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starmapz · 4 months ago

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what you know - ch13: tribulations || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 16.2k.

❦ a/n ; it's heeeere!! so before everyone reads i just wanna give a small update. chapter 13 and 14 were written all at once and ch14 should be ready in about a week. they were originally intended to be one chapter, but 36k words felt unreasonable for a single chapter LOL, so i've split them in two. they do read somewhat as a part 1 and part 2, so the second part of the legal battle will be out next week. as well, please note that the legal details are heavily based off of a mix of canadian and australian laws and processes, so it may not match up with your local laws. with that out of the way, enjoy!

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

The sound of your text chime has you cracking your eyes open before dawn even breaks. You hardly even recognize the sound, so accustomed to having your phone on vibrate. With a weak groan, you flip onto your side, peering at your phone.

It’s not even six in the morning yet, and you barely got home by midnight.

Your eyes slip down to the message previews, and you frown. Taking a moment to let your body adjust to being awake, you plop down on your mattress, draping your arm over your eyes. In hindsight, probably not the greatest idea as you jolt back awake when another text arrives.

Pulling your phone off the charger, you squint at the bright screen.

5:39 AM Kuna || yujis awake

5:39 AM Kuna || he keeps banging on their door but cho wont answer

5:52 AM Kuna || sorry

Dragging your hand over your face in an effort to wake up, you stare at the messages once more before typing your response.

5:54 AM You || Why are you sorry?

5:55 AM You || I’ll be there soon

His response comes fairly quickly in spite of the chaos you’re sure is taking place in his apartment.

5:59 AM Kuna || its early and shit

Pushing yourself out of bed to get ready, you find a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips.

6:01 AM You || I told you to text me, didn’t I?

6:02 AM Kuna || yeah

6:02 AM Kuna || thanks

That’s the last message you receive from him as you shower, put on a hardly noticeable amount of makeup, and throw on a comfy pink hoodie and leggings. If you could drive in a cocoon of blankets, you’d probably do that too, but you digress.

You’re standing in front of his door barely a half hour later, having gotten ready faster than ever in an effort to help. You’d definitely figured Yuji would sleep in longer, but Sukuna isn’t a particularly lucky man, so here you are before the sun has risen.

The look on his face as you open the door speaks to his luck as well. Defeat is emboldened across his features, etched into the dark circles under his eyes. A white V-neck that’s so thin you can make out his chest and shoulder tattoos beneath it hangs over his shoulders, while a pair of black sweatpants adorns his lower half. They hang so low on his hips that you can make out the band of his boxers, and lord knows you don’t need your mind going any further than that.

He may be attractive, but at the end of the day, you can’t let yourself get hurt again. Not like that.

“Hey,” he grunts tiredly, swinging the door open as the sound of Yuji sobbing fills your ears.

Shooting him a sympathetic look, you follow him inside without a word, where he leads you to Yuji. The boy is slumped against the door to his and Choso’s room, tears and snot trailing down his face as he sobs and hiccups, calling out his brother’s name between wails. Sukuna clearly tried to calm him down, based on the blanket tucked around the little boy and the plush clutched in his hands, as well as a pile of tissues that surrounds him.

Your heart drops at the sight of the little boy who holds such a dear place in your heart so devastated as he cries out for Choso. You want nothing more than to hold both kids close and let them know everything will be alright.

With his eyes shut tight, the little boy hasn’t spotted you yet.

“How long has he been crying?” You whisper to Sukuna, trying to figure out the best way to work through the situation.

Sukuna casts a glance at his phone in his pocket. “Since five.” Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he sighs. “Don’t wanna pick the lock n’ force Cho out if I don’t gotta,” he shrugs.

In all honesty, you’re a bit shocked at how strangely calm he is handling the situation, as well as how reasonable he’s being. You can’t be sure what exactly it is that’s dulling his sharper edges, between the dejection in his tone, how long this has been going on, or the weariness plaguing every movement he makes. On the other hand, it’s those same reasons that have you worried for him as signs of life seem to drain from his eyes more and more each time you see him as of late.

You spend one more moment examining Sukuna before turning your attention to Yuji.

Leaning down in front of him, you finally gain his attention. His sobs turn to sniffles for a moment as he peers at you with a lidded expression, having completely exhausted himself already. He whispers your name questioningly between gasps as though he doesn’t quite believe it’s you, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Hey sweetheart,” you greet him with a soft smile. Before you can even begin comforting him, in a flurry of blankets and arms, he’s clinging to your leg, gripping you with as much force as he can manage. With a sad smile, you hug him as best as you can with him stuck to your leg like glue.

“I- m-missed-” he sobs, gasping to catch his breath, “you.”

“I missed you too, Yu.” Your voice is tight as you rub his back gently, blinking in your best effort to keep yourself from crying at the sight of the sweet boy hugging you with all his might.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on, honey?”

He backs up an inch, wiping his face again with his hands. With a hiccup, he barely manages to get out a very broken explanation of what’s going on. “Cho-” a sniffle, “won’t-” a broken sob, “let me innnnnnn,” he bawls, his words devolving into full sobs once more.

Settling on the floor in front of him cross-legged, you extend your arms, offering him a hug that you’re sure he needs. He clambers into your lap in a flurry of tears, burying his face into your shoulder.

Maybe a pale pink hoodie wasn’t your brightest choice of clothes all things considered, but that’s the least of your concerns.

Quietly hushing the little boy, you hug him tightly and rub his back. His entire body shakes violently in your arms as he’s wracked with sobs, gasping for air between each one.

“Shh, it’s okay, honey.” Your voice is quiet and gentle, gradually soothing his sobs into quiet cries and gasps. Even as he begins to calm down in your arms, he doesn’t move, clinging to you like a lifeline.

Sukuna hasn’t moved either, frozen in place as he watches the way you effortlessly calm his brother down. He can only blink as he watches you, his mind moving too groggily, too slowly, to properly process just how well you understand Yuji. But really, it’s not just Yuji, is it? It’s Choso too, and even Sukuna himself.

Deep in thought, the tattooed man scowls to himself, as yet again he finds himself considering Uraume’s words. At least before the fight, you liked him, right? Do you still, now? Does this prove that? Does last night prove that?

His heart beats in his throat at the thought and he has to swallow to choke down the feeling, because it reminds him of a much bigger question he’s been avoiding.

Why is he chasing the answer like a damn bloodhound? Does he want you to like him?

His eyes trail the length of your back as he watches the way Yuji clings to you, his fingers buried in the fabric of your pink hoodie. Your shoulder is already stained in snot and tears, but he knows you don’t mind. You’re so painfully accommodating of his family that self-reproach constricts Sukuna’s chest and he finds himself unable to move. Unable to do anything but watch.

Time and time again, you’ve told him to reach out, that he should ask for help, even as recently as a few hours ago, and yet seeing you sitting on the floor before him doing something that he should be able to do himself sends guilt straight through his heart. With the full force of a fist, it hits his chest and knocks the breath straight from his lungs.

He knows he’s only one person, that they aren’t his kids and this whole situation has just been a case of winging it from the beginning, but this is the one thing he should be able to do as a brother.

Basking in his shame and frustration, he fixes you with a scowl that isn’t made for you.

Why are you so selfless?

Why is he so selfish?

Why is he taking up all of your time when he has no right to ask for it?

Gritting his teeth, he scratches at his stubble-dotted jaw, finding the wherewithal to sit at your side on the floor.

You cast him a glance, surprise flickering in your eyes as he takes a seat beside you. His expression is more familiar, sitting somewhere on the spectrum of grumpiness, though you’re not sure where his sudden attitude came from. In this particular moment, that’s the least of your concerns.

Yuji shuffles back slowly to look at you with glossy eyes and puffy cheeks. “I- I-” He stammers between sniffles, wiping his tears on his sleeve. “I wanna see-” he hiccups, “- my brother,” though between all the tears and his sniffles, it comes out more like ‘bwother’. “Is he-” he sniffles, “is he mad at me?”

“No, sweetie,” you soothe, “I don’t think he’s mad.” You rub his back, leaning back to get a better look at him. His chest is heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, his eyes flickering every which way across your face as he tries to make sense of everything. Unfortunately he’s far too young and naive to figure out the bigger picture, which only makes everything more difficult. “I think your brother’s sad, Yu, just like you.”

He wipes his face again, a string of… saliva (?) sticking to his sleeve as he pulls back. “Sad? Why?”

You take a deep breath as you search for an answer that a five-year-old could understand. “Do you remember the person who came by to talk with Kuna yesterday?”

Yuji nods, hiccupping.

“Well, Choso didn’t like something they said.”

“Why not?”

You suppose you should have seen that coming. Children are always looking for answers where there are none.

“I don’t know yet, sweetheart. I’m gonna see if we can talk to him, okay?”

“Okayyy,” Yuji whines, rubbing his eyes.

“Why don’t you go sit with Kuna?”

Yuji stares at you for a moment as he contemplates your words before nodding, crawling off your lap in a bundle of the blanket he’s wrapped in. He grabs his plush tiger before slowly approaching his older brother.

Sukuna may not be able to provide the words his brother needs to hear, but he does still open his arms and let his brother cuddle into his chest. You shoot Sukuna a reassuring smile before pushing to your feet to knock on the door to the kids’ room. There’s no way Choso isn’t awake given Yuji’s wailing, and you’d wager a bet that he even heard everything you said just now.

Still, there’s no reply to your knock.

Turning back to Sukuna, you can see that Yuji is on the verge of tears once more and shoot him a reassuring smile before tilting your head to Sukuna. “Did Choso eat last night?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Dunno. I shoved some shit under the door but I didn’t hear him move.”

“Why don’t we make some breakfast and see if we can get him to come out for food and a talk? He’s gotta be hungry.”

Sukuna mulls over the option before nodding. “Y’want pancakes, Yu?”

“Yeah,” the boy sniffles, wiping his tears. “With lots ‘nd lots of syrup.”

Sukuna lets out something between a hum and a scoff, effortlessly setting his little brother on his feet and pushing up to his full height. “C’mon,” he urges, leading the way into the kitchen. You cast one last glance at Choso’s locked door before following Sukuna.

The brutish man begins gathering ingredients, setting them on the counter beside a large mixing bowl while Yuji grips the counter, just barely tall enough to see what Sukuna’s doing.

“Let’s get your hands washed,” you encourage Yuji, turning on the tap and lifting the little boy up so that he can reach the kitchen sink. Making sure he uses soap, you place him back down on the floor. He wipes his hands on his very messy hoodie, effectively negating anything the handwashing had done in the first place, but it’s not like you can get into his room to get him changed into something clean.

Sighing, you lead him to the table and lift him onto a chair. A bead lizard sits on the table in front of him, and he entertains himself with it for the time being.

Returning to Sukuna as he washes his hands, you follow suit, turning towards him to take the hand cloth from him.

“You’ve got a little-” you point at his shoulder, covered in stains from Yuji’s sobs.

Glancing down at his shirt, Sukuna grunts with a frown before evaluating your outfit. “We match,” he comments dryly, rolling his shoulder to emphasize the drying patches on your shoulders. “You need a new shirt?”

“Um-” you glance over at Yuji, before shaking your head. “No, I have a feeling these aren’t the last tears that’ll be on my hoodie,” you surmise with a tight-lipped smile, trying to keep light of a situation that clearly has the whole family worn to the bone, with nothing left to give.

Sukuna hums again, about to ask you to cut some bananas for the pancakes when Yuji turns towards you, weakly calling your name.

Turning your gaze to the little boy, you scoot a chair up next to him and give him your full attention. “What’s up, Yu?”

He sniffles, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Um- I made-” he pauses, holding the lizard he’d been playing with earlier up to you. “Made this for-” he stammers again, hiccupping, “-for you.”

Holding your hand out, you delicately take the bead lizard from him. One of its legs has four toes rather than three, and its tail is slightly lopsided, but it’s positively too cute.

“Um-” Yuji continues, his eyes dropping to his lap. “-but then you were-” as if the memory alone shakes him to his very core, his lower lip wobbles, parting with a sob. “-you were goooone,” he cries again, clinging to your side. It takes all of five seconds before he crawls off of his chair into your lap.

“Shhhh,” you soothe, smoothing his hair back off his forehead and rubbing his back. “I know honey, I’m sorry,” your throat is tight as he wails in your arms. “I’ve been busy with work and school, but I never stopped thinking about you, Cho, and Sukuna, you know that?” You tell him, leaning back in an effort to see his face. With puffy cheeks, he swallows a sob as he looks up at you. Holding your wrist out, you show him your bracelets, letting him fiddle with them. “See? I always had you with me.”

Sukuna’s spoon comes to a halt in the mixing bowl as he watches your interactions with Yuji. He damn-near drops the utensil too, fumbling with it until he can set it down. His heart doesn’t just flip or flutter as usual, no, it hammers in his chest when you utter something so sweet that it’s sure to cause him a cavity.

He lifts a hand up to his chest, the feeling of his heart beating erratically resounding through the tips of his fingers. His lips part as he stares down at the bowl in front of him, blinking at the half-mixed batter.

“‘M always with you,” Yuji repeats the sentiment in agreement with you between broken gasps and sobs, reaching up to fiddle with your friendship bracelets.

Sukuna can only watch the interaction from the corner of his eye as he struggles to run from something that he fears has been creeping up on him for a long time. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind sits a realization that he’s never once bothered with because it simply couldn’t be true. Now, though… His crimson eyes flicker towards you. Your features are soft as you smile for his little brother, giggling as the child gently tugs at the twine around your wrist.

A month. A full goddamn month you kept those on. You were resigned to never seeing Sukuna again and still, you kept them on. You never deleted his number. You kept him in your thoughts when your company had an open position. He knows you needed the help for your own gain, but he’s not foolish enough to think there’s no coincidence in the fact that you called him, let alone even thought about him.

He’d spent so long running that he’d never stopped to consider how he felt about all that.

His brow furrows as he turns his attention back to the batter, glowering as if it’s personally offended his whole bloodline. He doesn’t have the fucking time for this.

In an attempt to keep up his pace and continue running from his thoughts, he unsteadily grabs the spoon again and mixes the batter with a fervor that catches your attention as you cast him a questioning glance. He’s too busy scowling at the batter to notice, but you figure he’s simply stressed.

“Your big brother knows how to reach me if you kids ever need me, okay?”

You jolt at the sound of metal clattering behind you. Twisting in your seat, you catch a glance of Sukuna muttering curses to himself as he picks the spoon back up, his brow bunching up more intensely by the moment.

You make a mental note to ask him what’s up later, turning your attention back to the little boy on your lap as he slowly turns the twine tied around your wrist. His breathing begins to settle again, satisfied with your explanation as he explains the reasoning behind his color choices with the bead lizard. You listen intently, because if you don’t, his words sound more like hoarse mumbles, difficult to make out.

Yuji explains in great detail that he designed the lizard for you out of pink and purple beads, because those are the prettiest colors, just like you. You’re grateful in that moment that Yuji is too busy looking down at his creation and Sukuna is behind you, because tears finally do prick at the corners of your eyes. Yuji is positively precious and you can’t deny the fact that you adore him as though he’s your own family.

Maybe that makes things messy given your shaky connection to Sukuna, but you can be there if the kids need you, at the very least.

“Ready in two,” Sukuna mumbles behind you, barely audible.

“I’m gonna go talk to Choso, okay sweetie?” You gently let Yuji know as you set him back in his own chair. He nods, sniffling as he watches you head back towards his room.

Knocking on the door again, you wait to see if you get an answer, but there’s nothing. As far as you can tell, Choso isn’t even in the room.

“Cho?” You call gently, letting him know it’s you. “Please come have some breakfast. Kuna made you some pancakes.”

It’s deathly silent behind the door and you’re beginning to wonder if he’s somehow managed to run away, but that doesn’t seem feasible in an apartment. Not to mention that given what Choso’s upset about, you can’t imagine him leaving.

Trying again, you keep your tone gentle, but loud enough that you’re sure he can hear. “I’ve missed you, Choso. I’d love to see you,” you offer, but there’s not a sound to be heard. Frowning, you begin to wonder if picking the lock might be the only option. “Cho sweetheart, I’m worried about you. Remember when we talked about using words when you’re upset?”

From beneath the door, you just barely catch a hint of a shadow. Relief floods through you as you realize he’s there and listening to you.

Knowing that he can, in fact, hear you, you lower your voice to try to have a conversation more with him than the whole apartment. “It’s okay to need space, Cho, but it’s important to ask for it,” you explain. It’s moments like this that you can tell he’s learned a couple of bad habits from Sukuna. “Pushing everyone away when you’re upset isn’t good for you.”

The shadow beneath the door moves again.

“Do you want a hug, sweetheart?”

Click.

The door creaks open just enough to make out Choso’s face peeking through the gap. The room behind him is dark, the curtains drawn. He must have been laying in bed all night and morning.

You smile softly, pushing gently on the door to see if he’ll let you in. He hesitates for a moment before relenting, but the moment the gap is wide enough for Choso to slip through, he gingerly pads across the floor and hugs you.

Behind you, Sukuna and Yuji exchange a few words in the kitchen, followed by the sound of Sukuna’s footsteps behind you, but they stop a short distance away.

“I’m sorry,” Choso murmurs, silent tears trailing down his face as he hides his face in your hoodie.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” you soothe, holding him tightly. “I’ve got you.”

You don’t dare pull back first as he quietly shakes in your arms. He clearly needed this, but didn’t know how to seek comfort from Sukuna, and Yuji simply doesn’t understand.

Satisfied that Choso’s at least okay, Sukuna backs away to serve pancakes to Yuji, giving Choso whatever space he needs. Even if he’s guilty for entrusting this to you, he doesn’t have the luxury of being picky when it comes to his brothers’ well-being.

You can hear the clinking of forks and knives and occasional muttered conversation in the kitchen as the other two brothers eat breakfast. It takes a couple of minutes, but Choso’s breathing gradually evens out. With a final deep breath, he takes a small step back, his vision trained on the ground.

Smiling gently, you move his long hair from his face to see him better. He coughs into his elbow quietly, his voice hoarse as he speaks for the first time since last night, or perhaps even longer knowing the withdrawn child. “I thought you and Kuna weren’t friends anymore,” he murmurs, his voice cracking midway through his sentence as he wipes his tears.

“Why not?” You query, curious what Sukuna told him. Choso is far too smart for his own good if Sukuna didn’t say anything. Lying to the little boy about what happened isn’t your first choice, but you will if it helps his mental health.

He shrugs, though there’s clearly something on his mind.

“Everything’s okay,” you assure him, smiling. “What would make you feel better? Do you want breakfast, or do you wanna talk?”

“Can we-” he pauses, clearing his throat, “- can we talk?”

“Of course,” you assure him, turning to lead the way to the kitchen to talk with his brothers, but he stops you with a tug on your sleeve.

“Just you?”

Tilting your head sympathetically to his situation with his little brother and his horribly emotionally constipated older brother, you nod. He leads you back into his room, leaving the door open just a crack. You can hardly make out the floor with how dark the room is, hissing as you step on a toy dinosaur. It would be a triceratops you stepped on, wouldn’t it?

Shaking the horned dinosaur from your poor foot, you make your way to the window and crack it open. It’s still fairly early but dawn offers enough light that at least you aren’t stepping on the stegosaurus next, or the squished fruit snacks that Sukuna must have slid under the door.

Choso squints slightly as he sits on the edge of his bed. Taking a seat beside him, you’re able to finally get a good look at him. He’s still in a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, so you can only assume he laid in bed all night and couldn’t be bothered to change into pajamas. His hair is unkempt and oily, and his face speaks nothing more than utter defeat.

Though it doesn’t show much in Yuji’s personality (yet), it’s clear that Choso’s picked up a lot of Sukuna’s traits over the years. Unfortunately it seems that includes his tendency to shut others out and attempt to deal with everything on his own, which is just about the worst lesson he could have picked up from the eldest brother.

Choso kicks his foot out, his brow furrowed as he organizes his thoughts before speaking.

“Do you think Kuna can win?” He whispers hoarsely.

You can’t afford to hesitate as you reply. “Of course. He’s putting a lot of work into getting a good lawyer and putting together evidence.”

Choso nods, blinking down at his mismatched socks as he wiggles his toes in front of him. “I don’t get it,” he murmurs.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why she wants us.”

That’s a question you’re vastly unprepared for, and horribly devastated by. A child should never need to question their parent’s love. Is the right answer to comfort him and offer a reason she might want him, or to vilify her further when that’s clearly what Choso’s already thinking? Is there a right answer at all?

“I don’t have an answer for that, Choso,” you reply with painful honesty.

Choso’s brow furrows, scowling at the triceratops that nearly took you out. No wonder the poor kid locked himself away if his thoughts are plagued with wondering whether his mother even loves him.

And if she does love him, you’re sure he hopes she’ll let him go. No child deserves to handle this sort of pressure, or these sorts of thoughts. In the short time you’ve known Sukuna and subsequently his brothers, they’ve all been through a lifetime of hardship, and you can only imagine the things that would do to a twelve-year-old. He’s been forced to mature too quickly, and it’s apparent in the way that he struggles with the weight of that maturity that he doesn’t really know how to handle it.

Sukuna’s a good parental figure, at least where it matters, but he can’t teach either of his brothers how to handle something of this caliber when he can’t even handle it himself. He may have had a few extra years to grow accustomed to life, but he was still just a kid when he lost his dad. How was he meant to learn this lesson himself when no one was there to teach him either?

Choso’s eyes flit around the room in thought, but he doesn’t seem to know where to go with his thoughts or how to organize them.

“Do you want to talk about her?” You set the cards on the table, offering him the opportunity. You don’t want to push him into anything, but you hope he’ll heed your words about talking through his issues regardless. It seems to comfort him more than a hug, from what you’ve gathered.

The little boy is silent for a moment, rubbing one of his eyes with his knuckles. “Um- I don’t know what to talk about.”

“Anything,” you offer him a smile. “This is about you, Cho. I just want to help get your mind off of things.”

In the bleak darkness of the room as light very slowly begins to peek through the blinds, it becomes glaringly obvious just how much of a weight this little boy carries. It’s as though he thinks he has his own duty to uphold, one that he silently and without protest holds tight to his chest.

“I don’t remember her very much,” he croaks, clearing his throat. He kicks his feet a couple of times as he contemplates his words. “I remember playing board games with her and Dad.”

“What board games?” You query, keeping the conversation going.

Choso hums in thought. “Monopoly and Life,” he murmurs.

“Life is fun.” No comment on Monopoly.

Shrugging absently, Choso falls back into a steady silence. It’s hard to tell if he wants to stay on this subject at all given his curt replies, but between the raspy timbre of his voice and the fact that he seems to have repressed the memory of her, you can’t blame him.

“I- I really don’t remember her,” he whispers, shaking his head. He wasn’t that young when she left as far as you’d gathered that he shouldn’t be able to remember her at all, but the thought of him locking the memory away tightly feels painfully realistic. Maybe he’d even thrown away the key, given how distraught he is over the lawsuit. “She went on a business trip before Dad got sick, and- um- she never came back. Dad said she was making lots of money so we could be happy.”

Sukuna had never told you exactly what happened, just that she was gone the moment things got tough. She may have never been fond of Sukuna, but from what you can piece together, you can’t see why she wouldn’t like her own children. Still, you find yourself asking the same question as Choso previously had.

It can’t possibly be money that she wants the kids for. Sukuna’s made it pretty clear that the government aid doesn’t help enough to offset the cost of caring for kids, so it has to be out of love, right? Pettiness towards Sukuna maybe, but real love to be willing to take the kids back.

She sure has a funny way of showing her love, but you can’t possibly begin to imagine what else could bring this on.

Maybe she only ran overseas out of fear of losing her husband? It’s cowardly, but it’s the only explanation you can find in a situation where there’s no sense to be found.

Yet… didn’t Choso say she left before Jin got sick?

It doesn’t alleviate any of your doubts surrounding her motives.

“Did you talk to her on the phone?”

“Um- usually every week. When Dad did.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Really, what more can you say? There’s nothing easy about this situation, especially in the eyes of a child that’s been able to do nothing but sit back and watch as his life is decided for him.

When was the last time Choso really got to be a kid? Christmas?

Your heart drops at the mere thought.

“I miss Dad,” Choso mousily whispers, his shoulders dropping as a silent tear falls from his cheek, down the tip of his nose. He wipes another tear on his sleeve and yawns. You wonder if he slept at all last night in spite of being locked in his room. “Dad always knew what to do.”

That’s twice now that you’ve heard that same phrase from the trio of brothers. Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the hole his departure left in their family.

“Dads are like that. They’re good with advice,” you agree, doing your best to keep yourself neutral, letting Choso come to you with the details he wants to share. The more he can get his thoughts in order on his own, the better off you think he’ll be.

“He always made soup whenever we felt bad.”

With a lopsided smile, you tilt your head to look at the little boy. “Is that where you got your cooking skills from?”

To your surprise, something glimmers in Choso’s eyes. A hint of life. A hint of more than the dull fog he’s been cocooned in. He shakes his head with a hummed ‘mh mh’. “It was just in a can.”

“There’s nothing better than a plain can of soup when you’re sick.”

Choso nods. “Yeah. Or when you just feel sad.”

“Huh, I guess soup is a cure-all,” you hum in an attempt at keeping the air lighthearted. Choso’s opening up bit by bit and the last thing you want is to bog down the flow of conversation.

Choso begins kicking his feet consistently, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed. “Kuna makes good soup, too.”

“From a can?” You query.

Choso shakes his head.

“From scratch?” Your brows raise. It’s not that Sukuna’s a bad chef by any means, he’s actually got the craft down. In fact, your reaction doesn’t come from surprise at all. Sukuna’s a great chef, and if he had the money for the ingredients and the time to cook, you don’t doubt that he would go the extra mile to take care of his brothers. He already does if he can.

Your reaction is purely from the realization that Choso’s love of cooking likely doesn’t come from Jin. It comes from Sukuna.

“Um- I think so. I mostly just put things in the pot.”

You find yourself smiling at the thought. Choso loves cooking because it’s how he bonds with his older brother. Just like he loves Pokemon because it’s how he bonds with his younger brother.

“Kuna’s a good chef, isn’t he?” You encourage him, willing a reaction. To your delight, he blinks a few times and nods.

“The best,” he whispers.

Your eyes flicker up at the sight of a shadow under the door. Wood creaks beneath heavy footsteps that slowly retreat, the shadow dissipating.

“Well you know, your chef brother made you some pancakes,” you tell him softly, moving a hand to rub his back encouragingly. “They’ll be cold if you don’t eat soon.”

Choso looks up at you now, a series of emotions flooding his worn out eyes. Sadness, uncertainty, confusion, and fear all swirl within deep brown irises. It’s clear he’s still braving the mess that is his mind, but he’s wading within the emotions rather than pushing them down until there’s nothing left to feel but emptiness. You’d much prefer this to the blank stares you’ve been getting so often.

He finally nods, finding it in himself to hop off of his bed to his feet as he heads for the kitchen.

“Can you hit the light?” You ask before daring to move a muscle. There may be more light than before, but that stray stegosaurus that you know is in here somewhere is too daunting to ignore. With the light on, you avoid stepping on any horned beasts or stray lego and follow after him to the kitchen.

Yuji and Sukuna still look like the better part of a disaster, obvious tear trails covering Yuji’s face, while Sukuna leans against the kitchen counter cutting a banana so slowly you’d almost think he forgot what he was doing. Because he has, in fact, forgotten.

The sound of footsteps pulls the man from his trance as he turns to see Choso. Relief flickers through his eyes as he shoots you a look that says thank you.

As Sukuna finishes up what he’s doing, Yuji cries out for Choso, hopping down from his chair to barrel into Choso at full force. Nearly toppling over, the middle brother embraces Yuji with a hint of a smile. It’s heartwarming, despite the tense air that continues to hang over the family.

Yuji’s words tumble out of his mouth in a flurry as he hugs the brunette, tears trailing down his face again. Choso may be the one who hasn’t used his voice for the better part of two months, but Yuji’s words are somehow more hoarse. “I missed- y-you, Cho, please-” he sobs, catching his breath in a flurry of gasps. “- Don’t leave me,” he gasps.

Your own expression falters as you feel uncertainty tug at your own heart strings. There’s a lot to unpack within Yuji’s words as well, and while you know most of the situation they’re in goes over his head, he’s a smart kid, too. You can’t help but wonder if he’s handling everything worse than he lets on.

“‘M sorry, Yu,” Choso mumbles between Yuji’s pleads, toppling down onto the floor as his little brother squeezes him tighter.

Sukuna remains silent as he sets down three more plates at the small dining table, cutting through the quiet only to inform the three of you, though mostly you and Choso, of breakfast. “Come eat,” he mumbles just loud enough to be heard over Yuji’s cries.

Neither of the boys are paying Sukuna any mind as Yuji hugs his older brother.

You take a step towards Sukuna as he opens his mouth, likely to tell them again that breakfast is ready. “Give them a moment,” you whisper softly. You lean in close enough to keep those words between the adults, but your close presence is gone before he has the chance to appreciate it.

And Sukuna, he’s just not sure what he’s even meant to make of that thought. When has he ever needed to stop to appreciate you being close to him?

He supposes since he tore into you over something that seems so trivial now.

He swallows hard as he turns his attention to his little brothers. You kneel beside them, gently rubbing Yuji’s back as you talk to him with so much care that Sukuna’s chest tightens.

“Your brother just needed some time to be alone, right Choso?”

The little boy nods.

“In the future if you need space, you’ll talk to your brothers, right?”

“Right,” Choso hoarsely agrees.

Sukuna scratches at the back of his neck. His brother’s voice sounds foreign to him in a way that he can’t quite identify. The twelve-year-old’s never been all that chatty, and he’s been quieter than normal since Sukuna had explained the lawsuit to them, but this is likely the longest single period of time he’s gone without so much as moving. He almost sounds sick. He almost looks sick.

Is Sukuna that bad of a guardian?

He averts his gaze to the large window by the table, pushing his worries down into the plague of other doubts he harbors. He doesn’t have the luxury of worrying about that, not when his opposition is a mother who didn’t even answer a call coming from her deceased husband’s phone.

The kids deserved better, but Sukuna has to remind himself that you’re right. You’ve told him time and time again and he has to start listening to you. His brothers want to stay with him. They love him.

And he loves them, too.

His gaze flickers to you as you smile at the boys. Sympathy, care, and something akin to sadness all swirl within your eyes as you take a seat at the table. Sukuna takes a seat beside you, leaning on his elbow.

As the boys both make their way to their respective seats and begin cutting into their pancakes (or in Yuji’s case, picking up a whole pancake on his fork and taking a bite), Sukuna can only watch in relief. He can’t remember the last time Choso and Yuji both seemed okay, despite the lines of dried tears running down their faces. Letting out a breath, he shuts his eyes as the air around him seems to lighten and he feels like he can breathe again.

You watch from your peripherals as Sukuna relaxes and finds it in himself to eat. His pancakes are more dense than yours and likely filled with protein, probably to make up for the fact that you rarely see him eating lunch.

Breakfast is silent, but words don’t need to fill the space for the meal to surround you all with an unspoken warmth.

Yuji finishes first between the boys, kicking his feet (im)patiently as he waits for Choso to finish.

“Will you play with me, Cho?” He asks, the moment the middle brother’s fork hits the plate.

Gingerly nodding, the two boys begin to hop down from their seats.

“Go change your shirt first, Yu.”

He turns to face Sukuna. “Why? This one’s clean.”

Sukuna’s lip curls in disgust. “No, it’s not. Go change.” He casts a glance at Choso, who’s still in yesterday’s clothes as well. “You too, Cho.”

Choso glances down at his clothes and nods, following slowly after Yuji to their room.

With an exasperated huff, Sukuna runs a hand over his face, shoving his plate forward on the table. There’s too many things on his mind and you’re at the center of them all. Hell, even the familial shit that you shouldn’t be a part of, he somehow ties back to you.

About to offer you a shirt again, he opens his mouth, but you voice your thoughts first.

“I should head out. Shoko and I are studying today and I need to get a couple of things together and printed,” you explain, picking up your plate and getting to your feet. “And change my hoodie,” you mumble as an afterthought, one step ahead of Sukuna.

As you set the plate in the sink with a gentle clank, Sukuna taps his fingers on the table with a grimace. A part of him wonders if you’re lying, though he has no right to think you might be. The only reason he even finds himself doubting your words is because he wants you to stay, which he realizes isn’t fair given your tense relationship.

Casting aside his doubts, he slides his chair out and gets to his feet. He trails after you, standing a short distance away as you throw your coat on and stand at the door.

If ever there was a time that the scar in your friendship was visible, this is it. There’s an ugly rift that stands between you, and for all the clawing and biting that Sukuna’s tried to tear through it, you patch it back up each and every time.

It’s not fair.

He wants to believe that, anyway. Every fiber of his being wants to believe that sentiment.

But it is. And he needs to live with that. If this is all you ever are to him, a distant kindness that exists in a vacuum of space that lives between you, then he supposes he can deal with that. He sucks in a sharp breath, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Silence stretches between you after pulling on your boots. Sukuna’s scowl is aimed at the floor, unable to meet your gaze.

“The court date is next week, right?” You finally break the silence.

“Yeah. Thursday.”

“Do you have any more meetings before that? Will the kids be okay?”

Sukuna inhales. Long, and drawn out. “Yeah. Uh- the lawyers exchanged documents n’ shit last week n’ ordered a house study. It’s Tuesday.” He pauses, mulling over the process. “Then the court date.” Pulling a hand from his pocket, he scratches the back of his head, unable to meet your gaze. Choso won’t be fine, he knows that much, but he can’t bear the thought of taking up your time anymore. “Yeah, they’ll be fine,” he lies.

His response seems off given his lacking confidence and frustrated scowl, but he’s always been tough to read, so you give him the benefit of the doubt, but there’s still one thing you made a mental note of earlier. “What about you?”

Something unrecognizable flickers within those cherry irises before he nods. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

You smile, and for a moment he swears the world falls away under his feet, leaving just you and him. “Good. I’ll catch you later, then. Text me if that changes, okay?” With a pointed look, you wait for his nod before you turn to head out.

Before you can shut the door fully, Sukuna grabs it, barely stopping you in time. “Hey, uh-” he second-guesses himself before finding his resolve. “Will you come to the court? I can have someone there… for support.”

Your expression softens from surprise to sympathy as you nod. The idea of Sukuna being alone, without even the support of his brothers, doesn’t sit well with you. “Of course.”

Relief clouds his senses. “I’ll send you the details,” he gruffs out. You nod, attempting to shut the door again, but his hold on it is steady. “Thanks.”

You can’t help but smile. You’d have to be a fool not to see the effort he’s putting into fixing his mistakes. There’s obvious changes in the way he’s thinking through his words and reactions before he says or does anything, and he’s making an effort to let you in.

It warms your heart, and it makes it every bit more difficult to pull away each time as you feel your resolve beginning to wear away. Though you do need to study.

“You’re welcome, Kuna.”

His lip quirks into the barest hint of a smile the moment the nickname slips effortlessly past your lips. He nods, relenting and finally letting you shut the door. The sound of the lock flipping behind you is the last noise you hear from the apartment as you make your way to the library to get some printing done for your study session.

–

“Wait up!” Shoko calls out as she falls into step with you on campus the following Tuesday, catching you off-guard. “You headed to work?”

“Yep! Don’t you have class right now?” You query as she follows you to your car.

“Prof’s sick,” she shrugs. “My next lecture’s in, like, four hours.”

“That’s brutal,” you grimace. “Are you gonna study more?”

She nods. “Toji asked for help in his Physical Sciences class, so I’m meeting up with him in a few.” Glancing at her phone, she shoves it back in her pocket after noting the time. “Anyway, did you hear from Sukuna after all that shit over the weekend?”

You nod. “Yeah, a little bit. He’s been updating me on his brothers.”

Shoko hums along, waiting for you to continue as she senses you’re withholding something.

“He asks a lot about my day and how I’m doing.”

Her brow raises. “You know, when you mentioned he seemed like he was actually trying to fix things a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t think it’d last.”

“Me either,” you admit, kicking at gravel as you approach your car. “I honestly thought I was just being stupid by letting him back in even a little bit,” you chuckle in embarrassment, mostly to yourself. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“I just can’t believe he’s proving me wrong,” she shrugs. “Didn’t I tell you people like him don’t change?”

You nod. “You and Kento both did at girls’ night.”

“Okay, you gotta admit it was good advice at the time.”

Reaching your car, you open the door and toss your bag in before turning back to her. “At the time, it made me feel a lot better,” you agree with a chuckle.

“Not so much anymore, huh?” She laughs along with you.

“Not so much,” you click your tongue, fiddling with your keys.

“Some fucking guy, that Sukuna.”

Your brows raise and tilt your head in some form of agreement, your thoughts preoccupied with the pending lawsuit. After a brief silence, Shoko pipes up again.

“You still like him?”

You find her gaze, your brow furrowing in thought. “I do, it’s just…” You trail off, searching for words to describe the strange limbo you’ve found yourself in. “I guess it just feels like I’m kinda getting to know him again?” You try to explain with a small tilt of your head. “Does that make sense?”

“Like, because you didn’t see him for a month, or because he’s acting differently?” She queries.

Poking your tongue into the side of your mouth, you narrow your eyes in thought. “Both? I guess I’m still getting used to him making the effort to be a good friend.” Your keys jingle between your fingers. “Okay, wait. Do you remember when I told you that Sukuna’s kind of a different person when he’s actually being himself?”

“Mhm.”

“Sometimes I see that side of him for a moment here and there, but… sometimes I’m not quite sure who I’m talking to.” You pause, contemplating exactly what you mean by that. “He’s definitely putting in effort and being nice, but sometimes I don’t recognize him at all.”

“Isn’t that mostly a good thing?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, dragging your boot through the gravel and kicking up dust as a small remainder of the last snowfall flicks onto Shoko’s shin. She shoots you an unimpressed look as you lean down to brush her pants off while you continue. “It’s just weird. I guess it’s just that, like-” you pause as you stand back up and brush your hands off. “- Sometimes things are back to normal and everything is great, but sometimes…” you shake your head, shrugging. “I’m not even sure if he knows who he is.”

“Do you think the stress is getting to him?” Shoko clarifies.

“That could be it,” you agree as she makes sense of your rambles.

“Is he that much different?”

“I mean, the Sukuna I know is still there,” you chuckle. “He’s still quiet and kind of a dick sometimes,” you explain, recalling how quiet and standoffish he’s been in the lunchroom to your co-workers since starting at the publishing house. “I think he’s actually thinking about what he’s saying more, though. Like he’s trying to be better.”

The thought brings you back to Saturday night when he’d snapped at you, only to reel himself back in. He’s still the same man, he’s still sharp and hardened, and he’s definitely still got walls up that he’s not letting down anytime soon, but it’s like he’s more aware of that fact now.

You chew on your bottom lip briefly, recalling the way he’d been unusually calm upon your arrival on Sunday morning when you went to help the kids. “But sometimes it seems like he’s just a different person. He’s not angry or anything either. He’s just not there at all.”

“Well, shit.” It’s the best Shoko can offer. It does sound like stress. Like he’s being beaten down and flattened into something he’s not.

You nod, casting a glance at your phone. “I gotta go, but text me? I’ve got some time at work today.”

“Sounds good. I’ll text you when I meet up with Toji.”

“Catch you later,” you grin cheerily as you turn towards your car.

After your conversation with Shoko, you barely have enough time to rush home, change, and make the bus in time to get to the office.

You’re at your desk seconds before your shift starts, panting after rushing up the stairs.

Amused, Yuki’s brow raises from where she sits at her desk opposite you. “Running a bit late?”

“Yeah, I lost track of time.” Taking a moment to catch your breath, you lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

“You know no one cares if you’re a bit late, right?” She chuckles.

“I know,” you sigh, “but I want to make a good impression, maybe keep my position.”

Yuki’s eyes shine as she smiles at the thought, but she’s quickly distracted by movement behind you. Smirking, she motions past you with her pen when you finally lift your head.

Staring at the back of your head is a familiar pair of crimson irises, his expression unreadable and aloof. The muscular man’s hair is disheveled, hardly pushed back with strands falling over his forehead and into his line of sight as though he hadn’t had time to use hair gel. His shirt is also particularly wrinkled today, overall looking like he’s had a morning.

He extends his arm towards you, a familiar cup held within his hand. His hand lingers for a moment as your fingers brush when you pull the cup from him, holding its warmth between your hands.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you grin.

He hums, a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his lips although it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Thank you, Sukuna.” You take a sip, smiling as warmth floods you, seeping into your very bones. “It’s perfect.”

“Good. You got a moment?” He asks, eyes flickering to Yuki in a silent question of whether he can borrow you. Yuki just shrugs, careless as ever.

“Yeah, let me just log in.” You move quickly to get settled before grabbing your drink and following after Sukuna. He leads the way to his office, shutting the door behind him and leaning against his desk.

Somehow the fact that he’s not as put-together as usual with hair askew and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, you find your thoughts spiraling more than they usually do.

Or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve come to the realization that Sukuna’s not just trying to be better for you, or for his brothers, but he’s trying to be a better version of himself in general, and that only endears you to him more.

He takes a sip of his own drink, grabbing it from his desk, only to hold it out and stare at the label with a wrinkled nose.

“Did they get your order wrong?” You tilt your head questioningly.

Sukuna squints at the label, holding it a bit further back. “It has a caramel shot in it,” he mutters in reply, clearly bothered.

“Do you… need to get your eyes checked?” You raise a brow questioningly.

“Probably,” he grumbles.

“You should do that. Our benefits cover it.”

“We have benefits?”

You purse your lips. “Yeah…? Sukuna, did you read the contract at all? Even I get them and I’m an intern.”

Shrugging, he smirks. “I skimmed it.”

That’s the Sukuna you recognize. Stubborn, a little sly, but full of life in spite of his quiet demeanor.

Rolling your eyes, you giggle to yourself. “Go get your eyes checked.”

His smirk remains in place as he hums, quietly watching you laugh as though he’s trying to commit the scene to memory.

You quiet down, leaning back against the door to his office. “Anyways, what did you wanna talk about?”

“Mm,” he hums in acknowledgement, his smirk dissipating as he grows more serious. “Can you be at the courthouse on twelfth street at ten on Thursday?”

“Oh,” a lump forms in your throat at the realization that the court date is growing painfully real now. “Yeah, of course.”

Sukuna lets out a breath, nodding. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, the material of his shirt pulled taut.

And this is the shirt that actually fits him correctly.

Not fair.

“Thanks, princess.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, the sharp edges of his features seeming somewhat dulled and almost sweet as he gazes down at you.

You can’t help the smile that graces your lips as you nod.

The silence that follows allows you to get a good look at Sukuna. Although he seems to be more at ease at the publishing house and the hours he’s working between this and the occasional shift at the auto shop aren’t nearly as grueling as they used to be, life continues to take its toll on him. His eyes lack their sharp and cunning glimmer, and every movement he makes borders on languid.

“How are you holding up?”

He knows what you’re really asking. You may as well say ‘what’s wrong?’. It’s a fair question, but it’s one he hates to answer because even now his shoulders are tense and his chest aches. He’s had a headache since dawn rolled around on Monday morning.

“I’m fine,” he lies, brushing the question off as he turns back to his desk.

Sukuna’s not easy to read by any means, and anyone else probably would have believed him, but you see right through him. He doesn’t give you the chance to question him as he leans over his desk. “My lawyer doesn’t think we’ll be there long on Thursday.”

“Why not?” Your brow furrows. “Shouldn’t it be long?”

He grinds his teeth in frustration as he replies. “I don’t really get it, shit’s fucked. I guess this isn’t even the real trial, this is some sort of conference bullshit,” he explains. “It's supposed be for us to come to an agreement, but Kaori’s lawyer laid out the shit they’re asking for and it’s not fucking happening.”

“What does she want?”

“Sole custody with no visitation.”

Your eyes widen, taken aback. “You wouldn’t even be able to see them?”

Sukuna chuckles darkly, his knuckles going white as he drags his fingers across his desk until they’re directly under him, crinkling a blank piece of paper beneath him. “She’s never liked me and she made sure I knew, even as a kid.”

“I’m so sorry,” you offer sympathetically. Much like your talk with Choso the other day, you’re not sure what more to offer.

He flashes you a glance of acknowledgement, grunting. “It’s whatever. Point is, it’ll be the first time I’ve seen her in years and her lawyer’s gonna push for a full trial.” He can only shake his head in exasperation. “Her evidence is just bullshit from my school records n’ whatever.”

She’s clearly using whatever force is necessary to take the kids out from under Sukuna’s nose, leaving a slimy feeling in the pit of your stomach. What could she possibly have against her own step-son to pull this kind of move against him? She’s purposefully backing him into a corner, and you see now why his lawyer had their work cut out for them despite the case seeming like an obvious decision to anyone who’s met Sukuna and his brothers.

Picking up his iPad and shoving the papers on his desk aside, he turns on the screen and taps around the device. “You won’t believe how much this bullshit costs, too,” he grumbles. “I swear she’s doing it on purpose.” He taps on the screen a couple of times, his mounting frustration becoming obvious as he taps harder each time. “She’s fuckin’ dragging everything out, too. This all just leads to another fucking court date and more fucking money for my fucking lawyer, and she’s putting Choso n’ Yuji through so much shit, and-”

As Sukuna’s rambling grows in intensity, you push off from where you were leaning against the door, running your hand over his rigid back as he faces away from you. He stiffens, his speech cutting off the moment your fingers run along the muscles. “It’ll be okay. You’ll win,” you smile reassuringly, dropping your hand and stepping off to the side to see his face as he fiddles uselessly with his iPad.

“And if I don’t?”

“You will.”

His temple twitches as he grits his teeth, his gaze fixed on the device in his hands. “And if I don’t?” He growls. His brow is pulled together in a tight furrow, and although his eyes blaze with frustration, it’s not directed at you.

“If you don’t…” you chew on your lip, gingerly reaching out to soothe your thumb over his hand that’s fidgeting with the volume buttons on the side of the iPad, clicking them with enough force to damn-near break them. His fingers steady as you run your thumb over his knuckles like second nature. “Then you’ll figure things out.”

His eyes flicker wildly around your face, as though he’s searching for something. He swallows hard, his gaze returning to his desk.

“Don’t worry about that, okay? You can face that if it comes to it.”

He inhales sharply and nods, twitching his fingers into yours, only for you to pull away. He knows you mean well and he still appreciates your support, but it serves as another reminder of what he’s lost.

“Right,” he agrees, turning his attention to the iPad as he opens his latest project.

Peeking over the screen, you catch a glimpse of a character that you recognize instantly despite having never seen it before. “Is that Baby Whale?”

“You can just ask to see it, brat,” he grumbles, pulling the device out from under your nose as though you’re Yuji obnoxiously trying to get a peek at whatever Sukuna’s working on.

“Sorry,” you grin innocently.

Rolling his eyes, Sukuna tilts the screen towards you. A sweet little purple whale beams at you with pink rosy cheeks. You’re forced to bite your lip in an effort to stop yourself from giggling at the sight of the brute before you who’s drawn the most cutesy character you can possibly imagine. There’s nothing wrong with it by any means, but it’s definitely not his first choice of character, you’re sure of that.

“Yeah, it’s Baby Whale. Do you guys ever get original shit or should I be worried about gettin’ a fast porcupine or some shit next?”

“Mm, I’d worry. We get them here and there, but…” you shrug.

“Great,” he sighs, reaching down to his desk to hold up a few of the pages he’d just printed to get Maya to sign off on. “Here.”

Your eyes light up as you sift through the pages. They’re for a horror-type series of some sort, as far as you can tell, of two children on an adventure, though you aren’t quite sure what it’s a knock-off of, if it is one. Each cover has a vastly different environment, from a jungle beneath a volcano to an abandoned cityscape. Though it’s not in Sukuna’s traditional sketchy charcoal style that you’ve grown to love, they’re still gorgeous. The painterly effect he’s given them is stunning, reminiscent of a watercolor painting.

“These look amazing,” you breathe, sifting through the pages. You come to land on one cover of the two kids in a crystalline cavern with a lizard crawling towards the reader of the novel.

He hums. “I don’t mind the job when I’m not drawin’ knock-off shit.”

So it is original. “I mean, even when you are, it’s gotta be better than stocking shelves, right?” You ask, gaze trained on his artwork.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Still owe you for this.”

“I thought we talked about this,” you smirk, raising a brow as you come to meet his gaze.

He lets out a breath through his nose in somewhat of a laugh. “Thanks, princess.” He pokes gently at your arm as you smile at him and for a moment a familiar air of comfort settles over you. It’s gone before Sukuna can really relish in it, though, as you pull away with a sigh.

“I should get to work. Let me know if you need anything?”

Sukuna frowns as you retreat. “Yeah. See ya at lunch.”

–

You’ve passed the courthouse a number of times on your way to get-togethers with friends across the city, but it’s never seemed to loom over you quite like this. From what Sukuna mentioned, this conference thing seems to be little more than a formality and a requirement and you’re pretty sure no decisions will be made today, unless his step-mother has some sort of miracle change of heart.

From the way Sukuna’s described her, you don’t get the feeling that’s likely.

Having never been to the courthouse yourself, you arrive decently early in case you need to fill out forms, or something of the sort.

It never really occurred to you just how little you know about the world of legal proceedings until you’d found yourself online researching proper attire. You’d landed on something you would usually wear to work anyway, a pale white blouse and a pair of fitted slacks that hug your hips in all the right areas.

A pair of simple black heels adorn your feet as they click across the ground. A stark flash of pink catches your eye, the man himself leaning against the smooth faux brick of the courthouse, smoke spiraling into the air. His head leans back against the outer building wall as he watches the smoke billow and rise.

A suit jacket hangs over his shoulders, a tie done up to his neck, though he seems to have tugged it a bit loose. His hair is pushed back out of his face with gel, though it’s so long it’s somewhat unruly anyway as a few strands still tickle his forehead.

You can’t deny that your heart palpitated once, maybe even twice at the thought of how handsome he looks with his broad shoulders pulling the suit jacket taut. It gets harder to deny your own feelings when every time you see him, he continues to prove that he has changed, and you find yourself forced to listen to the blood roaring in your ears as your heart rate skyrockets.

“Hey,” you greet him, catching him off-guard. His head whips down, his eyes trailing your outfit and lingering a moment too long on your hips. Any other day, he’d mentally scold himself for staring, but his mind is such a mess that he hardly realizes he’s doing it until you jut your hips out expectantly with a hand on one side when he doesn’t reply.

His eyes shoot up to meet your gaze, flitting down to the shy smile you wear, having blatantly noticed the way he checked you out. Clearing his throat, he grunts in reply.

Your cheeks are warm, even as you consider the emotions drawn across his face. You can’t say for sure what’s going through his mind, although you can make an educated guess when the muscles in his forehead twitch. He isn’t quite scowling, nor does he wear the familiar pride on his sleeve that you’ve grown accustomed to.

It’s exactly what you mentioned to Shoko.

This isn’t Sukuna. It’s not the frustrated man who masks his unease and fear with anger, lashing out needlessly. But it’s also not the sly and cocky asshole who’s surprisingly thoughtful and conscious of others.

It’s like he’s someone else, someone you can’t identify and don’t know how to help. His fear isn’t getting the best of him, his anger isn’t overflowing and misdirected with nowhere to go. Those, you know how to handle. But now, he’s simply lost.

“How are you feeling?”

Grateful for the nicotine calming him enough to give you a competent answer, he tilts his head in a semblance of a shrug. “Fine, I guess. Not like there’s any point in this bullshit.”

With a grimace, you take a step towards him. “Do you really think this is for nothing?”

Sukuna inhales deeply as he takes a drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke within his lungs as he considers your question. “She’s tryin’ to bleed me dry of cash. That’s all this is. If she really cared, we’d settle shit here.”

“Shit,” you breathe. Sukuna casts a glance at you, but ultimately chooses not to comment on your choice of word. “I really thought this was meant to be the actual trial,” you admit.

Blowing smoke over his head to keep it out of your face, he nods. “I did too. My lawyer explained it last week and I meant to tell ya, but then shit happened and Choso,” he motions his hand lazily through the air before dropping it at his side. “I dunno. I don’t get the point of all this shit.”

“Your lawyer just told you last week that this isn’t the full trial?” You gape. Had Hiromi steered Sukuna in the wrong direction? Shouldn’t he know this?

He shrugs again. “Nah, I just didn’t get it.”

“Oh.” Fiddling with your thumbs, you nod. “So what’s after this?”

Dropping his cigarette on the pavement at his feet, he stomps it out, grinding his foot on it. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shakes his head, frustrated with the system. “We wait a couple of months until the actual trial.”

“A couple of months?” You’re not sure if their family can make it through waiting a couple more months with Sukuna and Choso acting so distant that even Yuji’s been affected. It’s strange to think that a system meant to take every precaution and is bleeding them dry. Of money, of time, and of life.

Sukuna seems to share your dismay as he adds, “at least we get more time to prepare, I guess.”

Whispering an ‘I guess’ in agreement, you let Sukuna usher you inside with a hand on your lower back. Though he drops his hand as you head through security and check-in with a clerk at a grand wooden desk in the center of the large lobby.

It’s not long before you’re sitting in a couple of uncomfortable wooden chairs in a room full of strangers. Sukuna deliberately sits near a woman with a short brown bob, leafing through paperwork as she reviews the case she’s working on, although he doesn’t say a word to her.

“Is that your lawyer?” You ask, tilting your chin towards the woman beside Sukuna in a pristine-looking suit. She’s the definition of confidence as she flips through what you assume are notes, which helps settle your nerves a bit.

Sukuna nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah, uh, Ms. Harte,” he addresses her before introducing you both.

She smiles warmly at you, extending a professional hand. “Mr. Sukuna mentioned you would be here to support him. I’m glad you could make it,” she shakes your hand firmly.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you greet her in return. Though you have no part in the proceedings, it’s at least nice to know that Sukuna and the boys are in good hands. Sukuna definitely owes Hiromi a favor, though he doesn’t need that reminder now.

“Case number 2493, Sukuna versus Itadori.” A clerk with a clipboard in his hands waits for both parties to join him, and it’s then that you see a face so painfully familiar, yet completely foreign. You’ve never met her, but you recognize her instantly. Choso is a spitting image of Kaori Itadori, with deep umber eyes and dark brown hair. Yuji, on the other hand, clearly got Jin’s genes.

Beside her is a tall man in a full beige suit, sporting a well-kept graying beard. He walks with the same confident gait as Ms. Harte on Sukuna’s opposite side, but he carries himself with an air of superiority that you assume only money can buy. Money that Kaori clearly has, if the massive diamonds adorning her collar are anything to go off of.

Sukuna’s step-mother eyes him with disgust before her gaze trails the length of your form. A chill runs up your spine, sending ice straight through your veins that matches the look in her eyes. She regards you with so much disdain, yet it’s the mild interest that gleams in her eyes that makes your skin crawl.

The clerk leads the way down a hall to a small room labelled ‘Private Meeting Room 2’. Within the room is one long table with a number of chairs on either side. Both parties take their seats on the same side of the table, keeping a small distance between one another. Sukuna’s lawyer advises you to take a seat and keep to the back of the room, as you can’t participate in the discussion.

From your seat, you can see the way Kaori folds her hands in her lap, grinning at her lawyer as she laughs at something he says. The stark contrast to Sukuna’s silence as he leans over the table is immense, but in contrast to the nerves you expected him to have, he keeps a straight face.

In the informal meeting room setting, there’s no need to rise as an older gentleman in judges’ attire enters the room. His pale blond hair thins at the sides of his face, gentle wrinkles accentuating his features. He takes a seat on the opposite end of the table, the soft edges of his eyes crinkling as he evaluates both parties and yourself.

You’re grateful for the intimate setting of the meeting, as it eases your own nerves. While the courthouse itself does no favors to settle the growing discomfort in your stomach, the small room has an almost cozy feel to it. There’s an air to the man before you that he wants to help and understand the case that sits well with you, as well.

“Judge Marcos will be overseeing this case conference this morning in the matter of Sukuna versus Itadori,” the clerk begins the session.

The judge settles back in his chair, clasping his hands over the documents laying in front of him. “The purpose of this conference is to come to a resolution before the matter goes to a trial.” He proceeds to explain that a case conference aims to narrow down issues prior to a trial and that this will be a more open conversation with more wiggle room than a traditional trial. He then confirms that disclosure of all evidence has taken place. With all expectations set on the table, the judge sits back as Kaori’s lawyer begins.

“Your Honor, my name is Richard Cahn and I represent the applicant, Kaori Itadori.”

Ms. Harte follows suit at Sukuna’s side, sitting upright to introduce herself as the counsel for Sukuna, the respondent.

“Counsel for the applicant, please begin.”

With the court, if you can even call the small meeting room that, now in session, mounting tension fills the air. It’s overbearing, the way the gravity in the room seems to drag down on every person in the room, yourself included.

“Your Honor, my client is seeking sole guardianship with no visitation rights of her children Choso Itadori and Yuji Itadori. We have reason to believe that Mr. Sukuna is a negative influence on the children for a number of reasons and it is Ms. Itadori’s maternal right as their mother to raise her children,” Mr. Cahn begins without faltering, introducing their points succinctly.

Clearing her throat, Ms. Harte responds with equal clarity. “Your Honor, my client is more than fit to be their guardian, as he has demonstrated over the past three years. The children’s needs are met, they are in school, and Mr. Sukuna has a clear record with no need to raise any concern regarding his abilities. My client would like to remain in sole custody of the children, however he is open to Ms. Itadori having visitation rights as their mother.”

Of course, she left out the part where that portion is much to his dismay and he’d only grant that right at the request of the kids. That’s not for the opening statements, though.

Much like Sukuna anticipated, Kaori is unwilling to cooperate. Every single option is shut down before the conversation can begin. Although he remains as an unbiased third party, even the judge seems somewhat perturbed at the obvious disdain shared between Sukuna and Kaori. Their dislike of one another runs far deeper than even that of most ex spouses that end up in this room.

What starts as a polite and orderly conversation primarily between the lawyers quickly devolves into some sort of familial tension that clearly extends beyond the courtroom. You can’t see either of their faces from your position at the back of the room, but you can feel the heat radiating from Sukuna as he seethes through each deceitfully polite performance from Kaori, but even she begins to crack when Sukuna pushes back.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, I won’t tolerate any settlements. I don’t feel comfortable leaving my children in the hands of my step-son,” Kaori repeats herself for what feels like the fifth time as the judge attempts to find a middle-ground, but she’s completely unwilling to budge. Even visitation rights for Sukuna seem to be so far off the table they may as well be six feet in the ground, along with any love she may have had for her step-son.

“You didn’t have a problem with it when I couldn’t reach you three years ago,” Sukuna quips, his anger clear through his tone although he remains even. He may be anxious as hell and equally furious, but knowing that this is all for naught and his lawyer may as well be a bill whose total increases by the second, his frustrations grow fiery.

“Ryomen, we’ve provided all the medical documents that were requested as proof of my illness and I would appreciate if you didn’t dismiss them.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Sukuna finally bursts, slamming his hand flat on the table.

“Mr. Sukuna,” the judge warns sternly, leaning over the table. “I expect proper courtroom etiquette, even here. We’re here to discuss the matters at hand, not your opinions of the applicant.”

Sukuna’s chest rises and falls as he physically bites his tongue to keep from saying something he’ll regret. Leaning back in his chair, he casts a glance at the door, desperate to escape from this room. Unlike the rest of the legal proceedings, this whole conference just serves to piss him off.

“Apologies, Your Honor, my client is simply stressed as he cares very deeply for his brothers,” Ms. Harte steps in, clearing her throat to put Sukuna’s thoughts into a court-approved statement. “While my client was unaware that Ms. Itadori was ill, he did use multiple methods of contact to reach out, and Ms. Itadori didn’t respond.” Turning to address Kaori, she clasps her hands together. “Should it not be your responsibility to inform your step-son and husband of your new contact?”

Kaori’s lawyer pipes in. “As we stated earlier, she was required to change all contact information and moved closer to her office upon starting with her new company. She shared her contact information with her husband, however it seems he didn’t share this information with Mr. Sukuna, or save her updated number before passing.”

The tattooed brute has to physically mask his scoff. He coughs into his elbow, shaking his head. He’d called from both his cell and his dad’s cell, he’d sent letters both from him and Choso, he’d emailed, and even searched social media. How convenient that she somehow had everything accounted for. That’s not even mentioning the additional money Sukuna spent to have land titles for her name pulled just to see if she had purchased new property, only to come up blank.

She had completely and utterly dropped off the face of the earth. As far as Sukuna was concerned back then, she made her position on her family clear.

As far as Sukuna is concerned now, he’ll do everything in his power to show her not to fuck with him. He doesn’t care how much his chest tightens, he doesn’t care if it feels as though he’s watching everything around him as nothing more than an observer outside of his own body. He doesn’t care if his mental health suffers for all the shit she’s putting him through.

He’ll move heaven and earth to save his brothers from her.

The judge frowns, having heard this argument already. The meeting room is running in circles like a dog chasing its own tail, they were never going to get anywhere at this rate.

“Mr. Sukuna did his due diligence and has taken care of the children for three years, they are healthy and cared for and there is no evidence against-”

“I’ll believe that when I see the house study,” Kaori interrupts, the first phrase to come from her that feels genuine as she diverts her attention to a small window at the edge of the room. Sukuna’s hand balls into a fist on the table.

“Ms. Itadori. Let the respondent finish.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. There is no evidence to disprove my client’s ability to care for the children. No one has ever expressed any concern to him. The children attend school with good attendance and have remained healthy over the years. Mr. Sukuna earns more than enough to keep a roof over their heads and put food on the table,” Ms. Harte continues.

“Your Honor,” Mr. Cahn addresses the judge. “I would like to see the house study before coming to any conclusions.”

Sukuna sighs, leaning back further in his chair. Kaori’s lawyer had pushed for a rush assessment, but even with the rush, it isn’t meant to be ready anytime soon.

“My son Choso has always been easily influenced, and I worry while he’s under Sukuna’s care.”

Sukuna’s fist hits the table. “Please-” he gripes.

“Mr. Sukun-” The judge tries to interject, but it’s no use.

“You never cared, you’re just feeding them the bullshit they want to hear!” He snarls, flipping in his chair to face her. “You care about them about as much as you care about me!”

“Mr. Sukuna. I understand being emotional in this situation, but I will not allow this behavior to continue. We will proceed without you if you feel the need to act without respect.”

Sukuna shoots Kaori one last glare before sitting back in his chair. He’s not doing himself any favors by lashing out, but he can’t help but feel as though this entire system is playing a game against him and he isn’t even aware of it. It’s as though everyone is a puppet in Kaori’s little game and the kids are prizes to be won.

Rubbing his eyes, the tattooed man sighs. “Sorry… Your Honor.”

“Ryomen, I’ve always cared about you,” Kaori sends him a disingenuous look of sympathy. Her lips curl into a false smile, but to any outsider, Sukuna knows it would appear genuine.

Even to you, it’s hard to tell.

Gritting his teeth, Sukuna keeps his gaze set dead ahead. If he doesn’t keep his cool, he knows he’ll be thrown out of the room. “Do you know when I realized you didn’t give a shit about me?”

“Watch your language,” Ms. Harte warns quietly at his side in an attempt to keep the judge at bay.

The conversation doesn’t exactly pertain to the case, but the judge remains silent. Sukuna’s question is met with no opposition.

Kaori swallows, watching with a furrowed brow as Sukuna’s adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “Dad told me to go find you at my grandfather’s funeral. He was cryin’, needed some time alone. Do you remember where you were?”

Kaori’s eyes flicker down to the table. Her tongue swipes across her lower lip before she bites it momentarily.

“Do you remember where you were?” Sukuna pushes in a growl now, leaning over the table.

“Objection, Your Honor, this is not pertinent to the case,” Kaori’s lawyer speaks up, setting his foot down as he realizes that this doesn’t bode well in their favor.

“Where were you, Kaori?” He snarls, his voice gravelly as he grips the arm of his chair with white knuckles.

“Objection sustained. Mr. Sukuna, stay focused please.”

Sitting back harshly in his chair, Sukuna’s practically shaking. You may not be able to speak, but certainly as his support person, you can support him, right? Gingerly, you slide your chair forward quietly, wincing as it scrapes lightly against the floor. It catches Kaori’s attention as she shoots you a glare. You have half a mind to shoot that same glare back but that’s not important right now.

Close enough to reach Sukuna, you slip your hand over his much larger one that still grips the arm of his chair. Your fingers slide between his, slotting so easily into place as though they belong there. Your heart does a flip at the thought, but you keep your attention fixed on Sukuna and his needs.

From the corner of his eye, he glances down at your hands. His chest continues to heave in frustration, but as the conversation rolls back around to the subject of the kids and points begin getting reiterated and repeated until Sukuna’s hardly even paying attention anymore, he finds himself beginning to calm down. His shoulders gradually slouch, his fingers folding over yours as he gives your hand a grateful squeeze.

Kaori should be grateful to you, because Sukuna’s sure he would have torn into her if you weren’t here. He would have been thrown out, sure, but at least for once he might get answers to his own mistreatment by his step-mother.

How can the judge not see that the information is relevant? He huffs to himself, earning a couple of looks, but no one mentions it.

After hearing about Sukuna’s supposed inability to care for the kids for the fourth time, the judge finally raises a white flag.

“Coming up on the end of our time, I see we aren’t getting anywhere. A trial date will be scheduled for after the house study is received. Any further evidence must be submitted via the official disclosure process both to the court and each party.”

Your friend sighs at your side. Another two hours of his lawyer’s time. Another bill. More money down the drain. He knew how this would play out from the beginning.

“I would suggest you continue mediation between now and then to see if you can come to an agreement. I encourage you to attempt to understand one another outside of the court,” the judge adds, but Sukuna can’t even bear to look at Kaori. It’s of no use, and everyone within the room is well aware.

“I will issue my endorsement for a trial in writing. This matter is now adjourned.”

Breathing out a disdainful sigh, Sukuna squeezes your hand once, before untangling his fingers from yours as he pushes up out of the chair. It’s hard to get a read on him as you follow him out of the meeting room into the lobby. Standing off to the side, you allow him a few minutes to speak with his lawyer, watching the way he seems painfully frustrated as he lazily shrugs his shoulders. Even from this angle you can tell every time he rolls his eyes.

As Kaori and her lawyer approach Sukuna, his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry the circumstances couldn’t be better, but it’s good to see you aga-”

“Don’t pretend like you give a fuck!” Sukuna barks, turning heads. Your eyes widen as all attention is suddenly on your group. Even standing off to the side, you find yourself shrinking away from the prying eyes.

“Ryomen, you know this isn’t what I wanted,” Kaori replies evenly, easily keeping her cool under Sukuna’s searing gaze.

He scoffs, waving his hand through the air in exasperation. Always the picture of a calm and perfect wife, of course she had Sukuna’s father wrapped around her finger while she went off and did her own thing. Jin could never be that upset with her so long as she batted her lashes and doubled down on her innocence.

“I don’t fuckin’ know what you want,” he mutters, laughing dryly as he casts his gaze to the side of the courthouse. His voice returns to a reasonable level, though it drips with venom. “So, what the fuck is it, then? You want money, you want to tear me down because I know what you fuckin’ did?”

His step-mother’s eyes darken in such a subtle way that an outsider might not even realize her smile is a facade. Nothing more than painted lines on a meaningless canvas. You can’t help the way a shiver runs up your spine as you slowly make your way back to Sukuna’s side when you notice security is keeping a watchful eye on him for any more disruptions. He should consider himself lucky he’s even still in the building at this rate.

Settling beside your friend, you can feel just how red hot his fury is. Kaori casts a curious once-over of your form as you stand alongside her step-son with a curious smile that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sukuna as he steps between you. He knows he asked you to be here, but he’s not about to let Kaori say a single damn word to you. You may be his support, but you won’t be involved in whatever lies she’s brewing.

You can only blink in surprise as Sukuna’s hand finds your forearm without glancing back, keeping you safely behind him where she can’t even so much as glimpse at you. Blinking up at him, you can only make out the edges of his tattoos and a glint of the uneasiness that sidles his anger.

“That was a long time ago, Ryomen. I want us to be able to move past that.”

“Yeah? Is that why we’re here? To move past everything?” He hisses in a mocking tone, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“You wouldn’t have cooperated if I tried to work with you on this, sweetheart.”

Even from your spot behind him, you don’t miss the way your friend visibly recoils at the term of endearment. “Don’t fucking call me that,” he hisses.

“Mr. Sukuna, I think it’s in our best interest-” Ms. Harte makes an attempt to de-escalate the situation, to no avail.

“You don’t give a shit, do you?” Sukuna blows past his lawyer’s warning, his voice rising in decibels. “Cho and Yu don’t want this!”

Kaori remains eerily calm as she shoots Sukuna the most fake sympathetic stare you’ve possibly ever witnessed. “They’re kids. They’re too young to know what they want.”

“They’re smart!” Sukuna barks.

Stern voices sound behind you and you cast a glance at the quickly incoming security guards, where Sukuna will surely be ushered out.

Not that he cares at this particular moment. “They don’t care about you! They don’t even know you!” He continues, his jaw tightening. “You never even fucking visited! Don’t you know how many Christmases Cho spent asking if you called or mailed something?” Sukuna waves his hand through the air, his eyes wild with rage. If Kaori’s affected by his words at all, it’s carefully masked. “You fucked your own family!”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” a large man in a black security vest is followed closely by two other equally large men as they approach the brutish man in front of you.

In such a blind rage, their words don’t even register to Sukuna.

“If you gave a single shit about Jin, about any of us, you would have been there for the funeral,” he snarls, his chest heaving.

The security guards slowly advance towards Sukuna as Kaori replies. “I wanted to be there. I wish I could have been.”

The lawyers continue to try to defuse the situation, all the while the security guards’ intensity increases as they get infinitely closer to grabbing him and physically throwing him out. The guards may be big, but you can only imagine a man like Sukuna is still daunting.

Setting your hand on his back, Sukuna straightens, casting a glance at the guards that he’s now overly aware of, only to realize it’s not their hand. His head whips towards you as he gains clarity on the situation, his crimson eyes blazing with rage. Subtly leaning into your touch, he raises his hands in surrender, addressing the guards.

“I’m leavin’,” he mutters, his hands falling down to his side with a plop as they collide with his slacks on either side. “Thanks, Ms. Harte,” he mutters as he turns to make his way out.

The security guards follow him closely, tensing as he turns back to Kaori for one moment, his tongue poking into the side of his cheek as he contemplates something. “I didn’t tell him, by the way.” He examines her face, some sick form of satisfaction pooling in his chest as her mask breaks for a moment. Her eyes widen slightly, her lips parting, but Sukuna doesn’t want to hear whatever she has to say.

You cast a glance between the two, not daring to ask any questions with Sukuna ready to blow a fuse.

Stalking through the security checkpoint at the front of the building, he pushes the large wooden doors with enough force to cause them to slam on their hinges as you follow him out into the cool outdoor air.

“Fuck!” He barks straight up at the clouds above, dragging his hands through his hair as he stares up at the overcast sky. His fingers tangle in the pink locks, tousling the strands as more hair falls out of place. “She’s such a fucking-” He cuts himself off, only because you’re still at his side. Huffing loudly, he leans over the masonry fence at the edge of the stairs out front of the courthouse, his hands covering his face.

You’re silent as he remains there for a moment, coming up slowly beside him. Leaning on your hip against the smooth brick beside him, you peer over at him.

Sensing your presence, Sukuna’s hands drop, crossing over one another out in front of him. Letting out a breath, he absently cracks his knuckles, staring at the bare winter trees that extend in front of you. His chest heaves with every breath he lets out, his muscles tensing with each time he barely holds back the choice words he wants to say about his step-mother.

You stay silent at his side, offering quiet comfort in your presence, but it’s your hand on his bicep that truly calms him. His entire demeanor shifts as your hand gently rubs up and down his arm in a soothing motion. With one long inhalation, he tilts his head to look up at you.

He’s not sure why he expects to see a look of disappointment. Deep down, some part of him expects you to retreat back into your shell after he caused a scene, but you only peer down at him with understanding and what might even be grief. He’s not sure why he would even suspect you to regard him with disappointment when that’s not who you are. You get him.

His brow furrows further the longer he stares at you, growing frustrated with himself for projecting his own negative thoughts onto you.

“What’s on your mind?” You query at the sight of his glower.

Averting his gaze, he shakes his head. “Nothing.” He shifts slightly into your touch, reaching up to rub your hand with his opposite one. With one last pat on your skin, he stands upright, rolling his shoulders back as he turns away from you to face the courthouse with a huff. “I should let you head back,” he mutters, barely audible.

“Actually, um-” you pause, shamelessly watching the way he raises a large, veiny hand to his shoulder to attempt to rub at a knot in his muscles. Tearing your gaze away, you push down the uneasy flip that your stomach does at the realization that the grumpy man standing in front of you has changed and even if things are never the same as they once were, you’re happy to stand by and support him and his family. After all, you don’t need to let him carve the same place in your heart that he once had, right? He can be important to you without holding such a big piece of your love.

If anything, maybe the distance between you will help you overcome your feelings and be what he clearly needs.

A friend.

It may hurt to know your feelings aren’t reciprocated, but you’re happy to hold him dear as a friend if it’s all you ever are to one another. Once you overcome your infatuation, you’re sure you can find a comfortable place within his life that makes sense for you both, rather than hoping for something that will never work.

As you hesitate with the mess in your mind, Sukuna turns to face you, raising a brow expectantly.

“Sorry, um- did you want to grab lunch? I’m hungry.”

His eyes widen briefly at your offer. Not an offer for help, or support for his siblings or what he’s going through. Just an offer to hang out. To be friendly.

He’d have to be an idiot to say no.

“I, uh- I can’t really afford lunch. I’ll just-”

“I’ll pay,” you offer without thinking twice.

His brow furrows as frustration crosses his features.

But he’d have to be an idiot to say no.

“Sure. What’d you have in mind?” He gruffs in spite of his standoffish expression.

“A new ramen place opened up near me that I’ve been wanting to try but their hours are awful so I can never go after class or work, but I bet they’re actually open right now.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees. “Lead the way, princess.”

As you shyly avert your eyes at the nickname with a sweet smile crossing your lips, two things occur to Sukuna as he follows behind you to your car.

The first; he’s never considered himself a particularly lucky man, but when it comes to your place in his life, he may have won the lottery. He can still see your walls, he knows he hasn’t patched the bridge that stands between you, but at least if he treads carefully you’re still there and for that he’s beyond grateful.

And the second; no matter how tense his muscles are, no matter how empty his bank account is, no matter how badly he wants to tear into Kaori in a courtroom and have the judge take his word for how shitty she is, you still manage to make him smile.

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❦ a/n ; i put together some husband!wyk!sukuna headcanons if you wanted to check those out here and i put together a playlist here <33

helloooo!! thanks for all the patience with the delay between chapters, i appreciate it <33 it gave me the time to not only write out both ch13 and 14, but also ensure they fit well with one another and all the details make sense.

a lot of research went into this and i want to thank my two absolutely lovely followers @/aagathokakologicall and @/notcharliw for all their help with the legal details as well! information on proceedings isn't super readily available and they were a huge help! i also took a few liberties to try to make sure the processes are easy to follow and interesting for the audience, so hopefully i've pulled that off here! i was hoping to land somewhere between tv drama and realism.

if you notice any errors in the legal processes... no you didn't :) LMAO

i say it every time and will continue to say it: thank you so much as always for all the love for wyk <33 it makes my day and it's a big driving factor in my motivation to write, so thank you. i appreciate you all and i hope you enjoyed 🫶

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superbassbuck · 25 days ago

Text

Making Out for America

Chapter 5: Insure Domestic Tranquility

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update: I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x America's Sweetheart!fem!reader

Mentions: 18+, enemies to lovers, slow burn, set during thunderbults*, sexual tension, forced proximity, arranged marriage, panic attacks, mental health issues, angst (lots of it), no y/n

Word Count: 4.5k

gif by sebastiansource || dividers by cafekitsune

The next day came, and you stood at the podium, the same Jameson Foundation banners rippling in the wind gently above you. The first few questions were exactly what you’d anticipated, the press opened up with questions on your father’s legacy and the foundation’s continued growth.

But you knew deep down, you knew where everyone’s real interest lay. And that was with Congressman Barnes.

It was a strange kind of irony. You had only agreed to this engagement to shine a spotlight on the foundation, on your father’s work, his legacy, the cause he devoted his life to. And while the turnout today was bigger than usual, it was clear they weren’t here for that.

They were all here for the man with the metal arm and the headline-making engagement. And it was only a matter of time before they started asking the more personal questions.

"You've spoken so passionately about the foundation, but I think the public is curious about something else too. How has life changed since your engagement to Congressman Barnes?" one of the reporters questioned from the second row.

You forced your smile. “It’s certainly been… an adjustment,” you said smoothly, just like you practiced. “Our lives were already demanding before, and combining them has been both a challenge and a privilege—”

Another hand shot up before you even finished. “Was it love at first sight?”

You recoiled slightly, trying hard to fight the cringe creeping on your face. You weren’t used to a crowd like this. They interrupted you before you could even finish your sentence.

This wasn’t the Jameson Foundation crowd anymore. It was a crowd full of Capitol hounds, eager for a stupid headline. You actually felt bad for Bucky for dealing with all this bullshit.

You laughed softly, and that sounded real enough to pass. “Let’s just say he made a strong first impression.” Not technically a lie.

The crowd chuckled politely, and the questions started coming faster now.

“What’s something we don’t know about the Congressman?”

You hesitated for a moment, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because there wasn’t much you could answer. Bucky never let you get close. Most of what you knew was already known to the public. You stood up straighter, trying to come up with something.

“He makes very good chili dogs,” you say with a nervous chuckle. “And his vibranium arm is dishwasher safe.”

That entices another round of chuckles and wholehearted laughter from the crowd. You sighed in relief. The fact that his vibranium arm was dishwasher safe probably made him look silly, but the crowd is eating it up.

“Do you see yourself stepping back from the foundation to take on a more traditional role… say, as the Congressman’s wife?”

“Absolutely not,” you said firmly. “This foundation is my life’s work. Congressman Barnes supports that, and he always will.”

He better, you thought quietly. You straightened yourself to mentally prepare for the next question, but then another voice cut through the crowd.

“Are you two… truly in love?”

Your breath hitches. When Bucky was asked this question during his interview yesterday, the lie came so easy to him. It came off so naturally that you almost believed him. He and Voss warned you, reminded you how to smile, how to speak in a way that felt heartfelt without being too vulnerable. And still, for some reason, your words caught in your throat.

You hadn’t had many relationships. Your world has always been a little isolated, your focus locked on the foundation and your career. You’d lived in your own little bubble for so long, but then there were those moments with Bucky that burst the bubble.

The way he looked at you while you comforted him during his panic attack, like you were the only person that could keep him grounded. The softness in his eyes once he slipped the wedding ring on your finger delicately.

How natural it felt, sleeping next to him, held tight like he didn’t want to let go.

They were small things, maybe even meaningless to him—but they stuck with you.

All these rare yet soft moments shared between you two would make any woman fall in love.

You sucked in a breath when you realized everyone was waiting for your answer.

“I do love him,” you said clearly. “And I truly believe that if my father were here today, he’d be proud to know I’m marrying someone as exceptional as Congressman Barnes.”

Once your interview was finished, George drove you across town to Bucky’s office for a quick “debrief” on the rest of the week’s agenda. It was the kind of thing that easily could’ve been handled over email, but of course, Voss insisted it be done in person.

In her exact words, she said, “I know you two can barely tolerate each other, but at least try to act like you enjoy being in the same room.”

So here you are. Both you and George walked into the building, and in George's nature, he insisted on waiting in the hallway.

As you enter the room, you find Voss and Bucky already seated at the table, mid-conversation. They both stop talking as soon as their eyes land on you.

“Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Barnes,” Voss says warmly, rising to her feet and pulling you into a quick, professional hug.

You return the gesture with a polite smile. “Voss.” You glance over at Bucky and he’s keeping his eyes down on the papers in front of him, not looking at you.

“Bucky,” you say evenly.

He doesn’t look up.

“Have a seat,” Voss gestures to the empty chair, that was unfortunately, right next to him.

You hesitate for a moment. You’re not sure if you even want to sit next to him. A part of you understands that he just wants to keep his distance—but pretending you’re not even in the room?

It was a new low.

With a reluctant sigh, you take the empty seat. You glance in his direction, hoping for some kind of acknowledgment. Nothing. His eyes stay fixed on the papers, as if you’re completely invisible.

“Your interview was fantastic,” Voss says with a bright smile. Either she’s blissfully unaware of the tension between you and Bucky, or she’s choosing to ignore it.

“You made our Congressman look like a dream,” she adds, nodding towards Bucky. “The way you two answered those questions was so convincing, I almost believed you were actually in love.”

“Yeah,” you force a polite laugh. “Bucky almost had me fooled too.”

Voss chuckles, and she pauses for a moment, looking at Bucky to see if he has any intention of adding to the conversation.

Bucky finally looks up from his papers with a clenched jaw. “Glad to know I’m such a convincing liar,” he mutters, still not looking at you.

Oh, so now he addresses you—and with a sarcastic remark at that.

You raise a brow and cross one leg over the other, not looking at him. “Actually, now that I think about it, your ‘ I am very much in love with her’ line could’ve used some work.”

Bucky shifts in his seat, propping one hand on the arm rest as he finally looks at you with a disbelieving look.

Voss laughs nervously, glancing between the two of you like she’s not sure if she should be here or not. “Well, whatever you did, it worked. The public is starting to love–”

“You know,” Bucky interrupts her, his eyes glued on you now. “That’s rich, coming from someone who used the phrase ‘strong first impression’ like we met at a job interview.”

You finally look at him with a tight smile that you know will get under his skin. “Well, isn’t that what this entire relationship is?”

Voss clears her throat, clearly trying to keep the meeting from derailing. “Okay, okay,” she says, waving a hand. “Let’s focus. You two can bicker like an old married couple later—”

“And what the hell was up with that dishwasher-safe arm comment? You’re painting me as a joke,” he bites back.

“You can’t be serious,” you scoff, glaring at him now. “I’m not painting you as a joke. I made you seem approachable. It was a cute fact.”

Bucky mumbles grumpily under his breath and sinks back into his chair.

You tilt your head and sweeten up your tone, just enough to make sure you piss him off. “Don’t be so sensitive, sweetheart . It was cute.”

You see his jaw clench as he turns away, avoiding your gaze now. But the flush that’s creeping on the side of his face gives him away. You lean in closer, trying to get in his face.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” you tease. “I thought we were supposed to be practicing with the nicknames… you know, to make them feel natural?”

Bucky opens his mouth to snap back, but Voss’s voice cuts through before he could even get the chance.

“Okay, you two can rip each other’s throats later,” Voss says firmly. “This week we’ve got engagement photos scheduled, and after that, I suggest you two start locking down wedding plans.”

You nod, keeping your focus back on Voss. Even though you’re not looking at him anymore, you can feel the tension radiating off of Bucky next to you.

“Ultimately, the wedding date is your call,” Voss continues with a serious tone. “But as your press secretary, I’d recommend holding it soon after the photo release—strike while the media is still buzzing.”

“Fine by me,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug.

Voss smiles at your response. Then her eyes flick between you both, her eyes lingering on Bucky a bit longer when she realizes he isn’t responding.

“What about you, Congressman?” she prods gently.

He doesn’t respond. Bucky just stares down at the papers in front of him like they were more important. Voss lets out a long exhale through her nose and pushes on, undeterred.

She dives into a fully detailed rundown—rambling on everything from upcoming press appearances and engagement photos to how the two of you should present yourselves when asked about your relationship. Her words start to blur into one long stream, like background noise. But you do catch a few key points, something about Bucky making an appearance at one of your upcoming foundation events, something about “maintaining the illusion.”

Finally, Voss rises from her seat, collecting her folders with a dramatic sigh.

“Well,” she begins. “I’ll leave you two be to—“ she waves a hand vaguely between you, “sort out whatever lover’s quarrel you’ve got going on.”

Then she strides out the room with her heels clicking, the office door closing behind her.

A very awkward and uncomfortable silence settles between the both of you. You glance over at Bucky. He’s still staring down at the papers in front of him, chin propped in his palm, doing a painfully good job of pretending you don’t exist.

Again.

“Is this going to be a thing now? You ignoring me unless there’s a camera in your face?” you spit out.

Bucky’s fingers twitch slightly, but he still doesn’t look up.

“I get it, okay?” you go on, your voice getting shaky despite your efforts to remain poised. “This whole thing sucks. But I’m still showing up. I’m trying to make this work. I’m trying to make you look good. The least you could do is acknowledge I exist.”

His jaw clenches, and still, he says nothing. His eyes remain glued to the paper in front of him, like if he just stares at it hard enough, you’ll disappear.

“Nothing?” you whisper in disbelief. “God, I don’t even know why I bother.”

You stand, pushing the chair back slightly. The sound startles him, but he still doesn’t lift his head. You get it—this was only for show. But if you were going to be bound to each other for the rest of your lives, the least he could do was treat you like a human being. Because the other night, when you stayed at his place, he did treat you like you mattered.

Now it feels like he’s built his walls back up twice as high as when you first met him. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t climb them. You can’t even see past them.

“I understand that this whole thing is for public appearance,” you say softly, your back turned to him. “But I didn’t sign up to feel like I’m some… some burden. I’m not your enemy, Bucky. And I don’t know what I did to make you treat me like one.”

You give him a moment to see if he’ll say anything. But he doesn’t. With a heavy sigh, you begin walking towards the door.

“I’m trying,” he finally murmurs under his breath. “I’m doing the best I can.”

You stop with your hand on the doorknob. You turn slightly to him and say, “Then help me understand, because I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m going to get.”

And then he’s quiet again.

“I’m standing here trying,” you mutter with a voice crack. “And you won’t even look at me.”

“I can’t,” he says quietly and broken.

You turn to face him fully now, your heart pounding loudly in your chest. His eyes are unfocused, locked on some distant point in the office like he’s not really here.

“You won’t ,” you corrected him. “You won’t let me in.”

“No,” he snaps suddenly, pushing back from the table and rising to his feet. “You don’t get it. You can’t get it.”

His sudden movement startles you, but you don’t feel scared—just surprised. His voice is rough and strangled, like the emotions are catching in his throat. His body is shaking again, and before you even realize it, you’re already taking small steps towards him.

“You think I’m keeping you at arm’s length because I want to?” he says, voice shaking uncontrollably. “You think this is easy for me? Sitting here pretending—when every time I look at you... I—”

He stops himself short, his breath hitching.

He turns away with his back to you, bracing both hands on the table to support himself. His whole body is trembling as he tries to keep himself grounded.

Your hand rests gently against his back, and he stiffens under your touch.

“When every time you look at me… what?”

He doesn’t answer. He won’t and he can’t. Because if he says it, if he tells you what he’s done, he doesn’t think he’ll ever see that softness in your eyes again. And that… that would break him.

As you’re standing there, watching him crumble apart again, your heart can’t help but ache for him. Even if Bucky isn’t really yours, watching him like this, hurting and haunted, it makes your heart crack wide open for him.

No one wants to watch the person they care about suffer.

“No matter how many times you push me away,” you say softly as you rub your hand gently on his back. “I will always be here for you. You just need to let me in.”

Bucky shudders beneath your touch. “You don’t know what I’ve done,” he whispers.

“No,” you admit softly. “I don’t. But I know it wasn’t really you. Whatever you did, you were controlled. You were used.”

He lets out a hollow, bitter laugh and shakes his head, lips trembling as he tries to fight back his emotions.

Then, he finally lifts his head slowly. His eyes meet yours for the first time, and the look in them nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

There’s so much pain in them. Guilt, self-loathing, and grief.

Your hand reaches up instinctively, cupping his cheek, tilting his face towards you, to make sure he sees that you’re still here. He doesn’t move away. Instead, his fingers come up to rest over yours, holding your hand there with a gentle squeeze.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” he asks, voice so quiet and broken.

You blink, forcing back the sting in your eyes. “Because I see you, Bucky. And beneath all the pain, I know there’s a good man trying to do the right thing.”

Bucky swallows, and his hand rises to gently cradle your jaw. His fingers are rough, but he holds you with a softness that makes your chest ache. He leans in closer—close enough to feel his hot breath against your lips. He hesitates, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

Because what he’s about to do next will change your relationship forever. It would mean more than a stupid signature on a piece of paper. More than a stupid ring on your finger. And more than a stupid interview.

And yet, you don’t pull away.

So he leans in closer and kisses you.

And it’s not for show. There are no cameras around. It’s not for press. That kiss was just for you .

His lips are warm and soft. He moves slowly and carefully, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he makes the wrong move. Once Bucky realizes you’re not pulling away, when your hand moves to the back of his head, something in him gives out.

The kiss deepens, and his hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you against him. The kiss is messy, aching, and full of all the words he couldn’t say.

When you two finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath. He shuts his eyes as one hand is still caressing your face, thumb absentmindedly rubbing against your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a shaky breath. “I don’t know what possessed me to do that. I… I shouldn’t have done that.”

You might’ve taken offense to that once, but you don’t hear any regret in his voice, just fear. Fear of what this means, fear of what he’s allowed himself to feel. Despite his words, you knew deep down that that kiss wasn’t a mistake, it was real.

And you know he felt it too.

So instead of pulling away, you gently reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

Bucky was wearing a simple crisp collar button up shirt and some slacks. He didn’t have the usual tailored tux he was used to being photographed in. Voss had told him to keep it “classy and casual” for this shoot. Her exact words had been, “Wear something that makes you look domestic.”

Whatever the hell that meant.

The shoot location was set in a soft field of greenery. Tall grass swaying gently, flowers blooming in warm colors. It felt wholesome and peaceful. Any real couple would’ve loved to have engagement photos taken here. Bucky stood there, tense in the middle of it, waiting for you to arrive.

He had offered to pick you up himself, but you’d insisted George bring you instead. He didn’t blame you.

Things had been awkward, really awkward, since the kiss. He didn’t even know why he did it. It wasn’t the first time he’d wanted to. God . He’d lost count of how many times he’d looked at you and felt that same need, that dangerous and selfish need to kiss you. But it was the first time he had acted on it.

He couldn’t explain what it was about you. Your warmth, how inviting you were, the way you saw straight through him. It was so opposite of the life he’d known.

Bucky knew he shouldn’t have kissed you, that by kissing you, it would change everything between you two. That by kissing you, it’d only make the truth about your father hurt even more.

You deserved honesty, and he’d kissed you with a mouth full of secrets.

But what made him feel even worse was that he didn’t regret the kiss. Not one bit. Especially after the way your hand slipped to the back of his head, pulling him closer.

He shudders at the memory.

He knew he was a terrible man, but he didn’t think he’d stoop this low. But when you reassured him and told him it was okay, then surely you must’ve felt the same way? Surely, the feelings are reciprocated—whatever feeling this was. He didn’t know anymore. Feelings are hard. And he hasn’t felt anything like this in over seventy years.

Bucky was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear the car pull up.

“Good morning,” your soft voice calls out from behind him, pulling him out of his thoughts like sunlight cutting through a haze of dark fog.

He straightens up immediately. He turns, and when his blue eyes land on you, he feels like his breath was knocked out of his lungs.

There you were, standing tall, probably the most stubborn woman to ever exist. But despite that, Bucky knew with certainty that you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Morning,” Bucky mumbles, his eyes taking you in up and down, not even trying to hide it. “You look… good.”

Fuck . Bucky mentally cursed at himself. You were standing there looking like a dream, and the best he could manage was the most generic compliment known to man.

She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and still, the only thing I can come up with is “looks good?”

You stood there with a raised brow. Your hair wasn’t done with a million bobby pins this time. It was made just how you like it. Your makeup was light, nothing camera-heavy, just you. And the dress flowing lightly in the gentle breeze topped it all off.

Bucky swallowed hard as he watched you glance down at yourself, the softest smile tugging at your lips. That smile, God, that smile— it messed him up more than it should have.

“Well,” you say with a light shrug, glancing down at yourself, “if these are going to be framed and hung up for the world to see… I figured I might as well wear something that actually feels like me.”

Bucky nods firmly, agreeing. “Looks good.”

“You already said that.”

Goddammit.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” the photographer calls, adjusting his tripod. “Right this way, please.” He gestures toward the center of the field.

Bucky clears his throat, extending a hand for you to grab, and you do. Your soft hand slips so softly and so easily in his as he leads you to the center. He watches as your eyes trail to his left arm.

“You’re not covering it up,” you point out innocently.

He glances down, then back at you. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’m not,” he says quietly.

The photographer adjusts his lens, looking through it as he calls out, “Let’s start with something simple. Just stand close together and face each other—hold hands.”

Bucky steps closer to you, his hand never leaving yours. With his free metal hand, he hesitates before grabbing your other hand. Catching him off guard, you reach for his instead, grasping it firmly. You angle your body towards him, and for a brief moment, your eyes meet.

His breath gets stuck in his throat.

“Closer,” the photographer calls. “Let’s see some of that newly-engaged warmth.”

Bucky takes a step closer, swallowing nervously as he looks down at you. You also take a step forward until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.

You glance up to meet his eyes again. “This warm enough for you?” you tease, your voice low enough for only him to hear.

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, his gaze steady on yours. “You tell me, sweetheart.”

Now your breath hitches. You knew that he’s only saying it to keep things “natural,” but no matter how many times you two petcall each other, it always makes your heart flutter in your chest.

The photographer keeps snapping away, muttering compliments like “perfect” and “hold that right there.”

“Now let’s try one where he stands behind you, arms around your waist,” the photographer instructs.

Bucky feels you hesitate for a moment, but his feet is already moving before he can think. He stands behind you, his arms slip around you and you tense under his touch. His arms lock gently at your middle, pressing against your belly, pushing you closer against him.

You’re thrown off guard at how natural this feels.

“Now look over your shoulder at him—yeah, just like that,” the photographer praises.

You turn your head over your shoulder, and the breath catches in your throat. Bucky isn’t looking at the camera. He’s looking at you. Only at you.

Your heart pounds loudly in your chest, and you’re pressed so tightly against him that you’re sure he can feel it. His arms around you are warm, solid, protective, and in this very moment, it doesn’t feel staged. It doesn’t feel fake.

In this very moment, Bucky was yours. And you were his.

Your voice comes out shakier than you’d anticipated. “Bucky—”

But before you could get the words out, he leans in, pressing his nose against your hair, inhaling you, taking in your scent. You hear him let out a soft sigh as his body relaxes behind you, but his hold on you is still strong.

“Excellent!” the photographer calls out, adjusting his lens again, completely oblivious of the tension between you two. “Let’s do one where you’re kissing now.”

Bucky goes still. His hands are still resting gently at your waist, and you sense his hesitation. Like he's stuck between instinct and restraint.

You tilt your head back slightly to look at him. “We don’t have to,” you say quietly, offering him an out, even though your voice betrays a hint of hope.

After everything, you didn’t want to push him, not after how weird things had felt since that first kiss that you two never even addressed.

Bucky’s gaze drops to your lips, then slowly finds your eyes again. He doesn’t say anything yet, just places his hands more firmly on your waist and gently turns you to face him. His lips part to speak, and when he finally does, his voice is low and hoarse.

“Tell me if you don’t want this,” he mutters, only loud enough for you to hear.

You pause for a moment. Your eyes flick down to his lips, then back to those blue eyes that keep inviting you in—whether you liked it or not.

“I want this.”

Bucky breathes in sharply. Just like before, his hand rises to caress your jaw with a careful tenderness that makes your chest flutter. Then, he leans in and kisses you.

He kisses you like no one was watching. He kisses you like you truly belong to him. He kisses you in the way he would want to, regardless if there was a camera or not.

The camera shutter clicks in the distance. The photographer says something encouraging, but to Bucky, it’s just noise. He can’t hear any of it, not over the pounding of his own heart, especially not when your lips move so naturally against his.

And that’s when it hits him. That feeling he’s finally come to recognize.

The feeling he never knew he was even capable of having.

It washes over him now, and it’s undeniable and terrifying all at the same time.

Bucky is in love with you.

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#bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky x you #congressman barnes #congressman bucky #bucky angst #thunderbolts fanfic #marvel fanfic #the winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #making out for america #bucky x y/n

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loganficsonly · 1 month ago

Text

an independent woman ☘ 4

˚₊‧⁺˖✮ ch 4: holding back ✮ ˖⁺‧₊˚

masterlist

worst!logan x fem!reader, 4.3k

SUMMARY: As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with you—Wade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.

SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA

CHAPTER WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ MDNI!!!, wade winston wilson means mature language and breaking the fourth wall, denial is a river, pride and prejudice (2005) spoilers, logan is touch-starved and in so deep, unresolved sexual tension, shower sex?, oral sex?, male masturbation

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this took me SO LONG TO WRITE in between my busyness. last chapter before i go on vacation, so there won't be updates for a while but please send me your thoughts. and prayers. lol i'm so excited to write more. if you enjoy my work, reblogs and replies are a source of motivation for me <3

Attention has always felt a bit uncomfortable to you.

Not every gaze means well. Even the ones that specifically do can come off as scrutiny. Concentrated. Close. Seeking signals that say you’re doing less than alright. Which is not good—either because you actually hate making people worry, or because it makes you feel inadequate.

Maybe both.

But as you grew up, you learned how to manage that fear of being perceived. Well, sort of. You didn’t learn because nobody taught you how, more of a series of stumbling steps as adulthood burgeoned upon you.

Moving to New York helped. The city is so full of people, each with their own origins and dreams and places they need to go to before rush hour hits. The hustle and bustle quickly becomes a source of comfort for you. Blending into the crowd means safety.

Hardly anyone has the time to pay attention. Both are precious currencies in the busy lives of modern people.

Which is why getting attention is a little unusual.

For example, your team at work is nominated for a couple of pretty prestigious industry awards. Though the winners are only going to be unveiled in a week or so, the office is already abuzz with energy.

Conversations and questions naturally gravitate towards you and your colleagues who worked on the same project: How do you feel? You think you’ll get a silver, at least? You guys really delivered with that one. It gets a little demanding to repeat the same responses for different people.

This, you can manage. You didn’t get nominated for your own merit, the entire team put their backs into it. Also, work’s work. Once you’re off the clock, you’re in the clear.

But when you get home, there’s a different kind of attention you’re not sure how to handle.

Your roommate Logan is observant. You’ve known this since before you moved in together. Maybe it’s past trauma, maybe it’s just occupational hazard. Either way, his alertness lets him be prepared. Eyes always sharp.

On the receiving end of that gaze is you. But with you, it’s never unkind.

Like the time you started assembling the bookshelf without him and he got a little upset. Not for long, though, because he immediately jumped into the chaotic circle of wooden boards and flathead screws that formed in the living room, sitting next to you as he helped you figure out the wordless instruction sheet that came with the furniture.

He was right, of course. Working with two people was faster, more efficient. The manual even says so. A figure of a person frowning as they stare into the mess of parts, a big ‘X’ covering it. Next to it, the same person with a friend, the two of them smiling.

Better together.

Or the time when you came back home with a little globe lamp to adorn said bookshelf. He smiled softly… or was it the amber light’s fault that he looked so tender? You smiled back, more confused than anything.

“What?”

He shook his head in response, hesitating. “You’re like those… birds.”

“Birds?”

“Buildin’ a nest. Bringin’ home stuff.”

He points to the lamp as well as the various other bits and bobs you’ve indeed gathered to decorate the place.

You hoped that the lamp’s glow diffused the heat that certainly gathered in your cheeks.

And then there was your first time feeling unwell since moving in. The memory is fresh in your mind, having happened only last week. You were bound to break. A human body could only take so many overtime hours until it crumbled.

The day you finally decided that going to work was impossible, he wasn’t home—already gone for a TVA mission with Wade—but his handwriting on the whiteboard was there with you. The first time he wrote something in the month you’ve lived together.

Soup in the fridge. Get well soon.

His handwriting is slightly slanted. Cursive but not completely, with a beautiful capital ‘G’. Simple, quick, free.

How he knew you were sick is still beyond you. Maybe you just came home looking particularly haggard the night before.

In any case, his soup was delicious. While eating it, you wondered if cooking was a demanded skill given his two century’s worth of life experience. The image of him tending a pot on the stove made you smile.

You thanked him when you found him already home in the late afternoon.

The first thing he did was touch your forehead. The second thing he did was frown.

“Getting feverish, sweetheart.”

Your body shivers and heats up simultaneously at the contact.

“I’m fine. Took some meds.”

“Go take a nap,” he said, walking further into the apartment. “I’ll make dinner.”

You watched his broad back disappear into his room. It wasn’t the fever that made you blush.

Attention used to mean you’re being watched.With Logan, it feels like being seen.

“So, have you slept with him yet?”

You almost choke on your chicken sandwich.

“What?”

Wade sits across you, smiling innocently as if the words that came out of his mouth were something as normal as ‘how was your weekend’, but you know better. There’s that look in his eyes again.

“You heard me, honeybee. Your roommate is a DILF superhero with abs you can wash clothes on, piercing eyes, and an exquisite chair for a face. Have you. Slept with him. Yet?”

He says that last part real slow like you can’t speak English. You can feel eyes from the other tables begin to look over at yours.

“Is this really why you asked me out for lunch, Wade?”

The quaint café is not very crowded, seeing as most of the customers are office workers who tend to grab their food and go. Still, there are people occupying the seats around you, and if Wade’s appearance didn’t already attract some furtive glances, his beautiful string of words sure did.

It was a pleasant surprise when he texted to congratulate you for the nomination—Logan mentioned it to him, apparently—and even more delightful when he asked you out for lunch. “To celebrate,” he said, “it’ll be fun,” he said.

You look at him pointedly, chewing on your food. He puts on a face of mock offense, hand on chest.

“No no no, I’m just making conversation. Can’t blame me for checking up on you, can I?”

“You know ‘have not’ implies a ‘yet’ at the end, right? Also, the answer is no.”

He grins, before it drops completely, as if he found the notion incredulous.

“Thought I was gonna be Marvel Aunty Sima,” he grits. “Why??? Is it because he’s a slob? I never had problems with cleanliness while he was around. Granted my standards are questionable—”

“Logan’s a decent roommate,” you cut him off, before a frown rests on your lips. That was a heavy undersell. “Actually, he’s great. I’m very lucky to have him.”

“Is it the trauma, then? He does need two plane tickets for all that check-in baggage.”

“He’s trying his best, Wade,” you offer softly. You don’t say anything about Logan’s AA meetings—not when he clearly said he’d tell Wade after the first coin.

Your friend leans in, fingers laced together, plate of pasta forgotten.

“You must be a special kind of woman to be immune to his charms,” he says, tone light, sarcasm unmistakable.

Who says I am? you think. Maybe a little too loudly, because Wade is already smirking at you like he acquired telepathic abilities.

“You are immune, aren’t you?”

Saying ‘yes’ wouldn’t just be a blatant lie, it would be cruel. Who in God’s green earth can say they are entirely unaffected by one Logan Howlett? Certainly not you. Sighing, you lean against the back of the chair.

“Look,” you begin, “he’s hot.”

“Fuck yeah he is. Why’d you think I let him stay at mine for so long? Have you seen him shirtless yet?”

You let out a chuckle. Wade knows just what to say to make you relax.

“Actually, I haven’t.”

His eyes widen, lips in an ‘O’ of disbelief.

“Girl.”

Shaking your head, you shrug. “What? Not like I can ask him to take it off.”

The look on his face says ‘you could’.

“I can't wait for your ACs to break down in the peak of summer.”

“Mean.”

“You’re really not gonna make a move on him, honeybee? Do you actually not like him?” he presses, taking a big forkful of his food.

You grow quiet.

Of course you like him. But you like him a little bit too much to be considered platonic, given the nature of the one dream you had of him a few days ago.

It’s been hard to keep your gaze chaste since—maybe it never has been. Hard to look at the way his fingers hold onto a cup and not think about what they did to you in your fantasies. Hard to not cling onto every brush his body makes against yours when maneuvering the tight kitchen.

Impossible to forget the way his phantom weight felt when he was in your bed.

When your eyes blink back to the present, Wade is looking at you. None of the usual impishness, only a placid awareness of your rushing thoughts.

“I do like him, it’s just—”

It’s just… what?

The answer is within you, buried under the weight of life.

Cultivate your garden, they say, and love will come. That’s what you became. A resourceful classmate. A reliable colleague. Someone they can count on, someone that can help.

You’re a garden, but nobody ever comes to visit when the flowers aren’t in bloom.

Logan is special. Yes, it took time for you to get so comfortable with him, but never expected to grow fonder of him with each passing day. You might even call him a good friend now.

He’s nothing like you, except when you suddenly recognize parts of you in him. You’re both guarded, a pair of stray cats trying to figure out each other’s territory, circling in unbreaking stares. Waiting for the swipe of a claw or a loving headbutt.

But the tighter the circle, the more your fears are amplified.

Warning fears. A sounding alarm. The fear that, at this distance, he can see you more than he already has. Pan past the neatly trimmed hedgerows and zoom into what’s inside. The wilted parts of you, all crushed leaves and bare trees, the flower garden nothing but a bait-and-switch.

If he sees just how much you need him, more than he could ever need you, he’ll leave.

Wade calls your name gently.

Your eyes snap to his, broken out of your spiral.

“It’s just—not like that, you know,” your murmur is hidden behind your glass, “we’re friends. He’s… a really good friend.”

For the amount of acts you keep up around some people, you’d think it’d get easier to lie to the ones who know you. It doesn’t.

Lying to yourself also never seems to work. Because when Logan sunk his fingers into you, even if in a dream, it certainly didn’t feel friendly.

Wade doesn’t push. He maintains a neutral expression as he quips back with too much nonchalance.

“If you say so.”

You feel a little naked.

Logan didn’t know his hands could feel hunger.

Not until recently.

He’s started counting the weeks now. Fifth week of moving in with you. Your work finally let up, a glimpse of mercy since your team got that industry award nomination, you told him. The two of you decided to celebrate with a movie night while you had the free time. Your turn for the show-and-tell.

You’re biting back a smile as you tell him what you love about Pride and Prejudice, your movie of choice. The noise of corn kernels popping against a glass lid staccatoed below your voice. You talk about the chemistry, the wit, the soundtrack that sweeps you off your feet.

He looks at you, trying to mask the look in his eyes as amusement and not unbridled affection. You stumble over words, hand covering your lips.

It hides a grin. He wants to pull it away, wants to see it so bad.

“Sorry, I just love them so much,” you conclude.

“Stop apologizin’ and get the damn remote,” he smirks.

The two of you settle down on the couch next to each other, a bowl of popcorn between your bodies as usual. While the screen comes alive, he finds his attention split between the actual film and your reaction, glancing at you every now and then to gauge them.

Call him a multitasker—he’s watching you and the movie at the same time.

You’re already emoting a lot more. Biting back a smile, face buried slightly into a cushion. A wistful expression takes over your exterior. It’s clear that you’re not going to touch that popcorn bowl for the entire runtime.

He finds it outstandingly adorable.

The film establishes itself well in the opening act. He almost feels nostalgic. Reassured.

Perhaps it’s the setting: some two centuries ago, just around the time he was born. It makes age-old memories surface with a bubble and pop. Was life like that when he was a child, before the claws? He only remembers fragments that are too small to paint a picture.

Perhaps it’s from the knowledge that the two protagonists, though curt with each other for now, will fall in love in the end. The inevitability of it.

Perhaps your fondness for this movie has made him fond of it too, even before watching it in full.

“Oh no,” you murmur, “it’s the hand scene.”

His eyebrows furrow. You sounded like you just announced the coming of a storm.

He catches that on-screen, split-second touch. Mr. Darcy’s hand grasps Lizzy’s. He flexes it as they part as if his fingers burned with feelings.

Logan shifts to look at you. You’ve recoiled your legs, curling your knees up to your chest. Face almost entirely pressed onto the cushion, hair cascading onto your cheeks. Despite the low light and mess of colors bleeding from the TV, he dare says that you’re blushing.

Your eyes meet his. Then you let out an unrestrained giggle, before shaking it off, righting yourself up to shift your attention back to the movie, remnants of a smile on your face.

Something unlocks in Logan at that moment.

Whatever Mr. Darcy just went through, he knows. Understands the reality of it within the very blood that pumps undyingly in his veins.

His hands are hungry, too. Starvation carved deep in each palm line, trapped with nowhere to go.

Insatiable unless it touches that certain someone.

His own hands are now clammy, clenching on his jeans, the result of a pile of hoarded yearnings. It makes itself known so suddenly, awakening when it recognizes itself on the screen.

Because his nerves ignited when you glanced at him earlier. For a brief moment, he thought he was going to cup your cheeks in his palms and ask if he could kiss you.

The movie continues while his urges take hold. He’s never sensed your body feeling so alive. Your heart beats faster as the final scene plays, its rhythm enticing his own to respond in time.

“No! No. You may only call me ‘Mrs. Darcy’... when you are completely, and perfectly, and incandescently happy.”

“Then how are you this evening, Mrs. Darcy?”

They kiss. His jaw clenches. He peeks at you again.

You’re glued to the screen, eyes a little hazy, lips parted. Lost in the romance of it all. The television turns black for the credits.

He realizes then, that he wishes so badly to do the same things this movie does to you. To be the reason you smile and laugh freely. To bundle you in such happiness that you’d never want to go anywhere, content to be in his arms.

To be the source of the flush on your cheeks as you finally put down the pillow, revealing the entirety of your face. You stare at him.

“I’m gonna go get some water,” you whisper, slowly making your way to the kitchen.

He follows. Hangs around the island with you, watching as you pour yourself a glass.

“Did you like it?” you ask.

“Yeah.” He sees your eyes light up with eagerness.

“What’s your favorite part?”

His eyes lock onto yours, aware of the swelter of warmth surging from his gaze. He does nothing to stop it.

“Everything.”

It’s week six and he’s being tortured.

If someone were to peer into his life from a looking glass, one would probably comment on how disastrous it is that the gods picked him as their favorite soldier to put to their tragic tests.

The counter-argument, however, stands. It’s entirely possible that he was specifically made to endure such cosmic cruelties. No one else would survive. His body breaks, but it mends itself back.

But his hardened heart and eroded soul don’t enjoy the same privileges. They only started recovering when he allowed them to—and that was merely months ago, after learning to let people in. After Wade crash-landed into his life, after Cassandra and the Time Ripper, after everything.

He’s endured actual torture. Became who he is through it, adamantium skeletons and all.

This form of torture is different.

It’s a Friday night. The two of you are home, but you won’t be for long. You told him you have to go for the award event tonight, and it happens to be a proper event. The kind that involves dressing up and getting subtly drunk.

He hears you call his name from inside your bedroom, sounding a little hesitant. Seconds later, he’s already standing in front of your room when you peek out, your face the only thing visible from the slightly ajar door. You look a little worried.

“This is kind of embarrassing but I need help.”

Logan’s eyebrow cocks at the slight thrill in his gut from how you’re freely admitting that you require assistance. A big improvement compared to the first two weeks of you living together.

The feeling is replaced by concern—he can’t help but be bothered at the thought of you being bothered.

You look at him, still hiding.

“I’ve been struggling with this zip for the past five minutes. Could you get it up?”

He senses trouble.

“Sure.”

“Please be honest if it doesn’t fit,” you reply jokingly, turning your back toward him and letting the door fall open.

There it is. Your back, smooth and naked, framed by the undone parts of the dress. There is no bra band to interrupt your skin. The base of the zipper is not so low that he can see the beginnings of your hips, but he sees the outline of it, and somehow that’s worse. His hand clenches, seeing the dip of your lower back that he so badly wants to touch.

And your smell—already so sweet as you are, made captivating with a spritz of floral fragrance. It hits like a drug, dizzying.

You make the view even more breathtaking by sweeping your hair away from the zipper’s path, revealing your neck to him. That’s it. That’s where he wants to bury his face and breathe you in. God, you’d be so fucking soft—

His mind flies to a thousand places at once. Not a single one of them is appropriate.

He grips the zipper pull, using his other hand to tug the fabric of your dress tight before drawing it smoothly up its remaining track. It lands snugly near your nape.

Eyes are still on you when you turn around to look at him, hands smoothing down the dress.

“Thank you. How do I look?”

There’s a pin-drop silence as he drinks you in, pupils dilating.

Green-brown gaze turns molten in its path from your face down your body, watching the way your outfit sits on your skin. The fabric almost looks like liquid metal, it beckons to be touched. It shines in a color that makes you look perfectly radiant.

Blood rushes south at how the cut betrays your curves, hugging your waist and hips before stopping just above your knees. A far cry from your everyday loose t-shirts and pajama pants. In this little number, he sees the shape of you so clearly.

His jaw is slack as he forces his stare back up, registering your face. Sparkles on your ears. Light make-up. Lips colored in a way that only accentuates their shape—that exquisite shape.

He wants to ravish you.

Decency demands he can’t, and he is in agony.

“Logan?” you call softly, confused at his prolonged stillness. It’s been a while since you wore this dress—does it not fit anymore? Or is it the make-up that’s weird?

“Is it that bad?”

“No, god no,” he rasps, shaking his head.

When your eyes catch his, the expression on his face spells unspoken mystification.

You blink, taken aback. The color in his irises are almost gone, swallowed by the black of his pupils, and the way he’s staring down at you from his height—

“Just… couldn’t find the words. You look gorgeous, sweetheart.”

The sincerity stitched in each word renders you speechless in turn. He examines your face as if he weren’t allowed to touch you, drinking in details with his eyes. You’ve seen people look at paintings that way.

The same way you look at him when he’s not watching.

“Thank y—”

A timer goes off, violently rupturing the moment. You jump, reaching for your phone to silence it. The clock shows a time that’s past what you planned.

“Shit, gonna be late,” you murmur, swiping your shoulder bag. “Thank you so much, Logan. I’ll see you later.”

You don’t know what came over you, but you reach to peck his cheek before rushing out the door.

The moment the thought entered his mind, he knew he could no longer run.

Logan tried to fight it, he really did. In the minutes after you left, he struggled, control fraying at the seams.

A part of him is embarrassed, because he can’t remember the last time he felt this way. Not mere animalistic desire—those he experienced plenty in the past—but as profound as a crack in the ground, threatening to open a chasm with a whirlpool at its pit.

Something infinitely deeper, bigger than himself.

Because that’s what he feels around you. Whether he likes it or not—whether you like him or not—the earth is going to swallow him whole and ruin him anyway.

He shouldn’t, mustn’t think of you in the ways he’s tempted to. He doesn’t even deserve to touch you. The voices in his head whispers familiar indignities, slicing his own heart open.

But the lingering scent of your sweet perfume and the sight of your naked back drowns them out to almost nothing. He finds himself losing a battle against something else that isn’t his insecurities, a more powerful force that he’s not accustomed to fighting.

Need.

Fuck, he can see you in that dress like a tattoo behind his eyelids. You looked so good, he might have applauded himself for not immediately taking you against your bedroom door.

Feet pace toward the shower. Can’t take anymore.

Clothes are haphazardly discarded on floor tiles as cold as the water streaming down his bare skin. It doesn’t work in the slightest. Doesn’t steady his haphazard heartbeat, doesn’t kill the heat rising to his skin.

He switches the water to warm.

The groan he releases is strained, echoing inside the bathroom. His hand drifting low is the cause, fingers curling around his already aching length.

He pictures your hand instead.

Smaller than his. Softer. That, and your voice whispering sultry promises while you stand in front of him, pumping his cock. A vision in all its meanings—how tantalizing you look while you exist in his mind’s eye.

Scenes flash out of his control as he tugs harder at himself. Soft flesh pressed tight against his hard lines. The intoxicating smell of you. Perfect mouth on his in a deep kiss, the shape of your cupid’s bow still fresh in his memory. All those times you smiled at him. Parted lips invite him to fall further into bliss. They felt so soft against his cheek earlier. Would feel even better around him…

He thinks of you between his legs, right here in the shower, skin and hair slick as you take him in your pretty mouth.

“F-Fuck—”

The image forces a moan out of him. His movements manifest urgency.

One steadying hand braces on the wall before him while he conjures up filthier phantasms. His hand digging into your hair—deeper. You’d moan at how big he is, the way he’d hit the back of your throat, drool dripping down your chin. He’d pull you away, too impatient to come in your mouth, instead bringing you up against the wall before lining himself up and—

He swears he hears you in his ears, shuddered breaths puffing against his shoulder as you bury your face there. He’d press you against the wall, willing you to stop hiding and look straight at him. You’d feel so fucking good. He pictures you mouthing that to him, voice broken. Shivers at the thought of your heat. Tight and wet, clinging onto him the way your hands do on his back as he thrusts.

He speeds up. It doesn’t take long until he murmurs your name, over and over in a forbidden crescendo, until he tenses past the crest with a tortured groan. Hazy eyes watch as white hot spend slips down the drain, his long-suffered restraint disappearing just the same.

A sober realization takes over. The dam holding him back is bursting.

He prays it doesn’t ruin what little he has of you.

taglist: @squishyfruitloop @britttzy267 @tezooks @ddwnghead @dear-detested @duckyyyx @hits-different-cause-its-you @mrfitzdarcyslover @snowlycanroc

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#an independent woman #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine #x men #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #wolverine smut

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novascharms · 6 months ago

Text

teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 2.7 chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap. masterlist

a.n — double update WOOOOOOO okay now this is a double update because this chapter is essentially filler…. um i write too much ab them being all lovey dovey and nasty freaky but i wanna get the plot MOVINGGGG which means dealing with the adriana stuff so im gonna roll out the chapters a tad bit faster because i realise i wrote too much filler whoops.

sixteen

tuesday, february 18th

“can’t say i didn’t see that coming. she’s always been a bit clumsy,” you said with a smirk, passing the towel over a wet plate your dad handed you. you sat cross-legged on the counter, a small smile tugging at your lips as he chuckled, scrubbing a mug.

“remember when she tore her hamstring doing yoga?” your dad snorted at the memory, and you hummed, grinning.

“how did she even call mom so casually after that? i feel like that would hurt too much to move.”

your dad shook his head, a knowing look on his face. “i stopped trying to figure your mom’s side of the family out a long time ago.” his words made you laugh, the sound light and genuine, just as the doorbell rang.

before you could hop off the counter, your sister bolted from the living room, practically sprinting to the door. you opened your mouth to tell her off, but your dad waved a hand, stopping you. “it’s alright. it’s probably rafe.” he handed you another wet mug with an amused shake of his head.

sure enough, twenty seconds later, rafe strolled into the kitchen with your sister clinging to his back like a monkey. her face was lit with pure joy, her giggles echoing in the space.

“uh, rafe?” you said, raising an eyebrow as you dried the mug. “you’ve got something stuck on your back.”

he turned his head, feigning surprise as if he’d just noticed her. “oh, this?” he asked with a playful grin. “we’re a package deal now.”

“yup!” your sister chimed, tightening her grip. “i’m never getting off his back!”

you smirked, setting the mug down and clapping your hands together with mock enthusiasm. “well, i hope you’re ready for two hours of mind-numbing algebra!”

her eyes went wide, and with an exaggerated “nope!” she launched herself off rafe’s back, darting back to the living room without a second thought.

“brutal,” rafe muttered, shaking his head with mock defeat. “never been dumped so fast.”

you laughed as he made his way around the kitchen island, stopping beside your dad. “good to see you, sir,” he said warmly, flashing the same charming smile he reserved for winning over teachers and parents.

your dad chuckled, shaking his head as he rinsed another plate. “you know, it’s gotta be a record—almost two months of my wife and i trying to get you to call us by our names.”

rafe raised his brows, hands up in mock surrender, his grin widening. “i swear, i want to, but every time i even think about it, i can feel my mom right behind me, ready to smack me upside the head. it’s ingrained at this point. conditioning.”

“don’t worry,” your dad replied with a good-natured laugh. “we’ll get you there eventually.”

rafe just smiled, but his focus shifted almost instinctively to you, like there was an invisible string pulling him closer. his movements were unhurried, yet deliberate, as he closed the space between you, his expression soft but intense. the way he looked at you made your breath hitch, your grip on the plate faltering for a moment.

“hey,” he murmured, voice low but warm, his eyes holding yours as he placed his hands on the counter, boxing you in.

“hey,” you whispered back, your smile tugging wider when his gaze flickered to your lips.

it hadn’t even been an hour since you’d last seen him, just a few hours since your last kiss, yet his presence still made your stomach flutter like it was the first time. you felt yourself leaning in, drawn to him, your faces inches apart.

just as your lips were about to meet, your dad cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the moment like a bucket of cold water. “don’t push your luck, kid,” he said, gesturing for rafe to sit at the kitchen table.

your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but rafe only grinned, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before obeying your dad’s request.

you busied yourself with the dishes, trying to ignore the warmth in your face as the two of them fell into easy conversation. the next fifteen minutes were filled with laughter and stories, your dad regaling rafe with funny anecdotes about your mom’s family while you finished drying the last of the plates.

when you were finally done, you had to tug at rafe’s arm to pull him away. “alright, enough bonding,” you teased, trying not to laugh at the way they were both reluctant to end their chat. “come on, you’re mine now.”

rafe let himself be dragged out of the kitchen, his hand slipping into yours as you led him away, his warm laugh trailing behind you.

“i got you something,” rafe says casually, sprawled out on your bed, his head resting lazily on your pillow. his voice is unassuming, but there’s a flicker of anticipation in his eyes.

“what, a perfect score on your algebra test?” you tease, flashing him a playful smile.

he chuckles softly, shaking his head as he reaches for his backpack. “better,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing.

your curiosity spikes when he pulls out a small paper box, holding it out in front of him like it’s some kind of treasure. you lean closer, squinting at it until he turns it toward you, the logo on the front sparking immediate recognition.

“oh my god! a lemon cake from leonie’s bakery!” your eyes widen, and you practically snatch the box from his hands, grinning like a kid on christmas morning. “i haven’t had this in months. how did you even know i like these?” you pause, narrowing your eyes at him. “don’t tell me you talked to hazel.”

it’s hard to imagine hazel, exchanging more than a few words with rafe, let alone enough to spill this little piece of information.

he shakes his head, his smirk faint but proud. “you said it,” he replies simply.

you frown, confused. “i told you about this lemon cake?” you wrack your brain for any memory of mentioning it to him but come up blank.

“not me,” he corrects. “you told devon. you said you were craving it.”

you stare at him, the pieces slowly clicking into place. it was such a throwaway comment, a random conversation you barely remembered having until now. “rafe, that was two weeks ago,” you laugh, almost in disbelief.

he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “yeah. i was wondering why you didn’t just go get some if you wanted it so bad. then i looked it up and saw the closest leonie’s is, like, forty-five minutes from the dock on the mainland.”

you gasp softly, the realization dawning on you. “don’t tell me you drove all the way there!”

he shakes his head, grinning at your dramatic reaction. “nah. i would’ve, though. i mentioned going to the mainland to buy it for you to my mom, and she offered to grab it for me since she passes by there for work.”

you stare at him, your expression softening into this mix of a pout and a smile. “you didn’t have to go through all that trouble. or get your mom involved,” you murmur, the warmth in your chest spreading.

before you can say anything else, he reaches for you, gently tugging you down onto the bed beside him. “it wasn’t any trouble,” he says, his voice dropping to that low, comforting tone that always gets to you. “she was already there. and even if she wasn’t, i would’ve gone.”

your heart feels like it’s trying to climb its way out of your chest. leaning down, you brush your lips against his, barely a whisper of a kiss. “thank you,” you whisper softly.

you feel him smile against your lips before his hands come up to cup your face. “stop thanking me,” he murmurs, his thumb gently brushing your cheek. “it’s just a pastry.”

you smile back at him, shaking your head slightly. “it’s not just a pastry. it’s that you remembered. and that you listened—even when i wasn’t talking to you.”

he smirks faintly, teasing, “guess i know how to get back in your good graces if i ever mess up in the future.”

you kiss him again, this time lingering just a little longer. “it’s not the pastry,” you say quietly, your words brushing his lips. “it’s you.”

you’re trying not to fall. not to let the warmth in your chest take over, not to let the way he looks at you consume you completely.

don’t fall in love. don’t fall in love. don’t fall in love.

“i always listen to you,” he whispers, his voice gentle as his nose nuzzles yours.

your heart doesn’t stand a chance.

too late. too late. too late.

you lean up to press a soft kiss to his forehead, your lips lingering for just a moment. “open your algebra book to page 131, please.” you murmur, your voice gentle but teasing. his groan in response makes you smile, his reluctance written all over his face as he drags his hand to the textbook and flips through it with a sigh.

sliding off the bed, you grab your laptop from the nightstand and settle beside him, close enough that your knee brushes against his. while rafe finally finds the right page, you open your laptop, quickly scanning the reading you need to finish for tomorrow. but for now, you set it aside, giving him your full attention.

“okay,” you begin, leaning slightly toward him as you start explaining the chapter.

the tutoring session starts with good intentions. it always does.

but two minutes in, you glance over and catch him staring at you, his book forgotten in his lap, his gaze fixed on your face with a softness that makes your breath hitch. four minutes in, his fingers are tangled in your hair, the algebra completely abandoned as he leans closer, his touch distracting in the best and worst ways.

six minutes in, you’re repeating yourself, trying to get him to focus, but it’s hopeless. his attention isn’t on anything you’re saying—it’s on you. eight minutes in, he’s holding your hand, lifting it to his lips, his kisses slow and deliberate on each knuckle.

ten minutes in, algebra is a distant memory, and you’re straddling his lap, lips crashing into his in a kiss so intense, it steals the breath from your lungs.

you’re convinced there must be a scientific explanation for the way rafe can unravel you so easily. how his touch, his lips, his very presence can reduce you to a pliant, needy mess in seconds. your mind is foggy, your body weak, and melting into his without hesitation.

his hands are firm on your back, sliding down slowly as he pulls you closer, closer, until there’s no space left between your bodies. your fingers grip his shoulders as if to steady yourself, though the heat coursing through you is anything but steady.

you don’t even remember when your lips parted for him, but now you’re entirely lost in the way his tongue moves against yours, intentionally and consuming. you tug at his shirt, trying to ground yourself, but instead, the fabric only seems to fuel your need to feel more of him.

unable to resist, you nip at his bottom lip, tugging gently with your teeth. the low sound that escapes him sends a shiver down your spine, and his hands slide lower, settling firmly on your hips.

it feels practiced, the way his fingers tighten, gripping you just enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. and then he’s tugging you forward, a deliberate move that leaves no question about what’s happening between the two of you.

the thin material of your shorts does nothing to mask the sensation of the head of his cock pushing right along your clothed slit.

the move makes you gasp in pleasure, "g-god..!" you're immediately seeking more and need him to do it again. he catches on pretty quickly and without any complaint, he's got his hands on your hips and is helping you move back and forth on his lap, "mm.." you're weakly whining against his lips as you lazily rut against him, desperately chasing release.

you drive your hips against his tip, slowly grinding against it and you could cry at the fact that it couldn't go in because of your clothes. you had a half a mind to just fuck him right here but that seemed to be a line neither of you wanted to cross with your family in the house.

"i need it.." you're whining against his lips, hips bucking fiercely on his lap and he exhales sharply, hands on your hips. "you know we can't do that here.." he's struggling, squeezing your hips like he's scared to let them wander.

your stomach twists and you groan quietly without slowing your hips. the pleasure felt too good, too intense to stop. before you can actually burst into tears, rafe is shifting. "here, try this.." he moves from sitting on your bed to lying with his head on a pillow before tugging his sweats down and leaving his briefs on. his cock is straining in his briefs and without hesitation, you're reaching for it.

rafe grabs your wrist, "no." he grabs your hips and puts you right on his clothed cock and without warning, he ruts you forward on his lap.

your hips stutter at the intense pleasure and you're immediataly throwing your head back and fisting your bed sheets. "ohhh..that feels good..!" you whimper as you grind your hips onto his lap, hips moving back and forth over and over until every thing fades into the background, until all you know and all you can think of us to rut on rafe's lap and chase your release. "that's it, baby, take what you need." rafe rasps as his hands guide you and help you stay somewhat upright.

"uh uh uh uh.." your sweet, dumb moans are filling the room as you fuck yourself silly on rafe's lap and push against his cock just to feel his tip almost pushing past your slit but not quite due to your shorts blocking the passage.

rafe stuffs your mouth with his fingers as he mutters something about needing to be more quiet or whatever. you're not sure, you're too drunk on his cock, too busy rutting to listen. you only notice a couple of seconds later that rafe has unbuttoned your pyjama shirt and you're sitting there, tits bouncing with every small movement you make.

you know you're close when your eyes fill with tears and rafe starts helping you move again because you're getting all sloppy and unorganised. your vision always gets spotty during this part. it's always the vision first, then the fuzzy feeling and then you're gripping something—in this case, rafe's wrist that is right by your tit that he's fondling in his big hands.

"rafe.. rafe..!" you whine around his fingers, eyes rolling back as you sloppily rut in his lap and just a second later, your toes are curling, vision spotty and you're cumming on his lap.

you’re utterly drained, every ounce of energy spent, and your body seems to have a mind of its own as you collapse forward without a second thought. rafe, sharper and more grounded than you in the moment, shifts quickly to catch you before you crash into him. his strong arms wrap around you instinctively, steadying you as your head finds its way to his shoulder, settling there like it was always meant to.

his hand moves gently to your back, a steady presence that matches the low murmur of his voice. "you okay?" he asks, his breath brushing the shell of your ear, the warmth of it sending a delicate shiver down your spine.

you don’t bother lifting your head, instead offering a soft hum, your eyes fluttering closed as you sink into him. okay doesn’t even begin to describe it. every part of you feels light, weightless, like the world beyond this moment has dissolved entirely.

the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand anchors you, and for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows just how safe you feel here—in his arms, pressed against him, utterly and completely at peace.

chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap.

taglist — @rafeysworldim19 @my-name-is-baby @pogueprincesa @fveapplestall @chalametlover444 @slutglimreqpers @uarmyhopeworldwide @junxe3 @bakuhoethotski @wintercrows @bigjuli444 @singlethreadofivy @magicalflowerstranger

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mangowillow · 2 months ago

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last to know | ch. 3: today's curtain opens

pairing: jungkook x (f) reader / kim woosung x (f) reader

summary: you and jeongguk got together at 16 years old, married at 20, and divorced at 21. what was once love ever after turned into nothing but pain and unfulfilled dreams. you keep going despite the pain in your heart that never really went away, until one day, jungkook comes back— to seoul and in your life.

general story tags: divorce au, childhood friends, angst, hurt & eventual comfort, kind of a slow burn, OC is an adopted child in this fic, a lot of flashbacks later on because context is important; and the others that a lot of people seem to dislike: a love triangle and a LOT of miscommunication. look away if this isn't your thing. tags and warnings will be updated as we go along with each chapter!

warnings: somewhere in this chapter, seokjin punches jeongguk

word count: 12.7k

author's note: oooh look at her coming back after more than a YEAR!

i have no words, no excuses to offer. most people would have forgotten this story already. BUT I DIDN'T and that's all that matters right now <3

gentle reminder that italics are flashbacks! please forgive any oversights or mistakes or whatnot; as of posting, i am sick and i just wanted to post this chapter that's been sitting in my drafts for the longest time now.

one more very important thing: since i haven't updated in so long, i lost track of my taglist i am very sorry! to make everything more organized, i came up with a google form that readers can fill out if they're interested in being included. i know this is such an inconvenience but because i am a very irregular poster, i will need all the help with tracking i can get!!!

so if you're interested in being tagged for this fic, please fill out this form. any requests for tags in the comments or ask box will not be considered at this time. tysm!! enjoy this very humble update!

As usual, you didn’t notice time passing until you realized it was already nighttime.

You are still cleaning up the art room at the university where you were teaching until you heard the pitter-patter of the rain. Big, fat raindrops relentlessly hit the window, creating a steady beat. The sound calms you but at the same time, it seems to mirror the turbulent thoughts that are running through your mind. Not that the thoughts were anything urgent or worrying; your mind just can’t seem to stop… thinking.

You pack the last of the paintbrushes your students forgot to return to the crate when your phone starts to ring. You wipe your hands across your paint-stained apron before picking up. You place the phone between your ear and shoulder as you start packing your bag.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Mrs. Jeon ____?”

You haven’t heard that name in years; let alone be addressed as such.

“I um— may I know who is speaking?” you ask, your grip on the handle of your bag tightens.

“This is Kim Ae-jung calling from Gangnam Heights Medical Center. I’m calling regarding Mr. Jeon Jeongguk,” the caller states. Your heart starts to beat faster, knuckles almost turning white as you now grip your bag strap even more.

“Oh. Right. Is everything okay?”

“I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Jeon has been admitted to our hospital. There's been a health emergency and they're currently receiving medical attention.”

The moment you hear “medical attention,” the thumping in your ears becomes louder. You clutch your heart tighter as the caller goes on, “I understand this is a lot to take in. The situation is being taken care of by our medical team. It's important that you come to the hospital as soon as possible to be with them—”

You didn’t have to be told anything further. You start gathering your things, hastily putting them inside your bag, and run out the door.

It didn’t matter that you got soaked in the pouring rain on the way to the bus stop. Of all days, you had to have your car at the shop for an oil change. You gnaw at your nails as you anxiously wait for the next bus to come. You look at your watch: 9:30 PM. You wonder why Jeongguk was in the hospital. You wonder why he was here— in Seoul.

As a self-proclaimed overthinker, you start to spiral and descend into negativity. You try to recall if Jeongguk has ever had any illnesses while you were still together. You try to remember if you missed anything then— a symptom, a cough, a fever.

The moment you sit down on the bus your heart starts to steady a bit and it allows you to think a bit clearer. Gangnam Heights Medical Center was a few kilometers away from the university. You can’t help but glance at the time almost every minute, your leg bouncing in agitation.

In that seemingly long bus ride, you are flooded with so many memories of Jeongguk almost instantaneously— the day you met him, the day he held your hand for the first time, the day he kissed you after a fireworks display—

The day he married you.

All of the memories you have tried so hard to keep buried in the recesses of your mind— they all came rushing back like no time has ever passed.

When you are reminded of Jeon Jeongguk, you are reminded of pain. But you are also reminded of the deepest love you’ve ever known your entire life.

As the public announcement on the bus declares that the next stop is the hospital, you hastily push the STOP button above you.

And you have never run as fast as you did to the hospital lobby. You were met by a very kind nurse who gently asked you to fill up a form before anything else even though you were clearly in distress.

You didn’t know what to write on the form. Legally speaking, you aren’t Jeongguk’s legal guardian. Not anymore. You grip the pen tighter, the ballpoint hovering just above the line that asks for “Spouse Name”. Your eyes start to blur and because of the adrenaline, you don’t realize right away that you are in near tears. For whatever reason, you didn’t know what to do.

So many questions run through your mind— why did the hospital call you? Why isn’t anyone coming to Jeongguk? Was he alone here in Seoul? Does he have anyone at all?

Your hands shake as you give back the form to the nurse. She gives you a small smile as she directs you to the room where Jeongguk is. Inside was the doctor in charge, as well as a different nurse.

They tell you Jeongguk had a panic attack on the side of the road. They also tell you that the attack was quite alarming because he fainted from sheer panic. You were asked if he had been taking his medication– a question you couldn’t straightforwardly answer. The doctor continued to advise you on his condition and what you could do to support him further but their words barely registered.

All you cared about at that moment was that Jeongguk was here with you in the same room. Lying on a hospital bed.

“Is— is he going to be okay?” you ask softly, your eyes never leaving Jeongguk’s form.

“Yes, he will fully recover. However, I do advise that he monitor his triggers and form a safety plan should another panic attack happen when he’s out in public or when he’s alone. Your husband was lucky because kind strangers helped take him here.”

You wanted nothing more but to cry, but your tears cannot seem to fall. You thank the doctor as he leaves the room, leaving you and Jeongguk completely alone.

You didn’t wake up today thinking that you’d see him again. Under the worst circumstances yet again, you look at the man who you used to call your husband. Jeongguk is no longer the lanky 21-year-old you married. He's more muscular now, with his physique sculpted in all the right places. Although his face was covered with an oxygen mask, you could still see the prominent eye lines, perhaps due to exhaustion and sleepless nights. He now sports a full tattoo sleeve on his right arm, a striking blend of intricate designs that flow seamlessly down to just above his wrist. A delicate lotus flower blooms amidst the ink, its petals unfolding with quiet elegance, while scattered stars add a celestial touch, as if mapping constellations across his skin. He finally did it, you thought. You look at Jeongguk and see that everything and nothing has changed.

You step closer to his bedside, your movements hesitant, almost fragile. With a trembling hand, you reach for the one free of the IV, your fingers brushing against his skin as if afraid he might break or worse– wake up. A shudder runs through you and your bottom lip quivers. You swallow hard, desperate to contain the sob threatening to slip past your lips.

Since when did Jeongguk suffer from panic attacks? No matter how hard you search your memory for warning signs, for any fleeting clue, you come up empty. Jeongguk was always strong, always steady—if anything, it was you who carried the weight of a restless mind.

Jeongguk had always been the one to carry the both of you.

You remain still, fingers laced with his as silent tears slipping down your cheeks. You mourn not just for him, but for everything you’ve lost—the Jeongguk you once knew, the love that once consumed your world, now reduced to fragments of what used to be.

"Mind telling me about you and ____?" Jeongguk starts, voice steady but laced with something ugly underneath.

He had been discharged just a day after—against Yoongi’s insistence. It wasn’t just the recklessness of it all that pissed Yoongi off—it was Jeongguk’s sheer stubbornness, his refusal to rest, his insistence that keeping himself busy was better than being left alone with his thoughts. He claimed it was for his mental health and that working was preferable to rotting away in self-pity.

But the truth was simpler. Jeongguk didn’t want to be alone.

Not after seeing you again.

Not after seven years.

Yoongi exhales sharply, shoving his hands into his pockets, already anticipating where this conversation is headed. He meets Jeongguk’s gaze—there’s something raw there, something unsettled. He tries to deflect. “Are you sure you’re not hungry? Because I am and—”

“I’m not in the mood to eat,” Jeongguk cuts in, his voice quieter but firm, the weight of his words sinking deep. “I need you to tell me what the hell is going on.”

Yoongi stills. The moment Jeongguk’s tone changed to his CEO voice, he knew—there was no dodging this.

The worst part is, Yoongi doesn’t even need to deflect. He just doesn’t think this is the time. They had barely even settled back in Seoul, and already, they’re reopening old wounds that never really healed. Then again… had he really expected Jeongguk to just let it go? To come back here, breathe the same air as you, and not at least try to find you?

Yoongi sighs. Over the years, he’s learned something that even Jeongguk himself refuses to admit—your name still undoes him. Every single time. Jeongguk is haunted by you— in ways he doesn’t even realize. It’s written in the way he grows quiet, in the way his jaw tenses, in the way his eyes darken with a sadness that only those closest to him can recognize.

And now, with Jeongguk looking at him like this—like he’s grasping for something, anything—Yoongi knows there’s no way out.

“It’s not a big deal, Jeongguk.” Yoongi hates downplaying anything especially when it comes to his friends, but even he doesn’t believe his words. “We just talk sometimes. I send her wishes on her birthday, greet her during Christmas, check in every now and then. But it’s rare.”

If Yoongi had any sense, he’d realize he sounded defensive. And if Jeongguk had any sense, he wouldn’t care.

But he does. Of course he does.

Jeongguk lets out a breathless scoff, shaking his head. “And you just… what? Didn’t think to mention that to me?” His tone is sharp, but not out of anger—out of something deeper, something resembling hurt. “Because everything you just said doesn’t sound like ‘rare.’”

And the worst part? Jeongguk isn’t even mad at Yoongi for keeping this from him. He’s mad at himself—for the fact that it even matters. That even after all these years, anything to do with you still destroys him.

God, Jeongguk hates himself for it—because it reminds him of all his past mistakes.

Yoongi sighs. “Because I knew you’d be like this.”

Jeongguk stills. His grip tightens. “Like what?”

Yoongi meets his gaze, exhausted. “Like this, Jeongguk. Tearing yourself apart over something that’s already gone.” He pauses, measuring his next words. “If I told you, would it have helped? Would it have made you feel better to know that your ex-wife still keeps in touch with your best friend?”

Jeongguk blinks, stunned into silence. Yoongi referring to you as his ex-wife is a fresh kind of pain he hadn’t anticipated.

"But you’re supposed to be my friend, Yoongi—” His voice wavers, cracking. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

"I am your friend, Jeongguk. I am on your side.” Yoongi’s voice is steady. Then, softer, “But ____ is my friend too. And you know damn well that I don’t condone what happened between you two.”

That shuts Jeongguk up. His mouth opens, but no words come out. Because he knows. He knows exactly what Yoongi is talking about. He knows the extent of the damage he caused. He’s known for years, and yet, it still hits him like a freight train.

His bottom lip trembles but he forces himself to keep it together. “It just… really hurts.”

Yoongi’s expression softens. “What does?”

Jeongguk swallows, looking past the city skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Everything.”

Yoongi exhales, his gaze dropping to the floor. In the heavy silence that follows, the only thing Jeongguk can hear is the thick sound of him trying to keep it together.

Then Yoongi speaks. “She panicked that night, you know?” His voice is quieter, careful. “Last night was the first time I heard her voice in a long time. She was worried about you.”

Jeongguk turns, eyes glassy. “She was?”

What Yoongi doesn’t tell him is how worried you were. The way your voice cracked when you said Jeongguk’s name. It wasn’t just panic— it was also helplessness, the way you sounded just as lost as Jeongguk feels now.

Yoongi hesitates, but Jeongguk speaks first. “I’ve always thought about it,” His voice is quieter now. “What it would be like… if I ever saw her again.”

Yoongi tilts his head. “And? Was it what you expected?”

Jeongguk lets out a humorless chuckle, one that sounds more like a sigh. “Definitely not me lying in a hospital bed because of a panic attack.” He rubs his face, shoulders slumping. “I thought about it a million times. But never like that.”

Yoongi watches him carefully. “You know what’s interesting?” His voice is almost amused, though his eyes remain heavy. “You never changed your emergency contact.”

Jeongguk doesn’t move.

Yoongi shrugs. “Jeongguk if the same thing had happened while you were still in New York—”

“I know.” Jeongguk cuts him off, a pang of something sharp hitting his chest. His voice drops. “I just… never got around to changing it.”

There’s a beat of silence. A kind of silence that carries the weight of all the things left unsaid.

Yoongi nods, almost to himself. “I guess that’s just it, huh?”

Jeongguk exhales. “I guess that’s it.”

And for some reason, those words feel heavier than anything else.

Yoongi sighs just as his phone notifies him of a text message. "I'll see you later, kid, okay? Take it easy, will you? You're still healing."

Jeongguk scoffed, "Healing is such an understatement, hyung." Yoongi gives him a look. "Fine, fine, I won't work too much today. Happy?"

Yoongi nods and walks out of Jeongguk's office. He takes a look at the message he received once he closed the door behind him.

It was you.

"How’s Jeongguk?"

NEW YORK, 2016

The golden hour light had long since faded from the university's art room windows, replaced by the harsh fluorescent glow that buzzed overhead. You sat motionless on the paint-splattered stool, your brush suspended mid-air above a canvas that remained untouched since morning. The half-finished painting— a landscape of a giant tree where you and Jeongguk used to find shade when you were in high school— seemed to mock you now with its vibrant colors and brushstrokes.

The divorce papers lay beside your easel like a death sentence— a few stark white pages against the chaos of paint tubes and dirty water jars. You hadn't moved them. Hadn't touched them since a stranger had placed them in your trembling hands eight hours ago.

"Ms. ____? Papers from Lee & Associates Law Firm."

The memory echoed in the silence.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway broke through your trance. The footsteps paused, then quickened, and suddenly the art room door burst open with enough force to rattle the supply cabinets.

"____! Thank God, I've been looking everywhere for—" Yoongi's voice cut off abruptly as he took in the scene before him. His chest heaved from running, dark hair disheveled, but his eyes immediately found your slumped figure, seemingly spaced out looking outside the window. The color drained from his face.

You didn't turn around. You continued staring out the window at the empty courtyard below where university students had laughed and studied just hours before. Now it was nothing but shadows and abandoned benches.

"____..." Yoongi's voice was barely above a whisper. He stepped closer, his usual confident demeanor cracking.

You finally moved but only enough to quietly acknowledge Yoongi’s presence. Your movements were eerily calm, like someone sleepwalking through their own nightmare. Without a word, you picked up the papers and slowly extended them toward him, never meeting his eyes.

Yoongi's hands shook as he took them. The sound of rustling paper seemed deafening in the still room as he scanned the first page. His face went through a series of emotions—confusion, disbelief, and then a rage so pure it made his jaw clench.

"That bastard," he breathed, his voice trembling with fury. "That absolute—" He looked up at you and the words died in his throat.

You had finally turned to face him and the sight nearly broke him. Your eyes were dry but hollow. Dark circles shadowed your face, and your lips were pressed into a thin line that spoke of hours spent holding back screams.

Or sobs.

"____, I... I didn't know. He didn't tell me he was—" Yoongi's voice cracked. He crumpled the papers in his fist, then immediately smoothed them out again, as if destroying them could somehow undo what they represented. "When did this happen?"

"This morning." Your voice was barely audible, hoarse from not speaking the whole day. "Around ten maybe."

"It's past six now." The realization hit him like a physical blow. "You've been sitting here alone for eight hours?"

You shrugged, the gesture so small and defeated it made his heart ache. "I kept thinking... if I didn't move, if I didn't acknowledge those papers, maybe they weren't real."

Yoongi sank into the chair across from you, the divorce papers still clutched in his hands. He wanted to storm out, to find Jeongguk and demand an explanation, to shake his best friend until he came to his senses. But looking at you—really looking at you—he knew he couldn't leave. Not like this.

"Why didn't you call someone? Call me?"

"What was I supposed to say?" Your laugh was bitter, maybe a little broken too. "'Hi Yoongi, your best friend just divorced me through a law firm'? 'Could you come sit with me while I figure out how to breathe again'?"

"Yes," he said fiercely, almost frustrated. "Exactly that. You should have said exactly that."

Your composure finally cracked. Your shoulders shook, and you pressed your hands to your face. "I don't understand, Yoongi. We— we fought three days ago and he never came home after. He— he did that sometimes. But I always thought he’d come back, you know?" Your voice rose with each word, years of pain spilling out. "B-but how do you go from an argument to divorce papers in three days?"

Yoongi felt his own eyes burn. He'd known Jeongguk since they were teenagers, and had watched him fall for you like a man falling off a cliff— completely and without reservation. He'd been your witness at the courthouse wedding, had celebrated with you both, and had listened to Jeongguk talk about growing old with you just last month.

"I don't know," he admitted, his voice thick. "I swear to you, ____, I don't know. He hasn't said anything to me about problems, about wanting... this."

"Maybe that's the problem," you whispered. "Maybe he never talked to anyone about us. Maybe I was the only one who thought we were okay."

The words hung in the air like a funeral shroud. Yoongi wanted to argue, to tell you that wasn't true, but the evidence was literally in his hands. No one files for divorce if they're happy– were you and Jeongguk happy? But no one serves papers through a stranger if they still care.

"I want to confront him," Yoongi said quietly. "I want to find him and demand answers. Maybe punch him. Definitely yell at him." He looked down at the papers, then back at you. "But now... God, ____, I can't leave you alone like this."

"You should go to him. He's your best friend. This probably hurts you too."

"You're my friend too," Yoongi said firmly. "And right now, you need someone more than he does."

You stared at him for a long moment, and he saw the exact instant you stopped holding herself together. Your face crumpled, and the sob that escaped you was raw and devastating. Yoongi was out of his chair in seconds, pulling you into his arms as you finally, finally let yourself break.

"I loved him so much," you cried into his shoulder. "I loved him so much, and it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough."

"Don't say that," Yoongi whispered fiercely, his own tears falling now. "Don't you dare say that. This isn't about you not being enough. This is about him being a coward."

You cried until you had no tears left, until your body was exhausted from the force of your grief. Yoongi held you through all of it, one hand stroking your hair while the other kept the divorce papers from falling to the floor. Even now, even in your pain, he found himself protecting you from having to see them.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes were swollen and red, but there was something different in them. Not peace—you were too far from that—but a kind of terrible clarity.

"I need to sign them," you said.

"What are you– no. Not tonight." Yoongi's voice was gentle but firm. "Tonight, you need to go home and rest. The papers can wait."

"What if waiting makes it worse?"

"What if rushing makes it final when it doesn't have to be?"

You looked at him with something that might have been hope, if hope could be so fragile. "Do you think... do you think he might change his mind?"

Yoongi's heart broke all over again, because he could see how much you wanted him to say yes. How much you needed him to say yes. But he also knew Jeongguk, knew that his friend never did anything without thinking it through completely. The divorce papers weren't a mistake or a moment of anger— they were a decision.

"I think," he said carefully, "that you deserve someone who doesn't make you question whether you're enough. Whether he changes his mind or not."

It wasn't the answer you wanted, but it was the truth. And somehow, that seemed to be what you needed to hear.

You nodded slowly, then looked around the art room as if seeing it for the first time. "I should clean up. I've made a mess."

"Leave it," Yoongi said. "Just... leave it all. Come on, I'll drive you home."

As you gathered your things, you paused at the easel. The unfinished painting of the tree stared back at you, beautiful and incomplete.

"I don't think I'll ever finish it," she said quietly.

Yoongi looked at the painting, then at you. "Maybe that's okay. One battle at a time, hm?"

You nodded, understanding. Some stories didn't have happy endings. Sometimes love wasn't enough to make someone stay. And some paintings would forever remain half-done, frozen in a moment before everything fell apart.

The muted hum of the café outside your art studio filtered through the walls, but inside, the space remained still, save for the quiet strains of piano music playing in the background. The scent of paint and brewed coffee lingered in the air as you moved through the space, half-distracted by the canvas in front of you— until you heard your friends’ voices.

"Holy fuck, are you kidding me?"

You paused, your brush hovering mid-stroke over the canvas. That was Hoseok’s voice.

"Jesus wouldn’t be too pleased with your manner of expression, but no, I am not kidding." Taehyung’s response was calm, almost deadpan. "Can you keep your voice down? You should be feigning ignorance about all this."

"What good would that do?" Hoseok huffed. "Feigning ignorance, are you crazy? This is big, sweetie, and you know it."

Taehyung sighed like he was explaining something to a particularly slow student. "Honey, you’re acting like this is news. We already knew Jeongguk was back in Seoul."

“Yes, obviously, because you told me like five minutes ago!” Hoseok shoots back.

You froze for half a second before rolling your eyes. So that’s what they were talking about.

"It’s different knowing and talking about it," Hoseok shot back. "You’re gossiping."

"Of course I’m gossiping," Taehyung replied, unfazed. "We are gays, babe. We live for piping hot tea."

Hoseok groaned. "This is not the same as discussing someone’s bad haircut, babe—"

At that, you stepped into the room, making sure your voice was casual. "Someone had a bad haircut?"

The effect was immediate. Hoseok nearly jumped, eyes widening like he’d just been caught committing a crime, while Taehyung— though externally composed—blinked a little too fast.

"Ah," Hoseok choked out, his voice a little higher than usual. "____! Didn’t see you there. You, uh, move so quietly."

You arched a brow. "I literally opened a door."

Taehyung shot Hoseok a glare before turning to you, slipping into his usual laid-back demeanor—except for the way his fingers twitched against the edge of the table. "Nothing important," he said smoothly. "Just... discussing world events."

You bit back a smirk. "World events?"

Hoseok nodded a little too quickly. "Yes. You know, global issues. The stock market. The weather—"

"The weather," you repeated, unimpressed.

"Yes! Very unpredictable these days."

There was a beat of silence where you let them both squirm under your gaze. Internally, you were highly entertained. Two grown men who dominated the fashion industry– usually so confident and self-assured, reduced to awkward messes right in front of you.

You sighed, pretending to contemplate their words. "Hmm. The weather. That’s funny, because I could’ve sworn I heard Jeongguk’s name before I walked in."

Hoseok visibly winced. Taehyung dragged a hand down his face. "Goddammit."

"You two do realize that I already knew Jeongguk was back, right? And that I heard you both talking about it just now?" you asked, amused.

Taehyung exhaled, resigned. "Yeah, but we didn’t know if you were, like, in a place where you’d want to talk about it."

You hummed, considering. "And instead of asking, you decided to whisper behind my back like two teenagers?"

"Technically," Taehyung said, "only Hoseok was whispering. I was speaking at a reasonable volume."

Hoseok scoffed, offended. "Excuse me, I was being discreet!"

"You said ‘holy fuck’ loud enough for the café and for Jesus to hear."

Hoseok looked away. "Can you stop it with the holy jokes–"

You shook your head, lips twitching. "You two are ridiculous."

"But... are you okay?" Taehyung asked carefully.

You took a slow breath. The truth was, you didn’t know what you felt yet. Maybe it would hit you later, maybe it wouldn’t. But for now, you only had one response.

"Yes," you said simply. "I think I am."

Hoseok let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours, while Taehyung gave you a long, measured look before nodding. They do not believe you— not even one bit.

But they let it slide for now.

"Alright," Taehyung said. "But if that changes, we’ve got you."

You smiled, softer this time. "I know."

The first time Woosung came to your art studio, he didn’t say much. He just wandered the space with his hands in his pockets, eyes drifting over your half-finished paintings and the faint smudges of color on your fingers.

Now, years later, he was here again, seated at the small wooden table near the windows while you worked, a book in his hand and a cup of coffee cooling beside him. You weren’t sure when it started— when he began showing up like this, keeping you company without needing to fill the silence with words.

Today was one of those days. Rain pattered against the glass, the sky outside dark, but inside, the air was warm.

You stood by the canvas, brush in hand, completely concentrating on your work. You had long since tuned out the world, lost in the rhythmic strokes of color. You always tie your hair up in a bun whenever you work but you also barely notice the strands of hair that keep falling in your face, sticking to your skin when you become so focused on the work.

At some point, you felt your lover’s quiet presence beside you. Without a word, Woosung reached over and gently tucked the stray strands behind your ear. His fingers were warm, his touch like a feather, and when you blinked out of your trance to look at him, he just smiled—soft, unhurried.

"Better?" he asked.

You nodded and smiled. "Yes. Thank you."

He hummed, stepping back, but before he could return to his seat, you reached for his wrist.

"Wait."

Woosung stopped, his eyes curious.

"Stay here. Just for a little bit," you murmured, not even sure why you said it. Maybe you just liked having him close.

Woosung didn’t question it. He just nodded, pulling a stool and positioning himself beside you. He watches you paint in comfortable silence.

Every so often, he would tilt his head, his gaze intent as if he were memorizing the way your fingers moved, the way the colors blended together under your touch.

"You’re really focused today," he observed after a while.

You hummed, biting your lip as you tried to perfect a small detail. "I am. It’s nice, though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I think it’s because you’re here."

You said it without thinking and you realized how easily the words had slipped out. Woosung smiled again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He lifted his hand, brushing a smudge of blue paint off your cheek with his thumb.

"Then I guess I’ll stay a little longer," he murmured.

And he did.

A little while later, the rain had softened to a drizzle, leaving the air thick with that post-rain stillness. Your brush hovered over the canvas, but your mind had long drifted elsewhere. Across the room, Woosung sat at the table, still flipping absently through his book, but you could tell— he wasn’t really reading. He was waiting.

It had been like this since last night.

He had held you while you cried, rubbing slow circles into your back, whispering, "It's okay, I’ve got you," even though he had no idea what had shattered you. He never asked, never pushed. But now, with the night stretching thin between you, you could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down.

"You didn’t sleep much," Woosung finally said, his voice gentle, as if he were testing the waters.

You swallowed, still dragging the brush along the canvas in slow, aimless strokes. "Neither did you."

Woosung exhaled a small chuckle, but it was knowing. "You cried yourself to sleep, ____. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I slept soundly through that?"

You winced at that—at the truth of it. At the guilt that curled in your stomach. He wasn’t accusing you of anything, but you felt like you had placed something heavy between you both.

You took a deep breath, still not looking at him. "It was just… a hard night."

Woosung nodded, his gaze steady. "Because of what happened at the hospital?"

Your fingers clenched around the brush. A long pause settled between you.

You could lie. You could brush past it, act as though it was just one of those nights where the weight of everything caught up to you. But Woosung had always been careful with you, had always made space for you to be honest in your own time. You had told him that you saw someone unexpectedly at the hospital before you went silent all over again last night.

You exhaled. And you poised yourself to tell Woosung the rest of what happened.

"I saw him," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Jeongguk."

Woosung didn’t react—not right away. He just closed his book, setting it aside, like he had been expecting this. He didn’t ask how it happened. Didn’t ask why you hadn’t told him immediately. He just let you sit with it, let you offer whatever you were willing to.

You hesitated before continuing. "I didn’t even know he was back in Seoul, but then I got a call… he was in the hospital. I don’t know why they called me, but they did, and I—I went."

A deep breath.

You could feel Woosung’s eyes on you, but you kept your gaze on the canvas, focusing on the way the paint streaked across the surface, trying not to feel the way your throat was tightening again.

"I didn’t stay long," you added, half-truthfully. "I just… made sure he was okay before Yoongi came."

You heard the shift of a chair, and then Woosung was beside you. He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached out, his fingers grazing your wrist before curling around it lightly.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. Everyone keeps asking me that today."

“Everyone?” Woosung asked.

“Taehyung picked me up from the hospital. He uh, of course, he told Hoseok about it right away.”

Woosung nodded as if he understood that more than words could ever explain. Without hesitation, he pulled you against his chest, his chin resting atop your head. His arms around you were steady, warm. A grounding weight.

"You don’t have to figure it all out right now," he murmured. "Just… let yourself feel it. Whatever it is."

You pressed your forehead against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. He smelled like rain and coffee, like the warmth of something familiar and safe.

"I’m here," he added, voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it. "Whatever you need."

And just like that, the ache inside you loosened, just a little.

The apartment in Seoul was vast and hollow. Open-space style with high ceilings and sleek, modern finishes—everything about it screamed luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned one entire wall, revealing the bustling Seoul skyline, lights flickering like stars.

It was the kind of apartment regular people dream of having. But right now, Jeongguk thought it felt more like an empty shell.

Half-unpacked boxes scattered all over the floor, some opened, some untouched. The air smelled of unlit scented candles, the kind his assistant had left, thinking they would make the place feel more like a home. He hadn’t bothered.

Jeongguk went through his things with quiet efficiency, pulling out clothes, books, old notebooks filled with immature, maybe even brilliant thoughts. His movements were mechanical— until his eyes landed on a single, still-sealed box in the farthest corner of the living room.

Something in his chest tightened.

For a long moment, Jeongguk just stood there, jaw tense. When he finally mustered up whatever courage was left of him, he crouched down, pressing his fingers into the packing tape and tearing it open. Inside, neatly stacked and untouched for years, were remnants of a past he had buried but never truly let go of.

Art books, their covers slightly worn. A few pieces of clothing, folded carefully as if waiting to be picked up again. And at the very bottom, almost like a cruel afterthought— photographs.

Jeongguk swallowed as he reached for them.

They were yours– belongings you never brought back to Seoul with you. And the photographs were from his high school years. Senior year. Before New York, before the weight of adulthood, before everything fell apart.

In one, you were laughing, head tilted back, eyes shining under the golden autumn sun. Jeongguk was next to you, hand in his pocket, pretending to be indifferent, but the way he looked at you even then—it told a different story.

Memories rushed in, sharp and clear as if no time had passed at all. Jeongguk braced himself for a fresh wave of unshed tears.

Busan, Hanseong High School - Three Years Before New York

Jeongguk had been at Hanseong High for three weeks and already, he was used to the routine.

The stares. The whispers. The way people spoke his last name like it carried weight, like it meant something.

Jeon Jeongguk. The son of a powerful real estate family. The new kid who was rich, handsome, untouchable. He was already bored of it all.

That afternoon, he found himself lingering in the school’s indoor gym—not because he had a reason to be there, but because he had nowhere else to be. The air smelled of sweat and old wood, the faint echo of bouncing basketballs in the distance. He leaned against the railing on the second floor, watching the scene below with disinterest. Maybe even boredom.

A group of girls sat huddled together on the bleachers, giggling. Among them was you— though you didn’t seem to be part of it. Not really.

You sat slightly apart, a book open on your lap, fingers idly turning the page. Your expression was neutral, but Jeongguk had already spent the last few weeks observing you in passing. You were in the same classes as him and yet, not even once did you acknowledge Jeongguk’s presence, let alone look his way. You weren't loud like the others and weren't desperate for attention. You had this quiet presence— one that didn’t demand space but somehow held it anyway.

You intrigued the hell out of Jeongguk.

But then it happened.

One of the girls suddenly stood, walking up behind her with a smirk. It was a slow, seemingly calculated movement, the kind that sent an uneasy feeling crawling up Jeongguk’s spine.

“Oops,” the girl said mockingly, just before tilting her hand.

A full carton of milk tipped forward, spilling over your head, soaking through your uniform, dripping onto the pages of the book.

Laughter erupted around you after that.

Jeongguk didn’t move. He should have done something. But he didn’t. Other people who were in the gym stopped whatever they were doing– waiting to see what you’d do next.

You sat there for a moment, milk running down your hair, shoulders stiff, fingers clenched into fists. Then, after what seemed like an eternity– silently, you shut your now soaked book, stood up, and walked away.

To this day, Jeongguk does not know what compelled him to follow you. His feet, at the time, moved of their own accord, his heart knowing he needed to do something. Anything.

He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was guilt because he could have warned you of what was going to happen. Maybe it was something else entirely.

You had made it outside to the back of the school, where the sky stretched wide and empty, where no one could see you. You stood with your hands braced on your knees, shoulders shaking—not in sobs, but in silent frustration.

“Hey.”

You flinched at Jeongguk’s voice, turning sharply. Your wet uniform clung to you, strands of milk-dampened hair sticking to your cheek. Your eyes flickered with something unreadable before you schooled your expression.

“What do you want?” you asked flatly as you turned away from him in humiliation.

Jeongguk shoved his hands into his pockets. “That was messed up.”

He hears you scoff. “No kidding.”

For some reason, your sarcasm made the corner of Jeongguk’s mouth twitch.

“Here.” Jeongguk shrugged off his school blazer, holding it out to you. “You’re cold.”

You looked at the blazer, then at him. “I don’t need it.”

“Well clearly, you’re shivering.”

You straightened. “I don’t need your pity.”

Jeongguk tilted his head slightly, intrigued. “Who said I pitied you?”

Silence. You stared at him, as if trying to decide whether to believe him. After a few seconds, without another word, you turned away, arms crossed tightly over yourself.

Jeongguk didn’t leave.

Instead, he sat down on the steps nearby, watching as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the pavement. You didn’t tell him to go away.

And Jeongguk, for the first time since moving to this school, wasn’t bored.

The memory faded, but the feeling remained, lingering in the quiet of Jeongguk’s new, empty space.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. The box remained open in front of him, pieces of the past staring back at him. He should have put them— the whole box— away. But instead, he picked up the photograph again, tracing the edges with his thumb.

It had been years since that day in the gym. Since he saw you stand at the cramped space at the back of the school looking so defeated, arms crossed, yet too stubborn to accept his help.

And yet, even now, you remained the only person who had ever made him feel like he wasn’t just Jeon Jeongguk—the boy with a name too heavy to carry.

Maybe, he thought bitterly and quite sadly, he had been trying to follow you ever since.

Yoongi stared at his phone screen, your message glowing back at him: "How's Jeongguk?"

Three simple words that felt like a loaded gun.

He set the phone down, then picked it up again. Typed a response, deleted it. Typed another.

His apartment felt suffocating suddenly. He walked to the window, looking out at the Seoul skyline—the same view Jeongguk probably had from his new place. With a scotch in hand, Yoongi clenched his jaw, thinking about how everything that was starting to unfold was quite funny.

He hadn’t counted on Jeongguk finding you so soon– even if it was by accident. Yoongi chuckles to himself like an idiot. “I guess this is what they call fate.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly and finally typed back: "He's physically fine. Discharged yesterday."

Your response came quickly: "And mentally?"

Yoongi closed his eyes. How could he explain that Jeongguk looked like a ghost of himself? That he'd been carrying this weight for seven years?

"He's struggling," he typed. "But then again, so are you."

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.

"Did he ask about me?"

Yoongi's heart clenched. The honest answer was complicated— Jeongguk had asked, but not in the way you'd want to hear.

"He knows you were there that night— you already know that."

"That's not what I asked."

Yoongi found himself smiling despite everything. Even through text, you were still sharp, still direct.

"Yeah," he typed. "He asked about you."

Yoongi's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He could discourage you, protect you both from reopening old wounds. Or he could do what his heart was telling him to do.

“What now?”

“I just want him to be well,” you respond.

Yoongi purses his lips– you were still the same girl he met all those years ago. Selfless, kind-hearted.

Self-sacrificing.

And he will do anything in his power to protect you.

It was nearing closing time when the bell above the café door jingled softly, signaling one last customer. The warm yellow lights reflected on the glass, casting long shadows along the wood-paneled walls. Jimin, who was wiping down the counter, looked up instinctively and froze mid-motion.

Jeon Jeongguk stood just inside the doorway.

For a moment, Jimin simply stared, cloth in his hand. There was something surreal about it— Jeongguk, in this space, under this light, in this cafe of all places, with his hair slightly damp from the rain and his hoodie slightly crumpled from travel. Seoul clung to Jeongguk in an unfamiliar way, the years since New York etched into the way he carried himself. But Jimin recovered quickly, stepping forward with a practiced smile.

"Welcome," he said, his voice pleasant and casual. “Long day?”

Jeongguk blinked, slightly thrown off. He nodded, eyes flicking around the café. “Yeah. Just needed a place to warm up. This place looked...” He trailed off. Familiar? Safe? He didn’t finish the sentence.

Jimin gave a soft chuckle and gestured to the counter. “We’re just about to close but I can still get you something. Americano? Or do you want something sweet?”

There was a flicker of recognition in Jeongguk’s eyes as he looked at Jimin more closely. “...Have we met before?”

Jimin paused before giving a small nod. “New York. At a student exhibit in university. You came with Kim Namjoon.”

Jeongguk’s brow furrowed, but nothing clear surfaced. “Right,” he said quietly, though it was clear the memory didn’t fully register. “Sorry— I’ve had a long few days.”

“No worries.” Jimin’s smile didn’t falter but there was something distant in his eyes. “What can I get started for you?”

“Oh, um… a hot latte would be nice.”

Jimin worked the register but when Jeongguk was about to give him his card, Jimin smiled politely. “It’s on the house.”

“Oh, god no, I don’t want to—”

“It’s okay, Jeongguk-ssi,” Jimin smiles. Jeongguk honestly does not have the energy to argue further. Slumping his shoulders, he nodded and quietly thanked Jimin.

“You are very welcome. Please take a seat. I’ll get your drink started for you.”

Before Jeongguk could move toward a table, another door swung open at the back of the café.

“Yah Jimin-ah, did we confuse the flour with the cornstarch this time—”

Seokjin.

Still wearing his apron, flour smudged along one sleeve, Seokjin halted mid-step the moment he laid eyes on Jeongguk. The tray in his hands clattered onto the counter as his face twisted— recognition sharp and instant.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The words cut across the room like a knife. Jimin looked up sharply from behind the espresso machine.

Jeongguk straightened, confusion flashing across his face before he registered who it was. “Seokjin?”

Seokjin didn’t give him a chance to speak further. He strode toward him in a blur of fury, fists clenched at his sides. “You have the audacity to walk in here? Like nothing happened? Like you didn’t fucking destroy my sister—?”

“Seokjin—”

“No,” Jin snarled, closing the distance. “You don’t get to say anything.”

Before Jeongguk could defend himself, before he could even raise a hand, Seokjin’s fist landed squarely against his jaw with a sickening crack.

Jeongguk staggered back, clutching the side of his face. He didn’t fall but the impact left him breathless. “What the hell—?”

The doors to the art studio burst open from the sound and you emerged, paintbrush still tucked behind your ear, paint smudges along your forearms. “What’s going on—?”

Your voice faltered as you took in the scene: Jeongguk standing by the counter, blood forming on the corner of his mouth; Jimin frozen; and Seokjin, chest heaving with rage, his knuckles still clenched and red.

“Jeongguk?” Your voice broke around his name.

He looked up slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’d been hit a second time. He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

You turned sharply to Seokjin. “Did you hit him?”

“He deserved it,” Seokjin snapped.

“What the hell, Seokjin?”

“You’re really going to defend him?” Seokjin barked, disbelieving.

“I didn’t say that—” You took a deep breath, trying to steady your voice. “But punching him isn’t going to fix anything.”

Seokjin let out a sharp but bitter laugh. “Oh, so now you're protecting him? After everything?”

“I’m not protecting anyone, I’m trying to de-escalate this.”

Jeongguk wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stepped back, unsure whether he was allowed to speak, to breathe, to even stand there. It felt like trespassing. Maybe it was.

Seokjin turned on you now, jaw tight, voice low but shaking. “He broke you, ____. And now you’re defending him like he didn’t spend years forgetting you existed.”

You clenched your hands into fists, shoulders squaring. “I’m not defending what he did. But I am asking you not to turn this place into a battlefield. This is our café, Seokjin. Not a fucking war zone.”

Seokjin looked at you for a long moment, anger still coursing through his veins— but it was your eyes, calm but hurting, that finally made him yield.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But don’t ask me to be civil. Not with him.”

With that, Seokjin turned on his heel and stormed back toward the kitchen, door slamming shut behind him.

The silence that followed was tense. Jimin still stood behind the counter, lips parted as if unsure whether to speak.

You turned to Jeongguk. You didn’t step forward. You didn’t smile. Your voice came out quieter this time. “Why are you here?”

Jeongguk looked at you with wide, pained eyes, as if trying to memorize you all over again.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know this was your place.”

You nodded once as if that explained everything and nothing.

“You should go,” you added, softly. “It’s late and it’s raining.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue. Only glanced once more around the space, at the painting above the pastry display, at the polished wood tables, at you.

Then he turned and left, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood there for a long while after, the paintbrush behind your ear suddenly feeling like the heaviest thing in the world.

After what seemed like an eternity, the clang of the swinging door echoed louder than it should’ve. You stood in the middle of the café for a moment longer, letting the silence settle like dust, before turning and pushing your way into the kitchen.

Seokjin was by the sink, aggressively scrubbing a saucepan that didn’t need cleaning. His back was tense, shoulders rising and falling with every breath like he was trying—and failing—to calm himself down.

“You didn’t have to hit him,” you said, voice steady, but your chest still trembled.

Seokjin didn’t look at you. “Didn’t I?”

“You don’t get to make that call.”

He whipped around at that, eyes blazing. “He left you, ____. No— he ruined you. And now what? He shows up here, like nothing ever happened, and I’m supposed to just, what, smile? Be polite? Serve him coffee?”

You folded your arms– not out of defiance but to stop your hands from shaking. “I’m not asking you to be polite. I’m asking you not to lash out like this is still your fight.”

“It is still my fight!” Seokjin’s voice cracked. “____ do you really think I forgot what you looked like after he walked out? I remember how quiet you got. How you stopped painting for months. How I had to sit with you in silence night after night because you couldn’t even cry anymore. You were gone, ____. He didn’t just leave you. He took the best parts of you when he did.”

His words stung because they were true. You bit your lip and looked away. “I let him in. I let him love me. That was my choice.”

“Don’t you dare turn this into your fault,” Seokjin said, voice softer now but still full of that same frustration. “You didn’t deserve what happened.”

“I didn’t say I did.”

There was a beat of silence. The sound of the refrigerator humming in the corner filled the space between you.

“He’s not the same,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “His eyes… he looks like someone trying to hold the world together with fraying thread.”

“I don’t care,” Seokjin said but it was a lie. You both knew it.

You stepped closer to your brother. “I’m not defending him, Seokjin. But I’m also not ready to hate him as much as you do. I never did… I don’t know what that says about me… but it’s how I feel.”

Seokjin exhaled, hands braced on the countertop. “It says you’re kinder than he deserves.”

You gave a small, broken smile. “Or stupider.”

Your brother didn’t argue. Instead, after a long pause, he turned to you again. “Just… promise me one thing.”

“What?” You realize your exhaustion was already weighing you down.

“Don’t let him back in just because you think he’s broken.”

You nodded slowly. “I won’t.”

That was a lie too. But you both let it slide.

The door of the café closed behind Jeongguk with a dull thud and the cold Seoul air hit him like a wave. The rain hadn’t let up but he didn’t pull his hood over his head. He decided to walk slowly even though his car was still parked near the cafe, no destination in mind, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket as water soaked through the fabric.

His jaw ached where Seokjin had punched him but that pain was nothing compared to the one building in his chest.

Seeing you again had cracked him open.

You looked like someone he’d only ever see in dreams now—still ethereal, still grounded in color and softness. But the way you looked at him… like he was a stranger wrapped in old clothes. Like he didn’t belong in the same room as you anymore.

And maybe he didn’t.

Jeongguk wandered for blocks, barely paying attention to the street signs or blinking storefronts. He only stopped when he reached the Han River. The wide stretch of water lay quietly under the moonlight, blurred by the drizzle. Jungkook sat on the bench, shoulders hunched, and stared out at the current as it flowed without him.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and stared at the screen. No new messages. No missed calls. He unlocked it anyway and scrolled to his contacts, hovering over your name.

Still there. Still untouched.

His thumb brushed against it but he didn’t press.

Instead, he leaned back, eyes closing. Rain kissed his cheeks, soaked into his lashes. He welcomed it because it was easier than crying.

He let himself remember. Your laugh echoing across a sunlit room. The way you’d wrinkle your nose when you were concentrating on a painting. The way you used to trace circles on his palm when you thought he was asleep.

And he remembered the day it all fell apart.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. He didn’t know what he wanted.

No— he did. He wanted to rewind time. To walk into that café and see you smile at him like you used to. But time didn’t offer that kind of grace. It only offered consequences.

Jeongguk let out a shaky breath and leaned forward, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t know how long he sat there— just that eventually, the rain stopped and he was still alone.

The apartment was quiet when you got home.

Too quiet.

You slipped your keys onto the dish near the door and toed off your shoes slowly, trying not to make any noise. The familiarity of home—the throw blanket on the couch, the books stacked near the lamp, the faint scent of jasmine from the candle Woosung lit earlier—should’ve grounded you.

But it didn’t. Not tonight.

You stood in the dark for a moment longer than necessary– unsure whether to head straight to the shower or collapse into bed. You weren’t expecting to find Woosung still awake, let alone waiting for you in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a warm mug in his hand.

“I made tea,” he said gently, as if his voice might spook you. “It’s probably cold by now.”

Your throat felt tight. “I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

He gave you a soft, crooked smile. “You said you were heading back late, not that you'd come home looking like you fought a ghost.”

You offered a weak laugh. “It kind of feels like I did.”

He didn’t press. Just walked to you, slowly, like he always did when he sensed you needed space and presence at the same time. When he reached you, he simply wrapped his arms around you, grounding you in the warmth of his chest, his chin resting lightly atop your head.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

You just stood there and let yourself be held.

After a long pause, he spoke, voice low and careful. “Was it him?”

You didn’t need to ask who. “Yeah.”

You didn’t miss the way he stiffened just slightly before exhaling. “Did you talk?”

You nodded against his chest. “Not really. Seokjin hit him. I… I stopped it. Then I told him to leave.”

Another silence.

Woosung's hand moved in slow, rhythmic circles on your back. “How do you feel?”

You let the question hang there because you weren’t sure. Hollow? Rattled? Like someone had opened a box in your chest you’d long sealed shut?

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Woosung didn’t respond with reassurance or try to fix it. He just kissed the crown of your head.

“I’m here,” he said.

You finally pulled back to look at him, eyes scanning his face. Kind. Patient. Still here.

You hated that part of you wished he weren’t.

The sun was already high in the sky when Jeongguk dragged himself into Yoongi's studio. He hadn’t slept. He looked like hell— bloodshot eyes, jaw bruised, hair a mess. But he moved like he had unfinished business burning in his veins.

Yoongi noticed immediately.

“Jesus, you look worse than yesterday.”

Jeongguk ignored the jab and dropped onto the couch with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the screen in front of him, tapping a few keys absently, before finally swiveling in his chair to face Jeongguk.

“Didn’t sleep, huh?”

“I walked for hours. I don’t even know how I ended up by the river.”

“You always end up there when you’re falling apart.”

Jeongguk let out a dry laugh. “You know me too well.”

Yoongi leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So? What now?”

“I saw her. I mean—I really saw her. It wasn’t just a memory or a picture in some gallery post. She was right in front of me, looking at me like I was…”

“A stranger?” Yoongi offered.

Jeongguk nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“She didn’t look angry?”

“No,” Jeongguk muttered. “She looked… tired. Like she didn’t know whether to scream or hug me. Like she’s been trying to forget me and I just made it harder.”

Yoongi sighed. “That’s because you did make it harder. By showing up unannounced. Walking into her safe space.”

“I didn’t know it was her café. I swear.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Jeongguk stared down at his hands. “I think she has someone.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away, which told Jeongguk enough.

“Where did that come from?” Yoongi asked.

“I’m not sure… but just thinking about it… it hurts more than I expected,” he added quietly. “I don’t know what I want from her. I just… wanted to be seen. Not hated. Not erased.”

Yoongi’s voice softened. “She did see you.”

Jeongguk shook his head. “But not the way she used to.” He slumped further into the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.

“I used to be her whole world.”

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “And then you burned it down.”

Jeongguk didn’t argue. He couldn’t.

“What do I do now, Yoongi?”

Yoongi looked at him for a long, quiet moment. “You ask yourself if you’re ready to rebuild anything. And if you’re willing to accept that the pieces might not fit the way they used to.”

Woosung watched you sleep from across the room, hands loosely wrapped around his coffee mug. The pale morning light filtered in through the blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor—and across your face, peaceful but withdrawn, even in rest.

You hadn’t said much since last night. Just that you were tired. Just that it had been “a long day.”

But he wasn’t dense. He saw it.

The tremor in your voice when you said his name. The way your arms wrapped around him like you were bracing yourself for a storm that hadn’t yet passed. The way your body felt warm against him but your mind had drifted somewhere far, far away.

He knew what a closed door looked like.

Woosung loved you. That wasn’t in question. And in most moments, being with you felt like being home— quiet, anchored, enough. But there were times—like now—when he could feel something slipping between his fingers. Something he couldn’t hold, no matter how gently he tried.

He knew you had a past. He’d accepted that. But he hadn’t prepared himself for what that past would look like when it returned, not as a memory, but as a man.

Jeongguk.

The name alone was a ghost in his mind. You rarely said it but when you did, it was with the kind of softness that didn’t belong to pain. Not completely. Woosung didn’t want to be the jealous type. Didn’t want to become the man who questioned the cracks in someone else’s heart. But when you looked at him last night, it wasn’t just sleep in your eyes— it was absence.

And he hated that he didn’t know how to bring you back.

He walked over to the window, mug still warm in his hand and stared out at the quiet street below. He’d give you time. Space. Safety. Whatever you needed.

But part of him already knew: if Jeongguk was back in your world, he would have to brace for a future that might not include him in it.

And he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.

The rain had finally stopped by the time you stepped out of the university gates that afternoon, sunlight peeking out from behind thin clouds. You hadn’t planned on stopping by the park, but your legs carried you there anyway. The world felt too loud lately— colors too sharp, memories too close— and you needed quiet after teaching the whole day.

The small café near the entrance of the park wasn’t busy. A few students occupied scattered tables, chatting over drinks, the occasional laughter bubbling into the air. You stepped inside and ordered chamomile tea.

You didn’t see him right away.

It wasn’t until you turned toward the window seat—your favorite one—that you noticed him. Sitting at the far corner of the room, hood pulled low, black journal open in front of him, pen tapping against the edge.

Jeongguk.

Your stomach dropped.

He looked smaller here somehow. Not in stature—his presence still drew attention—but in energy. Like someone trying to disappear into the corners of a page.

He hadn’t seen you yet. You froze, cup warm in your hands, unsure whether to approach or flee. You could walk away. You should.

But then he looked up.

Your eyes met. And time, once again, forgot how to move. He didn’t smile. He didn’t stand. He just looked at you like he’d been waiting. You walked toward him slowly. Carefully.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked, quietly.

Jeongguk stared at the empty chair across from him then shook his head. “It’s yours.”

Neither of you spoke for a moment. The air between you was heavy but not hostile—more like something ancient and sacred. Something that didn’t know how to begin again.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, finally breaking the silence.

“I didn’t expect to be seen,” Jeongguk replied, eyes flickering to yours. He looked down at his journal, then closed it slowly. “I’m sorry. About the café. About… all of it. I didn’t know it was yours and Seokjin’s.”

You didn’t respond right away. You let the words hang there.

“I know,” you said eventually. “I believe you.”

He blinked, surprised by how easily you’d said it. But you weren’t done.

“That doesn’t change what happened,” you continued, voice steady, even if your heart wasn’t. “Seokjin was right. It doesn’t erase what we lost.”

“I know,” he said again. “I’m not here to fix anything.”

You looked at him then— not as the man who hurt you but as the man who now sat quietly with his regret. Not demanding anything. Not begging. Just… present.

For the first time in years, you didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to walk on eggshells,” you murmured. “Not with me. Not anymore.”

Jeongguk swallowed hard. “I don’t know how to be around you without feeling like I’m trespassing.”

You gave a faint, sad smile. “Then don’t try to be anything. Just… be here. If you want to be.”

Jeongguk nodded, jaw tight with the kind of relief that was almost indistinguishable from grief. And for a while, you both just sat there. Not as lovers. Not as exes. Not even as old friends.

Just as two people who once loved each other so deeply.

Jeongguk left the university café feeling hollow. The brief encounter with you—unexpected, painfully gentle—had undone something in him. You hadn't screamed. You hadn't walked out. But your voice, your eyes, the way your fingers gripped the edge of your mug—it haunted him more than any shouting ever could.

He had rehearsed nothing and left with everything unspoken lodged in his throat. It hadn’t been enough.

Not by a long shot.

So when night fell, his legs carried him somewhere he hadn't planned—your café. The one you shared with Seokjin. He didn’t expect to see you. Not really. But part of him hoped, in the smallest, most reckless corner of his heart, that maybe you’d still be there. That maybe you’d let him speak.

That maybe he could try again.

“I’m telling you, I nearly salted the croffle again,” Seokjin said as he wiped down the counter with exaggerated flair. “That’s the third time this month.”

“Hyung, you’re not cursed,” Jimin laughed, nudging the sugar shaker toward him. “You just have poor labeling habits.”

“It’s not labeling. It’s sabotage. Someone moved the sugar again. Probably Hoseok. He always looks guilty when I serve the wrong order.”

“He looks guilty because you gave someone a tuna melt instead of a vegan sandwich last week.”

“That was one time.”

Jimin smirked. “You are the chaos. Don’t drag Hoseok into your crimes.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, drying the last mug. “Speaking of chaos, where’s my sister?”

“Still in the studio,” Jimin said, nodding toward the door to the attached workspace. “She’s been trying to finish that commission all week.”

At that moment, you emerged from the studio door with paint on your sleeve and a weary but focused expression.

“You guys can go,” you said, waving them off. “I want to get this done tonight.”

“You sure?” Seokjin asked, frowning. “I can stay—”

“I’m fine, really. The piece is almost done, I just need a few more hours.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “You just want to be alone with your tortured genius.”

You snorted. “Exactly.”

Seokjin opened his mouth to argue again but you raised a hand. “I’ll lock up. Promise.”

“Okay, but if a raccoon breaks in again, don’t call me,” Seokjin muttered as he grabbed his coat.

“Noted.”

Jimin gave you a kiss on the cheek before heading out. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

You nodded. “Goodnight, both of you.”

The café door clicked shut behind them, leaving you with the hum of quiet jazz and the smell of old coffee grounds. You turned back into the studio, prepared to pull an all-nighter.

You were cleaning brushes when you heard the door chime. Without looking up, you called out, "We're closed today, sorry—"

"I know."

The brush slipped from your fingers, clattering into the sink. You turned slowly and there he was.

Jeongguk stood in the doorway of your studio, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense.

"Hi," he said quietly.

"Hi." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between you. Jeongguk's gaze wandered around the studio—taking in your paintings, the organized chaos of your workspace, the coffee-stained easel in the corner.

"It’s a really nice cafe… it has an art studio just like how you wanted it," he said, for lack of anything else.

"Thank you." You wiped your hands on a towel, grateful for something to do with them.

"I wanted to thank you," Jeongguk continued. "For coming to the hospital. You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did." The words came out sharper than intended. You softened your tone. "I mean... when someone calls and says you're in the hospital, of course I'd come."

His jaw tightened slightly. "Right. The emergency contact thing."

"Why didn't you change it?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Jeongguk looked down at his hands. "I don't know."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

You set the towel down slowly, trying to still your hands. The air between you had grown heavier, charged with too many years of silence and everything neither of you had the strength to say before now.

"Why are you really here, Jeongguk?" you asked, your voice low but steady. "Because if it's just to thank me—"

"It's not," he interrupted, voice frayed at the edges. He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture so familiar it knocked the breath from your lungs. "I don't know, okay? I’ve been back in Seoul for three weeks and I can’t stop thinking about you. About us."

"There is no us, Jeongguk."

"I know." His voice cracked. "Trust me, I know that better than anyone."

You leaned back against your workbench, exhaustion creeping in like a tide. “Then what do you want from me?”

“I want to explain—”

"Seven years too late for that, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Probably. But I have to try.” He stepped forward instinctively, then caught himself, freezing mid-step like he didn’t trust himself to be closer. “The way I left… the way I ended things… it was wrong.”

“Wrong?” You let out a short, breathless laugh— one with no humor in it. “Jeongguk, you served me divorce papers through a stranger. A fucking stranger from some law office. I found out my marriage was over from a man who mispronounced my name.”

Jeongguk flinched, visibly. Shame seeped into the curve of his shoulders, the downturn of his mouth. “I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice wavered now, frustration bubbling up with the grief. “Do you know what that did to me? I sat in a room for eight hours—eight, Jeongguk—just staring at those papers, waiting for someone to tell me it was a mistake. That maybe they got the wrong person. That my husband wouldn’t do something so… something so….”

“____…”

“Do you know I reread the papers so many times I memorized the clause about 'irreconcilable differences'? Do you know I hated that phrase because it sounded so... neat, like we were just a bad spreadsheet?”

His face crumpled. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so—”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” you snapped, voice breaking. The tears came before you could stop them, burning hot trails down your cheeks. “Sorry doesn’t give me back the part of myself I lost when you decided I wasn’t even worth a conversation.”

There was a beat of silence so loud it pressed against your ribs.

“You think this was easy for me?” His voice rose slightly, hoarse and unsteady. “You think I wanted to hurt you like that?”

“I don’t know what you wanted. That’s the problem. You never gave me the chance to understand anything. You just... vanished, Jeongguk. I know we didn’t really resolve anything after our last argument. I knew we had our problems but…” Your tears continue to betray you. You bite your lip to keep yourself from sobbing even further.

“I didn’t think you’d leave me, Jeongguk…” you whisper helplessly.

Jeongguk took a deep breath then exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to keep standing there. He wanted to come closer, maybe wrap you in his arms but he didn’t. He stood where he was. “I was scared.”

The words landed like a stone in water.

“Of what?” you asked, quieter now.

“Of everything,” he whispered. “Of not being enough for you. Of waking up next to you and realizing you were slipping away and I couldn’t stop it. Of becoming a burden. Of watching you look at me and wonder why you ever said yes.”

You stared at him, stunned. “So you left instead.”

“So I left instead,” he echoed, bitterly.

Your tears had stopped but your chest felt hollow.

“You didn’t even let me choose,” you said. “You didn’t give us a chance to fight.”

He looked at you then, something desperate flickering in his eyes. “Would you have? Chosen me?”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold��it was aching.

You wanted to say yes. To scream it. But the truth was heavier than that. The truth lived in long nights and unanswered texts and waking up alone.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, and it hurt you to say it. “But I would’ve tried.”

Jeongguk nodded slowly like he had already guessed your answer but hoped hearing it might change something. It didn’t.

“I think about that night a lot,” he said, his voice lower now. “Our last fight. I replay it all the time, trying to figure out where the breaking point was.”

“What was it even about?” you murmured. “I’ve tried to remember but all I can see is you walking out.”

He hesitated. “Money. My parents. My crazy ambitions. But it wasn’t really about that, was it?”

“No,” you whispered. “It was about the silence. About how we were living side by side but stopped reaching for each other.”

“Yeah.”

You stood in that shared quiet for a long beat, surrounded by the smell of paint and memory.

"I loved you Jeongguk," you said, your voice barely audible. "Even at the end, even when everything was falling apart, I loved you."

“I know.” His voice broke entirely now. “And I loved you. That’s why I thought letting go was the least selfish thing I could do.”

Another silence stretched, not as sharp this time. Just tired. Real.

Jeongguk rubbed at his jaw, the movement weary. “I’m not asking for anything. I just… needed you to know. I’ve carried this for so long and it’s eaten me alive… ____ I’m really sorry. I know there’s no apology that can ever make up for everything I’ve done to you but… I’m just really sorry.”

You look up at Jeongguk with your tear-stained eyes and it breaks Jeongguk more than he can ever describe in words.

“____ I am so sorry for leaving you the way I did…”

You nodded, barely. “I— I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied gently. “You’ve said more than I deserve.”

The studio had grown darker without either of you noticing.

Only the soft light from the café filtered in through the open door, casting long shadows across your half-finished painting and the uneven flecks of dried pigment on the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed. A door slammed. But here, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you—and the distance between what was and what could never be again.

Jeongguk looked down at the floor then back up at you, his mouth pressed in a tight line, like he was still deciding whether to say one last thing. Maybe something small. Maybe something huge.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, slowly, like approaching a cliff’s edge he’d finally accepted he couldn’t jump from. His gaze lingered on your face a moment longer—memorizing you, or maybe just letting go. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it again. Whatever words he might’ve said had dissolved before they ever formed.

“I should go,” he said finally, and his voice was hoarse in that way people get when they’ve cried recently or haven’t slept in days.

You nodded. It was all you could manage.

He turned to leave, his footsteps almost soundless on the studio floor. When he reached the door, he hesitated—just long enough to make you wonder if he’d look back.

He did.

A brief glance over his shoulder. Nothing dramatic. No tears. Just that same familiar sadness in his eyes, now quieter. A little more surrendered.

“Goodnight, ____,” he said softly.

And then he was gone. The door closed behind him with a soft click. You stood there for a long while, staring at the space he’d just vacated, your hands still smeared faintly with color and time. The silence returned—but it was different now. Not peaceful, not exactly painful either.

Just... honest.

#jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #jungkook scenarios #bts au #bts au fanfic #bts au fic #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #woosung x reader #woosung #jungkook fic

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revelboo · 6 months ago

Note

Hello, I'm sorry but will there be any updates for the tfone starscream? (Please sir I want some more. )

Ur writing is so good I couldn't get enough of it. U are a blessing to thiss community.

Sure and thank you! 18+ Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Okay, okay. I’ll update Metroplex again today 🤣

Inside Out Pt 8

TFO Starscream x Reader

• Feel his servos tighten on your hips, his movements getting rougher as he vents raggedly. And you give him what he wants. “Starscream, please.” And his servos relax, letting you move the way you want to. Need to. Watching him stare up at you, his optics bright as his servos slide up your sides. His hitching growl sinking into you.

• Optics half shuttered, he watches you ride his spike. Baring his denta at the way your wet heat grips him to make his biolights flare and those need darkened eyes hold his optics. There’s a whisper of concern as he vents raggedly, fans kicking on. Because coming undone over a weak, little organic alien? No one can ever know about this. Hands shifting to your hips again, his servos flex as just how much smaller you are than him even mass displaced sinks in. Thumbs on your belly and servos touching against your back as he begins to move you faster on his spike. Watching the delicate line of your throat when your head falls back. Wrapped so tight around his spike it’s like you were made just to take him deep. Your hips bucking as you come apart, fisting his spike as you cry out and he only manages a handful of thrusts before pulling you down to sheath himself and fill you with a snarl.

• Feeling his hips jerk under you as he keeps releasing inside you, feeling his excess slicking your inner thighs, and his servos sliding to your upper back to press against you to encourage you to stretch out on him, you don’t resist. Breathing raggedly as you lay your cheek against him. The servos of one hand ghosting up your spine, while the other flexes against your hip when he goes rigid again with another guttural snarl. Glancing up at his bared denta and shuttered optics as he shudders. Feeling him releasing inside you again.

• Venting unsteadily, he glances down to find you watching him. Can’t remember ever overloading like this before, unable to stop. Like his frame is trying to give you everything. And he’s reluctant now to leave the heat of your body. Servos brushing your cheek, he feathers his thumb against your soft lips and your mouth opens. Wet little tongue sliding against him and his own lips part when you take that servo into your mouth and suck against it. And he’s overloading inside you all over again, imagining you doing that to his spike. “Primus,” he snarls as you nip him.

• That sound he’d made when you’d put your mouth on him, somewhere between a growl and a whine is wickedly satisfying. Because while he’s bigger and stronger, right now he’s needy and desperate. Remembering his words, you rock your hips to feel his spike slide inside you. To hear him groan. “This is mine.” And those optics flare at your claim, one corner of his mouth twitching at the challenge in your tone as you rock yourself again. “You’re mine.” And he covers his face with a big hand, laughing, but not contradicting you. He may own you outside this room, but this? His spike? They’re yours.

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #tfo starscream

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alizha · 4 months ago

Text

ｆｉｘｅｒ | 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷

⁀➷ 𝗃𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝗂 𝗑 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 | 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗎

𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 5.7𝗄

𝖳𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝖿/𝗆, 𝖿𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗁𝖾/𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖨𝖳𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗃𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋!𝗅𝖾𝗏𝗂, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝖻𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋(𝗌).

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: 𝖫𝖾𝗏𝗂 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍 𝖲𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗄𝗂 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁 𝗇𝗈𝗐, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾𝗍. 𝖧𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗎𝗉 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖾 𝖨𝖳 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖼𝗍 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗍.

𝖠/𝖭: 𝖮𝗈𝗉𝗌, 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇 𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗎𝖽𝖺𝗅 𝖤𝗅𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖺𝗒. 𝖳𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖽𝗅𝗒 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖨 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖿𝖾𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀.

masterlist | cross posted to ao3 next chapter →

“Wait, say that again?”

The laptop makes a pathetic whirring sound as you jam your thumb against the power button again. “Hange, please, what did you do with this?”

Hange’s eyes sparkle as they crouch down to your eye level with a dangerous mix of curiosity and delight that you’ve come to know well. “You have a crush. On Levi.”

“Nope. Didn’t say that,” you say, busying yourself with flipping the laptop over to examine the ports. Hange’s chair squeaks beneath you as you carefully shake the charger from the tangled mess of other cables draped across their cluttered desk.

“You implied it,” Hange says, leaning in a little closer and grinning like a cat about to pounce. “He’s single, if you’re wondering. You know, I’ve always said he needs to put himself out there, maybe meet someone smart, sweet—,”

“Hange,” you interrupt, your focus hopelessly strained, “I can’t fix this if you keep distracting me.”

“—and you’re perfect! How have I never thought of it before?”

You sigh and press the heel of your palm to your forehead. “Maybe because I’ve never been assigned here this long.”

“That’s true!” Hange says, taking your shoulders in hand and gently giving you an affectionate shake. “Don’t tell anyone, but you’re my favorite IT specialist. I love when district loans you to us. Can’t you just take a full time position here? Then, you could see Levi every day.”

“This isn’t happening,” you mutter to yourself. “All I said was I think he’s attractive.”

“It was the way you said it!” Hange exclaims, throwing their hands into the air like they’ve just discovered a new element.

“Please, I’m begging you, let’s focus on the real problem here,” you say, setting down the laptop next to a set of beakers with some sort of suspicious dried residue clinging to the bottom. “What did you do to this poor laptop? It looks like it’s been through a war zone.”

“All I did was take it home over the weekend,” they say with a shrug, sounding mildly offended. “And I may have installed a few updates. And tweaked some settings. And maybe tried to make it run a little faster by deleting some programs. But it’s not my fault if this thing can’t handle a little innovation.”

You narrow your eyes, almost afraid to ask. “Which programs?”

“Just the unimportant ones.”

“Right,” you say, exasperated. “Well, whatever you did, it’s not just refusing to connect to your desktop setup. It’s barely powering on at all. I’ll need a bit more time to figure this out.”

“Oh, no need to rush,” Hange says, flapping a hand dismissively. “Just gives us time to figure out what to do about Levi.”

You roll your eyes and lean back in their creaky chair. “We’re not going to be doing anything about Levi. There’s nothing to do. I don’t think I’ve ever even talked to him.”

“Ooh!” Hange points a finger at you. “He asked you to fix the Wi-Fi in the gym that one time.”

“That’s hardly a conversation,” you say dryly, reaching out to shut the laptop with a soft click before standing up with a groan. “Unfortunately, I’m gonna have to come back later. Mr. Smith needs some help with a login issue—something about the gradebook.”

“Don’t use Erwin as an excuse to run away,” Hange says as you sidle past them with your own laptop in hand and head toward the door.

“Sorry, Hange, gotta run!” you call without bothering to glance over your shoulder as you practically bolt out the door.

It’s currently the middle of third period, and the hallways are empty as you make your way toward another wing of the building. Your steps across the linoleum echo off rows of red metallic lockers, littered with loose papers and frayed straps from backpacks haphazardly shoved inside. You pause by a locker near the corner of the hall, the faint murmur of an ongoing class drifting through the closest classroom door, to bend over and pick up the wrinkled wrapper of a protein bar off the floor.

Brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, you straighten and continue on your way. The wrapper crinkles softly as you crush it in your fist. There’s a trash bin outside the bathrooms just before you reach the history classroom, and you jauntily toss the wrapper into it as you pass by.

The buzz coming from inside the room steadily increases in volume as you near the door. You can see the students inside grouped at their desks, heads bent together over open textbooks and notes. As you stroll through the entrance, your gaze lands on Erwin sitting at his desk and immediately feel your heart skip a beat at the sight of Levi standing across from him, his arms crossed and his brow slightly furrowed in what seems to be his default expression.

Your steps falter for a fraction of a second. Normally, playing it cool in front of Levi is a breeze, but your conversation with Hange leaves you hyperaware of how flustered his presence makes you feel. Before you can fully recover your confident posture, Erwin glances over at you, leading to Levi turning to see what’s caught his attention.

You force a small smile and wave, earning from Erwin a warm reciprocation. Levi, meanwhile, gives you a slight nod before turning back to Erwin.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

Erwin nods. Levi turns toward the door, and you do your best to look unbothered as you cross paths.

“Hange’s chair is squeaking horribly,” you blurt out before you can think twice. “Might be worth a look if you’re already doing the rounds.”

He pauses, backtracking half a step to raise an eyebrow at you. “Hange’s whole classroom is a disaster. I doubt fixing one chair will make a difference.”

You huff out a small laugh. “Fair point.”

One corner of his mouth twitches faintly, and he continues walking past you before disappearing out the door. With a deep breath, you approach Erwin’s desk, heart beating just a bit faster. When you finally realize he’s wearing a sly, thin-lipped grin, clearly trying to suppress a laugh, you blink at him in confusion.

“What?”

Erwin shrugs cheekily, his gaze darting toward his students to briefly check they’re still preoccupied with their work before responding. “Oh, nothing. It’s just, that interaction with Levi? Very bold,” he says, the quirking of his eyebrow underscoring his sarcasm. He raises his voice an octave in imitation. “‘Hange’s chair is squeaking horribly.’ I’m surprised he didn’t fall head over heels right then.”

You cringe inwardly. “I do not sound like that. And I’ve already got Hange on my case. I don’t need you starting, too.”

“Hange’s got a good eye for these things, if you can believe it,” he says. “And for the record, your delivery was flawless—if your goal was to seduce him with furniture repair.”

Warmth rises to your cheeks, and you glare at him. “I don’t have any goals. I was just… making conversation.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Erwin nods solemnly. “Completely casual. Levi loves casual. You’re playing the long game, clearly.”

“Erwin,” you say, your voice edged with warning. “Wait, does he really?”

He chuckles softly, and you shake your head with a huff.

“Nevermind. Just, can we drop this?”

“Alright, alright,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender. “But just a word of warning—Levi’s not as oblivious as he seems.”

You determinedly tamp down your curiosity and turn your attention to his open laptop, though it threatens to tear you apart from the inside. For now, you decide to ignore it. “Enough,” you say. “Before I decide to let you figure out your gradebook issue on your own.”

Levi catches the scent of something vaguely burnt wafting in the air before he even reaches the chemistry lab door. The muscles of his lower back tense upon instinct. Walking into Hange’s classroom always almost feels like marching into war.

“What the hell, Four-Eyes?” he says, nose scrunching at the swell of the volatile aroma as he enters the room.

“Well, well, two visitors in one planning period!” Hange exclaims from their perch on the desk, throwing their arms wide and nearly flinging their planner covered in disorderly sticky notes across the room. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Levi sets his toolbox down and nudges the unoccupied chair behind the desk. It emits a miserable squeal. “Heard this thing’s been making noise. Figured I’d deal with it before you make it worse.”

“Ah, my knight in shining coveralls,” Hange says, hopping down from the desk. “But hey, while you’re here, I’ve been meaning to discuss a certain lovely IT specialist who’s been temporarily transferred from the district office with you.”

He pauses with his hand on the chair and turns to give Hange his best rendition of an unimpressed glare. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting. She’s into you, you know.”

Crouching, Levi closely inspects the chair’s tilt mechanism and reaches into the toolbox for a wrench. “Maybe she thinks she is, but it’ll pass.”

“You’re such a killjoy. She’s legit interested, Levi. I know you’ve noticed, so don’t even try to deny it.”

“I’ve noticed,” he says flatly, tightening a bolt. “But that doesn’t mean anything. People change their minds all the time.”

“Oh, Levi, you’re so predictable,” Hange says, shaking their head with fond exasperation. “You mean people change their minds about you all the time. She’s not like that, though. She’s kind, she’s patient, she gets your whole… thing.” They gesture at him with a few wild flails of their hands. “And this is the best part—she said she thinks you’re hot.”

Levi snorts, shaking his head. “You’re making that up.”

“Am not!”

“Yeah, well.” He turns his attention back to the chair, resuming his work. “I doubt she knows I used to be in a gang.”

“Levi, half the student body knows you used to be in a gang. The other half heard the rumors and are still deciding whether they believe them.”

“If you’re trying to sell me on this, Four-Eyes, that’s not helping,” he deadpans.

“My point is, she’s into you, dummy,” Hange says, giving his shoulder a light shove. “She’s not waiting for you to be taller, or more talkative, or whatever nonsense you’re thinking of. She likes you. Don’t let that scare you off.”

The chair lets out a final, reluctant creak as Levi stands. If he’d known following up on your tip about Hange’s chair was going to get him ambushed like this, perhaps he wouldn’t have been so eager to jump on it.

“Fixed. Try not to break it again.”

“Thank you!” Hange calls after him as he grabs his toolbox and makes a beeline for the door.

Levi grunts his response and heads directly toward the janitor’s closet, warily eyeing his wristwatch. The bell would ring soon, and the students would be flooding the hallways in a blink. While getting caught during the passing period poses little more than a minor inconvenience, he attempts to avoid it altogether.

Striding down the hall, he makes it to the teachers’ lounge just before the closet and catches sight of the door sitting ajar. Inside, he’s surprised to see you bent over the counter, fiddling with the coffee maker. Your brow is furrowed in concentration as you jab at one of the buttons on the machine.

Fuck, it’s cute. You’re a whiz when it comes to anything IT related, but here you are, stumped by the damn coffee maker. To be fair, the ancient thing is more or less a lost cause. Levi exhales softly and steps inside the lounge just as the bell chimes from the intercom system and classroom doors swing open.

“Gonna break it if you keep doing that,” he says over the sudden roar in the hallway.

You jump slightly, then break out into a sheepish smile when you realize it’s him addressing you. “It’s already broken, I think. It’s been making these weird noises all week, and now, it’s not even brewing.”

Levi eyes the machine, as if he might intimidate it into magically working for you. No such luck. He stows his toolbox in the corner of the counter and points to the cupboard above the coffee maker.

“Forget that junk. There’s good tea up there on the top shelf. I don’t drink the sludge they stock this place with.”

Your eyebrows lift in surprise, but you follow his suggestion a beat later. Reaching up, you open the cupboard to find a neat row of tea tins nestled behind a cluster of mismatched mugs. “Wow. This is your stash? Do you live here or something?”

“I’ve considered it once or twice,” he says, leaning his hip against the counter.

You chuckle, a light, musical sound as you take one of the tins and examine the label. “Same. Shingeki’s a big school. You wouldn’t believe how many trouble tickets I walk in to find every morning before classes even start.”

“Dunno. I might believe it.”

That earns him a brilliant smile that makes his heart thump against his ribs.

“You know,” you say matter-of-factly, “the district office has one of those fancy latte machines. Touchscreen, milk frother, the whole deal.”

“Of course they do,” Levi says with a scoff. “Probably gets assigned its own IT specialist, and that’s why your department’s always stretched hopelessly thin. Wouldn’t want the administrators suffering through a regular cup of coffee like the rest of us.”

You laugh again, and the way you throw your head back just a little rouses a swarm of butterflies in his stomach. “You’d think they were running a five-star café over there instead of all those budget cut meetings.”

“Sounds about right,” he replies, somehow managing to maintain his cool veneer despite his growing fluster. “Nothing says fiscal responsibility like splurging on a machine that’ll break the second anyone presses the wrong button.”

Amusement gleams in your eyes. “Your cynicism is truly inspiring.”

“It’s not cynicism,” he says, feeling a faint smirk tug at his lips. “It’s realism. You work in this place long enough, you get used to things falling apart.”

“Well,” you say, tilting your head, “at least you’re an expert at fixing things, so I’ve heard.”

The instinctive urge to contradict you bubbles up in his chest, but Levi pushes it back down. He doesn’t know what to make of that coming from you. “I try,” he finally settles on saying.

You place the tea tin on the counter, lowering your gaze to the metallic cylinder as your fingers tap lightly against the lid. “Speaking of things falling apart, while I was helping Erwin earlier, he invited me out with the staff tonight. End Zone, right? Sounds like the teachers’ usual haunt.”

“Yeah, they go there,” Levi says.

Your eyes lift to his, peering through your lashes. “Do you ever join them?”

He shakes his head, brows pinching. “End Zone? Not my scene. Too loud, too crowded, and the food’s absolute crap.”

“Oh,” you say, your voice trailing off with a touch of disappointment. “Guess that’s fair.”

For a wild second, Levi considers it—throwing out an alternative. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere that doesn’t reek of stale beer and desperation. Maybe that small bistro a few blocks down from the bar, the one with real food instead of the greasy pub slop that passes for a meal at End Zone.

The words hover at the tip of his tongue. Dinner instead? Just us?

But he doesn’t say them. Because what’s the point? You’re looking at him like you might actually want him around, but you don’t know anything about him. Not really. Not the parts that matter. The parts that would make you look at him differently.

You think he’s an expert at fixing things, but you have no idea how much he’s broken.

So instead, Levi shrugs. “Yeah. Guess so.”

You nod ruefully, and he catches the flicker of uncertainty in your expression. But you cover it up quickly with another small smile.

“Well, I guess I’ll see if I survive a night out with Moblit and Hange’s karaoke.”

“Good luck,” Levi mutters. He shifts closer, reaches past her to grab one of the cups from the shelf—a white ceramic mug with big, bold text that read ‘WORLD’S OKAYEST JANITOR,’ which Petra had bought for him one Christmas.

His arm brushes yours, just barely, and he feels your breath hitch quietly before your eyes land on the mug. You let out a soft snort at the novelty print that has his stomach twisting not unpleasantly.

It would be so easy. A simple invitation. A step toward something he’s pretty sure both of you want. But his feet stay planted, and his mouth stays shut.

And you, after a pause just a beat too long, replace the tea tin on the shelf and step away. “I’ve gotta get back. Took too long tinkering with that hunk of junk. I’ll see you around, Levi.”

He watches her go, jaw clenched.

Idiot.

End Zone is exactly what you expected: a slightly run-down sports bar with dim lighting and battered wooden booths and an ever-present hum of conversation layered under the sound of whatever game is playing on the many wall-mounted screens. And beneath the scent of fried food and cheap beer, you can detect the sharp tinge of cleaning solution that doesn’t quite mask the years of spilled drinks and rowdy celebrations.

No wonder Levi hates the place. Sure, it makes sense now that he didn’t bite when you hinted that he should come out. But there was no way he didn’t get the hint, right?

A handful of Shingeki staff are already settled in their usual corner, nursing drinks and swapping stories about the week’s disasters. You slid into a booth across from Erin, who raises a thick brow at you as you take a long sip of your cocktail—something strong and citrusy that you ordered on impulse.

You set your glass down with a soft thud and fix him with a look. “You lied to me.”

Erwin, mid-sip of his own drink, hums in amused confusion before swallowing. “Did I?”

“Yes,” you say, jabbing a finger at him. “You told me Levi wasn’t as oblivious as he seemed. That he’d pick up on things if I made them obvious enough.”

He leans back, stretching one arm across the booth’s backrest, looking thoroughly entertained. “Ah,” he muses. “So you made a move, did you?”

You let out a sharp sigh. “I gave him the perfect setup, Erwin! I told him I was coming here tonight. I practically invited him without actually inviting him. And he just… let it pass! Didn’t even try to suggest something else!”

The frustration is more at yourself than Levi. You had thought you were being clever, giving him an easy way to say hey, let’s hang out! But instead, you were left walking out of the break room with an overwhelming sense of well, that was awkward.

Erwin chuckles, the knowing kind that makes you want to shove his shoulder. He swirls the remaining liquid in his glass before setting it down with a soft clink, a bit of the mirth in his expression slowly fading.

“I’ve known Levi a long time,” he says, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table. “Helped him get the job at Shingeki, actually.”

You knit your brows together at him. “Really?”

He nods. “And look, as someone who’s known him a while, it’s easy to forget that Levi can be… less than forthcoming when you first get to know him.”

“Oh.” You tilt your head and consider your brief conversation with Levi in the break room earlier. Before you had brought up End Zone, he had been perfectly pleasant. Downright flirty, even. “I suppose I wouldn’t call him a chatterbox, but he’s not that hard to talk to.”

Erwin gives a small, wry smile. “Good. I’m glad you think so.” He shifts in his seat and exhales, as if considering how much to say before finally continuing. “All that to say, Levi’s been through a lot. It’s not my place to tell you everything, and frankly, it’s his business who he shares it with.”

You’ve heard the inklings of the rumors. Admittedly, you had written them off as nonsense at first, but you couldn’t help but wonder. Levi seemed to keep a low profile at the school, yet everyone knew his name, and many happened to adopt the same stiff posture when he was mentioned.

“I don’t say all this to be dramatic,” Erwin continues. “I say it because the past leaves a mark. What Levi’s been through, it affects his relationships. All of them.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and fiddle with the condensation on your glass. The way he talks, you don’t doubt for a second that Erwin knows exactly what Levi has been through, but the fact he won’t elaborate tells you all you need to know about how much he respects Levi’s privacy.

“You’re infuriatingly principled, you know that?” you huff.

“So I’ve been told.” He grins and finishes off his drink. “He’s not indifferent to you,” he adds, apparently sensing your apprehension. “You gave him an opportunity tonight, and he didn’t take it. That doesn’t mean he didn’t want to.”

You let out a slow breath, rolling Erwin’s words over in your mind. Perhaps, it should have left you frustrated, should have made you want to throw up your hands and decide Levi isn’t worth the effort.

But instead, you feel a strange, unexpected sense of conviction settling in your chest. You want Levi to know that you see him, that you’re willing to be patient, that he doesn’t have to shut the door before anything has even begun. And then, you look at Erwin and the glint in his eye as he witnesses your resolve solidifying.

The bastard knew he wasn’t going to scare you away with any of it. You realize Erwin knew exactly what he was doing just as a hand slaps down on your shoulder.

Hange’s voice is suddenly way too close to your ear, singing out your name as you startle. “Come with me! I need a favor!”

You blink up at them. “For what?”

“For the duet,” Hange declares. “Moblit bailed and I need a partner.”

“And what part of that made you think of me?””

“Oh, you like music, don’t you?” Hange says, like it’s some quirky, unique characteristic of yours. “C’mon!”

Erwin chuckles as he watches this unfold, and you rub your temples, letting yourself get dragged away to the stage.

Levi doesn’t get a lot of quiet during the day, between the constant noise, the constant movement, the constant people. He likes his job well enough, but at the end of the day, there’s something almost sacred about coming home to silence.

His apartment is dark except for the slanted stripes of yellow light from the convenience store sign across the street, filtering in through the blinds. His mug, half-full with lukewarm tea, sits forgotten on the coffee table as he tips his head back against the couch cushions, letting his eyes slip shut.

It’s late. He should be in bed. Instead, his phone vibrates on the coffee table, screen flashing with Hange’s name.

He debates ignoring it. He really does. But experience has taught him that ignoring Hange only leads to more problems later, so with a resigned sigh, he picks up.

“Hange,” he grumbles into the receiver.

“Levi!” Hange’s voice crackles through the phone. In the background, he can hear the lingering murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. It sounds as if they may be standing outside the bar with a group.

“I take it you had fun.”

“You missed all the fun,” Hange corrects.

“Yeah? Darn,” he says dryly. “You drunk?”

“A little.”

“A lot,” another voice—Erwin—murmurs somewhere in the middle distance.

“Anyway,” Hange drawls, “small problem. I might need a ride home.”

Levi sighs. “No.”

“Levi.”

“No.”

“Levi, please.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m not a damn chauffeur, Hange.”

“Aww,” Hange whines. “I guess I could call a rideshare, but…”

“But what,” he says flatly. “But you’d rather inconvenience me?”

“You’re so perceptive! Come on, Levi. Be my knight in shining armor!”

Levi lets out a sigh through his nose, long and slow. He doesn’t really want to drag himself out of the house for this. Hange’s a pain in the ass, but they’re his pain in the ass. And despite all his grumbling, he wouldn’t actually leave them hanging.

“Fine. Text me where you are,” he says.

“You’re the best! I could kiss you!”

“Try it, and I’m leaving you there.”

Hange’s cackle comes through, and Levi just shakes his head, already grabbing his keys.

Approximately ten minutes later, he’s pulling up in front of the bright, blaring neon sign outside End Zone. The place is still relatively packed, but it’s not hard to spot Hange standing by the curb. Especially with both their arms flailing above their head like a malfunctioning windmill.

“Ah! My knight in shining, slightly dented, armor!” Hange crows as Levi rolls down the windows, swaying rather dangerously as they point at him. “I knew you’d come for me!”

Levi doesn’t respond, blinking slowly at them.

“And,” Hange barrels on, nearly toppling sideways, “wouldn’t you know it, your noble duty just doubled. Because guess what?”

Levi’s fingers tightened around the wheel. “No.”

“Yes.” Hange slaps a hand against the roof of his car and whips around to jab a finger toward you as you stumble up behind them.

“Oh my god,” you groan, mostly to yourself as you drag your hands down your face. Your shoe scuffs against the pavement as you slow to a stop, and Levi realizes you’re massively inebriated.

“This little lady needs a ride, too,” Hange says brightly. “What do you say? Two birds, one stone.”

You attempt to glare at Hange, but you can’t keep your eyes fully open which kind of ruins the effect. “I should’ve called a rideshare. I told you I would call a rideshare—”

“Pfffft.” Hange waves a dismissive hand. “Why would you do that when our dear Levi is here? Our ever-dutiful hero! Our chariot driver!”

“Levi,” you called as you ducked slightly, squinting blearily at him like you’re processing his existence in real time. “Levi, I’m so sorry.”

Levi feels his stone-faced veneer crack.

“Don’t even worry about it,” Hange speaks for him, throwing an arm around your shoulders and beginning to usher you toward the back door. “Levi’s a great driver. And he loves doing me favors. Isn’t that right, Levi?”

“No.”

“See?” Hange says, grinning. “He’s thrilled!”

You let out a long-suffering sigh as they wrestle the car door open and all but shove you inside. With a soft ‘oof,’ you flop unceremoniously onto the seat, then immediately begin fumbling with the seatbelt like it’s an even more complicated mechanism than the ancient coffeemaker in the break room.

Meanwhile, Levi’s attention flickers back to Erwin as he steps up to his window. The blond leans against the door, hands tucked into his pockets, an infuriatingly knowing expression on his face—the one Levi recognizes all too well.

“Drive safe,” Erwin says lightly.

Levi scoffs. “Obviously.”

“And Levi?” Erwin cocks his head slightly. “We’ve talked about this enough,” he says, his tone more a reminder than a lecture. “Don’t let too many more opportunities pass you by, my friend.”

Levi clicks his tongue and glances away. “Not sure what you’re suggesting. She’s wasted, creep.”

Erwin chuckles softly. He knows Levi knows full well what he means. He steps back, nodding once before heading back toward the bar.

In the backseat, there’s a clunk as you finally manage to click your seatbelt into place. “Seriously, you’re a lifesaver, Levi. I really owe you one.”

“Ooooh, yeah, that’s true,” Hange chimes in. “You totally do. Levi, name your price!”

Levi shoots them a glare in the rearview mirror. “Shut up, Hange.”

With that, he throws the car into drive and pulls away, the neon glow of End Zone shrinking into the distance as the quiet streets stretch out ahead.

By some miracle, Levi manages to wrangle your home address out of you. It takes a series of half-coherent mumbles, several wrong turns, and one false start where you insisted, with absolute certainty that you lived in “the place with the door,” but he gets there.

Hange, at least, is easier to deal with since this isn’t his first time dropping them off. After they wave him off, Levi starts navigating toward your apartment, which, as it turns out, is in a somewhat nicer part of town. That makes sense—it’s closer to the school district office where all the well-paid administrators and senior staff live. And it explains why he’s never run into you outside of work.

The mid-rise apartment buildings where you live are nice. Not fancy, but well-maintained. The kind of place that probably has a decent property manager and an HOA that actually does its job.

Levi pulls into the lot and shifts into park with a sigh. When he glances in the rearview mirror, he finds you slumped against the seat. Fast asleep.

For fuck’s sake.

He didn’t sign up for this.

With another sigh, he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out, rounding the car to open your door. He crouches slightly, bracing an arm against the frame. You look peaceful, if a little disheveled. He almost, almost wishes he didn’t have to wake you.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out to give your shoulder a light shake. “You’re home.”

You groan softly, stirring in your seat, but your eyes stay shut.

He tries again, fingers pressing gently against your arm. “C’mon. You gotta wake up.”

Nothing still, except for the slight furrow in your brow.

Levi breathes out a measured exhale. He debates, for a brief moment, whether he should just haul you inside himself. But before he can decide, you mumble something.

“It’s true, ugh, you’re right.” Your voice is thick with sleep.

“What?” Levi frowns.

“You’re right, Hange. I do think he’s attractive!” Your voice rises and falls in irregular patterns, and one of your hands shoots out, narrowly missing Levi’s head. “And I won’t let his stupid stubbornness deter me…”

Levi goes still. Apparently, you think you’re still talking to Hange. His fingers tighten on the door frame as his mind scrambles for something to say. Anything. But you’re already sinking back into sleep, face peaceful, expression soft.

“You’re a damn menace,” he says, reaching for your shoulder once more. “Let’s get you inside.”

He’s got you halfway to your door when you finally seem to realize who exactly he is. You lift your head, curiously inspecting her own arm slung over his shoulder. Then, your face lights up in sudden, delighted recognition.

“Oh!” you exclaim, squeezing his bicep with surprising enthusiasm. “It’s you, Levi!”

He raises a brow and adjusts his grip on your waist. “Took you long enough.”

You emit a giggle—a goddamn giggle—and fondle the muscles in his arm further. “Oh, wow. You work out, don’t you. Holy shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, trying to keep you from topping both of you over as he maneuvers you toward the door. “As a matter of fact.”

But he can’t help the way the corners of his mouth tick upward just slightly. Dammit. You’re cute. And your hands squeezing him like that is going to drive him crazy if he’s not careful.

“Where’re your keys?” he asks, eyeing the bag dangling against your hip.

“In my pocket,” you say cheekily, brushing your fingers down the length of his arm.

Levi’s breath catches when you take his hand in yours and press it against your ass. He can hardly believe his own senses as his fingers slide against the soft flesh beneath the layer of your pants. And, not to his surprise, he detects a distinct lack of keys.

“That’s not—” He swallows, his throat running dry. “The keys.”

“Levi,” you breathe.

He looks up to find your face is much closer than it should be. Your gaze is heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted, and the shine on them makes him nearly forget that his hand is currently feeling up your ass. Abruptly, he jerks away, his shoulder thumping into your door.

You call his name again, in that soft tone of voice that stirs something low in his stomach. In a blink, your hands are splayed on his chest as you lean forward, clearly aiming to kiss him. Levi’s heart stumbles into his throat, his mind cutting out into fuzzy static at the press of your body against his, and he barely manages to dodge the attempt in time.

“Whoa—hey.”

A noise of protest floats from your mouth, and you try again.

Fuck. Fuck. This time, Levi has no choice but to firmly grasp your shoulders and hold you at arm’s length.

“Not like this,” he says quietly.

You pout, and it wrenches in his chest. For a second, you look like you might argue further. But then, your drunken brain seems to catch up with reality, and your expression shifts into something dazedly thoughtful.

“Oh. You’re right. I—” You stifle a yawn against the back of your hand. “M’just tired.”

Levi sighs as you relax in his grip, the sudden burst of energy fading.

“Yeah, I know you are,” he says, reaching for your bag. “Time for bed, okay?”

He fishes your keys out and finally unlocks the door. After herding you inside, he barely pauses to take in the atmosphere of your home, this slice of your personal life that he deeply wanted to peruse. Briskly, he pulls you toward the only hallway and glances through each of the doors until he finds the one that is clearly your bedroom.

You’ve discarded your shoes at some point, leaving them haphazard in the hall along the way. It takes no small amount of effort to stifle the growl of desire deep at his core as Levi guides you to your bed. He scoffs quietly to himself as you flop onto the mattress.

“Get some rest,” Levi murmurs. He allows himself to watch you for a moment longer—the color in your cheeks, the fall of your hair, the curve of your lips that he finds so alluring.

And he tears himself away.

masterlist | cross posted to ao3 next chapter →

#levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x female reader #levi ackerman x you #levi x reader #levi x you #aot x you #aot x reader #aot fanfiction

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frostedpuffs · 3 months ago

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Fic Summary:

Marinette never thought she’d face pregnancy on her own.

She’s shocked and unprepared, but there’s no doubt in her heart—she’s always wanted to be a mother. The first person she confides in is Chat Noir, her best friend of ten years. As the months pass, his support is unwavering. He's as devoted as ever and eager to meet the baby they’ve lovingly nicknamed Minibug. And when the baby arrives, he’s still the best partner Ladybug could ever ask for.

Somewhere between juggling single motherhood, protecting Paris, and late-night patrols, Marinette is struck by a realization:

She’s fallen for him. Again.

What she doesn’t realize is that he’s always been hers—still holding onto hope that one day, Ladybug will love him back.

But, more than anything, Chat Noir wants to be a father. And to Minibug, he already is.

(Completed fic; updates weekly on Fridays.)

Marinette tapped her foot against the sidewalk, her fingers wringing the hem of her skirt until the fabric bunched up. A warm, late-summer breeze swept through her hair, teasing the ever-present flyaways into her face. She huffed, brushed an offending strand from her mouth, and pressed her phone tightly against her ear. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip as it rang. Just when she was sure the call would go to voicemail, Alya finally picked up.

“Hey,” said Alya, her voice warmer than usual. “How’d it go?”

Marinette glanced at the clinic behind her, exhaling deeply. “Well, I feel better now that I know for sure.”

“Over-the-counter pregnancy tests are usually pretty accurate,” said Alya. “But, knowing you... I’m still glad you went to a doctor.”

Marinette took the friendly jab with a small smile as she walked down the street. “Me too. I was nervous at first, but I feel better now.”

“I’m glad to hear it. What did the doctor say?”

“Not much,” Marinette admitted. “All my vitals are fine. I’m a little underweight, but it’s nothing a good meal plan won’t fix.” As the Métro station came into view, she skipped down the stairs, unable to hold back a quiet (albeit nervous) laugh. “I called my OB/GYN before I called you. I, uh… I have my first ultrasound scheduled for next week!”

“Well, that’s exciting!” Alya said, and Marinette could tell she was smiling just by her tone. “Do you want me to come with you?”

A wave of relief flooded through Marinette at the thought of not having to attend her first prenatal appointment alone. “Please? If you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind!” said Alya. “Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.”

The distant rumble of the approaching train filled the tunnel. “Thank you. I’ll text you the details when I get off the Métro—I’m about to lose service.”

“Are you free this afternoon?”

Marinette walked toward the platform. “Yeah, why?”

“Good, because I’m coming over! I haven’t seen you in forever, and I miss you.”

With her usual extra care to avoid tripping over the gap, Marinette boarded the subway, sitting near the sliding doors. “Okay. I’ll see you soon,” she laughed just before the call dropped.

Slipping her phone into her bag, Marinette sighed and leaned back in her seat. As the train jolted forward, her gaze drifted downward, settling on her stomach. Unconsciously, she rested a hand over her abdomen, smoothing her fingers over the fabric of her skirt. A mix of awe and trepidation washed over her.

There… was a baby in there.

She knew that already, of course. But getting confirmation from someone with a medical license somehow hit harder.

A smile slowly began to creep along her cheeks.

A baby.

Wow…

Her heart beat a little faster.

How are you feeling, my little one?

Continue reading on ao3! ➡️

#miraculous #minibug #miraculous ladybug #miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous lb #miraculous au #ml fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfic #miraculous ladybug fanfiction #ml fanfiction #marinette dupain cheng #alya cesaire #ash art #miraculous fanart #text post #with love for minibug

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banj0possum · 2 years ago

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Please more poly vampires please😭🙏! I can hardly ever find x male/masc reader stuff especially about monsters😭. What happens when they take us back to their home. What's gonna happen to us? What will the townsfolk react?

Poly!Vampires x Reader Pt. 2

CW: kidnapping, silas is a freak for a brief moment

waaaaa !! so sorry this took so long !! thank you all for being so patient with me ! >w< <3

update: i mixed up garrick and silas' names im sorry im sorry its fixed now guys im so-

🌙 Its been a week since the townspeople found your house empty, your bedroom looking like something out of a mystery novel.

🌙 The bed was stained with blood and claw marks were dug deep into your bedframe with the moonlight illuminating your room through your broken window.

🌙 It looked as if you've been taken by a creature of the night, but weirdly enough, your luggage was nowhere to be found. Your closet and drawers had clothes missing and the painting you had just finished was gone.

🌙 Who could have done this?

🌙 "Garrick, it's your turn to drive!"

🌙 "Already?! Just one more minute Viktor~?"

🌙 You're being held hostage, no, hostage wasn't the right word..kidnapped? Enslaved maybe? who knows..All you know was that these..creatures..will never let you out of their sight.

🌙 You remember that night when you bore witness to their inhuman ways, they were at the foot of your bed when you took out the crucifix under your pillow and held it to Viktor, his eyes turning all red and he hissed at the holy figure.

🌙 "Ohoho! Our little mortal's smart!" Garrick grins, showing off his sharp fangs.

🌙 Silas tries to grab you but you dodge, but his long claws managed to cut your cheek, you couldn't say the same for your bedframe..

🌙 Viktor gets a hold of you and chuckles darkly at your cut, the red liquid bleeding out of it made his mouth water.

🌙 "My my~ What a fierce little minx you are my darling~" he coos with a raspy cold breath as he licks your wound. The feeling made your stomach churn and your spine shiver.

🌙 Garrick was busy making a mess of your room and stuffing your clothes in bags. Also stuffing a pair of your underwear in his shirt for himself.. "Come on you idiots! It's almost dawn!" He whisper-yells as he fiddles with the window's lock.

🌙 Silas rolls his eyes and kicks the window, breaking it and jumping through, with Garrick holding his hand.

🌙 You were confused beyond compare. Were they really gonna kidnap you?! What's gonna happen to you?! Should you scream for help?!

🌙 "I'm sorry for this Darling.." Viktor says softly before knocking you out.

🌙 Now back to the present, the 3 rode around in a caravan, a charming little wagon that doubled as a moving home of sorts. One went in front and drove while the other two looked after you or did other things.

🌙 Every escape attempt you had would end up in failure, their superhuman senses were no match for you.

🌙 "Garrick you said that 10 minutes ago!" Viktor growls at the younger vampire.

🌙 Garrick groans "Fiiiiiine!" He says before giving you one last hug and kiss and going out with a coat to shield him from the sun.

🌙 You had about 10 seconds to yourself before Viktor sits down next to you and pulls you onto his lap.

🌙 "Oh how I missed your warmth little mortal~" He purrs, kissing your neck which made you tense up in fear of his fangs. He feels your heart beat faster and smirks. "Am I making you nervous~?" He teases.

🌙 Silas comes over and smacks the dark-haired man on the head "Enough Viktor! Don't you think our precious little darling is frightened already?" he scolds before smiling down at you warmly. Viktor just rolls his eyes and buries his face into your neck.

🌙 He hands you a cup of tea and sits down across from you and Viktor "Drink up dear, mortals like you need to stay warm in the winter~"

🌙 Silas was the most respectful one out of the 3, he was always taking care of you and making sure the others didn't make you feel uncomfortable, but of course he was just as obsessive of you as they were.

🌙 Viktor is such a cuddle bug, always hugging you close every chance he gets. He'd even have the luxury to sleep with you, an activity he hasn't done in a while. He might not need to sleep, but just lying in bed with your adorable sleeping form was like being in heaven for him.

🌙 Garrick love love loves chatting with you. Rambling to you about people he's killed or jewelry he's looted off of his food weren't the best topics to talk about, but he's got no one else to talk to! And you are his darling after all!

🌙 And you could do nothing about any of it. You were treated like a glorified pet and there was no way to leave or escape of have any time for yourself..

🌙 It continued on like this until the caravan came to a stop by a small town. The weather was much colder now than it was in your hometown with rain softly pouring down from the sky.

🌙 Your heart drops, knowing what they're going to do here.

🌙 They all come off the caravan, Silas going to give the horses some food. You refused to leave the caravan in your anxiety-stricken state.

🌙 Garrick notices your nervousness and smiles, sitting next to you and putting his forehead to yours "Darling, you miss home don't you~?" he coos softly.

🌙 You nod slightly as you refuse to look at him or even move.

🌙 The vampire sighs and rests his head on your shoulder and holds your hand. "I know honey...but we won't hurt you! And besides, you don't know these people anyway! You scared we'll kill them and stuff? It's fine! We do it all the time!" He laughs. He wasn't making anything better..

🌙 "You're shit at comforting people Silas." Viktor looks at the red head with a deadpanned expression. "Oh up yours Vik!" Garrick rolls his eyes at him.

🌙 At least that made you lighten up a bit..

🌙 Garrick pulls you up from your seat and you get out of the caravan, rain hitting your face before the vampire opens up an umbrella and holds you close to him so you don't get wet.

🌙 "Its fine dear, this is the last stop before we head back to our new home~" Silas walks over and places a kiss on your cheek.

🌙 Wait..home?..

🌙 "Now gentleman! Who's hungry~?"

sorry this is a bit short ! but feel free to request or ask anything about these blorbos! i love em a lot !

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hnslchw · 2 months ago

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one of these days (part 2) - Aemond Targaryen X Reader

Summary: You were young when you promised to love him. You meant it. You still do. But something unspoken has rooted itself between you—something cold, something cruel. And the deeper you fall into the life you've built, the more you wonder if love is enough to survive what comes next.

Warnings/Themes: MDNI, slight ooc plot details, BLOOD AND CHEESE, targycest, marital strain, emotional conflict, greif/loss, references to war, infidelity, child death, trauma, implied sexualcontent (non-explicit), references to violence, complicated family dynamics, psychological distress, HOTD canon violence (pls tell me if Ive forgotten anything)

Word Count: 1.1k words

Authors Note: hello guys sorry short update 😖 I'll be posting the finale soon tho soooo. Anyways please let me know what you think and if there's any mistakes and warnings I've missed.

Taglist: @immyowndefender

part 1, part 3

The skies over King’s Landing bled a gentle grey the morning Aemond left for Storm’s End.

You stood by the window with your three year old son asleep in your arms, his soft breaths fogging the pale silk of your gown. Aemond kissed your temple and rested a hand briefly on your belly—round now, full of the child you’d soon meet. He didn’t know that Lucerys would fly to the same castle that very night, didn’t imagine that the winds would turn and never let either of them return the same.

You kissed him goodbye.

By the time the raven arrived, the skies had turned violent.

The scroll fell from your fingers before you’d finished reading.

Your knees struck the cold stone with a sound that echoed. And then the pain came, sudden and slicing—your womb contracting violently as if trying to mourn in flesh what had been lost in spirit.

The maester was summoned. The servants carried you to your chamber. You tore into sheets, into your own skin, into Aemond’s name as the contractions came faster, more brutal than the first time.

“Please—please, just get him out,” you sobbed, head flung back against the pillows, drenched in sweat and blood.

Your screams echoed down the halls of the Keep, and only Helaena dared enter the room, silent and pale, gripping your hand through the waves of agony. You didn’t stop screaming until your throat was raw, your body torn, and your son’s first cry split the air like a cracked bell.

He was alive.

So were you.

But something in you had changed. You knew it the moment you held him—knew it in the way your tears wouldn’t fall and your hands trembled even after the pain had passed.

You didn’t ask where Aemond was.

You already knew.

You wrote the letter while your sons slept.

Each word carved out of you like marrow, but gentler than war.

Mother, I beg of you, I beg for peace. I have two boys now. The second came too early—he is strong, but he cries like he remembers every scream I made to bring him here. I do not ask for forgiveness, only an end. I married a man I loved. I thought love could be enough to quiet the fire in our blood. I was wrong. I know what Aemond has done. I know you grieve Lucerys. I do, too. But if you burn the world, my children will choke on its ashes. Please, Mother. End this. Before the gods take more from us.

You sealed it with trembling hands and gave it to the raven-keeper before the dawn rose. You never heard back.

The silence said everything.

Aemond found your drafts of the letter days later. His face, unreadable as he skimmed the pages—lips tightening, eyes going distant.

“You were going to run?” he asked, voice low. “Take them to her? To them?”

“I was asking for mercy,” you replied, barely able to look at him. “Not for me. For our sons.”

But the damage had already been done. That night, he did not touch you. He stood by the window instead, as far from your bed as war was from peace.

Days passed. You saw him only in passing. The coldness in his eyes, the mechanical motions of fatherhood, the shadow of loss eating at his spine—it all made him less a man, more a monument.He turned away from you that night, and the cold that settled between you never left.

🗡️

You’d tucked your firstborn into bed only hours ago—he had begged for another story, and you’d caved, his little hand curled against your wrist as you whispered tales of brave dragons and gentle kings. Your youngest slept swaddled in the cradle by your side.

You stood outside the nursery door with Helaena, the two of you sharing whispered thoughts, heads bent together as the sounds of sleep settled into the hall. She laughed at something small you said, and for a moment, you both looked through the nursery doorway as if the world might stay suspended there forever.

Then the thud came.

Soft. Dull. Then again, harder.

“Did you hear that?” you asked.

Helaena turned, eyes already narrowing. “That wasn’t—”

The door slammed open.

A scream—your scream—tore the air in two.

The men were inside the nursery before either of you could move. One held a dagger. The other, a sack. Your eyes widened as you recognized them—not their faces, but what they were here to do.

“Which one?” the fat one grunted. “You choose. Else we take both.”

“No—no, no,” you choked out, shoving past them, reaching for your son, who was sitting up in bed now, confused and blinking.

“Stay away from them!” you screamed, throwing yourself in front of the cradle and the bed, arms wide.

“Which one is the heir?” the thin one said, eyes dancing. “Come now, Lady Wife. You know how this works.”

“I’ll give you gold,” you begged. “Dragons. Anything.”

But they didn’t want dragons.

They wanted blood.

You lunged, but the fat one struck you down. You hit the ground hard, cheek splitting open on the stone.

And then it happened.

You didn’t see it—you only heard your son’s voice say, “Mother?”—before the silence fell.

A heartbeat.

Then screaming.

You scrambled forward, slipping in something wet. Blood.

Your son’s blood.

Your firstborn. Gone.

“NO!” you wailed, clutching what was left of him, sobbing like your bones would break. “No, please—he was just a boy, he was just a baby—”

The guards came. They were too late.

The men were gone.

You pressed your forehead to your child’s still-warm chest and sobbed. Helaena held you as you shattered. You don’t remember what was said after that. Only the way your world cracked in half.

Your son. Your heart.

Taken.

Not by war. Not by honor.

But in a bed where he should have been safe.

And in the marrow of your grief, you knew this had been your mother’s reply.

No ink. No words.

Just death.

#aemond targaryen angst #aemond x reader #aemond imagine #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #hotd imagines #aemond targaryen

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jjungkooksthighs · 4 months ago

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Claws of Carnality | jjk (m) (17)

Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader

Genre: (fluff, angst, and smut) abo/werewolf, fantasy

Rating: 18+/nsfw

Word Count: 10.6k (Listen we don't have consistency here but we do have quality alr)

Summary:

With his mate in his arms, the Pack Alpha brings her home.

Warnings: MINOR CHARACTER DEATH (parents), mentions of taking one's life (I promise most of this is fluff and fun), dom!jungkook, alpha!jungkook, sub!reader, omega!reader, cursing, praising, possessive!jungkook, teasing, marking, manhandling, omega in heat

Author's Note: Hello again, lovelies! I apparently am really bad at following schedules if you didn't notice, so I apologize (again) for really long periods between updates on this story. Rest assured that the next chapter will be the long awaited mating between our two soulmates, which will be the final installment to this saga that I have now been writing for five years.

Crazy how fast time flies.

Anyway, I felt like it had been too long since the last update to just...have them go at it in this one. I had had plans to make this shorter, but somehow 20 pages were written between this week and last and...yeah. Here we are.

I dedicate this chapter to @h-g-bts and @jeonwiixard, because without your support, encourage, and love, this chapter would never have happened. I have never seen such contagious enthusiasm and excitement that you two always are jumping at the chance to share with me, and I adore you two for all of the wonderful rambles we have about this story amidst all of our other shenanigans.

I hope that those who read this chapter–especially you two– enjoy it to the fullest. I always worry I won't do justice to the ideas in my head or even to the existing story I've written, so please share your thoughts and love for this story if you like it. I have discovered that I write faster if I am inundated with praise and love for my work. :)

That's enough from me for now. I now give to you the seventeenth chapter of COC!

Series Masterlist Previous Chapter

The scraunch of grass under his feet surrenders to the steady song of your heart while he carries you, your smaller form tucked snugly against his chest while you sleep peacefully in his arms.

Slumber had welcomed you happily after you’d lost so much blood to the beast of greed that lived inside him, and as his still human body moves on instinct through the night with the moon as his witness, that beast only clutches closer at the covetousness of his savior–of this mortal goddess– who had come to save him.

Many still had been milling about when he’d departed with her from the bathhouse, the interested eyes and ears of alphas and omegas alike all trying to confirm the undeniable truth of his choice in you and yours in him.

That he had been awake and of the conscious world astounded them enough as he’d walked through them, their widened eyes and gasps enough to indicate that. The irrefutable proof of your maturing bond was present in the serene, calm expression that the beautiful creature held against him had amidst the two new reddened, raised punctures he’d left on her wrist that fell gracefully by his side while he, who should have been without operation of one arm and restricted to a bed, was well and amble.

Namjoon had been there, Yoongi’s dried blood still dirtying hands and arms, but his loyalty to his alpha–his friend– mattered more than any odorous stench that Yoongi the deceiver could concoct.

He’d shared one look with Namjoon, and it was one that needed no words between it. There had been a silent nod from his second-in-command, a lowering of his chin out of respect for his strength in combat before his fist had come upon his left breast in a sign of acceptance and recognition for the choice his Pack Alpha had made in his chosen mate, and the action had brought with it the parroting of all males–all alphas–who had been in the audience.

Not one male failed to mimic the action, the Pack Alpha’s absence of injuries and state of near death that he had administered to his enemies all that they needed to recall.

Seokjin, a taller male who just managed to reach Namjoon’s high height, had been standing dutifully by the other male’s side, the reaction of his mate one echoed in sentiment as he’d crossed each of his hands over each other between both breasts and bowed, the gesture one of approval and approbation of she who would become highest in rank and power over all omegas; of she who would lead them and guide the Omegean dynamic–of she who would become the Pack Omega.

Niva, a long-time companion of yours who was a rather short woman, had mirrored the motion with tears in her eyes out of the happiness she felt for the female that the Pack Alpha held with such affection lighting the golden discs of his own as he stared warmly at her, not a fractal of the cold from before when he’d been in the ring with the males who tried to win her from him.

Deference to them both had had each wolf stepping aside like parting ferns as the Pack Alpha had stepped between them, the dense cluster of all wolves in the compound bending to their knee as he passed.

No one had asked where he was going. Such was common knowledge– the only thing left now was to seal the bond between two fated souls and fulfill the vow he had made to you in the remnants of their shared blood that had been left clinging to your flesh.

In the present, he proceeds with purpose through the forest, your soft breaths coaxing him toward his destination amidst the symphony of crickets chirping in celebration and owls calling excitedly to each other while the flowers and fallen leaves offer their embrace in support to his ankles as he steps through them.

It is impossible not to let the music of nature return him to when he’d first heard it years ago, when he’d first stepped foot in the greenery of the woodland.

He had been in a much smaller body, his paws much tinier while he’d been running through the forest, his father’s stern, unamused shouts lost to him while the colors of the earth ran past him in streaks of brown, black, and green.

There had been a wonderful, pleasurable burn in his lungs while he’d pushed his haunches to keep going, to dash to freedom from the asphyxiating restrictions of training for responsibilities he had no concept of yet, the wind racing through his fur and whistling through his ears while his claws upended the soil in clouds of dark plumes as they raked through it.

He’d not known where he was going–only that he was chasing something he could never reach, no matter how hard he tried.

Inevitably, his little furry body could only handle so much, and upon slowing to a stop in the middle of a clearing that held its own town of daffodils, lilies, roses, wisteria, gardenia, marigold, and tulips, each swaying with the wind he’d brought with him. The myriad of colors had been pleasing to his eye, and when he’d let their vibrant scents blossom under his nose, their coalescence had been an aroma sweeter than the finest sugar.

But then…then he’d heard a voice, a voice that was daintier than any flower. A voice that harvested something in him he’d not known a name for yet.

Curiosity had carried him toward the origin of that voice, his wolf refusing to ignore the soft melody as it sang a nursery tale of two lost souls helplessly drawn to each other no matter how many times the earth tried to tear them apart.

“Alone he ran, alone he remained, seeking that which was forbidden-”

He had been quiet as a mouse while he neared the curtain of vines and climbing plants that had grown along the expanse of the rocky wall toward the forest’s edge, the voice that reached for him behind it too pretty to resist. He’d never ventured here thinking there couldn’t possibly be anything behind it. And yet…

“Forbidden it was, he longed for respite from the rivalries and revelries that were but a curse of his kin-”

His paws drew him forward, the clink of his claws against the rock drowned by the spring ahead of him, the crystalline water that streamed over the larger slabs of rock each stacked around each other enough to silence it to the female who stood on two hairless legs with her back to him in the watery pool ahead of them that was deep enough to cover her to the waist. On the other side of the rocks there fell clear water from one pool to another, a smaller pond sat surrounded by smaller stones of colors he had no names for in their darker and lighter hues.

“Onward he journeyed toward the unknown who took a form fascinating to him, a form of long, flowing hair and kind, gentle orbs for eyes that the moon sculpted after herself in their color. For the moon had longed for many years to bring forth a child of flesh and blood as she grew lonely in the dark skies after mother nature had birthed her own child of hair and blood -”

Like invisible force had been urging him on, he continued, helpless to the pull that began from his heart and tugged him toward this fair creature who wore but a frock that was a halo of gilded white, silver, and gold around her in its long length and trailing sleeves that left a high neckline across her front and back.

She floated there, in the middle of the water, as she moved with a grace no ordinary child could ever hope to have with a tune only she could hear. Transfixed, he could not force himself to look away if he tried. He had to know who this goddess with a voice light as the stars was.

“She wept, and she wept, and she wept in her solitude, and from those tears that fell to the earth, she molded her daughter from mist, cloud, stars, and her light. From the earth there came her offspring who was molded into a girl with all of the knowledge poured into her from her mother, her body no younger than eight winters, but no older than ten-”

Something deep in his chest had begun to pound at that sight, and when the young girl before him turned toward him in a sweep of her arms through the air, that had been when he’d been unable to move any longer, amazement forcing the oxygen from his lungs as he’d beheld her.

Her beautiful hair, which flowed with the wind that breezed through it, had been bound only by the gardenias that had been strewn down its wisps framing a face that was unlike anything he’d ever gazed upon before. Her cheekbones were high, nose straighter than a line yet cuter than any button, her lips pink as any chrysanthemum. And her eyes? They were closed while she was lost to the words she spoke.

“With no one but herself in the world, the moon’s daughter cried and wept, her own loneliness a curse even her own mother could not make her forget from so high a place in the sky’s throne. The earth took pity on the young girl of flesh and bone, so it sent her its son, who was of the same time on land. The two, recognizing kindred spirits in one another, were inseparable-”

As if his limbs had been captured by whatever had begun to wind him around this goddess’s hand, his haunches lowered so he sat on the rock by the creek, his shadow reaching toward the girl in the water before him.

“The earth’s son and moon’s daughter spent many moons together, their hearts irrevocably becoming entwined in the other’s, and upon their eighteenth winter together, the earth became jealous of her son, wishing with her entire being that she could reach her lover that the clouds kept imprisoned within them yet never being able to except for when the skies cried, releasing him so he could be with his lover.”

The birds had stopped chirping as she’d turned her face down toward her feet, the darkness claiming her features so he could no longer admire them while sadness clogged her throat and watered tears from the corner of her eyes that remained closed to him.

Though he had heard the tale uttered from many mothers before, somehow, when this creature before him chanted it, it struck the chords of something he would not know a name for for many years after. He’d never really listened nor cared for it before. Not until now. Not until this female who breathed every syllable with emotion that none had mustered before.

“The earth became vengeful watching her son love the woman that he took for his one and only love, so she trapped him, just as her own lover had been, deep within the confines of rock and soil. The daughter of the moon, just like her mother, wept, wept, and wept for the other half of her heart that she had given to her lover, and the moon, out of love for her daughter, begged the skies to release to the earth her beloved.”

The goddess in white had raised her hands toward the large orb in the sky almost as if to welcome its pain.

Why he had felt a need to rid her of it before it could reach her, he didn’t know. All that he did know was that the very thought of her receiving any harm, of something swallowing away her radiance, was unbearable, his chest panging at the idea of her light being snuffed out. Watching and listening to her…it was like stepping into a sea of warmth and luminescence, the darkness of everything else falling away into nothingness.

“Disgusted at the earth’s selfishness, the sky refused, but the moon begged, the sad tears and pained wails of her daughter over her lover’s absence making her mother sad and doleful. Her daughter’s siblings in the sky grew dim in their own pity for their sister, and too did their mother. The tides began to become restless, the seasons did not obey their call, and darkness began to eat away at the mother of the daughter who roamed restlessly, longingly, and devotedly in her search for her other half.”

Like the tide, the girl let her body sway with the water’s ripples as she spun around on her heels thrice, each rotation bringing her closer to him and yet, not close enough.

“Unable to cage the chaos that had taken hold of her body, the earth asked the moon to share her light with the world once more, but she could not. Not until her daughter’s lover had been returned to her. The skies, seeing that the world would soon turn to ruin, decided to offer a bargain: The earth’s beloved would be granted to her only during the rain showers of the skies tears that the moon would permit, and in return, the earth would relinquish her son to one who truly cared for him.”

The deity in front of him, unseeing of the world around him and now at the water’s edge, let her hands fall back to her sides until the cloth of her trailing, billowing sleeves covered them from sight once more. The darkness had receded to only one side of her face, the other receiving the tender light of the moon.

The wind blew gently around them, his scent continually swept away by it so that he could remain undetected by her even in this close vicinity.

“The earth accepted, but not before the daughter of the moon had collapsed from exhaustion on the ground before the cave that mother nature, the earth, had trapped the one she’d been searching for in. The daughter of the moon’s body had grown weak, the life inside it that they had made together stealing what little of her energy remained.”

His heart now hammering in his chest at her closeness, he could only hold his breath as he watched her, mesmerized by the ethereal glow that seemed to shine underneath her rosy cheeks.

“The earth’s son revoked his mother upon seeing the shaking shell of his lover, and on his back he carried her to the highest mountain before the widest plane where even the clouds shielded him from his mother’s vengeful eyes. There, the moon and sun fashioned a healing tonic flowing from the sun’s rays themselves, and with it, the son of the earth nursed his love back to health, their child soon born days later.”

As if the goddess before him could sense him, she delicately fell to her knees, hands folding in her lap as her chin rose toward the sky with eyes that still did not see nature before her. Had it not been for the cascading water from the little waterfall behind her, there is no way she would have missed the thundering whims of the muscle nestled under his ribs.

“The earth was resentful, and so she too became pregnant with more like her son when her lover was released to her through the rain. To her three sons came, each growing faster with the meats she fed them, and it was not long before they were sent to end the life of her first-born, each of them deformed by their hatred with a mind bent on revenge and wishing to rid their brother of his son and take what he held dearest–his beloved bride– for themselves. None were successful, but the largest of these monsters, after 10,001 nights, nearly was.”

She had paused, a silver streak of wetness falling down her cheek. An irrational desire to wipe it away had been quick to take him, his paw reaching out toward her. That tear did not belong here. Before he could make it there, the female who had sat on her knees only inches from him used her sleeve to clear it away, yet the redness around her eyes lingered as more tears fell and her chant descended in its lovely pitch almost as if life itself had been fading away from her.

“His brothers had wounded him, scarred him, hurt him in their many battles of blood, but the second eldest had been cunning. He’d waited until the female who had mated the eldest had gone into heat, her vulnerable state easy to trick her in when he’d covered himself in the blood of her mate. It had been easy to capture her and secure her to the nearest boulder at the cliff’s edge while he’d waited for her mate to return, and upon seeing her wrists and feet bound and their only son dead at her feet while the young pup’s lifeless heart was in the maw of his brother, he’d seen red, the thunder piercing air while rain had pelted them hard as lightning flashed.”

Each word had stirred a hole inside him that could not be filled except with the mellifluous sound of her voice, its mournful melody making him lower his own head in how heavy it suddenly felt. Her own hands had since opened and turned upward, palms facing upward as if to beseech something–anything– to comfort her. Again his paw had moved of its own accord, pads of them just a hair’s length above hers.

“Taking advantage of his brother’s anger, the second-eldest had almost managed to rip his brother’s head from his shoulders–if not for the moon’s daughter, who had seen through the second-eldest’s plans and warned him before it was too late. As a strike of lightning that had arced across the sky, the first son of the earth blinded the second-eldest with his claws before tearing his jawbone off of him and sending him howling off of the cliff to his death. This was not before he himself had been fatally injured, his brother’s teeth sinking deep into his nape and skull. Just enough strength he had had to loose the bindings on his lover before collapsing on the ground next to their lifeless son, his life draining away from him with the river of blood he lost.”

The female in white paused, shaking her head as if trying to will the image of it away, and her brows had reached toward each other as if to seek comfort while her small fingers had curled in on themselves. Still he holds his paw above hers, fearing that if he touches her, the trance will be broken. That this moment of respite he had found in this alluring creature that unknowingly welcomed him as her listener will come to an abrupt end.

When she had spoken again, there, in the back of each word, had been the inklings of hope, of the same brilliance she seemed to shine with under each of those long lashes of hers.

“The moon and sun, having observed the wicked earth from above, took pity on the sky-shattering screams of the lone female that had been left behind, her beloved’s dying breath that he wished he could have held her in his arms one more time while he told her that his love for her would never die. The moon and sun took pity on the two, reshaping and reforming their bodies yet housing their souls in them just the same, bestowing upon the lone female a gift– the gift to heal and restore with the same lips that had drank the life-giving tonic her beloved had fed to her through his kiss.”

Somehow, the tale had elicited images–remnants of another time– that he’d never thought about before. It was like uncovering something long buried, but it was fleeting. Gone before he could really process it as it buried itself again in the dirt of memory he would not recall for many years later. And in the face of her staggering divine beauty that no other girl her age should have possessed, it was easy to forget.

“The two found themselves together in each other’s arms in bodies that were of human craft, the ability to shift from their previous lupine,werewolf self to that of a human bestowed to them by the mercy of the gods above who soon created their likenesses, in different forms, sizes, and shapes, and populated the earth with them. Mother Nature corrupted some, but not all, and those that were not corrupted followed the first-born son of earth and the daughter of the moon, who mourned the loss of their son every moon until they were blessed with another, many moons later.”

Their shadows, now one, had melded together while she had sung the words as if they were a blessing. She had been at peace in the finality of the tale, her brows releasing from the tense position they’d been in, and where her lips had thinned where she had pulled them together, they had parted in their fullness, a strange impulse to touch where she had spoken so charmingly from fixing itself in him.

“Such is the tale of the Lupine Antiquis, the first of our kind. They were each other's heart and soul–fated by the moon and sun– by our gods above. May their tale always bring light in the darkness of lone wanderers in the night.”

Such ethereal sounds departed her lips that she breathed such life into, and he’d been so sure he had been enchanted by them, by her, his paw summoned by them to hers in the urge to dispel her own loneliness that loomed behind her like a penumbra even through all the luminousness of the moon’s silvery streams around them from the moon above.

The moment they’d touched, her eyes had opened, a look of surprise slowly transforming her once serene, relaxed features while he stared, drawn hopelessly to the glimmering, shining rings of silver that orbited her orbs for eyes. They were brilliant–she was brilliant– and instantly he had felt gravity somewhere in his chest shift, something flipping and turning upside down while he’d continued to gape, pulled immediately into the infinite space of compassion and curiosity that coursed through each of her eyes.

“Who…who are you? How did you find me?” She had asked the words so entreatingly, no inkling of fear in them. Even her questions compelled him to answer, for the young wolf deep inside him wanted her to hear him, to see him, to know him.

It had been that creature inside him that had made his bones move and change him from waist to head, his black fur falling away from him hair by hair while the young maiden’s eyes had widened larger than any planetary system.

“My name,” he had found himself answering honestly, “is Jungkook. I was wandering through the forest. I heard you singing.”

For no one else had he ever spoken so openly. There were few with whom his father would allow him to talk to, but this female… he felt like the walls he’d been taught to put up crumbled to mere specks under the endless expanse of her gentle gaze.

“You are,” she started in astonishment, “a boy. I’ve never met a boy before.”

Where his black paw had been resting over her upturned hands in her lap, there had since morphed from it a human hand, his baser being wanting–needing– a connection that he could not explain.

“Is that because you are a goddess sent from the stars?” The question had come out before his mind had even caught up with his lips, and the most ariose music of laughter that he’d ever heard had been performed for him by the female whose eyes had shone brighter than any light above them.

“I am mortal, Jungkook of the Forest. Why do you ask me this?” There was a soft rhythm even in her small movements, each of the pads of her fingertips tapping at his as if to tune her understanding of him into her mind.

There had been no hesitance in his answer, the song of her word and instrument of her beauty easily moving him.

“No siren nor angel has a voice like yours. No witch could harness the moon and shower themselves in its dust and light as you shine with its favor.” He had let her experimentally turn his hand over in her lap, both of her hands taking his between them and holding him there while he let his tongue loose the thoughts that made his heart race like an imp under his ribs at her touch that felt so impossibly right when he knew it shouldn’t have. “You sing of lone wanderers and finding someone that will end the torment of that inescapable loneliness when you are alone here–under the moon–in the middle of night. Like a fallen goddess.”

She had gone still under the staggering admissions of the boy from the wood, for he had seen in seconds what no other had.

That she was lonely. That she was searching for the end of that horrid, cold hell.

And the hand she held between hers? Not even the sun could burn that away, but his…it did. Somehow, holding him was like touching the purest of summer rays. It was… it was wonderful.

Perhaps that was why her own answer had spilled from her mouth to his eager ears. “No one that knows my name calls me by that term, Jungkook of the Wood. But you have earned a favor because of your perceptive eyes that have seen more to me than even those who birthed me are willing to acknowledge. Name it, and it will be yours.”

Greed had not been a concept known to him yet. But when he looked at her, its wings had unfurled, the promise of more making his hopes high and a selfish need soar.

He had to see her again. Had to hear her sweet voice again. Had to have her nearby and around him again.

In his mind, the subtle, dainty movements of a dance she’d done for the silver disk hanging above them had played, the shadings of his desire forming.

“I would ask that you grant my wish to meet here, in this creek, when the moon is full just as it is now.”

A smile had bounded across her lips, and she’d giggled to herself at his rather demanding request,“You are a strange boy to ask for my presence alone. Still,” she closed her eyes, cupping his hand in both of her own before bringing it against her chest where her heart kept trying to leap toward him. ”Let this be my promise to you, then, Jungkook of the Wood. We shall meet here, with the moon as our witness, when she is full on a night like this one. Allow me to sing for you to seal this vow.”

As if the atmosphere itself wanted to be her orchestra, the wind shook the branches and leaves, their chimes the perfect backdrop for the springing water behind and around them as she chanted to the gods in bits and pieces of a language not yet mastered, yet one that had been largely lost to time’s hand.

He had not understood a word of it, but somehow, her euphonious crescendos and trills that carried through the air like a feather had been enough to lull him into a most peaceful sleep after they’d both lain down beside each other along the soft bed of grass by the creek.

Dreams of her frolicking through a field of wheat with him tailing behind her while she’d had an angelic, carefree smile on her face were all that found him that night. And many, many after.

When he’d woken, the goddess he had been sure he’d met had disappeared, the only trace of her left behind in his hand being two gardenias that looked as if they’d been frozen in time at the pinnacle of their bloom.

Just as she had promised, she had found him in their meeting place under the mother of the stars when she became full. The female’s luminous laughter joined with his on those nights when he made it his mission to show her the joys of childhood that adults could never understand.

From the games of tag to making dandelions fly, their exploits were as infinite as the sky above, and inevitably, the sun would steal away the night–and her– from him when she would sing him to sleep with her dulcet songs while she stroked his hair from where his head had rested atop her lap from where she sat by the creek after they’d exchanged stories only innocence could conjure.

Each meeting brought them closer, an unexplainable union forging between two souls so alone yet so yearning for a companion that they were soon not willing to be apart from each other without their dreams interfering.

Years passed, but one cold, dark winter night, she did not appear to him again.

Devastation had stolen his joy from him, and for many moons he visited that creek, hoping that he would encounter his goddess once again.

When it became clear to him that his son had been afflicted by a sickness of the heart, his father had forced him out of the forest and down to the milling compound of wood and wolves like him for a supply drop at the forge that his father alone manned and trained him the arts of metal, crafting, and woodworking in. He hadn’t wanted to go, the little muscle in his chest aching and hurting as if stuck with thousands of needles in the absence of the goddess-turned-muse that he’d found in the wood.

He’d hardly been there a minute before he’d meandered from his father’s side, his nose catching a whiff of a pleasant, heavenly scent he had come to have a liking for where everything else was wretched and disgusting.

There, laying in the middle of a flowery field with an aged leather tome far too big for her hands, sat the figure of the only girl who could harness his attention to her. He’d called out to her instantly, but when she turned to him, the eyes that once looked at him like he was something so special had changed to ones of unfamiliarity. She’d cocked her head curiously at him, her usual light there in her orbs, but it was as if the lack of recognition refracted the usual rays of it that reflected her warmth straight to his core.

It had not taken his father long to pull him away from her, the young girl’s own mother dragging her away from him in a flourish of silks.

When her mother had informed the young girl’s father of Jungkook’s interest in her, the door to his home in the woods had been shattered to splinters by that father.

He had answered the older man’s call, a rigidness to the lines stiffening the older man’s face when he admonished Jungkook for coming too close to his precious daughter knowing that, as Jungkook was a pureblood, his urges and impulses would be much more uncontrollable, dangerous, and powerful.

That Jungkook’s father had bested this man in combat and taken from him the rank of Pack Alpha had only founded a dislike and disapproval of him even deeper.

Jungkook had not felt an ounce of fear, the thought of you, his glimmering goddess of flesh and bone, bespeckling him in intent. Intent that refused to let itself be snuffed out.

He had gone to his knee that night, bowing his head as a sign of respect when he’d told the young girl’s father about all that they’d done and promised under the moon, asking if there was a way her father would allow him to remain by her side even though she had forgotten him.

Her father had responded to his question with a challenge: injure him in combat, and he would accept Jungkook as his daughter’s silent protector and guardian in exchange for the chance to be near her, but absent from her everyday life until he could prove himself to be stronger than him.

He’d accepted the challenge without a second thought, and though he still had not been full grown at the time, he’d known enough from training with his father, who had been the Pack Alpha before him, to leave a scar on the man’s arm when he’d foolishly rushed toward him thinking speed would be enough to best him when he was more agile than any wolf the pack had ever had.

One thing he knew for certain had always been that the very thought of you brought music and color to an otherwise bland, dull world.

And if you could not remember him, he would rebuild anew. As many times as it took, he would start if you were at the finish.

What began as childish selfishness soon became adolescent fixation, and as the years passed and he grew taller, stronger, and older, that fixation morphed to a quiet obsession for the female that he’d discovered was, like him, a werewolf.

Her life, he had also discovered, had been one absent of the light and warmth she carried in her eyes.

For her whole life, she had been raised to be the Keeper of the Scrolls (one who attended to, studied, and taught all of the sacred knowledge and texts as well as enforced the traditions of the lupine antiquis) second only to being groomed to become the next Pack Omega, the highest ranked position an omega could hold, which was a position that afforded its bearer to preside over and have authority over all omegas in the pack.

She'd had to sacrifice her childhood for aged parchments and leather bindings of books older than her, the duty of nurturing and instructing the pack's litters of pups falling to her when the previous aged omega became too sick and frail to even leave her bed.

His lover's parents, thinking only of another shiny acumen to add to their perfect daughter that they hoped would attract the next Pack Alpha, had not given her a choice to take that role over. It had been a mandate.

And because her nose had always been buried in a book or scroll either in her chambers or in the archives, she had had very few to talk to. Those that did only did so out of the hopes that one day, she would grant them favors.

He knew this because he heard those insipid, manipulative creatures spin their cruelties in their speech behind his beloved's back when they believed she was out of earshot.

He'd taken the liberty of handling them, making sure that any vile words spoken about his female were never spoken aloud again with threats of exposing their own dirty secrets that so easily slipped from their lips when he gave them even the slightest bit of attention.

Such was easy when all of the females in the pack fancied him to the point that they would all but throw themselves at him when he took over the forge that his father had alone been running.

But sometimes, even he could not silence all of the toxic whispers of female jealousy. It was like a disease, and though he had done his best to cure it, there inevitably would be an outlier that slipped under his nose.

On those nights, his love wept alone in her chambers, her face buried in the mound of pillows on her bed that could not satisfy the need for another's companionship in the bitter solidarity that her parents had caused with their suffocating projection of their own will over her own.

Those were the nights he wandered closer than he should have and left you notes on your windowsill, wishing with everything in his being that he could be by her side, that he could do more than just be your besotted guardian phantom.

Your mother had become sick with an incurable illness your thirteenth winter when she had ventured too far in the forest and been pricked by a nature spirit’s curse that made her see things that were not there, her mind twisted by apparitions that made her forget all but her mate–even her own daughter. Your father, too, had been afflicted by his feelings for her mother that all but consumed him, and when she’d fallen into a sleep that had stopped her organs in your fifteenth year, her soul had joined those of their ancestors.

Unable to live without his mate, your father had gone, too, so that he could be reunited with his love in the after.

In his final moments, he’d sent for Jungkook, and he’d damned Jungkook such that, for many moons after, he would wish he could be rid of that night from his mind.

The dying man, who held tight to the blade in his chest that he had put there, had revealed to him that he had traded your memories with Jungkook in exchange for a release from your mother’s torment. With his last shred of life he had ordered Jungkook to protect you from a distance until his daughter came of age–until you were ready to give yourself to the next Pack Alpha.

You had not even been able to mourn them in peace, the duties your parents had bound unto you too tight to escape, and for three years you wore smiles during the day that never reached your eyes when the elders, like owls, had swooped down over you to caw at you to do more, more, more for the litters of pups you had to teach as the sole Schoolmistress, to be more firmer on the edicts and laws you were to enforce as Keeper of the Scrolls.

For years he had been your shadow and had kept to your father’s dying wish, and he had been content in simply being in your presence. Just seeing you had been enough to quiet the rampant thoughts that roamed his head when he closed them at night.

But when the heavy weight of it all became too much for you, it was no longer enough for him to linger by your window.

It was why, when the firelight had died and you laid on your bed in a deep sleep, he entered your chambers from the window you’d left open and stoked that fire so that the cold of loneliness did not find you. For a long time, he'd just sit there, watching your beautiful expressions while you slept with the flames licking at his back.

How he had longed to embrace you, but doing so would leave his scent on you. So instead, he did the only thing he could do for you.

He sang for you. Sang the very song he'd first heard you sing in the creek when they had been but children. And when the creases between your eyes would disappear, peace falling over your expression, that's when he'd confess his feelings for you and pour his very heart out to your unknowing form while you whispered his name as if you heard him. As if to beckon him to your dreams.

You’d had the cutest habit of rolling around and somehow twisting the sheets around your body in something akin to a cocoon. On the draftier nights that left a shoulder or leg exposed, he could sooner resist tucking you in than a leaf staying still when the wind blew. He’d kiss the space right next to where your hand was, the silky material of your bedding a poor excuse to the soft flesh of your hand or cheek.

Your mouth had always been off limits to him, but there were nights that you called so sweetly for him, your mind begging you to remember what had been taken from you.

Everytime he thought to wake you and tell you everything, it came just as soon as it retreated, the image of your father’s pallid form drenched in his own blood forcing itself upon him while he’d spurted the words of warning:

“She must never be told her memories were taken. If you do, the dark spirit that hurt her mother will steal away whatever memories she has left and she will wake every day with no anamnesis of you. As the only pureblooded female directly descended from the Lupine Antiquis, she presents a threat to their power that they wish to destroy. If you truly wish to be her shield, you will heed that, boy.”

He’d lost count of how many suns had risen with that warning pervading his mind like venom. Always looming over his head, he had never managed to cure himself of it.

Relief only came when he watched her, from behind the cover of foliage, and she ran through the fields, her hair unbound and free, with a smile that did find its way all the way into her irises. It seemed to glow brighter than the candlelight she’d leave by her bedside when she read through the letters he’d leave on her windowsill. He swore that from her perch on her bed, those orbs were impossibly more luminous.

That same luminescence stayed there only when she spoke to her grandmother or close friend, Niva, of her mysterious suitor from the paper left on her window. When she found him, inevitably, in their dreams that, for years, she had thought only to be a fabrication of her mind’s whims.

He moves toward the same rocky wall, walking through the curtain of vines and greenery without pause toward his destination.

He’s careful as he parts the strands of nature’s green hair, not wanting it to touch you and disturb your rest.

The rustling sound of the grass beneath his feet is quieted by the same flowing water that had greeted him when he was a child all of those years ago, the proud creek she’d made her refuge when home became asphyxiating from the demands of elders children that asked much of her.

The water sparkles now like thousands of diamonds atop of it, the green of the grass surrounding the bank of the pool emeraldine in color before the rocks bordering the pool of water. Even the trees stand at attention, devoted to shielding them from the rest of the world with boughs that contained leaves of every color that rivaled the precious stones he had fashioned into jewelry for her.

So much had happened since he’d first stepped foot here. And though your memories of him from before had been stolen, you’d never forgotten this place.

And neither had he.

His feet continue on past that creek, past the long basin of water that flows toward the smaller crevices in the earth, the thick forest around opening up to a meadow of lilies, lilacs, and lavender, the soft breaths of his slumbering beloved easing him while he carries you in his arms toward the large house of wood and glass in the distance.

You’d always loved the color purple, your hands lingering a little too long on fabric of the shade or flowers with petals of the hue as if you wished the entire world could be painted in it.

Purple like area around his wound had been when he’d come across her in the forest one night so many years ago and when they’d rendezvoused under the moon.

Not wanting to disturb her while she sang, he’d forgotten about the prick lodged in one of them when he tried to back up, only for him to have made a sound of pain.

It had been enough to make the human figure before him finally turn, familiar kindness in those eyes of hers dispelling the dark of his doubts and troubles.

She’d noticed right away the source of his discomfort, offering her gentle hands to him without a second thought.

He’d been taught his entire existence never to show weakness to anyone, but this creature–this goddess with a voice tuned and tailored by the gods– she had him quickly lain on his belly and his head on her lap within minutes, the melodies of feelings that could neither be seen nor understood streaming from her lips while she quickly, effortlessly, and painlessly pulled the thorn out before wrapping his injured paw in a bandage of leaves and moss.

He wonders if, somewhere in there, she’d been holding on and grasping for those little reminders of their time together even if she could not recall them fully. Like trying to grab for hay that kept disappearing no matter how many times one tried to get to it.

Still he walks on to the place he had built for her—a home he had crafted with his own hands, each beam and stone chosen with care.

The cabin stood there like something from the dreams he’d shared with her, its dark gray stonework grounding it firmly to the earth, while the warm, golden hues of the wood siding seemed to beckon the fading sunlight, blending seamlessly with the natural beauty of the forest. A towering stone chimney rose from one side, smoke curling lazily into the sky.

But it was the windows that had taken him the longest to craft—the massive, sweeping wall of glass that spanned the entire second story. It framed the forest like a living painting, offering an uninterrupted view of the wild landscape beyond. The black frames around the windows gave the structure contrasted with the light brown of the main paneling composing the main frame of the house, while a glass-railed balcony stretched across the upper floor, inviting the master bedroom’s inhabitants to step out and drink in the vastness of the wilderness.

The soft glow of light spilling from the lower floor's windows added a warmth to the cabin, making it feel like a sanctuary tucked away in the forest's embrace. And the deck, broad and covered, stretched out beneath the overhang of the second story that was lined with the same bevy of vines from the curtain of it that veiled away her little creek. It offered a perfect space to sit and listen to the whisper of the trees in the wind that he knew she liked to hear.

He treads board over the porch, the flickering flames that burn from their bronze sconces casting an inviting welcome upon the lower walls of stacked grey stone around them.

He’d placed each stone by hand, fashioned every fixture and wood paneling, and been the sole architect and builder of this place from the ground up since he was a child.

All for her.

And as he opens the double doors of glass, she is all he sees, his one hand tucking some of her fine hairs behind her ear.

He looks not at the rugs of earthly colors he’d woven himself, nor the tables, chairs, or other pieces of furniture he’d built here, in this space, that decorate the main foyer that opens to the left to a grand kitchen, and to the right a spacious dining room. He doesn’t glance at the main den with its impressive stone chimney past the kitchen that, like the front of the house, has tall windows for walls that leave a grand view of the surrounding forest and valley beyond.

In the back of that den are two doors opposite to each other on either side of the space–one a library full of books he’d spent years procuring from traders and adventuring merchants.

And the other was a study complete with her writing desk, her writing utensils, her favorite velvet-lined lounge chair.

All for her.

He doesn’t spare a second of attention on any of that as he climbs the spiraling staircase around the chimney, the dark metal rail complementing the wood of the steps as he holds the greatest of his treasures in his arms while the candles he’d left lit in their bronze candelabras sitting on the end tables and countered nooks flitter about, his shadow and his beloved’s joining together behind them.

When he arrives at the top of the staircase, his footfalls are light over the floor in effort not to awaken his lover’s rest, her dark lashes fluttering minutely when he deposits her on the nest of white and black pelts blanketing the bed. Its four wooden posters hold a curtain of grey fabric that, in the moonlight, looks like it is speckled with moondust.

Still he lovingly gazes upon you as he sits beside you, his fingers tenderly carding their way through your hair as he whispers, “When you wake, my love, I will be waiting for you. Until then, rest. May your dreams be sweet and your slumber peaceful.”

He pulls the cord from around one post of the bed and then the other, not looking away from your beautiful form for a moment. It is because of this that he notices one of your hands, even while your eyes are still closed, reach toward him, his name tumbling from your lips when his weight disappears from next to you.

That thing palpitating in his chest becomes fuller with the blood of his love for you at that, and he is quick to return to you after throwing another log into the stone fireplace built into one half-wall so that the chill of the night will not discomfort you even though the pillar candles he’d set into brass holders fan their warmth over to you.

When he lies beside you once more with the pelt he’d retrieved from the chest of birch wood at the foot of the bed, he gently covers you with it before slowly, tentatively guiding you toward him until your head rests on the pillow of his chest, a purring sound melting him when he hears it from your still figure.

Still fast asleep, you rub your cheek into the solid plane of his pectoral, the pheromones of his that that wafts around comforting you as you lay one of your palms over his heart, its steady rhythm reaching for you even in dormancy.

You nestle closer and closer until your front is somehow lain over his, your nose nudging up against his neck as you breathe in the black vanilla that only grew in the mountainside, the gardenia that you liked to grow in your garden, and pear that you liked to pick from the pear trees. It culminated into a heath of the scent of your love, his quiet breathing warming you more than any blanket could.

When your purr is drawn down into a breath shaped around his name once more, your voice summons his mouth to your temple as he turns his head to leave a kiss there, strong arms wrapping around you to keep you close.

“I’m right here, my love. I always have, and I always will be.” He utters against your hairline, lips finding a spot at the top of your head to leave yet another of his kisses–this one softer than the last.

With the love of his life secure in his embrace, he watches the way your lashes dance while you dream with unseeing eyes, wishing he could meet you in them.

The sight of you so at peace makes his own lids grow heavy, and soon, he too is carried off into the realm of dreams.

It is not until the wax of the candles on the bedside tables has begun to drip into the small bronze beds below them and the moon has risen to her throne in the night sky that the female in his arms is roused from her slumber.

Your lids are still groggy with sleep as you blink at the view of your mate who lies beneath you, a serene expression tenderizing his features into one more youthful and absent of lines that mark the obstacles of maturity.

Your wolf, now awake at the sight of your alpha, does not let you rest until you have satisfied the sudden need to touch him–to make sure this is real.

That he’s real and finally, finally yours.

So you sit up a little, using the hand you have on his chest to support you, the pads of your fingers on your other nimbly dragging across the area under one of his eyes. He doesn’t stir, and so you let your digits slide down the side of his cheek before they glide under his lower lip.

His breaths are even as they billow against your finger when your thumb glides over the plush cushion of his lip, and when his eyes open to reveal those golden discs of the sun in them, it takes your breath away in how they are incandescent as the candlelight around him.

“Good evening to you, too, my love,” his hand is there, wrapping itself around your wrist so he can bring your finger to his lips, both of them converging so he can present the proper attention to your digit as the pillows of both reach for you. “How are you feeling?”

Not even five seconds spent outside of sleep, and his first concern was you.

The fact makes that emotion from before envelop you, and when you try to press yourself more against him, that’s when you realize you’ve been encased in furs around your lower half. You don’t remember those from before. The last thing you could recall was the bathhouse where you’d fallen into his arms from blood loss.

As you ogle the bedroom around you, the air itself has been claimed completely by your alpha, his pleasing scent everywhere at once.

Why was it getting hotter the longer that enticing aroma swirled under your nostrils? Why did it emanate your mate’s very name everywhere you looked?

The answer comes when your mate releases you from his hold, both arms bending under him so he can lean back on them while the muscles scaling his arms jump at the motion and a loud, sharp whine fills the chamber.

Your skin feels clammy, but you know that the cold would be nipping at you if you were outside.

You only realize you’re whimpering when one of his large hands settles on your hip and he croons, “It’s okay, my love. I brought you home. You can do whatever you wish here. This place is all for you.”

Words seem insufficient now, but even if you could voice them, what comes out is: “Hot…I-I…I’m hot.”

“I know, my love. Your scent shifted as you slept.” He helps you kick off the blanket, for it fails to offer the warmth he did as you succumb to the insistent itch to be nearer, closer, nigher to him before you climb onto his lap while he lets you.

“Why?” Your breath comes out short, like a pant, your dress suddenly feeling too heavy and constricting on your body. You try to pull at one of the sleeves, and when he watches that, the pink of his tongue slipping over his bottom lip, the answer becomes evident in the slick that rolls down your thigh onto the edge of his bare waist from where you straddle him.

The hand he doesn’t hold you with curls into a fist in effort to control himself, his teeth biting into the flesh of his cheek as he tells you, “Your heat, my love. You are in heat.”

The answer has your thighs closing themselves around him persistently, unwilling to let him go. As if your mind has been filled with water, it is difficult to breach for clear thought, your body acting for you even though your thoughts are leagues behind.

It’s too hot here, under these heavy layers of your dress. You need to get out of it.

“H-hot…alpha…please,” You whimper meekly, your fingers fumbling for the v-lined neckline of your gown in effort to get it off while your hips roll into his, the hardness your bare sex rubs against obvious in his want for you.

His irises scintillate from where watches you above him, the hand he has on your hip squeezing strongly around you while the fingernails of his other leave crescents in the meat of his palm. By their nature, when an omega was in heat, they became vulnerable, losing most if not all of their rationale and reason over the impulse of their instincts. Instincts that demanded an omega to be bred by an alpha.

While your mind is clearly addled under the sweltering waves of heat, you can hardly say anything but the name of the only male your very soul yearned for.

“Jungkook, n-need…w-want-”

Those are the words that he needs to hear, the nagging worry that had begun to set in expelled at the call of his name. An omega that was able to speak was one that was not too far gone into their urges such that they were unaware of their actions and incapable of deciding whether they wanted to be mounted or not by an alpha.

“I want to take care of you, my love. I want to help you so badly.” He sits up, his other hand sidling up your lower back, your spine, and finally along your nape where he cups the back of your neck so he can bring you to his waiting lips. “But you have to use your voice for me, my love. I need to make sure that it isn’t your heat that makes the choice for you. Can you do that for me, pretty girl?”

“Yes…a-alpha,” You let him affix his mouth to yours, the wet warmth of him making you moan into his mouth while you continue to tug at your neckline in how tight it has become. He makes no move to deepen the kiss, simply content to breathe in your air and feel you against him while your hips undulate against him.

There is no room for embarrassment when all you can think about is him. And he treats you as if you are a shy spirit that could run from him if your sudden boldness catches up to you.

You fight the eddies of your heat that make thoughts want to sink before they can make it to the surface of your mind, but his words and restraint had been the anchor that you needed to make it there for a momentary breach of lucidity.

The mist of desire that had settled over your eyes clears when you open them for him, and there he sees the clarity of your decision that is unmistakable as the stars in the sky when you reach out for him through the invisible bond tying you together.

I want this, alpha. Please, help me. I…I need you.

He dives into the depths of your eyes, plunging forth to unearth any unsurety in you.

He finds none.

His other hand scales up your side, fingers slipping under one of the thin straps of your gown that hides you from him. There they stay until you disconnect your lips from his, a string of saliva lengthening between you until it breaks.

“Are you sure, my love?” He checks one more time, needing your assurance.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything else, alpha,” you earnestly encourage, covering his hand with yours and coaxing one of strap over and down your shoulder.

Slowly, the long train of your sleeve pools at your waist, one half of your chest now free from the prison of its fabric binding.

His mouth waters at the exposed skin you have granted him the gift of seeing, the larger and calloused pads of his fingers tracing around your breast while you let out a sigh of satisfaction at the feeling.

“You are so beautiful, my love. So, so beautiful.” He adulates while his fingers wander downwards toward your navel as your cheeks burn at the praise. Heat simmers under wherever he touches, and when the fabric of your bodice hinders him from going any lower, his digits ascend toward the other side of your chest. This time, you let your arm fall back toward your side, waiting patiently for him to unfetter your other breast from its confines.

He tugs it down as if uncovering a prized jewel, your skin all but glittering in the moonlight and candlelight that convalesce against you.

Little by little he undresses you atop of him, your hands falling over each of his shoulders when both of his arms wind around your back to untie and loosen the strings of your bodice one by one. You swallow his breaths like they are all the sustenance you could ever need, and he greedily sups yours when he doesn’t have his mouth latched to yours.

When the last of the lacings are undone and your bodice and sleeves, like your skirts, lie in a heap around your waist, he pulls away and your breathless pants entice his eyes down where old blood, dried spit, and half-moon shapes made by his teeth mark you from navel to neck.

He looks at you like you’re a goddess without wings, and that avid attention makes your heart take flight in your chest as he takes one of your breasts into his hand, holding you there while you make a sound of need that, to him, is a delicate song.

“I had my fantasies of you, but nothing I could have ever tried to picture could ever have been as good as this.” He husks, his other hand cradling your other breast before each of his thumbs curve inward, the pads of them rubbing along that pink bud of your nipples. “Your tits are so fucking pretty. So fucking perfect in my hands. Just like the rest of you.”

The stimulation makes a rush of arousal flood your body, your eyes misting over once again while you plunge back under the haze of your heat as you cry out for him, your hips, to their own tune, rutting into his in search of friction. When he squeezes, massaging and kneading his fingers into your tits, it only has your hips working harder against him while you moan for him.

He captures your mouth with his, flipping you both over after releasing your tits so he cushions your head with one of them and brace himself with his other, a smirk playing at his lips when you reach both arms around his neck in an attempt to pull him down toward your waiting lips.

“I used to think about how I was going to mount you for the first time, pretty girl,” the rings of gold in his eyes beckon your attention as he nudges his knee between yours so that you have something to rut your hips into, for he hadn’t missed the subtle sway of them when you’d been atop of him earlier. “This is exactly what I imagined. You, bare and waiting for me, on the bed I made with my own hands just for you. In the den I built just for you.”