly, he mumbled into your shoulder. “I’m also sorry I missed date night.” You nearly scoffed, half a laugh, half a sob, as you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers still tangled in the collar of his shirt. “Date night? Bob, I could care less about date night right now. I’m just glad you’re alive.” Bob’s selflessness never ceased to amaze you, how even through the haze of pain and adrenaline, his first thought had been about you, about letting you down.

As if your heart hadn’t broken in half the moment you realized he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. You clung to him tighter, your arms curling around his back, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt like letting go wasn’t an option. Bodies wound tightly around one another, like you were trying to climb inside his chest and stay there. Like the only way to be sure he was real was to feel every inch of him pressed to you. He exhaled shakily, lips brushing your temple.

“All I kept thinking was that I had to get back to you.”That made your throat tighten even more. Your hand moved instinctively to his face, cupping his cheek, thumb grazing over a scratch along his jawline. His glasses were still slightly askew, and he hadn’t even bothered to fix them, too focused on you. “I’m right here,” He reassured, almost as if sensing your inner turmoil. “I’m okay. We’re okay.” In that moment, he held tightly in his arms, everything faded away.

There was only the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm and the soft warmth of his breath against your skin. You didn’t want to pull away, but when you finally did, it was only to take in his face. You brushed a thumb gently beneath his eye, tracing the faint bruise that had bloomed along his cheekbone. He looked a little beat up, but to you? He was perfect. Alive. And most importantly, breathing. His eyes met yours, impossibly blue beneath the smudged lenses of his crooked glasses.

They searched your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were here either. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d vanish. You leaned in again, this time slower, gentler, your hand cradling the side of his face. His breath caught just before your lips met, as if even now he was asking for permission without words. The kiss that followed was soft. No heat. No urgency. Just a lingering press of your mouths. You could feel the tremble in his shoulders as his hand slid up to the back of your neck, holding you there like he needed it as much as you did.

His lips parted slightly against yours, letting out the faintest sigh, and you melted into it, into him, feeling the world finally slow down. When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “I love you.” You whispered, the words weightless, certain. He smiled, eyes closed, breath warm against your cheek. “I love you more.” Just as you were about to lean in for another kiss, the door creaked open behind you. “Fucks sake, not this again.” Came the dry, unmistakable voice of your older brother.

You groaned softly, forehead dropping to Bob’s shoulder as he stifled a wince and a laugh at the same time. You were so close to murdering Jake and becoming an only child. “Do you have some kind of built-in radar for whenever we kiss?” You muttered into Bob’s shirt as his hand rubbed comforting circles on your back. “Apparently,” Jake scoffed, stepping fully into the room, arms crossed, brow raised in brotherly disapproval.

“I give it ten seconds and you look like you’re ready to climb the guy like a tree.” Bob straightened awkwardly, almost like a cadet caught doing something wildly against protocol. His cheeks flushed deep red, climbing all the way to the tips of his ears, and his hands instinctively loosened their hold on you. Before he could scoot even an inch away, your fingers curled gently but firmly around his bicep, grounding him right where he was as you shot Jake a glare. “What do you want now?”

Jake gestured vaguely at the two of you. “Don’t mind me. I’m just checking in on the critically injured WSO who, last I heard, had survived an emergency ejection, a bird strike, and now looks like he’s about two seconds away from a very different kind of cardiac episode, caused, I assume, by my little sister sticking her tongue down his throat.” Bob gave a tiny, nervous cough, his gaze flicking toward the heart monitor as if it might start blaring just to spite him. He wisely chose not to answer.

You smirked, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to Bob’s temple, just to be petty. You felt the way his breath hitched beneath you, the way his fingers curled gently at your waist despite himself. Jake rolled his eyes so hard you were genuinely concerned they might get stuck that way. “I figured you’d be staying the night, so, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. But don’t get any ideas. I’ll be back tomorrow, bright and early, and I better not walk in on a repeat performance, especially not with Phoenix two feet away.”

From the other side of the curtain, Natasha’s dry voice floated through like a dagger dipped in disinterest: “Fuck off.” You bit your lip to stifle the laugh that almost broke through. “There’s the door, Bagman.” You shot back, raising your middle finger without even looking at him. With one last grumble and an eye roll that nearly cracked his skull, Jake pulled back the curtain dramatically and disappeared down the hall, muttering something about needing a drink.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Bob let out a soft breath, his entire body seeming to relax now that Jake had exited the room. He didn’t even need to ask. With a quiet grunt, he shifted on the narrow hospital cot, careful but determined, wincing slightly as he adjusted his IV line and tugged back the scratchy blanket with his good hand. It wasn’t much, but he made space for you like it was second nature, like your place had always been beside him, no matter the circumstances.

Without a word, you discarded your shoes and climbed in next to him, moving slowly, mindful of the bruises you couldn’t see and the ones you knew would surface by morning. The cot creaked under the added weight, but neither of you cared. Your head nestled into the curve of his shoulder, your hand drifting under the soft fabric of his t-shirt, fingers resting on the soft skin of his abdomen, like you just needed to feel he was real.

His arm slid around your waist, drawing you in with a familiarity that made your heart flutter. The other hand found its way into your hair, combing through the strands slowly, rhythmically, like he was soothing both of you at once. His thumb brushed absently along your spine in lazy arcs, and he let out a content when your legs tangled with his beneath the thin blanket.

The room had gone quiet, the soft beeping of monitors fading into the background like a lullaby. Wrapped in his arms, you tilted your head just enough to meet his eyes. “Still worth it?” You whispered, the question edged with lingering fear. Bob didn’t miss a beat. His smile was the same one he’d worn eight months ago, the first time he saw you across the bar. He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“Every single second.”

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