#(stayed up too late for the first time in a while)

[slowdivinqs]

Presentiment

Stalker! Joel Miller x f!reader ( 18+ MDNI )

summary : no one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

w/c : 12K

warnings : no use of y/n, horror themes and elements DDDNE, stalker behavior, feelings of isolation and depression, existential crisis? Kidnapping, cynical thoughts about life described, abuse, violence against the reader by Joel, old!Joel. slowburn-ish. dub-con?. unprotected PinV. Oral f!receiving. Manhandling. Hunter / prey kink. Twisted daddy kink but no use of the word 'daddy'. Joel popping a viagra. VERY Large age gap ( 35+ years ) . Manipulation. Obsession. Reader’s mother is described as a drug addict. Shitty men, harassment and pervertedness from a co-worker. Murder / death of side characters. Stockholm syndrome. Reader is toxic too. Religious imagery. Can be pixel or pedro Joel. The reader is implied as being thinner due to life long poverty, but her body type is not described or stated.

a/n : This was made for @pedgito's writing challenge and kind of ran away from me. It was such a blast, I've never tried horror or a specifically dark fic and it was sm fun! I’m sure the characters I wrote will stick with me forever. I sat with this fic for a long time before posting, and it's the longest thing I've ever written!! Not sure how I feel about it still. Thank you for letting me participate! Happy birthday ♡

if you don’t like dark themes, listen to the warnings and don’t read the fic.

masterlist

—— ☓ ——

Something feels wrong before your eyes have had the chance to open – a kind of warning, an omen, baked into the morning light stabbing your iris through moth-eaten curtains.

It was the way your body ached as you tried to sit up, stomach screaming for food you just don’t have. Your mother hasn’t been home for a week and you know she’s either run off with some incest-bred asshole who’s promised her a beer or she’s passed out in a crack-house miles away.

Your shift at the diner starts in thirty minutes. 

The men that pass through this town are all the same. 

Truck drivers – men who think all women in the world are there to satisfy their needs. Iagos of the world, the dark underbelly. 

The men that stay in this town are not dissimilar, your days a monotonous blur of wondering when something better will drop into your desperate palms.

There is one man who feels like your only friend in the world. 

Standing at a whopping five foot seven, and still kicking up the diner’s jukebox at eighty three, he makes sun shine out from your soul. You can confidently say that Jerry is the best. 

He usually sits with you the entire day at work, and makes sure to fill your empty time by teaching you to dance to El Toro Rabón, and La Bamba. His rich hands, littered with wrinkles yet full of life, hold yours while he makes you laugh. Clapping as you finish off with an animated twirl and curtsy. 

Jason usually eyes you from the kitchen, rolling his sleazy eyes at the sight of you having so much fun with your elderly best friend. Going back to making greasy burgers and puffing on a cigarette that’s gotten him in trouble with the owner before. 

You never agreed with the sentiment that old people were cute until you met Jerry and his late wife during your first shift at the diner : fourteen years old and composed of an exhaustion that was ill fitting for someone so young. He’d been your first ever customer, seventy seven and still wearing that cowboy hat of his.

The first thing you noticed about him was his mustache, the way he uses wax to curve up the tight white curls into points, how it covered his top lip when he spoke, making him look like a cartoon character –  his oak brown eyes that has gotten increasingly red and yellow around the corners as he’s gotten older. The way his warm skin has developed patches of darkness, yet he still looks the exact same as the photo of him he showed you from thirty years ago : fresh off his racing horse in Mexico, holding the same cowboy hat over his chest that he adorns now, smiling brightly. He kept his hair looser back then, his ringlets looked shiny even in those black and white photographs.

He calls you bumblebee, and you think he’s the first person that’s ever loved you – and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved. He’s your sunshine, a tether to the world past your 18 hour work day. 

Every morning he’s seated in the diner at 8:30 AM with a joke to tell you, stories of his racing days, growing up in Cuajinicuilapa, his time travelling around South America before settling down in this small town near Wyoming. He tells you of his late brother, his views of the world and the people he’s met. He talks of humanity and how love is what is most important in life.

You feed off of the stories he tells you : meeting people from all walks of life under the pretense of coffee, sitting around the same food stand, chatting to strangers who would play guitar on the side of the street for no other purpose than passion. 

You feel the desire for this ideal world thrum in your veins vicariously.

He used to come in with his wife Dolores until she passed two springs ago – he talks of her jewelry often, thinks that you should inherit it : they were never able to have children. You serve his coffee fresh and hot – asking Jason in the back to make his eggs perfect and his toast golden brown. You sit across from him at the counter to play bullshit with him while he eats – he always knows when you’re lying, his cheeky smiles catching you out, and his joy wraps it’s warm arms around you.

Your days are filled with giggles and smiles whenever he comes to see you, and he never leaves without a hug. 

Jerry does not like Jason one bit – eyeing the skinny, pale cook through the serving counter, telling you that a man like that is ‘no good, honey’. You don’t blame him – Jason had tried to coerce you into giving him a blowjob a few weeks before your 18th birthday – but never forced you when you had threatened to go to the sheriff and have them run a much needed background check. Jason has steered clear of you since then, knowing you weren’t shooting empty threats. You never told Jerry about that, but you think he knows regardless. 

He jokes that the forest behind your house has eyes – the kind only the old and the dying could feel. You never found it funny. 

Your clothes were not too crinkled this morning when you pulled them on : giving you a small mercy as did your almost-dry mascara surviving one more day. That hadn’t quelled the uneasiness you’d felt all morning, the whole drive to the diner. All you could think about was seeing your friend, and hoping that he would give you a hug and tell you all those happy stories again.

The second you clock in, and Jason comes back in from his third smoke of the hour, Jerry opens the door to the diner. 

You float over to the counter with a genuine smile, but it flickers when you see the look on his face. 

He talks a lot that day – about his wife, about his old job, even the time a fight broke out in his hometown and his father died, how the horses he looked after got caught in the crossfire : admitting he had hurt the perpetrator afterwards and it haunts him. He tells you everything, even the things he’s told you time and time before – forgetting he ever mentioned it. He’s never forgotten a thing about you, but he talks as though he’s in a hurry, as though he needs to get everything out.

He does not come in the next day or the day after that, and when he doesn’t arrive on the third day you take time off to confirm your fears at the hospital. You do not hear it from a nurse, or a doctor, but from the silence you are met with when you ask for him. That silence, the loneliness that instantly sunk into your bones, shattered your heart into millions of pieces. It is destroying.

You did not come to see him when you could, there was still time to be had, stories to be told. He never saw you make something of yourself, he will never walk you down the aisle like you dreamt he would one day. 

You are all alone in the world. No one to speak to, no one to comfort you. No one to make you think life might not be as meaningless as the whispers of your mind seem to believe. The warmth of him is gone, and you feel as cold and grey as the forest that surrounds this town, as if the sun has gone into eternal hibernation.

You want to bury yourself in your room for hours, to not surface for months and months until your body reflects the rot you feel on the inside. Hollow. Your sunshine is gone. 

You tell yourself Jerry is now with Dolores, and laugh at the fact that your mind even supplied such a deluded thought. You never believed there was something better up there, not for long anyway. 

You still go to his new tombstone, next to his wife’s, and speak to them. They were both religious, crosses carved into the place their names will stay forever, and so you ask any god out there to let them rest peacefully as though they are back in their hometown with their horses and not worry about you. 

That evening you sit on your porch, chain-smoking the packs of cigarettes you had been saving, staring at the stars caged by thick trees. You realize you do not have a purpose. You don’t have a want – can’t have one, there’s not enough money for the luxury of wanting something. You’ll live and die in an 18 hour work day.

Your thoughts are scary and boring at the same time, so you begin to look out at the illuminated forest. The sounds of the night – it scares you as well sometimes, an entire empty forest just outside your door, nothing but rotten wood and locks keeping you safe.

Today you found out you will be alone for the rest of your life, but when you sit out on the porch, flicking your third cigarette – you don’t feel entirely alone at all. You feel as though there is something out here with you, your skin rippling with bumps. 

You blame it on the Grim Reaper licking at your heart today.

The cabin on the other side of the forest you’re staring at now has been vacant since you were born. Never a light, a sound – it haunts you.

The closest you’ve gotten to it was at the ripe age of 8, venturing through the forest to explore. You had come to the front door until the house moaned at you, and the forest went quiet. You can still vividly picture the glance you got of the cabin while you ran all the way home. 

You leave the shadow of the cabin in the dark forest behind, you need to get dressed for your shift. Money waits for no one, not even for the death of your best friend. 

Down the empty highway, not a car in sight – the image of your headlines whirring past the thousands of trees burnt into your retinas from seeing it every single night. Your eyes are puffy and raw from crying, a headache pounding behind them.You pass the single off–ramp road you’ve never been stupid enough to take, the one that winds through the forest, all the way to an open clearing, a small path that can barely fit your sputtering car – leading all the way to the back of your rotting house. You used to play in that clearing as a child, pulling out grass and flowers and making huts out of branches until the day the forest went quiet for a second time – and you knew something was out there with you. 

You had told your mother after running inside, but she pushed you away from the comfort of her arms and told you it was just jackals – you knew it wasn’t, even then. 

It had seemed you knew something was coming your whole life, constantly looking over your shoulder – watching, listening. Sensing all and any kind of movement anytime, wary. You didn’t like the silence, you didn’t like being alone – yet you were singled out, not a soul or sound to comfort you through your isolated existence. 

The gas station is empty as it is every night, you use the time to read. To think, to wonder what it’s all for in the end. If you should run away, leave and never come back. Go and find the ocean, let it swallow you whole.

The sliding doors of the entrance ding as they open. Your eyes flick up so quickly it hurts. A man walks in, and your stomach swoops. Everything falls quiet, and you think of the thing that your mother called the jackals, you think of the forest falling silent : baby birds quieting in the face of danger.  He disappears behind a shelf, a glimpse of a Carhartt jacket that sparks a warmth : a remembrance of your dear friend who is now gone, the once comforting material on someone foreign, scary.

Your breath shallows. You don’t know why. It’s not just the quiet – it’s the kind of quiet that makes your blood congeal. Like the silence before a scream. 

You glance to your side, below the counter, a bat sits for emergencies. You’re not sure why you are panicking the way you are, if it’s the hour, Jerry’s passing, the presentiment you’ve felt all week. 

There is something silent, and something wrong. 

When you look up, you still don’t see him. The light behind you flickers, and you almost want to cry at the fear that’s bubbling up in your throat, your hair is standing on end. Your ears prick at any sound, a fridge door opening and shutting. 

Your body is shutting down on you, your heart crawling up your throat by claws : fighting and fighting for a chance to survive while your body quivers with the force of your instinct to run. Grab the bat, over the counter, out the door to your car. 

You blink, realizing you haven’t been seeing a damn thing, and he’s on the other side of the counter. Looking at you with a blank expression. 

Your heart fizzles and falls back to its place, your hands are shaking. 

“Forgot milk.”  His voice is entirely too flat, disarming and discerning. 

You glance down at his hands, calloused and holding a single jug of full cream milk. He’s waiting for you to scan it. 

“Right, sorry.” You mutter, sliding the milk over the scanner and taking the cash from him before returning the change. He hasn’t looked away from you once, he seems tired and bored : a normal milk run, but you’ve never seen him before. It’s shocking for a town with under five hundred residents. 

He nods his thanks and leaves. The sound of his car sputtering away allows you to finally exhale. 

You cash out and go home soon after that, shaken, like every ounce of fear you’ve felt in your life crashed through you the second he entered the store. An omen, a warning. 

You wake up to a box at your door the next morning. In your sleep-shaken state, you have half the mind to stomp on it, fearful it came from The Man last night. Fortunately, curiosity seemed to be on your side this morning, as upon opening the box you find Denise’s necklaces, bracelets, rings and books. Paintings, antiques, and most importantly - a cowboy hat. Your favorite hat in the entire world. He had left everything of his to you, when he wrote his will you do not know. Maybe Jerry knew what was coming, he always was wise, connected to everything there is in a way you wish you could be.

You cry all morning, through your miserable shift at the diner. You must look like some sort of slug, because Jason asks you if you’re okay, as does the girl from your old english class who came in that morning all the way from New York : in town and visiting her parents. She dyed her hair and found her style. You see the sparkle of the world in her eyes, and your dirty fingers itch to steal it, to run outside with her car keys, assume her role as a real person. You do not feel real at all. 

When you return to your rotting home you watch an old western - Jerry’s favorite - while you wear his cowboy hat, toying with the new jewelry that was sent to you when the police must’ve got around to acting out Jerry’s will. You feel loved and, oh, so lonely at the same time. You are a ghost in your own home, and the appearance reflects it. No real girl would live in a house of mold and quiet, where it is abandoned despite having a resident. 

—-

The Man returns this evening as well, in the moment you were humming the iconic tune from your new favorite movie. Jerry had good taste. The world goes silent, and he grabs a pack of beers before heading to the till. “Marlboro Reds, please.” He has a Texan accent, and you stare at your hands as you give him what he wants. He leaves after that again, your only customer of the night. 

 

The next night, he takes his time browsing the store. You watch him, watch how he languidly moves, scanning the items like his eyes would not eventually land on you. Approaching the counter with his chosen trifle.

 “You don’t get scared workin’ nights?” He asks, and now you know your concerns were not unfounded. 

“No.” you lie, meeting his eye for the second time since the first night. He does not have facial expressions, you realize. Blank, revealing nothing. He is a handsome man. An eerie man. He nods, holding eye contact as he grabs the useless item and goes back to his sputtering truck outside. He looked like he wanted to call you a liar. 

You do not show up for your shift the night after that. Your gut tells you to stay home, to lock your doors and keep your father’s old pistol near you. To close the blinds – sit and listen to every sound of the night. Check under your bed just in case.

You’re late to the diner the next morning, greeted by Jason’s complaining that he had to serve the first customer’s coffee, asking for you to make it up to him. When you peep through the corridor, your heart drops at the only customer in the restaurant. 

The Man has come to the diner. He knows you, he knows where you work – probably where you live. 

Maybe he lives here, maybe it’s all some coincidence. Maybe it’s not what you think. 

You bring him his eggs and bacon, and when you look up to his face he’s already looking at you. He does not move, does not touch his knife or fork. He’s staring at you. 

“Leave me alone.” You say, quiet yet firm, standing over him as he blinks and looks down at his food. Your fear is making you angry, fire spitting in your eyes. He doesn’t answer you, and after two moments of being unable to bear the energy that exudes from him – you walk away, into the back of the kitchen to watch Jason work, peeping through the slits of the serving station to watch The Man eat his food. Your body hair prickles into points.

Jason eyes you, glances at The Man, and raises a faint eyebrow at you. 

“That your daddy?” he asks, staring at the popping bacon. You watch the grease heat and solidify, the sweat sticking on Jason’s skinny yet defined triceps, coated with wiry hair that’s never been tended to. 

“No.” you whisper, tucking your hands under your legs : they are cold, and your skin is overridden with goosebumps, hair standing. You feel as though you’re about to be swallowed, like large claws will pick you up and drop you into a maw of sharp, hungry teeth.

“Why’s he givin’ me the stink eye, then?” Jason grunts, picking at his gold tooth with a grimy finger as he lazily looks over to your thighs, then your face. Raising an eyebrow at how fearful you look, he glances back at The Man. Something like concern flashes across his face, and he lifts his cap to rub over his short, receding hair. It’s the first time his eyes have ever looked soft.

“Dunno.” is all you manage to mutter as you brace a peek to find The Man has looked away.

He’s slow, takes time to eat every piece of food while staring blankly out the window, like he’s watching the world as though he’s never seen it before, unnatural. You want to tell Jason about your all consuming fear that this man is going to hurt you, but his eyes have changed and he makes another comment about how good you look in the plaid dress that happens to be your uniform.  You choose to wait outside of the building instead of enduring the male specimen of your species. It feels like you are alone in a world of monsters.

When you return inside, there’s a fifty dollar tip next to the spotless plate, everything stacked for you to carry. 

You don’t return home that night : you ditch your job at the gas station for a second time,  leaving your car at the diner to book a room at the shitty motel. It feels as though you died the same day Jerry did, maybe you are dreaming : alone in an empty world, your only companion being the monster. Nothing feels real.

You fall asleep to the sound of ugly moans, watching the handle of your door : your heart beating faster than your body can manage. Rocking yourself back and forth, humming a soft tune your father used to play on the guitar when he was sober enough to think. 

You feel as though you are living on borrowed time, as though this opportunity to wait is a mercy.

He is not at the diner the next morning. Neither is Jason, it’s closed up and the lights are shut off – it is Jason’s job to open up and get the stoves burning. You try to call the owner with the small amount of change you have on the payphone, but no one answers. The sound of the dead line ringing in your ears as you look around in a panic. 

You suddenly feel as though you’re back in that patch of forest, surrounded by tall trees and a monster waiting to swallow you whole. Watching. A fear so curdling you fear you’ll throw up over the plastic phone. 

You’re wide awake standing behind the counter of the gas station. Watching the fluorescent lights flicker. You parked your car out back. You’re holding the bat in your right hand under the counter. You are waiting for him to come in. You should have driven far far away, but you have a sinking feeling he would have followed. 

The night is completely quiet. No people, no sounds except for the humming of the fridges. 

You glance at the back door, and the moment your eyes turn away from the sliding doors they ding. Your hair rises and stands violently. Skin alight and blazing as the first footstep echos in the store.

You don’t think about it, your body tells you to run and you do. 

Out the back, to the edge of the concrete until your feet are pounding along the road, bat gripped tightly in your fist. The sound of your own feet are drowned out by the ones behind you, big and stomping. The trees framing your attempt at an escape as they yawn and stretch above - caging you in, suffocating. They grow tall as you sprint, closing like they will eagerly crash down and trap you like a wave from the ocean you’ve never seen.

You push with all your might, and you thank the lord you took track during school, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you run so fast the sound of feet behind you fade. It feels like victory, like being free – your chest blooms from the burn and the success. You think of the gun in your bedside drawer, and turn down the off-road into the woods you’ve never been brave enough to take before. The only sound is the one of your own feet : you’re not stupid enough to look behind you.

The moon lights up the forest floor, you don’t trip over a single root or branch. You’re moving faster than you ever have in your life : your lungs screaming, fear rising in your lungs like bile. You break into the clearing, the one that has always been haunted by Jackals. 

You’re almost home. 

A force heavier than you think you’ve ever felt crashes into you from the side, you’re slammed down into the one patch of grass you often picked, the bat flying out of your hands and rolling to the dirt in front of you.

“Knew you’d run here.” A deep, breathless voice says right into your ear, your hair is pulled as a hand clamps down on your struggling wrists, excited. “Always liked playin’ here, didn’t ya?” he grunts, pulling something out of his pocket. You swing your elbow up, knocking him straight in the jaw. He sways for only a moment, but it’s all you need. You dash forward, crawling away from him before you find your feet, grabbing the bat and smashing it down over The Man’s skull. He groans and stumbles, gripping the back of his head as you trip over your own feet to stumble away. You run towards your rotting home, you can’t think about the fact he knew where you played as a child, all you are thinking about is the gun. 

You don’t even get to the steps of your back porch before he’s tackling you to the ground again and hitting the side of your face hard enough to make you cry, your head fuzzing. Your face stings and your eye throbs. You want to bring your hands to cup over the hurt, hold yourself in an attempt to make it better, but he is holding your hands. He curses at you, spitting vile words for managing to get solid blows at him.

“Come on, darlin’. You think that little gun ‘s gon’ do anythin’? It don’t even got any bullets.” He grunts, you feel zip ties around your wrists, your mind racing as you continue to struggle and kick until his hand is around your throat faster than you can think. “Don’t make me hit that pretty face again, bitch.” 

You go still, and slumped. Trapped in a wolf’s jaws. 

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter as you squeak a protest, until you can’t think anymore and the last of your squirming falls away. 

The first thing you smell when you wake up is smoke, the kind that comes from a fireplace. The first thing you see is rich, dark wood. You’re on a bed and you glance up to see you’re handcuffed there. Your skin isn’t just throbbing – it's raw, the skin bitten where the metal has scraped against you. Your head pounds like it’s been split open, the ache thick and blinding.

You can feel he is somewhere within the room, the twist of your stomach and the lingering presence on the back of your head tells you he is there. A creak of a chair behind you finalizes his presence but you can’t be bothered to do anything besides slump back against the mattress, curling up into a tiny ball. 

He says your name to get your attention, and you don’t attempt to look at him, your skin is already crawling with what you think he wants to do to you. Future years of using and hitting flash through your mind, wishing for the mercy of death.

He walked next to the bed too fast, too silent. A wall of muscle and heat as large as him should not be so quiet.  He is touching your hair, stroking down your cheek. His hand is rough and warm, he smells like a cologne that reminds you of your father. You think you might be sick.

“I was bein’ nice. I waited.” he says softly, pressing down with his pointer finger on the bruise that has molted under your skin, making you wince and shuffle away from him, glancing up at him to find his striking, dark eyes on you. His jaw is bruised where you hit him with your aching elbow, a trickle of dry blood still stuck on a piece of his salt-and-pepper hair. You made a crack in his head – a small trickle of pride filling your veins at the fight. 

It is small lived, and dies out at the next throb of your wrists.

He sighs at this reaction, before walking out of this bedroom and shutting the door behind him. 

You lie there for what feels like hours, only moving when you notice the water and ibuprofen on the bedside table : still in its packaging. Your whole body aches, the last throttles of your adrenaline were beaten out of you with his hands. 

It’s only when you sit up that you notice where you are. The view outside the window is the forest behind the cabin that groaned at you, that haunted you as a child. 

He’s lived here the whole time : he’s been here the whole time. The feeling of impending doom that curdles your skin when he’s been near. The jackals you felt as a child, the forest going quiet. 

It’s been him. It’s always been him.

Your skin feels as though it will turn inside out, every hair on your body standing to a rigid point. The fear feels as though you’re dying. 

You don’t have to look to know he’s silently opened the room again, and you speak.

“You some kind of pedo?” You spit as your head throbs, sitting up on the bed, tugging on the cuffs, rage curdling and bubbling up on your skin – you think of your mother. 

He stops moving at your words, “what?” 

“You’ve been watching me since I was a child.” 

“It wasn’t like that, Jesus.” He grunts, sounding uncomfortable at the idea. You almost want to laugh. In your periphery you see he’s ditched his canvas jacket, wearing a navy flannel that shows you just how large he is - as if you didn’t feel it the night before when he tackled into you so violently, stealing every inch of breath in your lungs.

“Oh, well sorry for assuming some old, sick pig stalking a young girl since she was a child isn’t a fucking pedophile.”

He smacks you over the throbbing patch of your skin, and you finally glare up at him with every bit of ire in your body. It was not any kind of hit, it was the kind that made you feel like dead weight, that knocks all the air out of your body as if you are a puppet with it’s strings cut. 

He’s staring down at you.

“I’m not –  christ, it ain’t like that.” 

“So you’re just going to kidnap and keep me? You’re not going to – to do anything, is that right?” You scoff the words out, holding your hand to your cheek. The ache under your skin feels like it could stay there forever. 

“I don’t want to do anything to you.” He seems to notice the irony of his words when you let your palm drop, face swollen. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

You look out the window and go silent. 

“You didn’t have to hurt me, this was your choice.” You spit, and he looks almost surprised by your words. There’s goosebumps that break out over his skin, and the energy in the room constricts as he backs away from you.

He glances out the same window before handing you a warm bowl of stew, pieces of meat and potato bobbing up from the thick, stock smelling liquid. You stare down at it, and then glare back up at him. 

“Is it poisoned?” You’re not serious, you’re angry.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier.” He says it as though it’s as casual as the weather, as though killing something – a person – is as boring as can be. Idle reassurance. 

“You seem to like the waiting game.” You huff, staring at his large, twitching hands. His watch is broken.

He looks like he wants to smile at your quip, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Eat.” He tells you, closing the bedroom door softly as he leaves you be.

—

You have been here for two weeks, only knowing this due to the little alarm clock next to the bed that he brought you from your house. 

True to his word, he hasn’t touched you – in fact, he’s been taking care of you in ways you have never been before. It’s intimate, and a sick hunger has begun to heat low in your belly alongside the fear. 

You feel as though you’ve been living in a small bubble where time never passes. He watches you at all hours of the day, asking you questions about the men you’ve worked with, if there’s anything from your house you want him to fetch. He tries not to hit you when his anger bubbles up at your persistent silence. He asks you questions about yourself, not ones like favorite colors, but if you think all people in the world are unsavable. 

He looks like he’s hoping you will tell him he can be saved. You do not. 

He makes you eat dinner with him every night, bathes you as well. The first time he tried it, after letting you rot in bed for three days, he had to wrestle you into the bathtub after trying to be nice, held you down while you kicked and splashed and scratched at him until he pressed his fingers over your injured face in an unforgiving manner until your cries went quiet, and you almost fainted from the pain. He made you apologize for making him have to hurt you. 

You swallowed the clawing, raging voice at the back of your throat and did it. When he kissed your forehead and told you it’s okay, a warm sickness swirled in your stomach, nauseating and tentatively delicious all at once.

You have not tried to fight him after that night, scared of what would happen if he were to comfort you. 

He tucks you into bed most evenings, pressing the blanket to cushion you and arranges the pillows. In the first nights, it had scared you : you hadn’t slept a wink, terrified he would slip into bed and his patience would wear thin. Now, it feels like something nice. He tries to tell you happy stories, he usually fails – but it makes you think of Jerry and you feel better regardless, it makes The Man seem more real, like a human rather than a monster. 

He asks you to curl up next to him on the couch so he can read aloud to you, books you’ve heard about in passing but never read : he has a liking for Cormac McCarthy and the Wild West. He bakes cookies for you when you ask him your first question, letting you sit at the table with a glass of milk to enjoy them. You feel warmth radiating from inside of you, spiked with fear – no one has baked cookies for you before. You finish them, and he says he’s proud.

—-

The sinking feeling comes slowly. Seeping into your bones whenever he holds you. It gets worse when you begin to dream of him, a possible reality, one of him holding you and kissing you – telling you you’re lovable, perfect, worthy. Six months have warped your brain, slipping out of your grasp like sand. You wake up to slickness between your legs, a desire to go find him in the kitchen making breakfast and nuzzle under his broad arms, let him squeeze you tight and surround you with his scent. You don’t have to beg him to make you feel loved, he’s always loved you : he’s made that clear. 

You had realized long ago that he is too big for you to fight, he is all consuming and overpowering. The sinking feels like acceptance, and you think it’s close to dying. 

It’s a sunny day when it all hits you. He’s been out for half an hour – at the grocery store a few towns over – the moment he said goodbye you had felt a twist in your stomach. You didn’t want him to go. He hugged you and told you he would be back soon, kissing your cheek when you got teary, his whiskery beard tickling your soft skin. 

You don’t know when the terror began to feel like safety. You only know that when he’s gone, it feels like you’re alone with the jackals instead of how it was when he found you. When he was the monster.

The worst part was you knew why you reacted that way. Sitting in the sunny room, you forced your mind to constantly think of escape routes, of the disgusting actions he had committed, the way he has trapped you in this little house. Your mind adamantly hates The Man, but that large pit, the self that was unloved and uncared for – alone, has already started to need him, to ignore the stupidity in believing he loves you. To latch on like a leech and suck up all of the love and care he has, not caring if it’s real or pure, to see if it’ll make you round and fat with it – satisfied.

 

The hunger for what he has to offer you makes you feel like you might be the true monster in the house : your desperation for what you have never tasted knows no bounds. You think you’d kill for it. You might have been the jackal the whole time, the hole that lived inside you might have turned you ugly from a young age. 

You are scared of your own desperation. 

He bathes you every night – ritualistic and precise. Guides you under the water until you reappear, clean and new to a kiss on your cheek, hands scrubbing you clean. Every time the surface breaks and you come back to him, the forest grows denser : tighter and vast while the home, your home, becomes all the more simple and clear, exactly how it is supposed to be. 

You need him, and you think you love him. What that makes you, you’re not sure and you no longer care. 

He goes out months later, telling you he needs to get food and soap, baby - he leaves the window open and the door unlocked : he knows you will not leave. He says he’s going to grab soap, but he is carrying a prescription slip with a little baggie, what he’s actually going to get remains a mystery to you. 

The nightmare you had in the middle of winter had shifted something deep in your foundations – the fear that licked up your spine at the thought of being alone – the much lesser, flickering fear that your body had instinctually looked for him in his room, the dull scream your mind let out at the way you climbed into his bed, burrowing under his large, comforting arms until your brain went quiet and he pulled you closer. Those dull screams of fear and resistance from a lifetime ago have been washed away from his hands, and now a need so gravitational has birthed in its place. You want him.

Dusk comes softly in the weeks after taking residence in his bed. He still has not touched you, and you are beginning to feel ire towards his morality. A wrongness in the way he tries to be right. The cabin is warm with firelight, the smell of smoke wrapping around you like a blanket, similarly to his flannel that stretches over your skin. He jostles open the door slowly, grocery bags lining his fingers in a way that is dangerously domestic – his hair is tousled. His eyes catch onto the fabric, and he pauses.

“You’re in my shirt.” He states, but you know it’s a question. Your eyes search for the little baggie he had, wondering what he put in there. 

You close the book he gave you to read, the cover sliding across your fingertips, “It smells like you.”

Something in his expression shifts. You think it might be guilt. Or pride. Or both, layered on top of each other until they’re indecipherable. He sets the bags down and moves to you, slow and steady – crouching to your level in front of the couch. 

“You missed me?” He asked, eyes wild and dilated, hands skirting over your exposed thighs. Up and down. 

You look away, unable to meet the gaze that is burning into you, to admit how far you’ve gone to his face. Yet your head nods, eyes flicking to his as your chin wobbles, bottom lip jutting out before tightening in a grimace. He wipes a tear from your eye.

“’s okay to miss me, I’m the only one who’s here f’you, darlin’.” He cups your cheek, rubbing the skin there. You meet his eyes this time, close them before you’re leaning in, resting your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, guiding you onto his lap and telling you it's okay, and it’s natural, baby and finally I love you, don’t cry sweet girl.

You’re tired of the tears, of the fight. Tired of the empty woods and the silence – the loneliness that lives in your bones. You’re tired of running from the thing that makes you feel whole and real.

You wonder if Jerry ever saw this coming, and if he did – why didn’t he ever warn you something so soul destroying would be waiting to swallow you? Why didn’t he tell you the most human monster in the world would be the only one to see you without the shiny idealism behind cataracts? You feel guilty for admitting that The Man knows you better than Jerry ever did. The Man knows you are not made of sunshine and flowers, he sees the hole carved in your stomach that makes you so achingly hungry, and shows his own back. 

— 

You noticed the loose floorboard on the second day, and now you pry it open. While you care for The Man, you are acting on instinct.

He had shouted at you this morning while you were still curled in his arms, gotten rotten and angry, called you a stupid bitch when you had asked him to come with him to the store, wanting to see the world again. 

You were hopeful he would trust you, that he would prove you are, in fact, not living in a cage. 

He had stormed off, and for the first time in eight months he had locked the door on his way out, shoving a small plastic bag in his pocket. 

Spiders crawl out from the floorboard, and you jump back, standing on the couch while you throw The Man’s shoes at them, you wish he was here so he could take care of it, could laugh softly at your fear and hold you in his arms – away from the floor – to protect you. 

You remind yourself you do not know his name and that you’re trapped here, a jarring reminder of the way you have settled.

You need something to prove he was a real, living man before his life revolved around you. You need to rebel against him, like a petulant, scared child because of his rudeness this morning. 

Once you feel safe enough, you roll up the sleeve of the lacy undershirt he gave you and stick your hand inside. Searching for some sort of ocular truth amongst the bones of his own rotted cabin.

A pair of old boots with a ‘J’ engraved in the sole is the first thing you pull out. An army knife next, then a bunch of guns and weapons. 

No matter how strange it is to find guns and knives buried in someone’s house, for The Man it’s quite boring.

You pull out a shoe box next, placing it next to you on the floor before blowing the dust off of the top. It doesn’t help much. From the amount of grime, it looks as though you are the first person to touch this box in years.

The lid sticks to the rest of the compartment from cobwebs, but you discard the thing anyway, desperate and careless.

 

A photo is the first thing you find, old and yellowed.

A little girl.

At first you are fearful she is a victim, until you see the photo of The Man - much younger - holding her in the hospital. Your stomach curdles, and it feels like rotting, eating itself from the inside. 

A daughter. 

Your heart swoops low, pensive. You think of the room he keeps locked, the warm light that streams under the gap of the door - reflecting something pink inside. The way you would watch the beams dance on the floor like a whole soul was trapped inside there, wilting as the sun set.

Her birth certificate is the second thing you find. 

  Sarah Miller : 1983 / 03 / 18   

  City of origin : Arlington, Texas. 

  Father  : Joel Miller  

A name, a life, a whole world buried in the foundations. 

You gawk at the fact that The Man – Joel – is 60 years old. 

Her missing poster is what you find next. Bile rises like acid on your tongue, a smiling, happy girl plastered with information about her last whereabouts, the pink shirt she was wearing and how tall she had gotten. She went missing on your third birthday. Your head swims. You drop the documents back into their casket with trembling hands and weak knees.

 Stupid, stupid girl – why did you have to look?

The last thing you find is a golden tooth, familiar in its grime and dullness. You can imagine a sleazy tongue gliding over it in irritation. Jason’s golden tooth. You drop it immediately and slam the loose floorboard shut, burying what was meant to stay that way once more. 

The room looks as though nothing has changed, yet everything inside of yourself is different. A storm of fog and clarity, adrenaline pumping for running and the desire to stay still.

You throw up outside the living room window.

Everything feels like a blur after that, grabbing your boots he stuffed away - a coat and a knife from his kitchen.

Run, just run. Don’t look back. Get away, fast fast fast. 

You climb out of the bedroom window and run all the way to where you left your car the night he caught you, cold wind whipping past your face and sending a burn through your nose. Your feet pound along the ground like the whole world is weighing you down, like every stone is hoping to trip you and let you fall, to cut your knees open and stop you. 

You eventually arrive at the gas station.

You're stunned that the place is closed and rotted, not a single soul in sight.

Your lungs are burning, you feel woozy, and you let out a pathetic cry when you see he has slashed your tires. 

Stopping at the rough concrete of the shop, you attempt to open the back door, only to spot a poster plastered on the side of the wall. 

A missing poster. Your missing poster, with not a single person in the world to care for its presence besides a man who you ran away from, who would tear it down and remove you from an existence that is not with him, that would try to come find you to bring you back.

You decide to keep running in the opposite direction of his home. A large part of you is screaming at you to run to the Sheriff’s office and tell them what happened, that Joel will find you if you try anything else, but a shamefully large part - a sick part of you does not want to run away from him. He has cared for you - he has watched you all your life, and you know – regardless of purity or morality – he loves you. All that is left for you without him is a town that would freeze in time if you were to vanish, fake in its existence, a facade for the life you were always meant to live.

To your horror, the twist in your chest tells you that you love him too, it’s a surety now.

You think of the soft kisses he pressed to your hair, the way you got used to him telling you of things he liked about you, that he only would have known from watching. The way he told you he too liked Jerry, and liked the movie you watched after his passing. He let you watch it every night for a month, and began to quote the lines with you in an exaggerated version of his accent to make you giggle.

He saw you, he has always seen you. He loves you and wants you and needs you enough to take you for himself. 

You have stopped running, standing still for a moment before slowly turning around, feet shaking in your soul’s indecision. Torn and trembling. The forest is completely silent, yet this time you feel all too real – too alive. 

Your mind is not what it used to be. The shake of your hands comes from the part of you that is pleading for you to run, to see the clear manipulation : the rose coloured glasses that have been forced over your eyes. The other part – the part that you are starting to believe is the truth of who you are – wants to run back to the cabin before he sees you ever left, to cup his devastatingly handsome face and let him take what has always been his, to be made a real person.

It is consuming, this primal want.

A twig snaps.

You don’t need to turn around to know he his standing close behind you. 

You clench your fists and turn around, fear curdling and boiling in your belly, making your knees weak and shaky. 

The look on his face clears your rational thought once again, and you quickly attempt to scramble away from the monster. He looks absolutely, impossibly, livid. 

You do not know why you ever thought you could run, why you thought he would not find you, that he would let you go. 

You burst into tears the second he has you against the forest floor once more. The ground ripping the skin from your cheek as you fall, crushed under him once again – worse this time : you knew better.

“Why’d you do it, angel?” He says softly, entirely contrasting from the way his arm is curled around your head, large biceps restricting your breath. 

“I-I was scared.” You cry, trying to stop the hiccuping of your lungs to keep the breath you have. 

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes, deep voice right next to your ear, his mostly salt and slightly pepper beard tickling the skin. “You made me so scared, sweet girl. Thought you cared ‘bout me.” he whispers. You do not know if the tightening of his arms was intentional, or if he is so upset at the idea you could hate him that he is consumed with it. 

“I’m s-sorry,” You gasp, clawing at his arm, “I do care, ‘s why I–”

He raises his hand quickly, yet it hangs in the air for a moment. Hesitation, guilt – trembling like he’s stuck. You see something raw flicker in his eyes before it’s gone and he’s striking the ground next to your face, barely missing you – a last second decision. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Desperate, angry, scared.

You need to placate him before he does something stupid.

“I turned back– I was going to go back home I promise, please.” you cry, looking into his eyes. You loathe the fact that your words aren’t lies, that the care he sees reflected in them is real. You want him, you need him.

He watches you silently, frowning. Waiting to see what you have to say to him. 

“I snooped, I’m sorry. I was angry about this morning and I saw– I saw Jason’s tooth and–” 

The sound that leaves him is punched from deep within his chest.  

He is silent for a long time. Pulling away from you. 

You do not breathe, scared – the back of your neck is bared to him. Your life depends on his reaction. 

“You saw my girl.” 

You tremble in his slackening grasp. He seems to be staggering for a moment, unprepared and assaulted by the memories you have brought back. His hands grip tighter and tighter. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know.” you whisper, tears streaming out of your eyes as you look up at the setting sun, these must be your last moments. Your body trembles and your hiccuping noises are ugly. You wish you could take this all back to before. 

“You ain’t supposed t’see what’s down there.” he’s lifting his hands off of you, and you think the scariest thing about this moment is how human he finally seems. Like you are the one seeing him after all this time. You stay down, turning to look into his eyes – all you can see is grief.  “You know what it’s like to be lonely, that’s why you were brought to me, baby.” His hands wrap around your neck again, and you shriek a small protest, scrambling. Your nails crack and bleed as they attempt to rip yourself away from him by holding onto the ground and pulling.

You feel drops against the back of your neck, and fear lurches in your stomach at the fact that he’s crying. “She would have hated me, she was so good.” His hands are constricting, crushing. You choke and gasp for breath. “But I ain’t got her anymore. I got you. And God help me, I need you, sweet girl.” 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper again, looking into his sad eyes with your teary ones. 

“I know.” He says softly, and you whimper as his hand comes to your face. He rubs the skin for a few moments, letting himself breathe and feel you. It feels like an eternity, lying under him, trapped.

“I’m goin’ to give you a choice, sweet girl. I ain’t given you one before.” His voice builds up as he says it, like the memory of his daughter drives him to formulate a plan – a way to somehow fix everything he’d done. Your heart stops as he slides off of you, picking you up with him and holding you, the tips of your boots brushing the ground. He stares at you seriously, and he looks so different from the monster, like he’s trying his best to do the right thing after all this time, pretending it’ll take everything back. 

“I’m goin’ to let you run, sweet girl. You can choose to go to the sheriff– or, or steal my truck, do what you want.” He swallows thickly, eyes wild. “I’ll let you go, I should let you go.” He whispers almost to himself. “But if you choose t’go back home…I won’t let you leave me again, baby.” He smooths his hand over your hair after setting you down. “You’ll be mine, honey. And I’ll be yours, we can be fair and make this right. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everythin’.” 

You thought your heart was going to rip out of your chest. Everything is primal, it’s all desperate and ugly and raw. He lets go of you, taking a few difficult, staggered, paces back. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Go,” he nods slowly, like he’s trying to assure himself this is the right thing to do. “If you run now, I won’t stop you, I swear.” his voice breaks like he’s not sure of it himself — scared of what he’s capable of yet consumed with need. His eyes are soft and round, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You are scared, but more importantly you are tired.

For the first time someone has loved every rotten bit of you – so desperately they leave morality behind. How could you run away from this? 

You hesitate, stagnant and unsure. Your heart and your brain have gotten so tired from fighting it feels they have turned off all together, what happens now is primal – instinctual, you feel out of your own body, vaguely aware of the blood pulsing through you. 

You turn around and run swiftly down the road, scrambling over a few loose stones. You glance back at him once, surrounded by the trees, watching you like a dead man watches water. Your heart lurches. He looks heart broken, shattered and as alone as you’ve always felt, like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. 

Silly old man, you think. 

You were always going to run back to his cabin. 

You’ve got no need to disappear into nothing for the sake of rightness when everything you’ve ever wanted lives in the warm, wooden walls of his — your — home. 

He underestimated just how hungry, how broken and corrupt you are. 

You know now that you love him, and you know that you have always been just as much of a monster as he is. Rotten and broken and impure, tainted and shattered. 

You have always been his match. 

Your boots carry you home like you weigh nothing, light as air as ribbons of your past fears and wishes string and rip behind you. A flurry of ideas and thoughts until there is nothing except for yourself standing in that same flowery spot with plucked grass and no-more- monsters. 

  You bask in the silence of the forest. You have since lost track of the hurt, the burn of fear rising in your throat. You think of gold teeth and little girls and bright, wrinkled eyes surrounded by rich, dark skin – before your thoughts fall silent too.

You are under water. By the time you see his cabin : dim with no lights on as it always was until he found you – your mind is somewhere else, hollow and empty and replaced with something molten in your stomach. An ache, gnawing away at your belly. 

You don’t knock, you let the stairs creak as you silently open the door. 

  He had not followed you, true to his word. The house is just as you’d left it. 

You feel settled, clam and composed as you slowly begin to strip. Boots at the door, jacket in the living room. A trail made from your scarf leading to shorts and small socks. At the side of Joel’s bed, a lacy undershirt and bra. 

  You have already started to drift off by the time the cabin door opens. Two shuffles of feet before they stop short. 

He takes time to make a fire, the sound of crackling wood creating a comforting blanket to your sleepy state, in and out of the haze, yet aware. 

You are silent and waiting, your breath fanning softly as your eyes struggle to stay open. Somewhere deep, your heart throbs – the last fizzling jump of fear before it dies and fades away for good. You hear the opening of a small, plastic bag somewhere in the kitchen, little taps of what sounds like a pill falling against the counter top– a gulp of water a few seconds later. 

The mattress dips as he climbs into bed behind you. 

His callouses catch on your skin roughly as he traces the side of your face, bare chest pressing against your lower back while he buries his face between your shoulder blades. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he places open-mouthed kisses up your spine, wet and shaky. His hands grip your hips like you’ll turn to smoke if he doesn’t hold on. His beard tickles your shoulder as he continues, cradling you against him as if he is trying to stitch himself back together again, to become real and whole.

You let him. 

He is shaking when you turn to face him. Neither of you speak, words unnecessary in the softness and stillness of the night : no need for words when there are only two people in the world who are so entwined already. 

His palm cups your face, turning you to look at him, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth like a prayer. You whisper his name to him for the first time, a shaky breath escapes him as he whispers yours back. A small ruffle of the familiar duvet as you turn to face him, his warm palm cups over your tit – your pounding heart – as you turn to face him. Eyes shining as they meet yours. He looks so human.

He presses his nose against your own before his chapped lips finally meet yours in hesitation, like he’s trying to confirm that you’re really here next to him, that he hasn’t lost the only thing he has. 

It’s soft for only a moment before you both let the hunger take over – hot and wet, lips moving faster and faster as his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. They part without hesitation, taking the warm wetness of it inside your mouth and sucking gently, rolling over the other’s until your tastes are the same. 

  You gasp as his hands – rough and trembling – slide down your body, tracing every feature he studied from afar that is now finally his to touch. His mouth nudges along your jaw, nipping at the skin before he’s burying his face in your neck and inhaling. 

When you whisper his name softly, he shudders like you’re the first person to ever truly call for him. 

Your hand glides down to his stomach, running through the silvery hair that coats it desperately, trying to ground yourself to him. To pull him impossibly closer like you want to merge your bodies into one, consuming. 

His hands are everywhere as he groans into your mouth, surrounding you completely. One grips your hair, pulling back gently to bare your throat to him as the other runs down your breasts, pulling and squeezing your nipples into tight points, breath panting from the intensity. He paints your neck with bites, blooms where he’s sucked and tugged on your skin until his mark has been made – groaning as he licks over the skin, like he’s trying to infuse you into his bones. Your skin tastes like his surrender, like the salt of his prayers. It’s not forgiveness he asks for – but belonging, trying to carve a place for himself in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, searching for that rigid warmth that’ll complete you, retreating slightly on a shaky gasp as his hot, wet mouth envelopes your nipple, pulling and licking. 

He’s on top of you within seconds, hands splaying across your shoulder blades as he shows equal treatment to each breast, arching you against him. His heavy sighs travel across your skin as he exhales. Groin slotted against the warmth of yours, he lets your hands tangle in his hair as he moves Southwards, kissing as he goes.

You whine a protest, whimpering for him to join the two of you together, and he answers your previous curiosities in a deep rumble, “Gotta give it time to work, sweet girl. I ain’t young no more.” 

You let your head fall back against the pillows, a spark of electricity running through you at the reminder of his age, wetness seeping out into the gusset of your panties as you try to close your legs – an attempt at alleviating some of the heat that’s been building there. 

He grunts at this, large hands gripping your soft thighs as he plants them wide and flat against the mattress, “Easy, darlin’ – gon’ take care of you now.” He rumbles against your lower stomach, right over your womb as he reaches up to pinch your tit, prompting you to look down at him between your thighs. Those eyes you once used to fear with such intensity now only make more slickness spill into the cotton that conceals you. 

“Want you t’look at me while I taste this pretty little cunt for the first time.” He whispers on a kiss against your mound, dragging your panties down by latching his teeth onto the little bow adorning the front and pulling. You moan softly at the sight, hands fisting the sheets next to your head as his broad, muscular shoulders keep your legs spread wide, baring your warm pussy for his taking. 

  His eyes meet yours as his breath falters at the first glide of his tongue through your cunt, breaking off into a deep groan as he tastes you. A small cry of his name leaves your lips at the new sensation, hands immediately going to tangle in his soft hair. His tongue is ravenous, licking up every ounce of arousal as his eyes stay on yours, only dropping down when your head falls back once more. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, beard tickling and stimulating you – sending head through your bones. His lips tug on your bundle of nerves, pulling so deliciously your hips cant up onto his face, letting your wetness coat his beard until it’s soaked.

He lets go of your throbbing bud with a pop, licking his lips as he lets his mouth glide lower. 

“Taste so fuckin’ perfect, my angel.” He groans as his tongue digs over your hole, an obscene sound of him slurping up all you’ve given him echoes through the humid room, and your moan of approval follows soon after. His nose digs into your clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, letting it glide into your gummy walls as you clench around him. His moans of approval course through you, heat rising blindly through your bones as you cry out for him, hips bucking as he presses against your lower stomach with a large palm. The rough material of his watch-strap scratching your tummy as his brows furrow, focused on eating you alive. The smacking sounds of his lips against your wetness make your eyes roll as he digs his tongue inside. His hand moves lower, skirting against your entrance before he’s pulling his tongue out with a slick pop, replacing it with his fingers as he sucks on your clit once more. 

“Joel I-I’m gonna…” You trail off into a high pitched gasp, body trying to twist away from him as his thick fingers curl, pads of them bruising a spot inside of you that makes wetness gush out onto his wrist. 

  “Cum f’me, sweet girl, look at me.” He grunts, waiting until your eyes meet his to suck on your clit harshly, tongue running against the underside as he spreads and lifts his fingers to press against your gummy walls.

Your first orgasm crashes into you when you realize he’s humping the bed, his hot tongue desperately lapping up the slick that gushes from your spasming hole. He moans at the taste, making sure to drink it all down before he’s pushing up the bed – capturing your mouth in a wanting kiss as his thick hardness leaks against your leg.

His pill must’ve worked.

“Joel.” You whisper against his lips, nails dragging down the muscles in his back as you try to paw his underwear off with your foot, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to grip and coat his cock in your slickness.

He offers his body to you in a way that feels holy, the glide of him through your messy folds makes a sound so perfect leave his mouth you feel as though you’ve gone to heaven. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispers against your lips, the hand that is not cupping your face is notching his fat, drooling tip at your entrance. “I’ve got you, baby.” 

The first time he pushes into you, it’s gentle. A broken sound rips from him like he can’t bear it, face strained as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, watching his cock sink into you at a sinfully slow speed. Only when your nails sink into the skin of his back does he look into your eyes, seeing his own want, need, obsession painted in your irises.

He rocks into you like he’s trying to carve a home for himself inside your body, bringing your hand up to cup at his face while you lose yourself to the delicious stretch of him – cunt gripping him so tightly he can barely leave. You were always meant to be wrecked by hand like his – hands that tremble, hands that destroy, hands that worship. 

His moans fan across your lips, shaky as they exit. He’s slow, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, as he glides into your soaking cunt. His eyes have rolled, but you lean up to bite your own mark into his neck, pussy clenching as he moans raw and deep at the bright red mark you suck into his skin. 

He watches you now, staring into your eyes. You want him to see the hungry, ugly, ruined thing he’s made. You want him to love it. 

And when he leans down to kiss you like this night has changed him forever, you know he loves you. He is searching for his salvation in your body. 

You anchor yourself to him like the earth is shaking, moaning a soft gasp as his forehead pressed against yours. Reveling in the feeling of his sac slapping against your backside, the sounds of lewd smacks and wetness – his own moans and whispered words of praise floating around you as the sheer size of him swallows you whole. He fucks you like he’s praying at an alter and you devour him whole. In the darkness, there is no difference between love and need, no line between hunger and worship.

Every thrust feels like a prayer, a confession, like he’s spilling the truth of himself into you on every plunge, letting you see every crack of his soul, the ugliness through the pounding of his hips against yours. Rocking together, bound by the loneliness and hunger and something older than love.

You cry under him, silent and open as he digs into you, so big and taking that your body can hardly bear it. He kisses every tear like an apology, licking up the salt as he coos above you, kissing the tip of your nose as he lets the heavy weight of his cock sit and twitch inside you for a moment, pubic hair sticky from your arousal as it grinds against your clit. He buries his face against your neck as he begins thrusting shakily again, and you know he’s crying too.

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin, broken and raw as he shakily moves his hips, eyes flitting to you, hopeful and soul-crushingly vulnerable.

Your breath is shaking, heat coursing through you at the glide of his cock against that place, tailor made for him. Your eyes falter, fluttering as the last of your tears stream down your cheeks, clenching around him so tightly. Every shared breath tastes like forgiveness neither of you have earned.

“I love you too.” You whisper, shattered. Body light as a feather as you let yourself fall. 

His breath hitches as he comes inside of you, unprepared for it – hot pulses of his seed spurting quickly, flooding you as he sobs out moans against your skin, gripping your hips so tightly you think you’ll break. You follow immediately, arching into him as his arms wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him as you ride out the waves of your pleasure together, knowing it is so much more than this. You are no longer a scared bunny, alone in the world, and he is no longer a jackal hunting you down — you are only two humans, connected in a way that ascends your lives : cosmic. 

It’s not just sex, it’s not just lust – it’s your whole life that has led up to this, to him. Two people who are too broken to live, yet too stubborn to die.

He’s made you his. 

You’ve made him yours.

And lying in his arms, letting his hand rub up and down your back, you know neither of you stood a chance.

-------

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please reblog and comment, it's great encouragement for writers ♡

[gf2bellamy]

Hello!!! First I wanted to say I absolutely adoreeee your fics I literally read them like bedtime stories honestly😭🙏

I also wanted to request perhaps reader and spencer at jj's wedding (reader also being a part of the bau) and they've both been best friends for years. They dance together and as it's getting late, spencer offers reader to stay at his place for the night because it's closer. Then they go back to his apartment and nervously end up admitting feelings for eachother!!! Like it comes up in conversation while they're just hanging out and watching TV or whatnot and maybe they also get super emotional and teary because of how much they both mean to eachother. Hope this is coherent enough or not too elaborate 😭 thank you so much anyhow though - you are a brilliant writer!

wedding — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader wears a dress , lots of dancing , mention of a case a/n: hi hi ! i hope you like this <3 i loved writing this

“You know you’re staring, right?”

Penelope Garcia’s voice snapped you out of your trance. She nudged your shoulder with hers, her dress catching the light as she tilted her head toward you.

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts as your gaze reluctantly drifted away from where Spencer stood beneath the garden lights.

He was crouched down, completely absorbed in showing Henry a card trick, his voice soft. The child’s eyes were wide with wonder.

Yours weren’t much different.

You were at JJ's wedding, waiting out in the garden while the she got ready. The evening air was cool but pleasant, and strings of fairy lights twinkled like stars overhead.

“What?” you asked, trying to sound casual, though your tone betrayed you.

Garcia turned to face you fully, her expression smug in the most Garcia way possible.

“You.” She pointed a finger at you . “Were staring.” Then she swiveled her finger dramatically toward Spencer. “At Dr. Adorable over there.”

Your face warmed, and you blinked at her, still half-lost in the haze of watching Spencer—the way his hair fell just slightly into his eyes when he leaned forward, the joy in his expression as he entertained Henry.

Your mouth opened to protest, but no words came out. You glanced back toward Spencer before you could stop yourself—he was laughing now, Henry giggling with him, and the sight made your heart twist in the gentlest way.

Garcia raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the flustered look on your face. “I mean, if you're gonna pine, at least do it with a little less intensity. People are gonna start thinking you're plotting his murder or planning your wedding. There is no in-between with that look.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips. “Stop,” you said weakly, pointing a finger at her in mock warning.

“Mhmm,” she hummed, the grin never leaving her face as she slowly backed away. “I’ll leave you to your lovesick sighing. But just so you know, you’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

You watched her disappear into the reception with a sigh, your eyes inevitably drawn back to Spencer. His head tilted up slightly, and for a moment, it almost felt like he was about to look right at you. You froze. But instead, he ruffled Henry’s hair and stood up with that soft smile still lingering on his lips.

Some time later, you were standing quietly beside Garcia, watching as JJ's mother walked her down the aisle.

The moment was beautiful—soft music playing, petals lining the path, the kind of memory that felt like it would live in everyone’s mind forever.

You glanced across the aisle.

Spencer was standing directly opposite you, looking striking in his dark suit. His hair was just slightly tousled in that effortlessly handsome way he never seemed to realize he had.

You tried not to stare—but that resolve didn’t last long. Your eyes kept finding their way back to him.

What you didn’t know was that he was doing the exact same thing.

It turned into a quiet game of glances and near-catches. Every time you looked over, he had just looked away. Every time his eyes landed on you, yours had already shifted elsewhere.

A dance of almosts.

Later, as the reception began and you found your seat at one of the round tables lit with candles and scattered rose petals, you found yourself sitting between Emily and Rossi. The chair across from you remained empty for only a moment—until Spencer took it, still sneaking those glances when he thought you weren’t looking.

Rossi stood, glass in hand, and the room hushed as he began his toast. His voice was warm and full of love, weaving a beautiful speech to JJ and Will.

While the rest of the room listened with full attention, Spencer found himself watching you instead.

You were smiling—softly, sincerely—as you listened to Rossi speak, and it knocked the air right out of him. Your dress, elegant but simple, shimmered slightly in the candlelight.

He’d nearly lost his footing when he saw you walk in earlier. Morgan had caught him gaping and slapped his shoulder with a laugh, saying, “Try to be subtle, pretty boy,” before shooting a look to Garcia. She, in turn, had already noticed the exact same look on your face when Spencer entered the venue.

“Cheers!” Rossi’s voice rang out, snapping Spencer back to the moment.

Everyone raised their glasses, laughter and the clinking of glass echoing softly around the room. You tapped your glass gently against Emily’s and then Rossi’s, then your eyes found Spencer’s—finally, directly.

You held his gaze and raised your glass slightly toward him. The gesture was small but intimate. Intentional.

He blinked, as if surprised you were really looking at him this time, and then he smiled—soft, warm, and a little shy. He raised his glass in return, eyes never leaving yours.

About twenty minutes later, the music softened, and couples slowly began to gather on the dance floor.

You laughed, breathless, as Morgan suddenly took your hand and pulled you onto the dance floor with dramatic flair.

“Morgan!” you protested through your giggles, but he just grinned, spinning you lightly before placing one hand at your waist and the other in yours.

“Come on, don’t pretend you’re not having fun,” he teased as the two of you began to sway to the rhythm.

You rolled your eyes fondly, your smile not faltering for a second. The two of you moved easily together, playful, but Morgan’s attention wasn’t entirely on the dance. He glanced over your shoulder, eyes locking with Spencer’s across the room.

Spencer stood by the edge of the dance floor, fidgeting with the cuff of his suit jacket. He hadn’t stopped watching you all night. You looked radiant—happy, glowing. And that look on your face... he wanted so badly to be the one putting it there.

But nerves had kept him frozen.

You and Spencer had been best friends for years. Through tough cases, long nights, and vulnerable confessions whispered in quiet hotel rooms, you’d been there.

Always. And yet tonight, seeing you in that dress, with your hair framing your face just so, had knocked him completely off balance.

Morgan had noticed, of course.

Before dragging you to the dance floor, he’d spent the last ten minutes nudging Spencer with not-so-subtle comments, even outright pushing him toward the dance floor once. “You’re really gonna let me dance with her all night when you’re clearly dying to?”

Spencer had brushed him off, flustered and full of excuses—until now.

Morgan raised an eyebrow meaningfully as he danced with you, silently daring Spencer to make a move.

Spencer swallowed hard, his eyes locked with Morgan’s. Then they slid to you. You were smiling, your cheeks flushed with laughter, your hand resting lightly on Morgan’s shoulder.

That was it.

He bit his lip, straightened his jacket, and finally—finally—stepped forward.

As Morgan saw him approaching, he leaned in and whispered to you, “Looks like my job here is done.”

You gave him a puzzled look just as the song transitioned into a slower, sweeter melody.

And then Morgan stepped back.

You turned—and there he was. Spencer. Hands slightly fidgety, but eyes soft and full of something that made your breath catch.

“May I?” he asked, his voice a little quiet, a little shy.

You smiled, your heart skipping a beat. “Took you long enough.”

You slipped your hand into his, and as he pulled you gently into the dance, everything else seemed to fade away.

You were nervous—your heart beating a little faster than it should—but when your eyes met his, something in you relaxed. You smiled, even brighter than before.

“The wedding is beautiful,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper as you glanced over at JJ and Will, dancing just a few feet away, completely wrapped up in each other.

“It really is,” Spencer replied, his gaze drifting to the newlyweds for a moment before returning to you. His hand at your waist tightened ever so slightly. “She looks really happy.”

You nodded, your smile turning softer, more thoughtful. “She does.”

Neither of you noticed the way the rest of the team was sneaking glances your way—Emily nudging Garcia with a knowing smirk, Morgan grinning to himself, Hotch watching with quiet approval. Even JJ, in the middle of her own dance, looked over and caught the moment, her expression glowing with fondness.

Spencer smiled, eyes half-lidded as he took a steadying breath, his lips just inches from your temple now. The scent of your perfume was soft and familiar, and he could feel your warmth as you instinctively scooted just a little closer.

That tiny movement sent a ripple through him.

You were here—in his arms.

“You didn’t tell me you were such a great dancer,” you said with a teasing lilt, leaning back just enough to look up at him, your brows raised playfully.

Spencer glanced down at you, and for a second, you saw the faintest flicker of smugness in his expression—but it vanished quickly, replaced with that familiar bashful smile. His eyes darted away as if the compliment had short-circuited his brain.

“Didn’t know that myself,” he admitted, chuckling softly. “Pretty sure I’m only doing okay because you’re leading.”

You grinned, heart fluttering. “Guess we make a good team, then.”

At that, his eyes met yours again—and this time, they stayed. Warm, searching, a little bit braver than before.

“I always thought we did,” he said softly.

The honesty in his voice made your chest tighten in the best way. You swallowed, your heart thudding just a little louder as your fingers gently brushed the hair at the nape of his neck.

You felt him shiver slightly under your touch.

Without thinking, you scooted closer again, closing what little space remained between you. His hand tightened slightly at your waist in response—subtle, but unmistakable.

Neither of you said anything more for the rest of the dance.

Eventually, the song faded into another. And though you didn’t want it to end, you both stepped back—reluctantly—hands falling away slower than necessary, eyes lingering.

The rest of the evening carried on like a dream.

Over the next hour, you ended up being passed around the dance floor like the unofficial guest of honor. Morgan was the first to swoop in again, spinning you dramatically as you laughed. Then came Rossi, smooth as ever, insisting it was tradition to dance with the most radiant woman at the wedding. Even Hotch surprised you with a short, polite dance.

Each one of them had something to say.

“So... you and Reid, huh?” Morgan grinned, eyebrow raised.

“You two looked like a scene straight out of a Nora Ephron movie,” Emily teased as she dipped you mid-dance, clearly enjoying herself.

“I’d say it’s about time,” Rossi murmured with a smirk, before twirling you gently. “We were starting to think we’d have to lock you both in a room until someone confessed.”

Garcia all but squealed when she finally stole you away for a spin. “Okay, do not lie to me. Was that the moment? Because I swear, there were literal stars in the air.”

You laughed so hard your cheeks hurt. It was all good-natured, wrapped in love and genuine happiness for you. But through every dance, every tease, your eyes kept finding Spencer across the room.

And every time, he was already looking at you.

By the end of the night, you found yourself lingering near the exit, wrapped in the warmth of a goodbye hug with JJ. You’d already said “Congratulations” at least ten times, and you still felt like it wasn’t enough.

“I’m just so happy for you guys,” you said again, your voice full of sincerity as you held her tight.

JJ smiled against your shoulder. “Thank you. I mean it. And… I saw the dance,” she added teasingly, pulling back with a knowing look in her eyes.

You opened your mouth to respond, but Spencer appeared beside you just in time, offering his own congratulations to JJ and Will with that soft, sweet tone. You couldn’t help but glance at him, your heart tugging a little tighter in your chest.

Once you stepped outside, the night air was cooler as you stood in the parking lot, scanning the rows of cars.

“I was supposed to go with Garcia,” you said, eyes narrowing as you spotted her leaning against Morgan’s car, deep in conversation. She was laughing and wiping what looked like the remnants of happy tears from her cheeks while Morgan nodded along.

You sighed, a half-smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, this is going to take ages.”

Spencer followed your gaze, and before he could stop himself—before his brain had even caught up with his mouth—he blurted, “You can stay at my place.”

You turned your head to look at him, brows raised, mildly surprised—but not in a bad way. You studied him, the way his eyes flicked nervously to yours, his hands suddenly unsure of what to do.

“If it’s no bother,” you said after a second, your voice quiet, cautious.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, then smiled softly. “Wouldn’t have asked if it was.”

“Okay,” you said, the single word sounding warmer than it should’ve, like you’d just agreed to something far bigger than a ride or a place to sleep.

He led you toward his car, once you said goodbye to Garcia.

When he opened the passenger door for you, you chuckled under your breath and murmured, “Thanks,” as you carefully lifted your dress to settle into the seat.

He closed the door gently, walked around to his side, and slid into the driver’s seat.

As the car pulled out of the lot , you glanced at him. “Please tell me you finally organized your books.”

Spencer’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel, a small, guilty smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You raised an eyebrow. “Spencer…”

The last time you’d been at his place—two weeks ago, for a movie night that never quite turned into watching the movie—you had spent half the time side-eyeing the precarious towers of books that had taken over the corners of his living room. Some were stacked by topic, others by spine color, some in what he’d dramatically called “priority order,” whatever that meant.

It had visually hurt you to look at.

You’d tried to ignore it, truly, curling up on his couch with a bowl of popcorn while he enthusiastically explained the plot of the old sci-fi movie you were watching. But eventually, your resolve had crumbled. You’d stood up mid-movie and started reorganizing by author name before he practically dragged you back to the couch.

“They have a purpose there!” he’d insisted back then, exasperated but laughing.

Now, as he turned the steering wheel with that exact same half-smile, he stayed silent just a little too long.

“Oh no. Spencer,” you dragged out his name dramatically, narrowing your eyes.

“What?” he asked, biting back a laugh.

“You didn’t organize them, did you?”

“I thought about it,” he offered carefully, glancing sideways at you.

You let your head fall back against the seat with a groan. “You had days.”

“I made peace with the system,” he said defensively, but his eyes were sparkling. “Besides… you seemed so passionate about it last time, I figured I’d leave it. Just in case you wanted to come back and finish the job.”

You turned to him slowly, giving him the most unimpressed look you could muster. “So this is your evil plan. Lure me in with tea and nerdy trivia and force me to organize your chaos.”

“It’s not chaos,” he replied, almost too quickly. “It’s a carefully designed non-linear categorization system.”

“That sounds like chaos with extra steps.”

Spencer chuckled softly, shaking his head as he turned onto his street. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

“Not when it comes to books stacked in a way that defies gravity, no.”

As Spencer pulled into his usual spot and parked the car, he was already unbuckling before you’d even touched the door handle. You opened your mouth to protest, but sure enough, he was already walking around to your side.

“Spencer,” you said, exasperated but smiling. “I do know how to get out of a car.”

He shrugged, a small grin tugging at his lips as he offered his hand to you anyway. “I know. But I like helping.”

You rolled your eyes playfully but took his hand. His fingers wrapped around yours—soft, warm.

The two of you walked up to his apartment, still chitchatting, your voices quiet as you relived little moments from the wedding—the way Rossi had gotten uncharacteristically sentimental in his toast, Garcia’s happy tears, how Morgan tried to dip everyone he danced with, including Strauss.

Spencer took your jacket like he always did, carefully hanging it near the door. You smiled to yourself, slipping out of your heels and placing them neatly beside his.

You remembered the first time you’d noticed it—how, without ever saying a word, he’d straighten your shoes after you entered his apartment. It was such a small thing, but it stuck with you. You never forgot it. Since then, you just… did it yourself. Because you knew he appreciated it, even if he never asked.

“I can’t feel my feet,” you mumbled, flexing your toes as you stepped onto the soft rug.

“I mean, you did dance with almost everyone,” Spencer said, heading toward the living room.

You followed him, chuckling under your breath. “Yeah. You’re right.”

The two of you dropped onto the couch like you’d been holding yourselves up all night. You let out a breath as you pulled your legs up, curling them under you, relieved to not be standing anymore. The soft cushions beneath you felt like heaven after a long night in heels.

A comfortable silence settled between you.

You yawned quietly, blinking slow, then tilted your head toward him. He was sitting on the other end of the couch, bow loosened, jacket gone, his posture a little slouched now that he could finally relax.

“But you know?” you murmured.

He turned his head to you, eyes soft in the low light of the room.

“You were my favorite dance partner,” you said, a sleepy smile curling at your lips.

He blinked, and for a second, you swore he forgot how to breathe. His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to say it. Instead, he just… smiled. That quiet, lopsided smile that he only ever gave you.

“I’m glad,” he said after a moment. “You were mine too.”

You let your head lean back against the cushion, the warmth of his words lingering in your chest. And for a few minutes, you just sat like that.

That’s when the books suddenly sprang back into your mind.

Spencer had his eyes closed, head tilted slightly against the couch cushion, looking far too peaceful for someone with three towers of books leaning at precarious angles in his living room. You shifted just slightly, straightening up with purpose.

Without opening his eyes, Spencer spoke, his voice low and drowsy. “Do it tomorrow.”

You paused, caught red-handed by someone who hadn’t even been looking at you.

“I didn’t even say anything yet,” you said with a small laugh.

“You didn’t have to. I could feel your brain making a plan.”

You turned your head toward him, raising an eyebrow. “So… you’re officially letting me do it?”

He peeked one eye open to meet your gaze, then gave you a small, resigned smile. “Sure.”

You grinned, and Spencer swore—for just a second—that if he could see you smile like that one more time, he’d even let you organize his meticulously alphabetized first-edition classics in any way you wanted. And that was saying something.

There was a brief silence.

You stared at each other for a moment—too long, probably—but neither of you looked away.

Then his eyes flicked downward, catching on the folds of your dress. And before he could think better of it, before his brain could slow his mouth down, he spoke.

“You looked beautiful tonight.”

The words fell out like a confession.

His eyes went wide the moment he realized he’d said them, and color shot up his neck so fast a cheetah would've had a hard time catching it.

You blinked, startled—but the surprise quickly melted into something softer. Warmer.

“Thank you, Spencer,” you said, smiling at him in that slow, full way that made his heart feel like it was folding in on itself. “You didn’t look so bad yourself.”

He let out a small, nervous laugh, his fingers fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. “I, uh… tried. Morgan said I clean up okay.”

“Well, Morgan’s right,” you said, tilting your head slightly, still watching him with that smile that made it hard for Spencer to remember what breathing was supposed to feel like.

Spencer smiled softly at the compliment, his fingers still absently tracing the edge of his sleeve.

“You know,” he began, voice low, almost hesitant, “I spent most of the night trying to figure out how to ask you to dance.”

The admission slipped out before he could stop it, and his eyes flickered up to yours, wide with surprise at his own honesty.

You blinked, your breath catching just a little. “You didn’t have to figure it out,” you murmured, leaning ever so slightly closer. “You could’ve just asked.”

“I wanted it to be perfect.” He laughed, a quiet, self-conscious sound. “Which is ridiculous, because it’s me. Perfect isn’t really in my skill set.”

“Spencer.” You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing against his wrist, stilling his fidgeting. “It was perfect.”

His pulse jumped under your touch.

For a moment, he just stared at you, lips parted, as if he was trying to memorize the way you looked right then—soft and glowing in the dim light of his apartment, your dress rumpled from dancing, your smile so fond it made his chest ache.

Then, in a rush of breath, the words tumbled out:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

His brain screeched to a halt. Oh god. Oh no. That wasn’t—he hadn’t meant to say it like that. Not here, not now, not—

But you weren’t pulling away. You weren’t even breathing.

Your fingers tightened around his wrist, just barely, and your voice came out whisper-soft. “You… think?”

Spencer swallowed hard. There was no taking it back now.

“No,” he corrected, voice rough. “I know. I’ve known for a while.”

The confession hung between you, fragile and terrifying and real.

"You have?" you asked, practically breathless.

Spencer looked at you before his gaze dropped to his hands, suddenly nervous. His fingers twitched against yours like he wanted to pull away but couldn't bring himself to break contact.

"Yeah," he whispered. Then, with a shaky exhale: "It was... it was that night after the Harris case. When you stayed."

Your breath hitched. You remembered.

Three months ago. Spencer's apartment, 2 AM. Both of you still in crinkled shirts, too wired to sleep. You'd made terrible coffee in his tiny kitchen, hands trembling around the mugs, and when you'd finally sat beside him on the couch—when he'd started talking about the case in that broken voice—you hadn't thought. You'd just reached for him. Held him while his shoulders shook. And when he'd finally gone still, forehead pressed against your collarbone, neither of you had moved for hours.

"You let me fall apart," Spencer continued, voice cracking. "And then you put me back together like it was nothing."

Tears pricked at your eyes. "Spencer—"

"And before that," he rushed on, "when you memorized my coffee order after one try. Even when you keep trying to rearrange my books. When you defended my 'weird facts' to Morgan. When you—" His laugh was wet, uneven. "When you started leaving your favorite books annotated on my desk so I'd have to read them. As if I wouldn't have read anything you handed me."

A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn't wipe it away.

"You noticed that?"

"I notice everything about you." His thumb brushed your knuckles, feather-light. "The way you hum when you're concentrating. How you always steal my pens but never the blue ones because you know I prefer those. That little frown you get when—"

You kissed him.

It wasn't graceful. Your nose bumped his, your lashes still wet, your hands clutching his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear. He made a soft, broken noise against your lips when his fingers curled into your hair. His thumbs brushed the corners of your mouth as he kissed you back.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, "I love you too."

Spencer's breath shuddered out. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying not to cry. "Say it again?"

You laughed through your tears. "I love you, Spencer Reid. Every brilliant, ridiculous, beautiful part of you."

His arms wrapped around you, tight enough to bruise, and when he buried his face in your neck, you felt the damp warmth of his tears against your skin.

"Took you long enough," you teased weakly, running your fingers through his hair.

He huffed a laugh against your shoulder. "Says the woman who reorganized my bookshelves instead of just telling me."

"That was a declaration and you know it."

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed but brighter than you'd ever seen them. "Well," he murmured, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, "this is better."

And when he kissed you this time, there were no almosts. No maybes.

Just this—his hands in your hair, your laughter against his lips, and a lifetime of quiet, perfect moments waiting to unfold.

[directdogman]

A few words about the upcoming Olandy route!

First of all, want to quickly apologize for the relative quietness on my part as of late. I'm still in the middle of an international move right now and I'm officially on the final bureaucratic stage before I can physically pack up and complete the move. I've gotten quotes from moving companies, found a good service for Salvage's transport (which was a challenge in of itself) and now I'm just waiting for the final legal paperwork to process. Combined with my recent stint in hospital (my heart did something zany) and preparing for an upcoming merch campaign whose launch month was decided at the start of the year, you may see why I'm behind my own schedule. I can however confirm that work is still on-going... just slower than I'd like. However, I've taken this partial hiatus in production to think over the route and make sure it'll be as conceptually solid as I can make it.

One concern I'd like to address because I've seen it mentioned a few times is the fear that the route may veer into fan service territory in terms of characterization/scene content and I'm hoping I can put those fans at ease. I understand these concerns. The very concept of an Olandy route does seem kind of rife for this sort of thing. The thing is though, the idea for an Olandy route was a cut concept from DT's basegame, when I thinking of ways to double up characters in order to have more three-way dialogue scenes.

Obviously, given that a whole route was cut from the game, this idea ended up in the same nether-sphere as the other potential route ideas, like the Fusco route. But, this was an idea that I considered long before the Olandy ship gained popularity and that's why I was eager to tease the idea after release. I get many requests for routes with characters like Harry, Peter, which would undeniably sell well, but that I'd really have to headscratch to think of a way to make work. My point is, I'm only interested in ideas that I'm confident in.

Would Randy and Oliver completely work as partners? There's points for and against it. Do they have a strong/unique dynamic? Definitely. Randy is someone who looks to others for comfort/confidence and he's not good at dealing with things alone or without guidance. Oliver is confident in himself and very much a pack animal, who loves receiving validation/affection and feeling useful. This roughly explains why they veer towards each other even without considering stuff like romantic/behavioural compatibility.

As for the route itself, my main goal with their dynamic is to give an honest exploration of each character and to show a side of each not seen in their route, while also staying consistent to who they both are. It's important to note that this isn't just a Randy-Oliver route, but very much a Randy-Oliver-Gingi route. You shouldn't worry that the route will be sappier or more romantically heavy than the other routes as I'm actually including an option to play the route completely platonically and both options won't be too dissimilar outside of certain dialogue lines from both characters.

The key thing here is that I'm writing the route just like any other DT route and my main focus is having fun scenes where the characters talk about themselves in order to compare and contrast the differences/similarities between each character within the trio. There are scenes where Oliver is serious and confides in Gingi. There are scenes where we see Randy's insecurity/cowardice paint him in a bad light.

The DLC will also not replace either of their routes, and will instead aim to emphasis traits + backstory each character has that's kind of implied subtly in each of their routes, but not specifically outlined, to give you a more well-rounded view of each character. So, my goal is certainly not to flanderize, but quite the opposite. I want to give a deeper view on each character that's consistent with previous characterization, by further explaining why each character is the way they are and providing more context to stuff mentioned in Randy/Oliver's main routes. Oh, and advancing Gingi's character further, akin to in Roger's route.

(And before you ask, yes, I do have a similar plan for Karen later on, but I have a very specific idea of where it makes sense to put it as it's a much more involved project than a simple DLC. It will definitely take longer to pull off. But, her day will come.)

So, yeah! Obviously Roger's route took care to display the datables in their cameos with the nuance they have in the basegame. From Randy's impurity (willingness to be part of a con), Oliver potentially freaking Gingi out and being unsure of himself upon meeting it, Karen cracking a spontaneous joke (and it not landing), etc. It's important to me that I don't flanderize these characters or reduce them to their outermost traits.

I'm still not 100% confident in the route draft, but that's a given. I never am. But, I can say, I'm really excited for people to see the character stuff I have in mind for Randy, Oliver + Gingi, particularly what's revealed about both in the heart to heart in the good ending. You have a rough idea of what to expect from the route as per previous routes and while this one won't be nearly as large as Roger's route, I still wanna make it the best experience it can be for you all. Thank you! :)

[gojoest]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

━━━ synopsis: fate has a strange way of birthing love. you married gojo satoru to stay close to his father — an arranged union built to conceal a scandalous affair. but somewhere between the lies and the silence, another secret began to stir quietly in your chest. one that did not belong to his father at all. 

━━━ content warning: MDNI, fem! reader (she/her), arranged marriage, affair, infidelity, love triangle, age gap (late 50s vs late 20s/early 30s), reader’s age isn’t necessarily specified but she’s written with late 20s/early30s in mind, unreliable narrator, original characters (satoru’s parents: gojo akihito & gojo saori), falling in love, sexual themes but no explicit content, alcohol consumption in a few scenes, reader is drunk in one scene, flashbacks, character death, murder, twists, there’s a specific fire scene that is heavily inspired by the manhwa “betrayal of dignity”, pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, ask to tag if something triggering is missing 

━━━ pairing: gojo satoru x fem! reader ; gojo akihito (oc) x fem! reader 

━━━ word count: 20k+ (…idk what happened there tbh) 

━━━ author’s note: hello guys! this is the idea i first mentioned back in october and it’s finally coming to life! it’s the longest thing i’ve ever written so please be gentle and kind — to me, to the story, and to reader. i did my best to proofread while editing but apologies in advance for any typos, inconsistencies or mistakes that might’ve slipped through! i hope you enjoy the read ♡

Love can make you do crazy things.  

Sometimes it’s a silly behavior that you exhibit, one that isn’t akin to your usual self, one that makes you a bit of a fool. 

You find yourself taking detours to “accidentally” bump into someone. Your heart races at the sight of them, and you disguise your longing behind an awkward ‘What a coincidence!’, but what you really mean is ‘I really wanted to see you! I couldn’t stay away.’ It’s harmless — charming, even. 

But what happens when love blooms where it shouldn’t? When it takes root in poisoned soil, nurtured by secrecy and betrayal — can it still be called innocent? When the heart wants what it shouldn’t, when desire threatens to unravel lives and twist fates — is it still harmless? Still endearing? 

No. The fool knows better — but doesn’t care. 

Blinded by love, reason is cast aside. Judgment dulls. Morality slips through desperate fingers. The choices no longer belong to conscience; they belong to longing. 

Science says that falling in love mimics a drug high — dopamine rushes, rational thought hijacked, impulse overrides consequence. You become addicted. You crave. And in that craving, you’d do anything to have it. No matter the cost. 

-- 

The air in the room is thick. With the windows shut, the scent of sex lingers — trapped between the four walls of the hotel room, clinging to your skin and his. Your bodies lie tangled, worn out and still close. 

“Nobody saw you come in, right?” the whitehaired man beside you breaks the silence, voice low but tender. His breathing has steadied, back to its usual calm rhythm. 

You tilt your head, cheek still pressed against his damp chest. His hand, which had been trailing lazily along your bare back, moves up to cradle your neck — gentle, almost instinctive. Like he’s trying to spare you any discomfort, even now. It makes you smile, the way he always trembles for you. 

“No, no one saw me”, you murmur. “It’s not like this is the first time.” 

“It’s the first time since you got married”, he replies, his tone quieter, more guarded. 

“Is this why you’re so tense?” you let out a feeble laugh. “Nothing’s changed, really — except now we’re both married...” the smile on your lips slowly fades. Your lips part, more words caught behind them. 

...not to each other though — you want to say, but you don’t. You don’t want to break the moment. It’s been too long since you last had this. 

“Actually”, he trails off, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand. 

At times like this, you’re reminded, again, how large he is. He barely shifts beneath you, just stretches one arm to grab the pack, the other still wrapped around your waist. He lights a cigarette with practiced ease, tucks it between his lips, and inhales deeply.  

“There’s one thing that has changed”, he says, smoke curling from his mouth. 

“Oh?” 

“I see you every day now.” 

A faint smile touches his lips, softening his blue eyes. He kisses the top of your head, gaze lingering on you. 

That’s right. You do see each other every day now. It’s the consequence of living under the same roof. 

“But even so, moments like this... they’ve become rare. That bothers me.” 

The warmth leaves his voice. His eyes grow distant, pale and cold. “Seems like he is keeping you too busy. Maybe he’s starting to like you.” he speaks in a dull voice. 

“You think so?” 

“He’s around the house more, with you. He used to be gone all the time. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” His tone hardens. “He wasn’t supposed to act like this.” 

You let out a dry, uneasy chuckle. “Maybe he’s taking after you. Maybe I bewitched him... just like I bewitched you.” 

You don’t mean it. It’s just a tease, but the words land wrong.  

“Don’t joke about it”, he mutters, exhaling sharply. His brows furrow, tension creeping back into his features. “That’d be... problematic.” 

The man beside you is Gojo Akihito — your lover. The former head of the Gojo Clan. He is also the father of your husband. The current head of the clan — Gojo Satoru. 

...you only meant to lighten the mood. But just like his plan —  

It’s not working. 

-- 

Rumor has it: The clan head, Gojo Satoru, is completely enamored with his wife. 

It has become the talk of the mansion.  

“Did you see”, one maid whispers, nudging her colleague as they set the long dining table. “He brought her flowers, again.” 

“That’s nothing”, another chimes in, lowering her voice. “The other day he asked me how to make omurice. Said he wanted to learn it properly.” 

The first two maids lean in, wide-eyed. “And? What happened?” 

“I went into the kitchen early next morning”, she continues with a conspiratorial grin, “And there he was. Apron and everything. Cooking omurice from scratch. Said it was for his wife. Even served it on a fancy plate — with flowers from the garden. I think he picked them himself.” 

The maids collectively gasp, hands covering mouths, eyes sparkling. 

“He’s completely smitten”, one sighs, nearly swooning. “I heard he turned down every arranged match before her — didn’t even consider them. Then out of nowhere, he agrees to this one without a second thought.” 

“At first, I figured he just caved from the pressure”, another adds. “You know how the elders kept pushing. I thought he married her to shut them up.” 

“But now? Look at him. That’s not obligation. That’s a man in love.” 

A round of dreamy sighs circles the table. 

“Remember how he used to show up maybe once every couple of months? Only if something serious needed his attention?” 

“Now we see him every day”, one nods. “And if he’s not home, it feels... weird.” 

“He always comes back”, says another. “No matter how late. And the first thing he does is go see her.” 

“That’s not all”, the first maid says, lowering her voice even more. “The other day, he came home with a wound.” 

“No way. Him?” one of the others gasps. “He’s untouchable — who even got close enough to land a hit?” 

“Exactly. And do you know what he did? He let her clean him up. She asked for the first aid kit, and he just... smiled. The whole time. Like it didn’t hurt at all.” 

A chorus of quiet squeals follows, full of awe and disbelief. 

“He let himself be struck just so she’d fuss over him?” one whispers, covering her mouth. “God, he’s hopeless.” 

But before the fantasy could grow any richer, a sharp voice cuts through the air. 

“If you’re done gossiping”, Akihito says coolly from the doorway, “Perhaps you could focus on the work you’re actually being paid to do. Call everyone when dinner is ready.” 

The maids freeze, spines straightening, heads bowing in rapid succession. “Y-yes, sir. Our apologies.” 

Akihito didn’t linger. He didn’t need to. 

It wasn’t their chatter that irritated him. It was what they were whispering about. What they were seeing — what he couldn’t ignore. That’s what got under his skin. 

--  

“Good evening, wife.” 

You blink at the mirror just as a bouquet of forget-me-nots is gently laid in front of you on the vanity. Satoru leans in behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder, smiling. “You look beautiful, as always.” he murmurs against your ear. 

You shift slightly in your chair, but his hands land softly on your shoulders, holding you in place — not forcefully, but firmly enough to suggest he’s not letting you leave just yet.  

“Want me to brush your hair?” 

You sigh and meet his eyes in the mirror. “I can do it myself.” 

“I know”, he says smoothly. “But I want to.” 

Persistent. That’s one thing you’ve learned about him in the month you’ve been married — Satoru always gets what he wants. If you said no now, you wouldn’t put it past him to slip gum into your hair just so you’d have to ask for help. 

Just like he did with your slippers. 

He wanted to put them on for you one morning — for no reason other than his own mischief, you’re sure — but you refused. Later, fresh out of the shower, they were gone. All of them. Every pair. Oh no, we’re out of slippers! Guess I’ll just carry you — he said with that shameless grin of his. And he did. Said the floor was too cold. Couldn’t let his wife get sick, after all. He carried you around the house all morning. Then, right before leaving to run some errands together, he knelt, slipped your shoes on like some smug prince, and you let him — half amused, half annoyed. 

The bastard always wins. 

“Fine”, you relent now, sitting back. 

“Don’t worry”, he says, picking up the brush. “I’ll be gentle.” 

So far, nothing about this marriage has matched what Akihito told you. It was supposed to be nothing more than a formality. He reassured you countless times that his son would not even glance at you — let alone lay a hand on you; that you would probably just see him just once, on your wedding day, and that would be the end of it. But so far, Akihito was wrong about everything. 

He’s never home, huh? — You see him every day. 

He won’t touch you, huh? — Then why does he look for every excuse to be close? Going as far as to get himself injured on purpose and come back without healing himself so you’ll tend to him... Why does he always find a reason to touch your arm, your hand, your back? Why... Maybe, he wants to get in your pants? That must be it... right? Why else would he try so hard to make things work? It’s not like you two married out of love. You could’ve just quietly existed as his wife on paper; he certainly doesn’t have to bother making you an actual part of his life. 

Sure, he is a huge tease. But it’s not the annoying kind. It’s... disarming. You hate to admit it, but there’s something about him. A pull. A quiet magnetism that makes you want to lean in instead of pull away. And sometimes, you forget — forget why you came to be his wife in the first place, that this was never meant to be more than convenience serving the purposes of a scandalous affair. 

Until you remember. Until you look at him and see shadows of Akihito — the resemblance too striking to ignore. A younger version of the man who changed everything for you. 

You sigh, unable to keep your thoughts from wandering. 

“Did I hurt you?”, Satoru asks, suddenly pausing mid-stroke. 

You glance at his reflection. For just a second, there’s something soft in his expression. Worry. “No”, you say. “Just thinking.” 

“About?” 

He continues brushing, careful not to let the bristles graze your skin. Instead, his hand absorbs the pressure — the motion surprisingly tender. Then his hand drops. Light fingertips brush your neck. Two fingers lift your chin, tilting your head back until your eyes meet. “Thinking about someone else while I’m this close to you?” he asks, brows furrowed. His tone is calm, but the edge in it isn’t playful. It’s sharp. Serious. 

“Jealous?” you smirk, trying to deflect. 

He places the brush down and leans in. His head hovering over yours. There’s barely any distance left. When you both breathe out a veil of warm air falls and fills the tiny gap left between your faces. “Very”, he says quietly, his face deprived of the usual grin. “Makes me want to do terrible things to the man in your thoughts.” He’s not joking. Not even a little. 

“I was thinking about you, actually”, you reply. It’s not technically a lie.  

Not accustomed to such intimate closeness with him, heat starts to spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat acting peculiarly too. The nearness is too much. You share a bed, yes — but neither of you has ever dared cross the middle. Not yet. Why beat so fast suddenly, heart? Must be the fact he’s looming over you like this that is making you uncomfortable. Trying to break the tension, you joke. “If you’re planning on doing terrible things to yourself, make sure you don’t die. I’d hate to be widowed so young.” 

His expression falters. For a second, you see it — genuine surprise. It’s satisfying. He blinks, once, twice, head pulling back slightly, fingers at your jaw trembling with something unspoken. But it doesn’t last. He recovers quickly. 

A breathy laugh escapes him as he leans in again. “You were thinking about me? What, something dirty?” 

You scoff. “You wish.” 

“I do”, he replies instantly. “And don’t worry — you’ll get there soon enough.” 

The audacity. 

“What makes you so sure I’ll get there”, you shoot back. He grins, guiding your face back toward the mirror. “If you can’t see it up close...” He taps the glass. “Just look there. I’m kind of a masterpiece.” 

“The only piece you are is a piece of work”, you mutter, turning your head with a huff, your hair brushing against his face. You expect a quip in return. But he goes still. Sniffs. 

“Hmm... What’s that smell?” He leans closer, nose buried briefly in your hair. “I didn’t know you smoked.” 

You freeze. Akihito’s cigarettes. You didn’t wash your hair after the hotel. Damn it. 

“I don’t”, you reply, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. 

“You smell like cigarettes.” 

“I was with a friend earlier. She smokes. Maybe that’s why.” you lie. 

Satoru watches you carefully through the mirror. “Good. You shouldn’t smoke”, he says at last, straightening up. “My wife has to live a long life. With me.” A smile tugs at his lips. A playful smirk, back to normal. 

You try to summon a sharp retort. Something clever. But all you manage is a tight, fake smile as your heart thunders in your chest. You were almost caught. 

Then— 

Knock-knock. 

“Dinner is ready, sir. Madam.” one of the maids calls from outside. 

“Hai-hai~”, Satoru casually yells out. “We’ll be down in a minute.” 

-- 

The dining room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace, but tension — stretched thin between the four people who sit on the table. It makes the softest sounds feel sharp. Or maybe it’s just in your head, considering the situation. 

It’s tradition, apparently — whenever everyone is home, meals are eaten together. Your least favorite part of the day. Understandably so, given the circumstances: you willingly put yourself here, fully aware you’d be sitting across from the woman whose husband you’re secretly sleeping with, and beside the son you’re technically cheating on — with his father. 

You sit beside your husband, Satoru. Across from you, Akihito — your lover, your secret. Next to him is Saori, your lover’s wife and husband’s mother — regal and silent, her expression unreadable as always, like she’s wearing a careful mask. 

No one speaks when the food is served. Just the mechanical act of eating, a silence that presses against your ribs like guilt. Your appetite has all but vanished since becoming the bride of the Gojo Clan, your stomach perpetually knotted with remorse. Sometimes even water feels repulsive. You often catch yourself wondering why you’re even doing this. Is it really love? You begin to question the choice you made, weighing it with a heaviness that never seems to lift. 

Then, as always, the silence shatters. Satoru reaches over, casual as anything, and plucks a bite of greens from your plate with his chopsticks. “Yours always taste better”, he grins, dropping them in his mouth. “Must be the way you chew”, he says with a mouthful.  

A small, soft laugh escapes you before you can catch it. There he goes with his silly antics again, you think. He somehow always knows how to tug you out of your head, whether you want him to or not. 

Akihito’s chopsticks pause mid-motion. His eyes narrow, barely, but you feel the weight of it. “Interesting”, he says, voice low and smooth, but with a faint edge. “I thought you never touched your greens.” 

Satoru doesn’t look away from you as he chews, slow and deliberate. “Tastes change.” 

The air thins. You take a sip of wine to steady your hands and avoid meeting Akihito’s eyes. You can feel them — heavy, disapproving, and not very kind. 

“They do”, Akihito replies after a moment, setting his chopsticks down with a soft click. “Although not always for the better.”  

You want to look at him, to read what he’s really thinking — but you don’t dare. Sometimes it feels like even a glance might betray you. Especially now, as Satoru shifts slightly in his seat, angling himself subtly closer to you, as if rising to meet some unspoken challenge. 

“I suppose it depends”, Satoru says lightly, the smile still playing on his lips. “Sometimes, watching someone savor something — it can spark a craving in you too.” He smiles at you then — softly — and something flutters in your chest that has no business being there. Then, he adds, with just enough weight to sharpen the air again. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, old man? How tastes change over time.” 

You freeze, just for a moment. Akihito doesn’t blink. His tone stays dry, his face unreadable. “Was there a point to that?” 

Satoru leans back slightly. “Just that, at your age, I’d expect you to be less surprised when people... shift.” 

Across from you, Saori finally lifts her wine glass. She doesn’t drink — not yet — but she swirls the red liquid slowly, her gaze shifting from father to son like she’s watching something she’s already seen before. They clash often, you’ve noticed. Not loudly, not outright — but it’s always there. A push and pull beneath the surface, a cold war of words and glances. 

Sometimes, you wonder if Satoru knows about the affair. He says things — subtle, but cutting — that make you pause, that make you think he might be more aware than he lets on. Maybe that’s why he’s pursuing you so intently — just to prove a point to his father. But then, there are moments when his gaze softens when he looks at you, when his touch lingers just a second too long. He goes out of his way every day just to be near you. And in those moments, it feels too sincere to be a game. You start to think he might actually mean it. That he’s not just chasing you out of spite — but because he truly wants you. 

You reach for your own glass again, taking another sip of wine, as if it might wash away the tension thickening by the second. But it doesn't. Setting the glass back down, your hand lingers at its base. Your fingers brush against Satoru’s hand that rests on the table between you two. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his pinky curls beneath yours — just enough to be felt, not seen. You don’t pull away. You know Akihito sees it. You feel it. The tick in his jaw is barely visible, but you notice it. 

“I’ve been seeing you around way more frequently, Satoru. I hope marriage hasn’t dulled your focus”, he says, his voice smooth and pointed. “There are more important things than... comfort.” 

The irony, you think. The words sound like a joke to you, coming from the same man who orchestrated your marriage just to keep you closer and see you more freely. You barely manage to swallow a scoff. 

Satoru leans back in his chair, unfazed. “You’d be surprised”, he says lightly. “Sometimes comfort is the only thing keeping people from falling apart.”  

“It’s rare”, Saori speaks at last, ��to see affection in this house. Perhaps we shouldn’t discourage it.” Her words are gentle, kind — at least, on the surface. But they carry the weight of something unspoken, a quiet complaint from a woman who has never been loved by her husband — not in the way a lover is. 

The silence that follows is anything but gentle. Her words hang in the air, delicate yet heavy, like the last note of a song no one knows how to follow. No one speaks. Not right away. You watch Akihito, wondering if he’ll respond — if he even knows how. But his expression remains unreadable, carved from habit more than emotion. Then, without looking at anyone in particular, he speaks, as if the comment never touched him at all. “I meant to tell you”, Akihito says, cutting through the quiet like a blade, “The elders requested a meeting with you tomorrow morning.” 

Satoru’s glass of water stills halfway to his lips. “Can’t”, he says casually. “I’m taking my wife out.” 

You blink. That’s the first you’ve heard of it. 

Akihito’s expression doesn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw tightens — just once, sharply — as he exhales through his nose. “You can reschedule”, he says. “The clan elders don’t appreciate being made to wait.” 

Satoru shrugs. “Neither does she.” He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, but the weight of it presses into your ribs like heat. 

The silence that follows is tight, full of things no one says. Saori watches Akihito this time, her gaze sharp as cut glass. Her husband is acting odd. And she notices everything. 

--  

Gojo Akihito was a man carved from discipline. Now in his late fifties, he was a figure both respected and quietly feared. When he entered a room, silence followed. Backs straightened. Conversations halted. People instinctively adjusted their posture — as if simply being in his presence demanded their best. His presence was weighty, not in a menacing way, but with a gravity that commanded reverence. His name alone held power — spoken softly, carefully, like it belonged to someone who mattered more than most. And he did. Shaped by the will of the elders, Akihito had been molded into the ideal head of the Gojo Clan: composed, unwavering, and dutiful. Obedience had been stitched into his bones from childhood. He was taught not to dream, but to serve. To lead with strength and never stray from what was expected. 

His path had been set before he could walk it — become strong, inherit the clan, marry a chosen wife, produce an heir. And he did. His talents bloomed early. Power came easily to him, and with it, authority. He married Saori, a woman selected by the elders, and fulfilled his role without resistance. Love was never part of the arrangement — but respect was. Even in the absence of affection, he treated her with dignity. They never became lovers — much to Saori’s quiet sorrow, for she had loved him from the very beginning. After they conceived Satoru, he never touched her again. As if it had been part of a duty — fulfilled, then forgotten. 

When he stepped down and passed the title of clan head to his son, Akihito did not fade quietly into the background. His voice still carried weight, often more so than of the current leader. To many, he remained the pillar of the clan. The rock. Unmoving. Unshakeable. Dependable. But even stone erodes, given time. Even the strongest man can change. Even a rock, under enough heat — can melt. 

-- 

Akihito wasn’t supposed to be here. The streets were too narrow, too loud, brimming with color and life in a way that felt foreign to him. He was meant to be elsewhere, at a meeting across town — another empty ritual of clan maintenance. But his driver took a wrong turn, and instead of rerouting, Akihito had stepped out, needing a walk. Needing air. Needing space from the weight that always clung to his shoulders. That’s when he saw you. 

At first, it was nothing. You were just a figure in the crowd — young, distracted, smiling faintly at your phone, coffee in hand. But something about you… stopped him. You passed by without noticing him, and the moment stretched too long. Something about you felt familiar, though he couldn’t place why. A detail misplaced in time. A memory from a life he never lived. He turned — just slightly. Just enough to watch you go. You entered a nearby café tucked between cramped buildings. Small. A little worn. Too cozy, too youthful for someone like him. He should have kept walking. But he followed you inside. He told himself it was curiosity. That he needed a moment to sit, make a call, kill time. But deep down, even then, he knew. He picked a seat in the corner. Three tables away from you. 

He returned the next day. And the next. It was irrational. Dangerous. He wasn’t the kind of man who indulged temptations. His life had been a masterclass in restraint — each step measured, each emotion disciplined out of existence. But you… You sat in the same spot each day, sipping a drink, sometimes reading, sometimes just staring out the window with that faraway look that seemed to see something no one else could. He wondered what you saw. He wondered what you wanted. He wondered what it would feel like to be the thing you looked at that way.  And he hated himself for it. 

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know that the man sitting a few tables away had once been the most powerful figure in one of Japan’s oldest sorcerer clans. That he had blood on his hands and responsibilities that still echoed through every inch of his life. You didn’t know that his marriage was nothing more than a political alignment. That he had followed every rule. Sacrificed every selfish urge. That he had never, in over fifty years, been in love. Not until now. 

On the third day, he stopped resisting and made a decision. He stood up, walked to your table, and asked — “May I sit?” 

-- 

Three tables. He was sitting three tables away from you — again. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. Today made the third. 

You’d noticed him immediately. How could you not? Tall, impeccably dressed, white hair, broad shoulders, and unmistakably refined. You guessed he was in his fifties, but he wore it well — almost too well. Dressed in a designer suit, he looked out of place in this cozy, slightly run-down café filled with students and twenty-somethings. Yet, there he was. 

Each time you stole a glance, he was gazing out the window, never once meeting your eyes. But something about him — his presence, the stillness in the way he sat, the ghost of a smile on his lips — kept drawing your attention. Maybe you were imagining things. But, perhaps, was he there… for you? Just as you started telling yourself it was all in your head, he moved. Ah, he’s leaving— 

No — he wasn’t. He was walking toward you. 

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened as he came to a stop at your table. 

“May I sit?” he asked, voice smooth but low, as if careful not to disturb the air between you. You blinked, pulse rising. “Why here?” you asked, managing a dry smile. “There are plenty of other tables, including the one you’ve been using for the past few days.” You motioned toward his old table. “I like the view better from here,” he replied calmly, and took the seat without waiting for permission. 

The view, of course, was you. He had resisted the pull for two days. But today, Gojo Akihito gave in. In his fifties, for the first time in his life — he fell in love. And for the first time… he broke a rule. 

-- 

He didn’t touch you. Not for weeks. Not inappropriately, not even in passing. His interest was always wrapped in respect, laced with a restraint that was somehow more intoxicating than overt desire. He spoke little, but with purpose. He listened like it was sacred. Asked questions no one else had ever bothered to. You told yourself it was harmless. That you liked the attention he was giving you. That you weren’t doing anything wrong… with a married man. It’s just a connection — nothing more. But the way he looked at you… like you were something precious, something rare, he had no right to touch but desperately wanted to — it stirred something in you. 

When he kissed you for the first time, it wasn’t impulse. It was quiet. Measured. Like a man saying a prayer before stepping into hell. And you let him. After that, the pretense faded. You started meeting behind closed doors…  

You were in love, yes. Or maybe, looking back now, you only thought you were. Not the way he was. You were free, while Akihito was chained to a life he could never escape. The deeper Akihito sank into you, the more you floated above him. Untethered. Capable of leaving. And that was what terrified him the most. He needed something stronger — something permanent — to bind you to him. 

One year into your affair, Akihito proposed something unthinkable. 

“An arranged marriage?” you gasped, your voice cracking in disbelief. “To your son?” You tried to push away from him, stepping out of the bathtub, but he caught your wrist and pulled you back in. 

“I miss you too much when you’re away”, he murmured against your shoulder. His breath was hot. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close, anchoring you to him in the steaming water. “Not knowing when I’ll see you again — it’s unbearable. And knowing it won’t be tomorrow? I hate that.” 

You sat between his legs, your bare back pressed to his chest, steam rising around you like a veil. His head dipped to the curve of your neck. You said nothing. Your lips trembled with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, with a sob that didn’t quite leave your throat. 

You spoke every day. But meetings were rare. Always discreet. Always in motion. Hotels changed with every rendezvous. Different rooms, different names, different times of arrival. You booked separate rooms but only ever used one. Because what you shared was a scandal. And the walls, anywhere, could talk. He was the former head of the Gojo Clan. A public man. A married man. And in the Gojo Clan, divorce was taboo. Unspoken but absolute. Marriage ended only with death. 

“It’s madness”, you whispered. “You’d just… hand me over to another man like that?” 

“I’m not handing you over”, he said, voice low and tired. “It’ll be just on paper. You know what Satoru’s like — he’s obsessed with his work. Sorcery is the only thing he’s ever cared about. He won’t touch you.” He paused. He knew how it sounded. But to him, it made sense. He was convinced this was the best way to keep you close. Satoru, as far as Akihito knew, had no interest in romance, no time for love. If you married his son, your place in the clan would be secured — and so would your bond to him. Even if you tried to leave him one day, you’d still be part of his world. Divorce, after all, was never an option. “Think about it”, he continued. “We’d be able to see each other more freely. People wouldn’t question it if we were spotted together — we’d be family. It would raise fewer suspicions than what we’re doing now.” 

You stared into the steam, into nothing. “...fine.” You caved. 

Neither of you knew then just how flawed the plan truly was. The flaw had a name: Gojo Satoru. 

-- 

Back in your shared bedroom, you close the door behind you and turn to face Satoru. He’s already tugging off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. You squint at him, arms crossed. “What was that earlier?” He pauses, one sock halfway off. “Hm?” He looks up at you, eyebrow arched in that maddeningly innocent way. 

“‘I’m taking my wife out’”, you echo flatly. “We made no such plans.” 

He chuckles — a low, amused sound. “Ah. That.” Straightening up, he begins rolling his sleeves to the elbows, wandering toward the bed. “I was too distracted by your beauty when I got home, I must’ve forgotten to tell you.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me what exactly?” 

“That everyone wants to meet you”, he says, as if it’s obvious. 

“Everyone?” you eye him. 

“My students. My colleagues. Most of them think I made up this whole marriage thing just for attention.” He grins like it’s the most absurd idea in the world. “So tomorrow, you’re coming with me. I need to show them that my wife is, in fact, a very real, very stunning person~” 

You blink. “So you didn’t just blurt it out to get out of meeting the elders?” 

He scoffs and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “Please. I don’t need an excuse to avoid them. I’ll meet them when I feel like it — not when they demand it.” Of course he would say that. “Besides”, he adds lazily, “I figured we could hang out a little after. Grab a bite or go somewhere. A proper date.” 

You stare at him. “A date?” — “Yeah”, he shoots. “You know, two people spending time together on purpose because they want to?” 

“Satoru”, you sigh, “you don’t have to bother with this kind of thing. This is an arranged marriage, let me remind you. We’re not... required to play house.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mock curiosity. “Who said couples in arranged marriages can’t go on dates? That’s a rule now? If it is, I must’ve missed the fine print.” 

He’s relentless — in a strangely charming way. Always pushing, always poking. And the worst part is... he knows you don’t exactly hate it. You glance away, shaking your head. “Alright”, you say finally, “fine” — and he immediately beams like he’s just won something. And maybe he has — in his own strange way. Satoru doesn’t need much to feel victorious. But there’s something you have noticed — how a yes from you is usually worth a trophy in his world, even if you offer it begrudgingly. 

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to make of the warmth blooming quietly in your chest. It's not love. It can’t be. Right? But it’s something. A softening, maybe. A flicker of possibility. Your fingers absently toy with the edge of your sleeve. That strange flutter you’ve been ignoring — the one he keeps coaxing out of you — is getting harder to deny. What exactly are you doing? — you ask yourself. 

And then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out quickly and glance down at the screen. 

Akihito: Come to the guest house. 

Just like that, reality presses its weight back onto your shoulders. It doesn’t look like Satoru noticed anything, but your hands are already closing the message, hiding the screen like a child caught with stolen sweets. “I’m going to the kitchen”, you say, too quickly. “I want something sweet.” 

Satoru sits up a little. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get—” 

“No.” You cut him off, maybe too fast. “I’m not sure what I want yet, so I’ll just look around.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment. Something unreadable flickers there — brief, sharp, gone too fast. Then he leans back on his hands, still smiling. “Alright, my picky little bride. Don’t be long.” 

You force a light laugh and slip out the door. 

-- 

Akihito hears your knock — light, familiar — before the door opens. You’re still in your dinner clothes, but your hair is looser now, lipstick faded. You look comfortable, relaxed — and he does not exactly like that. You step quietly, and he lets you come to him without saying a word. For a moment, neither of you speak. 

He looks somewhat tense, but the air between you is still warm with memory — earlier today, your skin beneath his hands, your lips murmuring his name into a hotel pillow. And yet. “I’m sorry for calling you over like this”, he says finally, his voice low. “I just needed to see you.” 

You smile faintly. “You saw me at dinner.” 

“Not like this.” His eyes search yours. “Not alone. Not without... him.” 

You stiffen slightly — not defensively. Just aware. Akihito gestures to the seat beside him. You sit.

“He’s not the same”, he murmurs after a pause. “Satoru. He’s changing.” 

You don’t respond at first. You fold your hands in your lap. 

“You know what he used to be like? Detached. Cold. Always disappearing on missions. He never gave a damn about what anyone thought of him — never entertained sentiment. And now?” He scoffs softly. “Flowers. Cooking. Holding your hand under the table like some infatuated schoolboy...” 

Your mouth opens — then closes. You can’t find the right words. 

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” he asks quietly. “At dinner. The way he looks at you.” 

Your gaze falters. Not guilty — not quite — but cautious. “He’s just playing the part, Aki”, you say eventually. “He’s always been theatrical.” 

Akihito shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t an act.” There’s no bitterness in his voice. No anger. Just... disbelief. Like he’s watching something slip through his fingers that he didn’t expect to lose. “Before you came into his life, he never stayed home. Never cared about meals or traditions or people. He never had time for anything... personal.” 

You look down. 

Akihito studies your profile, as if memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the slope of your cheek. “I know I’m the one who suggested this arrangement”, he says, and his voice is more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I told myself it was the best way to keep you close. Safe. But now...” He trails off. 

You reach out, take his hand in yours. “I’m still yours, Aki”, you say gently. “You know that.” 

“I want to believe that”, he murmurs. You squeeze his hand. “You can.” 

But your voice falters, just slightly. Just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick up to your face. There’s no accusation in them. Only fear. The quiet, creeping kind that lives under the surface of a man who’s spent a lifetime being in control. 

“I know he’s not you”, you add softly. “I know why I said yes to this. You don’t have to worry.” 

Akihito nods slowly. But his silence stretches too long. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your hair. Grateful. Reassured — or trying to be. But the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Because for the first time, he isn’t sure if the threat is outside of what you have... or is growing inside it. 

-- 

“Don’t worry, they don’t bite”, Satoru chuckles, watching you fidget with your sleeves like you’re about to walk into a job interview. You shoot him a dry look. “You say that like you’re not the worst of them.” 

“Me? I’m the warm-up act. They are the terrifying ones”, he teases, nodding toward the lounge room door. You roll your eyes but don’t stop playing with your cuffs. 

“You’ll be fine”, he adds, nudging your elbow gently. “Just flash that charming smile and pretend I’m not hovering behind you like a lovesick fool.” 

“You are hovering.” 

“I’m setting the scene”, he grins. “For dramatic effect.” 

You scoff. “I’m not scared, you know.” 

“Of course not”, he nods solemnly. “You’re just fidgeting because you’re excited to meet my fan club.” You shoot him a sideways glare. He leans over, voice lowering just a touch. “They’re going to love you”, he says, softer now. “They’ve never seen me with someone like you.” 

“Someone like me?” 

“Someone who makes me behave.” 

You don’t get the chance to press him on that. He throws the door open before you can respond — and the room instantly freezes. Chairs creak to a halt. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. All heads turn. A spoon hovers midair. A can of soda stops halfway to someone’s lips. Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath. And all of it — every flicker of curiosity, disbelief, and blatant awe — is aimed squarely at you. 

“Guys”, Satoru announces, all flair and no shame, “This is my wife. Try not to scare her off.” You manage a composed smile, offering a polite nod. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

The reactions come in like dominos. 

Yuuji blinks so fast he looks like a malfunctioning cartoon. “She’s real. She’s actually real.”

Nobara lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous. How is he married to her?” 

“There’s definitely something wrong with her”, Megumi mutters, arms crossed.

“Blink twice if you’re being held hostage”, Maki deadpans without missing a beat.

Even stoic Shoko lifts her eyebrows, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. “I genuinely thought he made you up.”

Ijichi bows at the waist, glasses fogged slightly from the tea steam. “Gojo-san speaks of you often. I assumed it was... metaphorical.” Nanami says absolutely nothing. Just closes his eyes and exhales, a slow, pained breath that says this is beneath me, but also of course this is happening. 

Meanwhile, Geto is the picture of calm. Reclined on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, he simply smirks and raises his hand in greeting. “About time you dragged her here, Satoru.” 

“Don’t encourage him”, Nanami mutters without opening his eyes. 

You can’t help it — you laugh. A light, genuine thing that breaks the awkward spell in the room like shattering glass. The tension in your chest uncoils slightly, and Satoru beams beside you. 

“Oh god”, Nobara groans. “Even her laugh is gorgeous. This is unbelievable.” 

“Do you need help?” Megumi asks again, completely serious.

“She’s under some kind of spell, huh?” Yuuji whispers. “Do we do something? Help her?” 

“No need to rescue her”, Satoru says smugly. “She married me willingly” 

“That’s even worse”, Nanami mutters. 

“You guys are insufferable”, you finally say, smiling despite yourself. 

“You’re perfect for him then”, Shoko hums. 

“Alright, alright, don’t scare her off on her first visit”, Geto says, rising from the couch. He strolls over, offering his hand. “I’m Suguru. Satoru’s better half.” 

“Hey!” Satoru protests. 

You shake Geto’s hand. “Pleasure.” 

“It really is”, he replies smoothly. “Though we may have to talk about your taste in men.” 

“I’ve made peace with it”, you reply with a smirk. The room erupts into scattered chuckles. Even Megumi snorts. Satoru clutches his chest. “I feel so betrayed.” 

“Get in line”, Nanami mutters again. 

“Come on”, Geto waves you over. “Sit. Eat something. Let us dissect your personality in peace.” As you move to join them, Satoru’s hand brushes your lower back — a barely-there touch. Protective. Familiar. You glance at him. He’s still smiling like the sun — blinding and hard to read beneath the surface.  

You ease yourself into a spot between Suguru and Satoru on the long couch. Plates and cups shift around. The lounge settles into casual chaos again, but it’s warmer now — less like scrutiny, more like curious acceptance. As conversations spark up around you, you feel it — a brush at your side. Subtle, deliberate. Satoru’s hand slides across the space between you on the couch. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look your way. But under the table, his fingers quietly reach for yours. At first, you don’t respond. The chatter of the room covers the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. It feels like everyone might notice, even though no one’s looking. And still — slowly — your fingers curl around his. 

You glance sideways at him. He’s still grinning and bickering with Geto about who’s ageing better — but there’s a flicker in his eyes when they meet yours. Something warm. Something that longs. And Satoru doesn’t look like he’s letting go of your hand anytime soon. 

-- 

Even after leaving the school and walking toward the car, Satoru hasn’t let go of your hand. Not once. And, truthfully, you haven’t tried to pull away either. His hand is warm and steady, fingers loosely laced with yours like it’s always been this natural. “They’re very chaotic”, you say as you walk side by side, the late afternoon sun painting golden highlights into his white hair. “But adorably so.” 

Satoru gasps. “How come you never say that about me?” 

“I do say you’re chaotic.” 

“Not that part”, he pouts, dragging your hand slightly as he walks. “Say I’m adorable too.”

You glance up at him with a smirk. “Why make me lie now?” 

He clutches his chest like you just wounded him. “Unbelievable. And here I was, thinking we were having a romantic moment.” 

“You pouted like a toddler five seconds ago. That was the opposite of romantic.” 

“That was endearing, thank you very much.” He sighs dramatically, unlocking the car with a flick of his keys. “One day you’ll realize just how lucky you are to have married me.”

You chuckle. “I’m still trying to figure that out.” 

As the engine hums to life and the radio kicks in with something mellow, he steals a glance at you. “You liked them, though?”

You nod. “They’re all... a lot. But in a good way. I liked them. They like you, too — though it’s hilarious how some of them thought I was a figment of your imagination at first.” 

“That’s fair”, he shrugs. “Even I sometimes think you’re too good to be real.” You don’t reply to that — partly because it’s sweet, partly because it makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to admit. 

-- 

Instead of taking you to a fancy restaurant, Satoru pulls the car up near a quiet park tucked into a tree-lined stretch of the city. It’s not crowded, the evening air is crisp, and the swings creak gently in the breeze. 

“A date doesn’t have to be complicated”, he says, hands behind his head, strolling beside you. “This used to be my favorite spot when I ditched meetings.”

You laugh. “What a responsible clan head.” 

“Oh, terribly irresponsible”, he agrees proudly. “Now — race you to the swings!”

You both make a break for it, laughing as your shoes hit gravel. You get there first, narrowly beating him (because he let you), and triumphantly claim the left swing. Satoru sits on the other — except, the chains creak loudly as he settles in, clearly too tall and too big for the tiny seat. 

“God, you look ridiculous”, you say between laughs.

“Hey”, he grins. “Let me have my moment.” He tries to swing but his feet keep dragging on the ground. You get off and try to push him but fail spectacularly. “You’re too heavy!” you exclaim. He snorts. “I’m muscle and grace, I’ll have you know.” 

“Lift your legs then! That’s the only way this will work.” 

“If I lift my legs, the swing will snap and we’ll both die.”  

You dissolve into laughter, arms over your chest as you watch him try — and fail — to get any lift. “Hop off now”, you say. “It’s your turn to push me.”

He gets off, and you take over. He starts pushing you gently, and you find yourself relaxing, head tilted back toward the sky as you glide back and forth. You don’t notice how quiet he’s gone until the swing slows and you look back to find him watching you — softly, openly, with none of his usual teasing in sight. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. He shrugs. “You look happy. I like seeing you like this.” 

Your heart stumbles. And just like that, the real world catches up — Akihito, the marriage, the plan... Guilt prickles under your skin. You’re not supposed to feel this warm around Satoru. Not this content. He notices the shift in your eyes, tension in your smile. “Hey.” He walks in front of the swing, kneeling slightly to meet your gaze. “Where did you go just now?” 

You open your mouth — but you don’t know what to say. There’s too much. You’re not even sure what you’re feeling anymore. Satoru doesn’t push. He simply lifts a hand to brush your cheek with his knuckles, gentler than anyone would expect from a man like him. “If you’re scared”, he says, “I’ll wait. But I’m not stopping.” 

You should say something — anything — but you don’t. Instead, you lean forward without thinking. Just a little. Just enough. And he meets you halfway. You kiss. It’s soft. Uncomplicated. Barely a breath long — but enough to make your stomach flip and your thoughts scramble. You pull back just as fast, cheeks feeling hot, and suddenly shoot up to your feet. 

“I—uh—I’m going to head to the car”, you stammer, already backing away. “Give me fifteen minutes. Just... wait, okay? Don’t come right now.” Satoru blinks after you as you run off, flustered. A slow smile spreads across his lips. He lifts a hand, touching his fingers to where your lips met his. “Why shy away like this now?” he murmurs to himself, chuckling. “It’s not like this is our first kiss...” 

His smile lingers, a little softer now. Almost nostalgic. He watches the direction you went, lost in thought. Because only he remembers. You’ve kissed before. But back then, you didn’t know who he was. And you still don’t remember. 

-- 

Satoru remembers it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The memory came rushing back the moment he saw your picture — the proposed match for the arranged marriage. The others in the room kept talking, formalities piling up like a tide of obligations, but he barely heard a word.  

It was you — the girl who stole his first kiss. The girl he never managed to find again. 

It happened years ago, sometime past midnight. He had just wrapped up a mission — a dull one, barely worth remembering — and was wandering the streets of Tokyo, eating red bean mochi with one hand and scrolling his phone with the other. Still in uniform, still buzzing from leftover cursed energy, still too wired to sleep. As he strolled past a row of late-night bars and clubs, the music leaked into the street like fog. Somewhere between neon signs and cigarette smoke, he spotted you — a girl slumped on the curb outside a nightclub, arms wrapped around your knees, head lolling sleepily to one side. You looked like you were dozing off. Alone. Vulnerable.  

He kept walking. At first. But something didn’t sit right. There were a few guys loitering nearby — drunk, leering, the kind of men that don’t need a reason to ruin someone’s night. One of them peeled away from the group and started approaching you, calling out something Satoru didn’t care to hear. He stopped at a vending machine, fingers patting his pockets as if he were looking for coins — but really, he was watching. Calculating. When the guy crouched beside you and reached out to brush your hair behind your ear, Satoru moved. Fast. “Sorry I took so long”, he said loudly, slinging his jacket over your shoulders in one smooth motion as he stepped between you and the stranger. 

The man froze. 

Satoru didn’t raise his voice, didn’t flare cursed energy — just looked at him. Cold. Unblinking. Dangerous. The guy got the message. “I was just making sure she was okay”, the creep stammered. 

“Yeah”, Satoru said flatly. “She is. Now leave.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Once the guys scurried off, Satoru crouched beside you, tilting his head. “Hey. Not a great place for a nap, you know?” You stirred, muttering something incoherent. “I’m serious”, he said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s not safe out here.” 

“Can’t walk”, you mumbled. “Not sure if I’m spinning, or everything else is.” 

He blinked. “That bad, huh?”

You squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“A kidnapper?”

“Definitely not.”

“Hmm”, you leaned your cheek against your knee. “Guess you’ll do.” 

Satoru stared. “What does that mean?” You reached and tugged his sleeve, and with surprising strength, pulled him to sit beside you. Then, without warning, you laid your head in his lap. “What are you—?” 

“You’re warm”, you sighed, nestling closer. “And you smell nice. But I kind of feel like throwing up.” 

“Please don’t”, he said instantly, trying not to panic. “This is my favorite outfit.” 

You giggled. “You’re funny.”

He looked down at you, at the way your hair fanned across his thighs, at the curve of your sleepy smile. “What are you even doing out here alone?” he asked. 

“I lost my friends”, you mumbled. “Or maybe they lost me. Who’s to say...” 

“You got a phone?” 

You held it up proudly. It was dead. “Perfect”, he sighed. 

Eventually, when it became clear you weren’t going to get up willingly, he gathered you into his arms and stood. “Alright, mystery girl. I’m getting you somewhere safe — where’s your place?” 

“Wait, wait”, you slurred, squinting suspiciously at him. “I don’t know you. I can’t just tell you where I live!” 

“You’re literally unconscious on the sidewalk and I’m carrying you like a bridal bouquet. I think we’re past that point.” 

You didn’t answer. Your head lolled onto his shoulder. He sighed, glanced around. He didn’t know your name, didn’t know where you lived — but you looked about college-aged, and the university campus wasn’t far. It was the best guess he had. So he started walking.  

Halfway there, a group of girls came jogging down the sidewalk, calling some name (yours). They looked frantic — until they saw you in his arms.  “Oh god”, one of them exhaled. “We’ve been looking for her everywhere!” 

They reached out to take you, but you lifted your head groggily, blinking at him like you’d just remembered he existed. You took off his sunglasses and placed him on his head, then cupped his face in both hands, surprisingly gentle. 

“You’re pretty”, you said. 

He blinked. 

Then you leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and quick. “Thank you”, you whispered. “For keeping me warm.” 

And just like that, your friends pulled you away — you still wearing his jacket, him still too stunned to speak. He stood there long after you were gone, fingers pressed to his lips, dazed. “What a weird girl”, he muttered. 

But he’d already fallen for you. 

He tried to find you after that, of course — visited the area again, lingered by the campus, even asked around in his own way. But your name, your face... all of it had vanished like a dream after waking. Until years later — when he saw your photo again. And this time? He said yes without hesitation. 

-- 

The days begin to blend. Soft, warm mornings. Laughter over late breakfast. The rustle of flower petals against your cheek as you wake — a new habit Satoru’s picked up. You open your eyes to a fresh bouquet on your pillow, tied together with a silk ribbon and a folded note tucked inside. 

Roses are red, violets are blue, don’t open the curtains, I'm watching you ;)  S. 

You roll your eyes but smile. By now, your phone is full of messages from him — some voice notes, some texts. Some completely random, like: 

Voice message — 9:07 AM 

Hey, I found this stray cat that reminds me of you. They ignored me when I tried to pet them and just walked off. Thought that was kinda romantic~  

Text — 10:12 AM 

Do you miss me or are you pretending I don’t exist again? Be honest. I can take it. (Don’t be honest) 

Sometimes he’s halfway through a mission and still finds the time to send you a photo of some stupid little charm at a shrine that “looks cursed like you” — and by the time he returns home, you’ve forgotten how silence used to fill the rooms before he came. 

You start leaving notes back. Hiding snacks in his coat. One time, you sent him flowers — as a joke. A massive, bright pink bouquet delivered right to the faculty lounge at Jujutsu Tech. 

Yuuji nearly dropped his drink when he saw it. “Sensei, I thought you were the man in this relationship... but I guess you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” 

Satoru beamed as he held the bouquet. “Listen, Yuuji, I think she’s got me on a leash. And honestly? I don’t mind it.” 

Geto didn’t even blink. “You’ve always liked being domesticated.” 

Nanami groaned in the distance. “Please take your romance outside school grounds.” 

Your life with him feels like a sitcom at times. Like you’ve somehow fallen into a slice-of-life version of your own story. And strangely, you don’t hate it.

But not all lives move at the same pace. 

Akihito watches it unfold from the shadows of his own silence. This was not part of the plan. You’re playing your role way too well to his liking. Are you humoring Satoru’s peculiar behavior for the sake of keeping the peace... or is there something more to it?

He feels the distance stretching. You reply to his messages slower now. When he calls, you sound distracted — not cold, just... somewhere else. Sometimes when he walks by your and Satoru’s room, he hears his son’s voice talking to you and it cuts deeper than he expects. Laughing. Teasing. Talking to you in a tone Akihito used to think was only his to use. 

He remembers your last few moments together, how they’ve been growing shorter. More careful. Your touches — once confident, rooted in secret familiarity — now come with hesitation. Like you’re aware of something new. Something blooming in the cracks you didn’t plan for. You were slipping. And for the first time in a very long time, Akihito doesn’t know what to do. 

He doesn’t confront you. He won’t. Because even now, he trusts you. Even now, he tells himself you would never betray him like that... But still — he’s left staring at the space beside him that used to be filled by you, fingers curled into fists he won’t raise, breathing through a storm he never thought he’d have to weather. 

--  

Evening settles softly across the room like a warm blanket. The lights are dim, casting a gentle golden hue over the shared bedroom you’ve both slowly grown used to — not just as a space, but as a kind of quiet haven. You sit on the bed with your knees tucked close to your chest, absently flipping through some old magazine you already checked out twice. Satoru is nearby, sprawled across the foot of the bed, fiddling with his phone but mostly stealing glances at you. The silence between you is easy now. Not empty, not awkward — just comfortable. 

Still, something hangs between you, unspoken but undeniably there. It’s been lingering ever since that kiss in the park. You haven’t kissed again since, but your touches linger longer now — a brush of fingers as you pass something to him, the slow curl of his hand around yours when you walk beside each other. Close, but careful. 

Tonight feels different. 

“Do you ever miss the chaos?” you ask, not looking up from the page. “Before we... whatever this is.” 

“Before we became a domestic power couple?” Satoru teases, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “Tragic. I used to be wild. Now I fold your laundry.” You laugh. “You don’t fold my laundry.” 

“I would. For the record. If it meant you’d smile like that.”  

You glance at him now, and his expression softens when your eyes meet. The air changes. It’s in the way he shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow. There’s something different in his gaze — not just affection, but hunger veiled by hesitance. You feel it too. That same flutter deep in your belly. The nervous kind. The kind that tastes like anticipation. He moves closer, slowly, watching you for any flicker of hesitation. When he reaches out, his fingers brush lightly along your jaw, his thumb barely skimming your cheek. You don’t move away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that for a while now”, you whisper.

He smiles, a little crooked, a little shy — rare, for him. “Yeah. I’ve been... trying to behave.” 

Your lips part, but you don’t speak. Satoru leans in, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s slower than last time. Less impulsive. More reverent. His hand cups the back of your head gently as he pulls you closer, tasting your breath as if he’s been craving it every day since the last time. And then he pulls back. Breath shaky. Eyes shut. You blink, still dazed from the kiss. “Satoru? What are you doing?” 

He exhales a slow, uneven breath. “Waiting for you to slap me.”

You stare at him. That rare vulnerability in his voice knocks the breath right out of your lungs. “Why would I slap you?” 

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t warn you. I just... kissed you. Again. I told myself I’d wait until you wanted me.” 

You hesitate only for a heartbeat. Then, you lean forward and take his face in your hands, gently pulling him back into you. Your lips find his, and this time there’s no pause. No retreat. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you. Every angle. Every sound you make. Your hands find their way under the hem of is shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin, and he shivers beneath your touch. You break the kiss long enough to whisper, “Come closer.”

His forehead rests against yours. “Only if you want me to.” 

“I do”, you breathe, voice trembling but sure. “I want this. I want you.” His arms tighten around you, and it’s slow, almost reverent, the way he lays you down — like you’re something sacred. Clothes are shed without urgency, and his hands trace the lines of your body like he’s reading scripture. The rest unfolds in quiet gasps and whispered names. It's not just desire — it’s need. Familiar, frightening, warm... 

...when it’s over, the silence that follows is different from all the ones that came before. You lie beside him, heart still racing, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your arm. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, memorizing the curve of your lips, the way your chest raises and falls. And for a moment, you forget every plan. Every lie. Every secret. For a moment, it feels like love. The kind that sneaks up on you — quiet, uninvited, and impossible to ignore. You lie tangled together, your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tenderly caressing your bare skin. Hearts still thudding. 

Satoru is the one to break the silence, his voice light, teasing (as usual). “So... You really don’t remember me, huh?” 

You blink, lifting your head just enough to glance at him. “What?” 

“Brutal...”, he laughs. “And here I was, thinking I made a lasting impression that night.” 

You narrow your eyes, unsure if he’s joking. “What are you talking about?” 

“Nahh, I get it — you were pretty drunk”, he says, dragging the words out like a cat playing with mouse. 

“Oh god—” You sit up suddenly, sheet gathering around your chest. “Don’t tell me we’ve hooked up in the past and I don’t remember it?” Satoru bursts out laughing. “No, not like that.”

You squint at him. “Then stop being so cryptic and tell me!” 

He stretches, hands behind his head, smug and insufferable. “Let’s just say… you were outside a bar. Alone. Slumped on the curb. And I saved your life.”

You blink again. He continues, barely hiding his amusement. “Some creep tried to hit on you. I intervened, obviously. You asked if I was a kidnapper, told me I smelled nice, then fell asleep in my lap.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.” 

“Oh, there’s more,” he says with a mock-serious nod. “You called me pretty. And you kissed me.”

You gape. “You’re lying.” 

“I’m not,” he says, lips twitching. “And you stole my jacket, by the way.”

Your eyes widen. Something flickers at the edge of your memory. “Wait— that was your jacket?”

Satoru raises his brows, clearly enjoying himself. “Yep.” 

“I always wondered where it came from”, you mumble, stunned. “I kept it for years. I thought maybe someone just… gave it to me out of pity.” 

“Well, I did give it to you”, he says, softer now. “But it wasn’t pity.” 

You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing it all. “I can’t believe it. That was you.” 

He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal — but his voice betrays him when he says, “Yeah. I looked for you, you know? Went back to that street, hung around your supposed campus. Thought about that stupid night more times than I’d ever admit.” 

You gasp. 

“When your photo showed up in the marriage proposal packet?” He looks over at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “I said yes before they even finished reading your name.” 

You stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

He smiles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you didn’t look at me like this before.” You lean in, heart heavy with something warm and aching. “How do I look at you now?” 

“Like you might not disappear this time.” 

-- 

You slip into your nightgown, your skin still tingling with traces of warmth and tenderness. The sound of water runs in the background — Satoru in the shower, humming something off-key. A lazy smile plays on your lips as you step out of the bedroom, quietly padding down the hallway. You tell yourself it’s just to grab snacks. Maybe a drink. Something to soothe the afterglow that’s left your heart both full and aching. 

But as you reach the kitchen and flick on the soft underlight, your body seizes.

Akihito is there. Standing in the low light like a phantom, glass in one hand, his other curled into a loose fist at his side. The bottle of whiskey beside him is nearly half-empty. He doesn’t speak right away — just stares at you, and it’s a look you’ve never seen on him before. Not like this. There’s pain, yes. But buried under that is something sharper. Something raw. 

“Akihito...” you breathe, barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t answer. Just brings the glass to his lips again, slowly, as if buying time — or trying to keep himself from saying what’s already clawing its way up his throat. Akihito, huh? You used to call him Aki... 

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing slightly as he steps forward. You don’t move — not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t quite dare. He stops in front of you, closer than comfort allows. The scent of whiskey and something tired hangs on him — disappointment. His eyes flicker over your face, and you know he sees it. The softness in your cheeks. The haze still lingering in your gaze. The warmth that isn’t his. He knows. Of course he does. But he wants to confirm, one last time. 

His hand reaches toward you, swiftly lifting your nightgown to brush his fingers against your cunt, bare, still wet and sore. You flinch, instinctively stepping back — but his free hand snaps around your wrist. He withdraws his fingers, bringing them close to your face, then slowly rubs them together. Smearing the slick, laced with remnants that don’t belong to him. “You slept with him”, he says, low, flat. No question. Just a quiet accusation. 

Your breath catches. 

He leans in, close enough for his words to brush against your skin. “Do you love him?”

Before your lips can part, before your heart even finds a beat, a new voice breaks the silence. 

“Hey, I was looking for y—” Satoru enters the room, still damp from the shower, water clinging to his chest, a towel slung low around his waist, another in his hands as he rubs it through his hair. The moment he sees his father, he stops mid-step. His eyes lock at his hand around your wrist. His tone drops, his jaw clenches. He immediately yanks his hand away from you, then his eyes dart to the whiskey on the counter. “Old man, did you get drunk enough to mistake my wife for yours?” 

Akihito doesn’t answer right away, but he tenses. For a moment, he seems to fold in on himself — trying, perhaps, to remember who he is, and who he’s supposed to be. “I lost my balance for a second”, he mutters. Then without another glance at either of you, he brushes past and disappears down the hall. 

The silence he leaves behind is deafening. You’re frozen. Like glass on the verge of shattering. Guilt crawls under your skin like a fever. You want to scream. You want to run. You feel like you’ve betrayed them both. 

Satoru looks at you. His expression softens the moment he sees your face. “Hey...” voice gentle now. “You okay? You look a bit... pale.” He tries to joke, but there’s a note of worry breeding into his words. “Did I... maybe go a little too hard on you back there?” A faint smirk, halfhearted. His eyes, though, are searching.  

You force yourself to nod, to smile like you’re fine. “No. I’m okay. I just—” you glance toward the hallway, “I got startled. I didn’t expect to see anyone else awake.”

Satoru doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push either. He just reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch almost reverent. “Next time, tell me”, he says softly. “I’ll walk you around the house like a proper husband.” 

You laugh — weakly, but you manage it. Neither of you says what you’re thinking. Neither of you asks the questions hanging thick in the air. But both of you feel it. Something has shifted. And in the stillness that follows, all you can do is hold your breath and pretend it’s not already slipping out of your control. 

-- 

The soft creak of Akihito’s footsteps disappears into the silence of the hallway as if he is retreating from more than just a room. By the time he reaches the bedroom he shares with Saori, the burn in his chest has settled into something heavier, duller. She is already asleep, curled into herself beneath the silk sheets. He doesn’t even look at her. Akihito pours himself another drink from the decanter near the dresser, the sound of the liquid filling the glass louder than it should. His hand shakes as he brings it to his lips. He has lost count of how many glasses he had tonight. 

He believed he was in control, never imagining, even for a moment, that you might be the one to falter. He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, nursing the bitterness on his tongue, trying to down what feels like the unraveling of everything. His grip tightens around the glass until his knuckles turn white. And eventually, the weight of it — the whiskey, the pain, the loss — pulls him down. He settles in bed, fully clothed, eyes open to the dark. Only when the alcohol dulls the sharpest edges of his thoughts does sleep finally claim him. 

Saori wakes sometime later — hours, maybe. She doesn’t know what stirred her at first. The clock ticks quietly. The room is still. But then she hears it. A soft sound. A broken voice. Akihito. At first, she thinks he is awake, whispering. But when she turns to face him, she sees the tight lines on his brow, his face twisted in restless dreaming. 

...a name falls from his lips like a prayer. Your name.

“Don’t leave me...” He shifts, face turned toward her, eyes shut tight. His voice cracks in a way she has never heard before. “I love you... please... don’t go...” 

Saori doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe. For a long moment, all she can do is stare at the man she spent more than half her life beside. The man who kept so much from her. Until now.

Everything made sense to her now. All of it. The proposal of a random girl — a nobody, by traditional standards — as a bride for the clan head. His obsessive oversight of your marriage. His silence. His sudden, inexplicable shifts in mood. All the times he came home reeking of another woman. And now this. 

She sits up slowly, placing her hand on her lap as the cold realization settles deep into her bones. Her husband has never said her name like that, even in dreams. A sharp, unfamiliar ache blooms in her chest. It isn’t jealousy — though that is part of it. It is grief. For a marriage that never really belonged to her. For a love that was never hers to begin with. She turns to look at Akihito once more. His lips move soundlessly now, breath uneven. Vulnerable in a way he has never let himself be when conscious. Saori whispers, her voice nearly a breath, “You poor, stupid man...” 

And she doesn’t know whether to feel pity, rage, or heartbreak. So she sits there — in the dim quiet, beside the man who is dreaming of someone else — and tries to remember what it feels like to be chosen. 

-- 

The morning sun spills through sheer drapes. Saori sits before her vanity, back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap as the house attendant brushes through her hair. She stares at her reflection — still, expressionless. But her eyes, always sharp, betray thought in motion. There’s no puffiness in them, no redness, no sign of the long night she endured beside her sleeping husband and the dreams he whispered into the dark. Not a trace of it reached the surface. Because Gojo Saori does not falter. 

She was raised for this life. Trained from the moment she could walk and speak — in manners, in posture, in etiquette. In silence. In sacrifice. She was chosen for the Gojo Clan as if born for it, bred for it. A perfect match to elevate status and maintain lineage. An ideal bride, by design. Not merely beautiful, but refined. Not merely obedient, but poised. Regal in her restraint. And still, he never loved her. Gojo Akihito, the man she married at twenty-one, gave her everything a wife could ask for — wealth, status, a name that carried power. But not his heart. Never his heart. She spent years trying to earn it anyway. With devotion. With loyalty so fierce it could have moved mountains if he had only looked her way and seen her properly. 

But last night... Last night, in the hush of the sleeping room they shared for so many years, he spoke someone else’s name. Not once. Not carelessly. Lovingly. 

Saori meets her own gaze in the mirror — unwavering, unflinching. She should’ve wept, perhaps. Cried the way lesser women might. Collapsed into trembling disbelief or broken rage. But she had no time for that. No space, in the skin she wears, for such indulgence. Her family name was teetered on scandal, and she bled too much grace into this place to see it torn down now — not by a girl’s foolishness, not by a man’s longing. Gojo Saori was, above else, a guardian of the image. But the image was beginning to crack. And she was ready to protect what needed protecting.  

--  

You sit at the table, eyes tracing the rim of your teacup, steam curling softly into the morning air. You haven’t taken a sip. You haven’t touched your plate. Your stomach is tight, twisted with guilt... especially after last night. 

Satoru is full of light and ease, as he always is — grinning, teasing, tossing playful remarks into the stillness like stones skipping across a glassy lake. His hand brushes yours casually, fingertips lingering just long enough to warm your skin. It's comforting in a way, how unchanged he is. But his energy doesn’t reach you this morning. You smile when you’re supposed to. You answer when he prompts you. But your mind is far away — caught between the memory of last night’s warmth and the echo of Akihito’s voice, flat and cracked with disappointment. 

Akihito sits quietly, as he always does, but today his silence feels heavier. His fingers press against the bridge of his nose, slow and methodical, as if trying to will away a migraine. He hasn’t touched his food. His presence across the table burns into you like a brand. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you can feel his restraint like a tremor in the room — barely contained, always building. 

Saori is a vision of composure. She lifts her teacup with perfect posture, takes delicate sips, and sets it down with the precision of someone who has performed this same ritual every morning of her life. Her face is unreadable — not blank, but too measured. There's something behind her stillness, something coiled. But you can’t tell what. She gives nothing away. 

Satoru leans in toward you with a lopsided grin, voice dipped in mischief. His hand brushes your arm again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he senses how fragile you feel. “You’re awfully quiet today”, he points out. You blink, startled — his voice snapping you out of your spiral — and you force a breath, a small smile. He’s trying to bring you back. The way he always does. “I didn’t get much sleep last night”, you manage, voice low and tight. 

“Tired, huh?” he echoes with a soft laugh, leaning in closer. His voice drops to a whisper, just for you. “Guess that’s what happens after a long, productive night... right?” 

Your heart stumbles. The words land like a thunderclap, disguised as a joke, but sharp enough to cut through your skin. His wink is lighthearted — harmless in his mind — but you freeze. You don’t laugh. You can’t. The knot in your stomach coils tighter, shame rising in your chest. You drop your gaze and press your lips together, every nerve on fire. 

Then comes the sound. A sharp, sudden crack. 

Akihito’s hand clenches around his teacup — or what’s left of it. Porcelain shards glint, splintered across the table and floor. His palm is cut, a slow trickle of blood winding through the lines of his hand, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He stares at the broken cup like it’s something far away. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched. A man unraveling slowly — but silently. 

Satoru turns toward him, his gaze casual, almost detached. He says nothing. 

Saori moves immediately, her composure untouched as she rises and then immediately kneels beside him without ceremony, inspecting the wound with clinical care. Her voice is even, steady. “Are you alright?” Akihito doesn’t respond. His eyes are still fixed on the broken shards. His breath is shallow. Hollow. You wonder if he even knows where he is. Saori retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet, her movements smooth, practiced. She tends to the cut with quiet precision, wrapping the bandage around his hand in silence. She doesn’t look at you, not directly — but her awareness is piercing. You can feel her watching, even when her eyes aren’t on you. 

You try not to flinch under the weight of it. 

Satoru watches you now. Truly watches you, and only you. There’s concern in his eyes, but beneath it, something darker — a flicker of something unreadable, as if he’s seeing straight through you. 

--  

You walk Satoru to the front of the estate, the morning sun slowly warming the stone path. He lingers, reluctant to go. “Are you sure you want me to leave?” he asks, searching your face. “You’ve been... kind of out of it all morning.”

You manage a smile, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair. “I told you, I’m just tired.”  

He’s clearly unconvinced. “Then let me stay. I’ll take the day off, we’ll snuggle in bed, watch trashy movies, eat junk food — whatever you want.” 

“No”, you cut him off gently. “They’ll chew you out for skipping another day because of me. I’m fine, I promise. I just... need a little time to myself.” 

He watches you for a moment longer, visibly debating. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You better call me if you change your mind. Or even if you don’t. I just want to hear your voice.” 

“I will”, you say, trying to mean it. 

“You won’t”, he mutters. “But I’ll pretend to believe you.” 

You watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. And then the weight returns, heavy and unforgiving. You turn and head back toward your room, your steps slow. You were planning to reach out to Akihito — to talk, to finally be honest. At least with him. You need to say the words out loud. 

Halfway to your door, one of the maids appears at the end of the corridor, bowing her head respectfully as she approaches. “Lady Saori has asked if you would join her for tea in the garden”, she says. 

You blink. “Tea?” 

“She’s waiting for you now”, the maid adds.  

Your stomach twists. This is a first. Saori has never invited you anywhere, never initiated anything outside of polite formality. And now — tea? You murmur your thanks and change direction, heading toward the garden with careful steps. When you arrive, Saori is already seated beneath the wide shade of the cherry blossom tree. Everything is picturesque — the porcelain tea set arranged perfectly, delicate sweets on a lacquer tray. Not a single detail out of place. She looks up as you approach, her posture composed, her expression mild. 

“Hello again”, she says, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Please, sit.”

You lower yourself slowly. “Thank you.” 

She pours the tea herself. No attendants. No distractions. Just you and her. “We’ve never had the chance to talk”, she says, tone pleasant. “Just the two of us.” 

You nod faintly. “I guess not.” 

She picks up her cup, takes a small sip, and sets it down again. “Satoru seems happy.”

You glance at her, cautious. “He is.” 

“I can tell. He’s always been bright, but lately there’s something different. Something new. He’s softer. His laugh is more genuine.” She offers a smile. “He clearly cares for you — deeply.” 

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.” 

She hums softly, and then — without a change in tone — asks, “And how are things between you and my husband?”

The question hits you like a stone dropped into still water. No warning. No shift in expression.  

You stiffen, staring at her.

She doesn’t look away, “Not well, I imagine?” voice still calm. 

“I—” 

“I don’t want to hear it”, she cuts in, quiet but firm. 

Silence settles like a weight. Her voice remains calm, but the steel beneath it is undeniable. “I am not blind.” 

You lower your gaze. 

“I see the way Akihito looks at you. I see what it’s done to him.” Her fingers rest gently on the rim of her teacup. “And I know the kind of woman it takes to twist a man like him into something unrecognizable.” 

You flinch. 

“I won’t let this continue. I won’t let you unravel this family from the inside out. If you stay on this path, you won’t just break Akihito — you’ll destroy Satoru too. He’s already too attached. Too invested. And when this blows apart — because it will, like all secrets do — do you really think he won’t be the one to bleed for it?” 

You look up at her, heart pounding. Her words feel like nails driven into your spine. There’s no venom in her voce. No raised pitch. Just control. Cold and deliberate. “I’m giving you a choice”, she says. “You leave. On your own terms. Or I will make sure you have no terms at all.” 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. What can you even say? What are you supposed to do? Argue? 

“Think it over”, she says, lifting her teacup again. “Before it becomes something you can’t come back from.” Then her eyes meet yours one last time — still poised, but with a new edge. “And don’t even think about telling Akihito we had this conversation.” she adds softly. “Unless you want Satoru to know about it too.” 

-- 

You barely make it back to your room before your legs give out. The door shuts behind you and you crash onto the bed, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s useless now. The dam is breaking. Your shoulders shake, and the sob that leaves you is hoarse, pulled from a place so deep it feels like you’re splitting open. 

Everything was falling apart — like a chain of dominoes tipping one after another. One thing went wrong, and the rest followed, collapsing in swift, inevitable sequence. The worst part? The love blooming quietly in your chest. There’s no use pretending anymore. You can try to lie to everyone else — maybe even try to lie to yourself. But the truth is carved into your every glance, every touch, every breath, every unspoken word between you and Satoru. You love him. But you’re not allowed to have him. Not after this. Not when the damage has already begun to spill over the edges.  

You sit in the stillness for a while, until your tears run dry and resolve begins to settle in their place. There’s one thing left to do — the thing you intended before everything spiraled. You need to speak with Akihito. You pick up your phone and type out the message. 

Meet me in an hour. I’ll send you the location of the hotel. 

Then you get up, dress in silence, and leave. 

-- 

The room is quiet when he arrives. Akihito steps inside and finds you standing by the window, framed in soft, diffused light. There’s something different in your posture — something heavier. He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you, then takes a step forward. 

He dropped everything and came to you. Still hoping. That small, foolish hope still flickers in him — that maybe, despite everything, you’ve called him here because you’ve come back. He reaches for you, arms out as if to hold you again. But you step back. 

“No”, you say, voice tight. “We can’t do this anymore.” 

His hands drop to his sides. “What?” his voice barely comes out. You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “Aki... we can’t.” He stares at you. Then — a bitter, hollow laugh escapes him. “So that’s it?” His voice cracks. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you? And all this was for nothing?” 

You close your eyes. The silence answers for you. He paces away, running a hand through his hair, then back again. “God”, he mutters. “I thought this was the perfect plan. I thought — if I couldn’t have you publicly, I could at least have you close. Through him. Knowing he wouldn’t want you, wouldn’t touch you. Knowing that you loved me...” He looks at you now, eyes sharp with grief. “But I was wrong about both.” 

You wrap your arms around yourself. “This was a terrible idea from the start, and you know it”, you whisper. “I should’ve never agreed. I should’ve never let it get this far. I wish I’d never—” 

“Don’t”, he snaps, suddenly raw. “Don’t say you wish you never met me. Don’t.” 

Your breath hitches, but you don’t take it back. His voice lowers, thick with disbelief. “You don’t really mean it... right?”

Your silence cuts deeper than any answer.

He lets out a sharp breath, like it hurts, and moves to step toward you again, in utter denial of what’s unfolding before his eyes. 

“No”, you say, firmer this time. “Please. Just let this be the end.” 

You reach for the door. He follows. For the first time, you leave the hotel room together — not like all the other times, not hidden, not careful. You’re walking away, and he’s chasing you, hand reaching desperately for yours. 

“Wait—!” 

Akihito’s hand closes around your wrist just as you step onto the sidewalk, his grip tight, desperate — like holding on could somehow undo everything unraveling between you.

And then you hear it — a familiar voice calls your name. 

“...is that you?” 

You freeze. Shoko stands a few feet away, dressed in her uniform. Her gaze flicks from your face to where Akihito’s hand still clings to yours, and her expression changes in an instant. 

And just like that — in the space of a single day — everything you’ve tried to keep buried begins to rise. Crashing, all at once, to the surface. 

-- 

The sun is long gone by the time Satoru returns, the estate cloaked in stillness. He steps inside, calling your name softly. When you appear at the end of the hall, barefoot in the dim light, something in him settles — and then, just as quickly, something else begins to stir. You look like yourself, and yet... not. Your smile is soft but distant, your eyes shimmering in a way he can’t place. “I’m home”, he says, shrugging off his jacket. “Missed me?” 

You nod, walking up to him. You press a hand to his chest. “Little bit.” He smiles and leans down to kiss you, and when your lips meet, he feels it — the way you cling just a little tighter, hold just a little longer. It’s like you’re trying to memorize the way he tastes.  

Later, in your shared room, the lights are low and the silence is velvet. You’re already in bed when he returns from the shower, his white hair damp and tousled, towel slung loosely around his neck. He slips in beside you, cold fingers brushing your arm. You shiver, not from the chill — from the weight of what’s to come.

“You said you needed some time for yourself this morning, but you’re still like this”, he murmurs, pulling you close. “I don’t like it.”

You nestle against his chest, pressing your cheek to his skin. “I’m okay now.” 

There’s something in your voice that makes him pause. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he wraps his arms around you tighter, grounding himself in the curve of your spine, the warmth of your breath against him. 

“You smell like cotton candy”, you whisper.

He chuckles, nose brushing the crown of your head. “It’s that new shampoo. Smells fancy, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers with his like it’s the last time... “Will you stay with me?” you ask softly.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he breathes.

“Good”, you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Then, come closer.”

Satoru tilts his head down to look at you, a flicker of unease moving behind his gaze. “Of course”, he says. “Where else would I go?” 

You pull him down to kiss you again. Deep. Slow. There’s no teasing. No games. Just something desperate threaded through every movement. Like a goodbye wrapped in silk. When you make love, there’s no rush. No fire. Just the quiet rhythm of two people trying to suspend time — to stretch a moment into forever. You whisper his name like a prayer. He kisses your temple like he’s stealing a promise he doesn’t know he’s about to break. 

Afterward, you lie tangled together, your head on his chest, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your bare shoulder. Your breathing evens. Sleep comes to you quickly — a peace you haven’t known in a while.  

But Satoru doesn’t sleep. He watches you in the darkness, his blue eyes searching your face, as if trying to decode something written there. Something unsaid. You’ve never look so peaceful. And, honestly, that’s what scares him. His chest tightens. Something in his gut whispers that he’s missing something. That he’s not seeing the full picture. That maybe... you’re slipping through his fingers.

“Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” he murmurs, barely audible, brushing a thumb along your cheek. You stir, but don’t wake. He leans down and kisses your forehead — gentle, reverent. “I love you”, he whispers into your hair. And for a moment, he lets himself believe it’s enough to keep you. 

-- 

A week passes. The Gojo estate buzzes with preparations for the annual celebration — Saori and Akihito’s wedding anniversary. As always, Saori is at the heart of it all, composed and efficient, orchestrating every detail with practiced grace. Akihito, on the other hand, remains distant. Detached. You barely see him around the mansion. Not a word has passed between you since that day at the hotel. It feels like he’s quietly disappearing — withdrawing, piece by piece — and yet, an uneasy weight sits in your chest. Something feels off. Unfinished. 

One afternoon, as you help Saori sort through invitations, she brings it up — casually. “Have you made up your mind?” she asks, her eyes never lifting from the stack of envelopes. You pause, fingers brushing the edge of an envelope, and answer softly — almost absently. “Who knows.” 

-- 

Morning light filters through the sheer curtains. You’re already awake, lying still in Satoru’s arms. His breath is warm against the nape of your neck, one arm draped lazily around your waist, holding you in place like an anchor. Carefully, you ease out from under his arm. He shifts but doesn’t wake. Bare feet touch the cold floor as you rise and stand in the light, allowing yourself one last look. He’s lying on his back now, hair a tousled against the pillow. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way only sleep allows. Your chest aches. 

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and lift your gaze to the mirror. Your eyes are red. Hollow. The skin beneath them bruised with fatigue. But beneath the weariness, there’s something else — resolve. When you return to the room, Satoru is stirring. He squints at you with a sleepy grin. “Come back”, he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “I sleep better when you’re here.”  

You smile softly. “Can't. You know today’s the big day.” 

He stretches like a cat, arms reaching above his head, the sheet slipping down to his hips. “Ugh. Right. Completely forgot about that”, he groans and then rolls onto his side. You manage a quiet laugh. As he nestles back into the pillow, you linger in the doorway. “I love you.” you whisper — quietly, so quietly he won’t hear. Then you close the door behind you. And with that, the countdown begins. 

--  

The Gojo estate is nothing short of magnificent tonight. The garden glows beneath a canopy of paper lanterns, warm amber light spilling across the sea of guests. Tables are dressed in fresh flowers. Soft music hums in the background, blending into murmured conversations and the gentle clinking of glasses. Tonight is a celebration of image — Akihito and Saori’s wedding anniversary. Saori is elegance incarnate, her smile as polished as the pearls at her neck. Akihito stands beside her, composed, offering polite nods and minimal words. Together, they are the picture of grace. But the image is just that — a facade. There’s nothing worth celebrating. Nothing real about the harmony they pretend to share. 

Across the garden, Satoru floats through the evening like a disruption in the symmetry. Dressed in a loose gray suit, tie nowhere in sight, he laughs too loud, drowns juice from a champagne glass, and teases the elders with casual disrespect. No one bats an eye — it’s just Satoru being Satoru. But those who know him — really know him — can see it. He’s restless. His eyes keep scanning the crowd. At first subtly. Then, with growing urgency. You’re not out here. You slipped away earlier, saying something about fixing your dress. But that was over thirty minutes ago. Long enough for the knot in his stomach to tighten. Long enough for his laugh to start sounding forced. 

He leans toward Shoko, who’s sipping wine with a bored expression. “Have you seen her?” 

“Nope”, Shoko replies, unbothered. “Didn’t she say she was heading to the bathroom?” 

“Yeah”, Satoru’s fingers drum against the table. “But how long does fixing a dress take?” 

Across the garden, Akihito and Saori stand side by side as guests gather for the toast. She leans in, whispers something. He nods — but his gaze flickers, briefly, toward the house. 

An elder raises a glass. “To love. To strength. To bonds that stand the test of time.” 

Glasses rise.

Clink.

Applause follows. The illusion holds.

Until— 

BOOM. 

A thunderous crack splits the air. The ground shakes. Heat pulses across the garden like a wave. Screams erupt. From the left wing of the estate, fire bursts through the windows — a wall of flame swallowing the air. Smoke billows thick and choking. Music cuts out. Plates crash. Glass shatters. 

Satoru’s glass falls from his hand and explodes against the ground. Something sharp drives into his chest. He knows — you’re still inside. But before the thought is fully formed, he’s already running.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” His voice cuts through the chaos as he barrels through the guests. 

Akihito starts to follow, face pale, but Saori grabs his arm. Her gaze then snaps to her son. “Satoru, STOP!” she cries — but he doesn’t hear.

To Satoru, the world is silent now. There is only the roar of the fire and the pounding of his heart. He bursts through the estate doors, sprinting toward the source of the flames. He forgets his technique. Forgets his own safety. Forgets everything — except you.

“Please, baby— please, my love— I’m coming, please— Don’t do this to me, please—”, he keeps chanting.

The deeper he goes, the more warped the hall becomes — blackened, unrecognizable. He reaches the kitchen — but it’s empty. Panic claws up his throat. He turns, runs to the nearby bathroom. Kicks the door open. Heat smacks him like a wall. Smoke clogs his lungs. He pulls his sleeve over his mouth and steps inside.  

Then he sees it — someone collapsed near the sink, limbs sprawled. Still. His heart stops. He nearly slips as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the figure. Burnt and unrecognizable. But the dress — what’s left of it — is familiar. The color. The delicate trim. There’s a necklace around the neck, half-melted, but unmistakably yours. “No”, he whispers. “No, no, no—” 

His hand hovers over your body. His throat tightens. Everything around him is heat, noise, pressure, but in his ears, there’s only silence. Like the world just folded in on itself. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears hit his lips — salt and ash. “I was just with you...” he whispers, almost childlike, broken. “You were laughing with me a moment ago...” He leans in, presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes raggedly. Body shaking.  

Behind him, voices start to echo. Footsteps. Shouting. Geto is coming to pull him out. But Satoru doesn’t hear any of it. He doesn’t move. He can’t. For the first time in his life, it feels like he’s lost. 

-- 

The fire was quickly contained. The Gojo mansion still stands, its structure untouched. Only the left wing of the first floor bears the marks of the fire. The investigation concluded that the fire was caused by an overheating motor in the bathroom’s ventilation system, a tragic accident. Only one life was lost: yours. 

Your funeral was two days ago. A private ceremony. Satoru didn’t speak during it. He barely moved. Just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes hidden behind the blindfold. Quiet. In a way he’s never been. 

Now, days later, the world still spins — people still laugh, they breathe, they live. But he’s still here. In the room that was once your shared bedroom. Alone. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaos of your things scattered around the room. Your belongings — still as you left them — seem to scream your absence. He can’t bring himself to touch them. Not yet. Not ever. The book you were reading, the bottle of perfume on the nightstand, your lotion, your earrings, the brush on the vanity, and your nightgown — neatly folded on your side of the bed. It all kills him. The maids are prohibited from entering the room. He’s made sure of it. The silence of the space, with all its untouched remnants of you, is his alone to bear. 

He buries his face in your pillow, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of your scent. But it’s long gone. A strangled breath leaves him. Then another. And then... he breaks. His hands shake as he scrolls through his phone, endlessly flipping through old texts. Rereading them. The messages that still feel so alive — your voice echoing in his mind. One voicemail stands out. The one you left days before the accident. He presses play. 

“Satoru, stop leaving the toilet seat up! I’m too sleepy in the mornings to notice, but my butt definitely doesn't appreciate an unexpected ice bath.” 

He laughs. Just once. And then, he breaks again. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, curls into himself, his body crumpling into fetal position. He cries. Not quietly. No. He cries like he’s been holding it in his entire life, like the ground beneath him finally gave way and left him with nothing to stand on. No air. No reason. 

They say he’s doing fine. Around others, he smiles. He jokes. He walks with that same easy confidence, says the right things, acts like nothing’s changed. But Geto and Shoko know better. They see it in the way he visits your grave every day. The way his shoulders stiffen when someone dares mention your name. The way his hands tremble when they’re not stuffed in his pockets. He’s unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And still, no one knows the truth. Not yet. Not even him. 

Only Shoko does. 

-- 

You follow Shoko into the morgue at Jujutsu Tech, each step slow and soundless. She doesn’t speak. Just moves steadily toward a counter, where she sets a folder down. Her back remains to you. The silence stretches long and taut. Then— 

“I wasn’t sure what to make of what I saw earlier”, she finally says. “But the fact that you followed me here... it confirms my suspicions.” 

You try to speak, but no words come out. Only a shaky breath escapes, heavy with guilt, regret, and everything you’ve been holding in for far too long. Shoko turns to face you. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are sharp.

“You look like you want to say something”, she says. “So say it.” 

The words stumble out at first, fractured and raw. But then they come faster, pouring from you. You tell her everything — the affair, the reason behind the arranged marriage, the lies... everything. And the worst of it — that somehow, in the wreckage of it all, you fell in love with Satoru. You nearly choke saying it aloud, the weight of the truth crushing in your chest.

Shoko listens in silence. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t interrupt. When you finally stop, she speaks with her usual stillness. “Why are you telling me this?” Then, sharper, “Why not tell Gojo?” 

“No”, you say quickly. “I can’t... I won’t do this to him.”

She tilts her head, gaze narrowing. “You already did”, she replies flatly. “Whether you tell him or not doesn’t change that.” 

Your throat tightens. “I know... and I need you to help me.” 

“Help you?” she repeats. “Why would I?” 

“Because I don’t want him to hurt, not like this.” 

There’s a long pause. Shoko just watches you — assessing, weighing. Then she steps closer, her voice low. “But he will hurt. In a way I’m not sure he’ll ever come back from.”

You meet her gaze, desperation burning in yours. “Please.”

She says nothing, but something seems to be shifting in her. 

“There’s something that will hurt him less than the truth”, you say. “I need you to find a body. Someone who resembles me. Imbue it with my residuals — only you can do that. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her arms cross slowly. “You want me to find a corpse?” she asks. “You want me to help you fake your death? Is that it?” 

You nod, eyes dropping. “He’ll be better off thinking I’m dead than knowing what I’ve done.” 

“You’re underestimating him”, Shoko says, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you mean to him. This isn’t mercy — it’ll destroy him.”

Her words cut like glass, but you close your eyes. “Please”, you whisper. 

“When?”, Shoko asks, and you blink. “When do you need the body?” she repeats, rubbing the bridge of her nose. 

-- 

(One month later) 

You moved away. Far away. To a small village tucked in the mountains, hidden in a forgotten corner of the country. It’s quiet here — the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. No one knows your name here. Not your real one, anyway. You rent a modest cottage, barely furnished, but clean. You wake with the sun, tend to your tiny garden, then walk to the local pub where you started working just enough to get by. It’s simple. Monotonous. A life carved from necessity, not desire. And yet, every night before bed, you check your phone. One conversation always sits at the top of your inbox: Shoko. 

Your last message was three days ago. 

You: How is he? 

Her reply came the next morning. 

Shoko: Still breathing. Don’t ask for more. 

You didn’t. You never do. 

-- 

(Back at Jujutsu Tech) 

Satoru has just returned from a mission, and it’s clear he’s not himself. He’s sharp, but off. The usual cocky confidence has slipped into irritation, and he drifts through the halls with his mind elsewhere. Distracted. A clipboard hangs loosely in his hand, and he’s on the hunt for Shoko — she’s supposed to fill out a report. 

These days, he only drops the act around her. Or Geto. Or, of course, when alone. When he’s not pretending, he’s quiet. Drained. Nothing like the Gojo Satoru everyone knows. 

As he nears the morgue, he slows. A muffled voice cuts through the silence behind the door. It’s Shoko, on the phone. He’s about to knock when he hears it. 

Your name. 

Satoru freezes. Is he finally losing his mind? But then, there’s more— 

“...you need to stop asking.” 

A pause. Then, softer— 

“He... He doesn’t talk about you still. He’s not okay. But you knew he wouldn’t be.” 

The world stills. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. It’s like his mind is short-circuiting. Did he hear that right? His grip tightens on the clipboard until it creaks beneath his fingers. But then, it comes again. 

Your name. 

He stands there, stunned for a moment, before his body moves of its own accord. The door opens with a slow creak.

Shoko looks up, and she sighs. “...I have work to do”, she says quietly, and ends the call.

Satoru steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He throws the clipboard aside. He is not smiling, and he’s no longer wearing his blindfold. And for the first time in a month, his eyes are fully visible — different, bottomless, rimmed in red — and they are fixed on her. “Care to explain?”, he says, voice low, flat. 

Shoko doesn’t play dumb. She doesn’t lie. She leans back against the wall, her posture shifting to something almost resigned. She exhales, a soft sound, like she’s been waiting for this moment. She knew it would come. And for the first time in weeks, Satoru’s eyes — his grief-clouded eyes — are lit by something else. Hope. 

“She’s alive.”, Shoko says. The words hang in the air between them, and Satoru’s world shifts. He doesn’t react at first. Just stands there, trying to process her words. 

Finally, his voice cracks — barely audible, barely more than a whisper, like something fragile. “You let me bury her.” 

Shoko’s gaze softens for a moment, but then she sighs, a sound that’s more exhausted than regretful. “She said it’d hurt you less.” 

“Less?” He laughs once, a shar, disbelieving sound. “Less than what?” 

“The truth.” The words come from Shoko with unflinching clarity. “She had an affair with your father.”

Shoko waits. For a reaction. For anger. For questions. For anything.  

But Satoru doesn’t blink. He only asks one question. “Where is she?” 

-- 

The Gojo estate still stands. The first floor — once scorched by fire — has long since been renovated. But beneath the surface, the scars of the past remain. For those who know, it’s impossible to forget what was lost. Akihito sits in the living room, staring down at the floor, his expression hollow. The once commanding patriarch is now a broken shell. His hands tremble as he takes a sip of his drink, his gaze unfocused, consumed by grief. He hasn’t spoken much in weeks. Every time he tries, his voice cracks. The loss of you has shattered him. Sometimes he tells himself it was better this way — better to lose you to death than to watch you belong to someone else. Even if that someone else was his son. For a moment, that thought would make it easier to breathe. But then again, what did it matter? You were gone. And something in him knew — the fire wasn’t an accident. He suspected Saori. Maybe she found out. Maybe she did this to you. Should he kill her? But that wouldn’t bring you back. And besides... the clan. He still had a duty to do. 

Saori sits nearby, her gaze fixed out the window, her lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile. Her eyes flicker to Akihito for a brief moment, but there’s no sympathy in them — only contentment. After everything, she believes fate has finally righted itself. She watches him fall apart with quiet detachment, a sense of calm in her stillness. At least now, he is more hers than he is yours. “Perhaps it was fate”, she murmurs softly, her words for no one but the walls. Akihito’s eyes remain distant, his thoughts far removed from her voice. He’s too lost to hear anything she says — too far gone to care. 

Then, the door opens. Satoru enters, no grand gesture, no announcement. His presence fills the room immediately, thick and heavy, like an impending storm. Akihito doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows why his son is here — he can feel it in the air before he even steps further in. Saori glances at Satoru, her eyes narrowing slightly, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She rises without a word, understanding that this conversation isn’t for her. She leaves quietly, walking past her son with only a brief, knowing look.

The door clicks shut behind her. 

Akihito slumps lower in his seat, but he doesn’t look at his son. He doesn’t need to. The way Satoru stands there, rigid, fists clenched, eyes dark and filled with fury. Akihito feels the weight of it, heavy in the room, before he even lifts his head to look at him.

“You know”, Akihito says quietly, his voice hoarse, a statement rather than a question. Satoru stands still, his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning. He doesn’t answer. The air between them crackles with the unsaid. Akihito presses on, his voice low, laced with a tremor. “How did you find out?” 

Still, Satoru remains silent. His fists tremble at his sides, his breathing shallow, ragged. The words catch in his throat, a clash of fury and hurt. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and strained, as though forcing each word past the tightness in his chest.

“You broke her.” he spits, finally. “You broke the one thing most precious to me.” 

Akihito flinches, the weight of the accusation landing heavily on him. His gaze hardens, but he can’t meet Satoru’s eyes. There’s nothing to say. His son is right — he did break her. And by doing so, he broke his son as well. 

Satoru steps forward suddenly, his movements swift and calculated. The space between them closes in an instant, and Satoru’s eyes, wide with intensity, burn through the silence as he towers over his own father. There’s something primal in the air now — a rawness, an energy that could consume the entire room, the entire estate, if left unchecked. Akihito doesn’t react, he just sits there, knowing what’s coming. He accepts it. The man he once was, gone. And this son — this powerful, broken son — is the reckoning he’s been waiting for. 

“Do you have anything to say?” Satoru’s voice is barely containing the storm inside him. His hands shake, still clenched tightly into fists, but there’s a note of something darker in his gaze — an edge that suggests the breaking point is near. Akihito looks at him, pained, defeated, but remains silent. The words don’t come. 

The sound that follows — sharp and violent — could be a fist crashing into flesh or a bone snapping under pressure. It’s unclear, too quick to pinpoint. The air itself seems to shatter with it.

Satoru turns without another word, leaving the mansion. His hands are covered in blood.

Behind him, a scream shatters the silence. Saori’s scream, high and frantic, echoes through the halls. Saori doesn’t know it yet, but her time is coming too. Soon enough. 

-- 

Satoru knew. He had known for a while. It wasn’t a dramatic discovery. It was quiet and accidental, in fact. It happened early into your marriage, when you were still distant with him — polite but clipped. Somehow always guarded. He thought it was the nerves at first. Shyness. The weight of tradition. But then a month passed, and you still wouldn’t meet his eyes unless it was absolutely necessary. Still flinched when he reached for you. He could handle awkward beginnings, of course — especially for you. He wasn’t expecting a fairytale, you didn’t even remember him. But what he couldn’t handle was not knowing you, the way that you never let him in. 

So he did what a curious man with too little patience like himself might do. He followed you. Not out of suspicion of course. He thought if he observed you from a distance, he might’ve learned things you weren’t ready to tell or show him. Your habits. Anything. And then, one afternoon, he watched you enter a hotel. Alone. Odd. 

Ten minutes later, his father arrived. Very odd. 

Satoru waited. Two hours later, you walked out. Head down, hair slightly mussed. You didn’t see him. Shortly after, Akihito exited the building, adjusting his coat, wearing an expression Satoru had rarely seen on him — satisfied, secretive. And that was it. He didn’t even use his Six Eyes at first. Part of him didn’t want confirmation. Part of him hoped it was just a coincidence. But shortly after, he let his technique drift over your form. And there it was. Residuals. His father’s cursed energy. All over you. 

...and everything began to click. Your stiffness. The arranged marriage. His father’s sudden interest in choosing his bride. How Akihito had spoken of you before the engagement with just a touch too much fondness.  It wasn’t an arranged marriage; it was a cover. You weren’t his. You were his father’s. 

Satoru never confronted you, never let on that he knew. He just watched. Watched the way you disappeared for hours and returned with a soft look in your eyes that was never for him. Watched the way Akihito seemed lighter after seeing you. Watched the lie of a marriage unfold, thread by thread, every day. He never blamed you, though. He thought, maybe this was fate’s twisted way of bringing you back together. Yes, he could’ve easily destroyed it, could’ve exposed the affair and made the clan turn against Akihito. But that would’ve meant the clan turning against you as well. And Satoru never wanted to ruin you, he wanted to keep you.  

So he waited. Watched. Loved you in silence. And when he caught glimpses — that maybe you were beginning to see him, not just the son of the man you loved, that you were starting to change — that was all it took. He clung to that.

Because the thing about Gojo Satoru is that, when he wants something — really, truly wants it — he doesn’t stop. Not rules. Not family. Nothing can stop him.

You had been stolen from him once — the night on the curb, when fate gave you to him and then ripped you away before he could even ask your name. Then it happened again. His father got to you first.

Now, he wasn’t going to let you be taken away from him for the third time. No matter what. Even if it meant choosing heart over blood.

If you had faked your death and disappeared because you believed you couldn’t exist in a world with both of them, then all he had to do was remove the one standing in the way. To keep you. 

-- 

You’re wiping down the tables at the pub, preparing for the new day. Half-focused. Letting the repetitive motion ground you, steady your nerves. Trying not to think about the ghost of him that’s never really left you.  

The door creaks open behind you.

“We’re not open yet”, you immediately call out. Politely, without turning around. “Please come back in an hour.” 

Silence. Neither a response, nor footsteps indicating that the person is leaving. You glance over your shoulder, ready to repeat yourself, but the words catch in your throat. 

Satoru is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. “Won’t you make an exception for me?” he says softly. It’s meant to sound like him — teasing, light — but his voice gives him away. It’s quiet, fragile. Like it might crack if he tries any harder to keep it steady. 

The rag slips from your hands. You freeze. Then slowly, you turn. But you don’t meet his eyes. You don’t dare. “Why would you come here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s not a question of how he found you. The answer was simple. Shoko. 

He steps forward, slowly. “For you.” 

“For me”, you echo under your breath, more to yourself than to him, a bitter laugh escaping you. “For me, huh?” you repeat.

“For you.” — he says again, with no hesitation. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shrink, as if you could fold into nothing. As if it might protect you from the weight of what he’s carrying in his voice. “Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want to be found?” 

“I did”, he says. “I considered a lot of things, actually.” He pauses before he takes another step, and then adds, “But the fact you did something so reckless... made me consider that you cared more than I imagined.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You don’t understand—” 

“I do.” He cuts in gently. “You thought if you stayed, you’d destroy us both.” 

You finally look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, and something inside you threatens to cave, the devastation in him nearly buckling your knees. “I did something unforgivable.” 

He exhales, like what he’s about to say is so obvious it needn’t be said out loud. But he does it anyway — “I was ready to do anything for you.” 

“Even if what I did was truly terrible?” 

“Even then.” 

He takes another step, and then another, until the distance between is gone. Until he’s close enough to touch. You want to move. To put space between you, but your feet don’t listen. And his presence — it roots you in place like gravity.

“You could’ve told me everything”, he murmurs. “You should’ve told me.” A pause. “I already knew.” 

“What?”, your breath stutters. 

His eyes darken, and a faint, bitter smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’ve known for a while.” 

“But... Shoko... didn’t Shoko—” 

“It wasn’t her.” He shakes his head. “I found out myself.” He falls silent for a moment, like the memory stings to recall. 

“And you never said anything?” 

“I had my reasons”, he says softly. “Just like you had yours.” He lifts his hand — the lightest touch — and tilts your chin up. The gentleness nearly undoes you. You try to speak, but the words tangle with the sob building in your chest. It slips out instead — small, broken. His fingers brush beneath your eye, catching the tear before it falls. Even as his own hand trembles. “One word from you would’ve changed everything”, he whispers. “I would’ve burned everything down to keep you safe. Happy.” 

You slowly break under the weight of his words, forehead falling to his chest. You feel the tension in him — not anger, not judgment. Just ache. His arms wrap around you. 

“You were always my girl”, he breathes into your hair. “Even when you didn’t know it. Even when you were his. From the moment you fell asleep on my lap outside that club, you were mine.” 

You tilt your head up, lips trembling. “I’m... I’m really s—” 

“Shh.” 

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. “I know.”

And then, his lips charge closer — you meet him halfway into a soft, slow kiss. One that is both an ache and a release all at once.

It hurts to want him this much. It hurts to know what you did. It hurts to know that he still looks at you with so much love, even when he knows it all. It hurts, that despite everything, it’s still you.  

-- 

You never thought you’d find peace again. Not truly. But now, the mornings are calm. The nights are quiet. The days pass without dread — light, easy, almost gentle. You and Satoru settled into this small life together, tucked away from the rest of the world. 

He left it all behind — the clan, the title, the crushing weight of being the strongest. Here, he isn’t Gojo Satoru, head of the Gojo Clan or the face of sorcerer society. Here, he’s just Satoru. Your Satoru. The one who wakes up beside you each morning, arm draped around your waist, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your ear. The one who insists on cooking breakfast and makes an unspeakable mess in the kitchen. The one who still leaves the toilet seat up just to hear you scold him — and grins when you do. 

Your belly is growing now — small, round, and full of promise. Sometimes he speaks to it like he already knows who your child will be. Sometimes he rests his head there and falls asleep. Other times, he lies awake with his hand on your baby bump, eyes full of wonder and fear, whispering that he hopes he’ll be good enough — for both of you. 

There are things left unspoken between you. You’ve never asked what happened after he left the clan — or more accurately, what happened before he left. You suspect the truth, of course. There’s no way not to. But you don’t press. And he doesn’t offer. 

Still, you think of Akihito sometimes. It’s impossible not to — he was a turning point, a fire you walked through to become who you are now. And sometimes, in the right light, Satoru looks so much like him. The same build, the same jawline, the same eyes.

But you know better. He’s nothing like him. Akihito, for all his love, always chose the clan in the end. His desires may have been selfish, but they were always entwined with duty. He loved you, yes. But he never chose you. Not truly. 

But Satoru did. He always chose you — even when it broke him. Even when it meant walking away from everything he was. Even when it meant taking a life — his own blood — to protect yours.

When he said, “I was ready to do anything for you”,

...he really meant it. 

[popcornpoppypop]

Salvation

Summary: Jack needs you like air, but he's too wounded to keep himself from breaking everything.

A/N: I don't really know what this is, but it just sort of came out and I went with it. Just using broken characters to deal with my own breaking or something like that I guess. No warnings outside of heartbreak. Also, I was listening to Waiting Room by Phoebe Bridgers while writing this, so strap the hell in!

The ache never really leaves. It’s always gnawing at him. His leg throbs most of the day. He’s learned to ignore it. He’s learned to let it fuel him at times. The pain can motivate him at the end of a long day, push him forward just enough to finish his job. Lately, the ache has extended to his chest. It snakes it’s way up his body and wraps itself around his heart.

He knew that he was a broken man. Not just his leg, though it was a physical sign of what lay in his mind. A broken mind that pecked at him day in and day out. He fought himself every day.

If you were heaven, he was purgatory. He would never dream of saddling you with him and his damage. You fought with his mind as much as he did. He tried to hide the shame of it all. You could see him in a way no one ever had, ever would.

You didn’t flinch when it became too much for him and he exploded, shrapnel flying your way. You would take the wound, clean yourself and him up. Never shied from the pain.

“Jack, I’m not scared of you.” You whispered one night as he screamed, the pain overflowing like lava from his lips.

“I am! I’m so fucking scared!” He screeched, his hands tugging at his grey locks. He could never tell if the things he did were to keep himself together or tear himself apart. They felt like the same thing.

You wrapped yourself around him, keeping what you could intact. You held his face in your hands, it was red and the veins pushing harshly against his skin.

He saw his salvation in your eyes. The thing about salvation is that it isn’t always a guarantee.  

The ache radiated as he walked into the dark house. The quiet hung heavy in the air, a choking fog that floated throughout.

The only thing he could think about lately was the night you had enough. The night his salvation was denied by his own self-damnation.

“Don’t say that to me! Don’t act like I’m not sacrificing things here too!” Your tears fell down your cheeks; each one was a plea and a prayer.

“You are better than sacrificing anything for me! You’re stupid if you stay! Goddammit!” The venom left his mouth and stung his lips but he couldn’t swallow it back up. It hit you like a ton of bricks.

“Oh. Well.” Your voice shook and it reminded him of the first time he saw a child cry for their mother that wouldn’t open her eyes again.

“You’ll never understand this pain. I don’t know why you fucking try.” He dug the knife deeper. He never could tell if he was trying to keep himself together or tear himself apart.

“I’m done trying. I’m done, Jack. I can’t….I can’t do this to myself anymore.” You let the sob fall from your chest and smash his world apart.

The house felt sterile and haunted. He moved through it, never caring what was broken or battered. His body fell into the couch, his muscles screaming in relief. His mind still raced and pounded at him. He took the prosthetic off his leg, the ache easing from his wound but tightening in his chest.

He fiddled with his phone. The thought to reach out to you, try and find a lifeline, try and stay afloat, toyed with him. He didn’t realize he had dialed your number until your voice broke through his icy wall of self-hatred.

“Jack? Jack, are you okay?” Your voice was still so sweet. Still so soft and kind, like a balm for his depressed mind.

“I…I can’t breathe.” He mumbled.

“What do you mean?” Your voice getting worried, unsure how to help. Always wanting to save him.

“You were my oxygen and I held my breath.” He let his chest crack open a bit.

“Jack…I don’t know how to do this.” You were never one to lie to him. Your honesty kept him from raging against the world. But it didn’t stop the sadness from destroying everything good.

“I know. I don’t either. I just…I see a therapist now. I tell him about you. I tell him how I ruined everything, hurt you when you were trying to keep me alive.” His chest cracks more.

“Jack. Why did you call me? To tell me you’re in therapy?” Your sadness turning to rage for what he took from you.

“I’ve been trying to fix everything. I’ve been doing everything I’m supposed to but none of it fucking matters because you aren’t here. I…I don’t know why I called.” His breath leaves him like defeat.

The silence clings to him, tightening around his throat and making him see stars.

“Jack…if I hang up will you be safe?” Your voice is small and afraid of the answer. He squeezes his eyes shut and beats the edge of the phone into his forehead.

“Yeah, don’t worry about me. I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry. I miss you is all.” He leaves one last chance at your feet.

“I…I miss you.” You whisper, as if the words would ignite the world and never stop.

He feels his lungs ache for breath and realizes he stopped breathing as your words settled into his mind and put out a small fire.

“Can I see you?” He reaches out a little more. His chest is wide open, his beating heart vulnerable and waiting to be stabbed.

“We can start small. Coffee, tomorrow, at the café you liked near your place. With the park next door.” You grab hold of him, lifting him off the edge.

“Okay. Yeah. Small.”  It’s huge. It’s massive. It’s salvation.

[izzih22]

can u write paige walked into azzi’s room and a just needs a hug

Just a Hug First

Azzi’s already in Paige’s room when the door opens.

It’s late, past eleven and the dorm is buzzing in that quiet, half-wound-down way it always is at this hour. Someone’s watching TikToks too loud down the hall. KK and Aubrey are still laughing at something in the shared common room. Jana’s probably sketching in her notebook again, earbuds in. Ice walked by earlier with a plate of cookies and just nodded at Azzi like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Which it is, now.

Azzi’s cross-legged on Paige’s bed in her pajamas, phone on silent, hair tied up. Paige practically lives here but it’s still technically Paige’s dorm. Her bed, her walls, her basketball shoes tossed under the desk, her jacket slung over the back of a chair. The LED lights are glowing soft and warm. Everything smells faintly like her cologne and laundry detergent.

Azzi glances up when the door opens but something about Paige’s face stops her from saying the usual hey.

She’s standing there with her hand still on the doorknob, hoodie sleeves half covering her hands, eyes unreadable in a way that makes Azzi immediately sit up straighter.

“Hey…” Azzi says gently. “You okay?”

Paige closes the door behind her, quietly, and doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then, in that tired, too-honest voice Azzi only hears when it’s just the two of them:

“Can I get a hug first?”

Azzi’s off the bed before Paige finishes the sentence.

She crosses the room and pulls Paige into her arms without a single word. Paige melts into her like she’s been holding herself up all day and finally got permission to let go. Her arms circle Azzi’s waist tight, face buried in her shoulder.

Azzi strokes one hand up and down her back, steady and slow.

They stay there like that, just breathing.

Azzi doesn’t push her. Doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She knows better than anyone that Paige talks when she’s ready, not before.

Eventually, Paige exhales against her neck and mumbles, “Sorry. I just needed that.”

“Don’t apologize,” Azzi whispers. “You can always need me.”

Paige tightens her arms in response. “I don’t know what it was today. Nothing even happened. I just… I don’t know. It felt heavy.”

Azzi pulls back just enough to look at her. “You don’t have to explain it. I’ve got you.”

And then, softer: “Always.”

Paige leans in and kisses her.

It’s slow, familiar, a little tired like she’s using it to ground herself. Azzi kisses her right back, warm and reassuring, thumb brushing Paige’s cheek.

When they break apart, Paige finally smiles. “Thanks.”

Azzi nudges her toward the bed. “Come on. You still need to brush your teeth.”

Paige groans. “Can’t I skip tonight? I already emotionally unloaded.”

Azzi laughs and grabs Paige’s toothbrush from the drawer she keeps hers in. “Nope. Being sad doesn’t cancel dental hygiene.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You love me.”

“I do,” Paige mumbles, already dragging her feet toward the door.

Azzi tosses a hoodie at her before she leaves. “Bathroom’s still crowded?”

Paige shrugs. “KK was doing her full skincare routine when I walked in like twenty minutes ago.”

Azzi grins. “So… yes.”

Paige gives her a flat look and disappears into the hall.

While she’s gone, Azzi tidies up the room a bit folds the hoodie Paige left on the floor, plugs in both their phones, flips the pillow that’s become hers. She hears muffled laughter from Aubrey and Ice somewhere outside and Paige muttering something back at them in mock annoyance.

Azzi’s already under the blanket by the time Paige walks back in, pajama-clad, hair slightly damp, toothbrush clean.

“Bathroom was chaos,” Paige announces as she climbs into bed.

“Survived, though.”

“Barely.”

They settle into their usual spots without needing to ask. Paige on her right side, closest to the door, Azzi curled into her chest, legs tangled, bodies pressed close.

Azzi kisses her shoulder, then her collarbone. “Feel any better?”

Paige lets out a long breath, her fingers sliding gently along Azzi’s spine. “Yeah. I always do with you.”

Azzi smiles and presses another kiss to her neck. “Good.”

There’s a beat of silence before Paige adds, voice quieter now, “I hate that sometimes I don’t even know what’s wrong. It just builds up, and then I see you and I’m like… okay.”

Azzi looks up at her. “You don’t need a reason to fall apart a little. You’re allowed to just be held.”

Paige runs a thumb along Azzi’s jaw, then leans down to kiss her again—slow and deep, full of something soft and unspoken. “I love you.”

Azzi’s heart flips, just like it always does when she hears that.

“I love you too,” she whispers back, brushing her nose against Paige’s.

They stay like that for a while, kissing softly, occasionally whispering things like you’re everything or I’m glad you’re mine until sleep slowly starts to tug at their limbs.

Outside the room, KK yells “PAIGE YOU BRUSH YOUR TEETH OR WHAT?”

Paige groans and yells back, “SHE MADE ME!”

Azzi laughs, hiding her face in Paige’s chest.

And just like that, the world feels a little lighter again.

⸻

It starts with knocking.

Not real knocking… Ice-knocking, which means three obnoxiously loud thuds and a “YO” that carries through Paige’s door like she lives in a frat house.

Paige groans into her pillow.

Azzi, already blinking awake beside her, winces at the sound. “It’s too early for Ice to have that much energy.”

Paige doesn’t move. “It’s always too early for Ice to have that much energy.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then the door creaks open, because of course Ice has no concept of knocking etiquette.

Azzi’s hand shoots out and yanks the blanket over both of them. Paige grumbles something unintelligible into Azzi’s shoulder.

Ice sticks her head in and grins. “Y’all alive?”

Azzi pokes her head out from under the blanket. “Barely.”

Ice raises an eyebrow. “You spend the night again?”

Azzi just stares.

Paige lifts one hand and flips her off without lifting her head. “She lives here.”

“That’s what I said,” Ice replies, already halfway back into the hallway. “We made pancakes. Get up before Aubrey eats them all.”

The door closes again with a loud click.

Azzi giggles.

Paige groans. “I hate everyone.”

“No you don’t.”

“I hate everyone except you,” Paige corrects, finally turning her face toward her.

Azzi kisses her nose. “Mm. Better.”

They lie there for another minute, Paige curled around Azzi like a koala refusing to face the morning.

“You know,” Azzi says, tracing her fingers lightly over Paige’s arm, “if you don’t get up soon, Ice is gonna start banging pots.”

“She wouldn’t—”

“KK already texted me,” Azzi replies, showing her phone. “Threat level: high.”

Paige stares at the ceiling. “I’m transferring.”

Azzi sits up, stretching. Paige groans again and grabs her hoodie, dragging it over her face dramatically.

Azzi laughs and leans down to kiss her. “Come on.”

⸻

Five minutes later, they emerge from the bedroom. Paige’s hair a mess, Azzi in one of her hoodies, both of them looking entirely too couple-y.

Jana glances up from the couch and smirks behind her tea. “Look who finally decided to exist.”

KK waves a spatula from the kitchen. “T-minus thirty seconds before Aubrey steals your plate.”

“Too late!” Aubrey yells from the other side of the counter, a pancake already in her mouth.

Paige looks betrayed. “That was mine!”

“You snooze, you lose, Bueckers.”

Paige flips her off and drops dramatically onto the couch beside Jana, head in her hands. “This household is hostile.”

“You literally cuddle Azzi like a body pillow all night,” Ice says, flopping into the armchair across from her. “You don’t get to call anything hostile.”

KK passes Azzi a plate, smiling knowingly. “We saved you a good one.”

Azzi beams. “See, this is why I like you guys.”

Paige mutters, “Traitors,” from under her hands.

Jana snorts into her mug. “She’s just mad because she got out-cuddled and out-breakfasted in the same morning.”

Paige groans and grabs Azzi’s arm, pulling her down onto the couch. “I’ll survive if you give me like… seven more kisses.”

“In front of our teammates?” Azzi teases, already leaning in.

KK yells “HEY” from the kitchen.

Paige kisses her anyway.

Azzi pulls back, cheeks flushed but smiling.

Ice fake gags into a pillow. “God, at least wait until I finish my eggs.”

“Jealous,” Paige mutters, wrapping her arm around Azzi again and stealing a bite of her pancake.

“Always,” Ice says. “You got Azzi and her breakfast? Unfair.”

Paige just grins, mouth full, and shrugs like the luckiest person on earth.

Because, well… she kinda is.

[sleepless-dreams]

ON THIN ICE

summary: letting your brother convince you to take your nephew to his hockey practice turns out to be more than you bargained for. On thin Ice is a quiet, emotional slow-burn about healing, rediscovering passion and falling in love.

word count: 2.3k

a/n: this is the first chapter in a series. unfortunately, this whole thing will be written in first pov, I find it suits x reader a bit better than other narrative styles. I don't usually write in first person, so I apologize if the text doesn't flow as naturally.

This story was inspired by a work done by @wandasfifthwife, unfortunately I don't think their work or account are accessible anymore. While the initial concept is similar, this is my own creation with its own original arcs, tone, pacing and plot.

₊⊹CHAPTER 1⊹₊

My eyes flicker up to the rearview mirror to check on my nephew as we head toward the East Ice Arena for his hockey practice.

His father, my brother, has a lot on his plate these days. He and his wife are expecting Owen's sibling. The baby is due in late November, and despite it still being a few months away, preparations are already in full swing. On top of that, the pregnancy is high-risk, requiring Owen's mom to stay home from work. That’s why my brother picked up extra shifts and begged me to take over driving Owen to and from practice for the foreseeable future.

I agreed easily. I have nothing better to do with the gaps in my schedule. Being single with a fairly low social life, I appreciate any chance to spend time with my family.

The traffic light flickers from red to orange and I press down on the gas pedal, continuing down the street toward the arena. The closer we get, the more nervous I feel.

It’s been years since I last set foot in an ice arena, and the thought of returning makes my stomach twist. Memories and thoughts I’ve worked hard to bury threaten to claw their way back to the surface. I don’t like dwelling on the past, but to my demise the rink has a way of unearthing everything I’ve tried to leave behind.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about helping out my brother and his family. About spending more time with them.

Either way, there’s no time to get lost in my thoughts, because we’re already pulling into the parking lot of the East Ice Arena.

"Come on buddy, we're going to be late!" I usher the boy out of the car as I step out myself, turning to circle the vehicle and open the trunk to take out his hockey gear.

Owen comes up by my side just in time for me to hand him his duffle bag. I grab his stick and slam the trunk shut. With a click of a button the car is locked and we start the short walk to the side hall C where the practice takes place. As we walk we pass the main hall of the Arena–a large, steel building where the major matches take place. Practices like the one we're headed to are held in side halls, of which there are several in this facility.

I hold the door open for Owen when we reach the building. We walk into the lobby, which has a reception desk and a snack bar positioned by a glass wall, offering a clear view of the rink for those seated in the bar area. There's a door there too, that leads to the rink.

"Hurry up, some of your teammates are already on the ice." I tell Owen as I hand him his stick. With a murmur I don't catch, the boy disappears down a hallway, past the reception desk and towards where I assume the changing rooms are.

There's no-one but what looks to be a couple sitting by one of the tables, quietly chatting to themselves and a lady standing behind the counter of the reception. I take a deep breath in and move forward, heading towards the door leading to the rink area.

It's simple in theory. It's not like I'm going to be the one skating, I'm just there to wait for Owen to finish up. Yet the moment I open the door and the chill of the air bites into my skin with the sound of skate blades slicing into the ice hits me, my heart rate spikes up. Suddenly I'm back, years ago, with the same anxiety surging through my body and heart pounding loud in my ears. I force myself to go on, to walk further into the area with a thick swallow. Sitting down high up on the bleachers, I exhale deeply through my nose, the air clouding into white fog.

I busy myself with my phone as soon as I confirm Owen made it to the ice. I can't bear to watch them skate, sitting by the rink is enough for me as of now.

I'm so engrossed in the meaningless news article that I don't notice someone sitting down in the seat next to me until the person speaks up speaks up.

"Which one's yours?" comes a scratchy, gruff voice from beside me and I lift my head to regard the man now sitting next to me. He is a big guy, balding and with a dark beard that had a few strands of silver already in it.

I turn my head away from him to watch the kids on the ice, they're divided in groups, doing different drills across the ice.

"Number 9. And he's my brother's." I reply with a flick of my hand in the general direction of where Owen is currently shooting at the goal. By the looks of it, every fourth one makes it into the net, the others bounce off the boards.

"The newbie? He's picking it up pretty late." the man observes.

"It's never late to start new things." I counter his response.

The man shrugs and leans back in his seat, "he won't make the team if he doesn't drastically improve, not to mention the varsity. He's too far behind other boys." His words make me frown.

"He still has time to get better. Besides he's only 13, he's not even in high school yet. And it's not all about varsity, it's about the joy he gets from playing." I reply, my irritation seeping slightly into my tone.

"You get joy from winning. And they won't win if they have boys who drag them down on the team. All I'm saying is don't get his hopes up for playing the big games." He goes on with a scoff.

I get up from my seat, having heard enough of the man's nonsense. I have a deep rooted hatred for parents who see their children as just an extension of their own desire for success. They are the exact reason behind athletic burnout and slow degradation of child's relationship with their sport. In some cases, that grows over to something bigger– repugnance. And I know how big of a toll that can have on the child's mental and physical health.

I come down to the plexiglass, watching the group closest to me make sharp turns around colorful cones spaced out on the surface. There's a pull within me, a phantom of a memory. Nostalgia, maybe even longing. Yet at the same time a deep sense of unease, fear and dread.

In the next few minutes, the space between the stands and the rink fills up as parents come to wait for their kids to finish up, a good indication that the practice is coming to an end.

"Sorry, I think we got on the wrong foot." comes the same voice from the bleachers, disturbing my train of thought for the second time.

I turn my head to face him, seeing him already opening his mouth to continue.

"I just want what's best for the team, that includes your boy. I was just warning you, that's all." he says, frustration evident in his voice as he returns to the topic that made me walk away earlier.

"How about I treat you to a coffee. We can start over?" he suggests. I just shake my head at the offer. I have no interest in talking with him more than I already did.

"I'm not in the mood for coffee right now." I try my best to politely decline, but he persists.

"Then maybe something else..." he suggests instead.

"No, thank you." I reply, my voice a bit firmer this time.

"Come on, we still have a few minutes left before the practice is over and even more before the boys come out of the changing rooms." He tries again, his voice tinged with mild irritation he's trying to hide.

In the midst of him speaking, his hand comes up to rest on my bicep. "Please don't touch me." I take a step away from him.

Just when it looks like he's going to retort something, the gate opens and the kids pile out. I take that as an opportunity to fully leave the conversation, walking over to where the group of boys huddle with their parents in search of my nephew. I find him slightly apart from the main group, helmet in hand, face flushed and hair sticking to his head with sweat. He's drinking from his bottle.

"Come on, Owen. Go change." I pat him on the back as he passes me with a soft grumble. "I'll wait for you by the bar!" I call after him before he fully disappears from my sight.

I shake my head, heading for the door to the lobby with a smile when my phone chimes with a notification. As I'm unlocking it, I bump into someone, my phone falling to the ground with a muffled thud as it lands screen down on the matted floor, right next to a pair of skates that definitely don't belong to any of the boys.

Before I can react, a bit shaken, the person turns around and reaches down with a hand in fingerless gloves to pick up my phone from the floor.

I take it when they hand it over before lifting my eyes to finally see who I bumped into. I come face to face with a very attractive woman. She's taller than me, with captivating green eyes and auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, a few strands escaped the hair tie and are framing her face.

I'm embarrassed to realize she has been here for the whole duration of the practice and I didn't really notice her. Not only is she wearing skates and a thick, half-zipped team jacket, but as I look at her again, there's a faint redness to her nose from the cold. I didn't notice her once, too busy running away either from the infuriating man or from my past to pay too much attention to the ice.

"Sorry," I quickly apologize when I catch myself staring. That's not a good look for me, I'm sure. I don't even know what I'm apologising for, if it's for bumping into her or rudely staring at her for a moment. Both, most likely.

"Don't worry about it. Is your phone okay?" she asks kindly. I take a note of her voice. It's on the lower side, with uniqueness I can't quite place. Maybe an accent? I can't really tell.

"Yeah, not a scratch." I reply, looking down on my phone again just to confirm it's true.

"Sorry, I don't believe we ever met." the woman says, extending her hand towards me for a handshake.

"I don't believe we did." I agree, taking her hand and giving it a small shake. Surprisingly, her hand is rather warm despite her spending the last hour an half on the ice. Maybe she wore the pair of thick gloves that are sticking from her jacket pocket over the fingerless gloves she's wearing now..

"I'm Wanda Maximoff, the coach of U15." she introduces herself and rests her hand on her hip when we drop the handshake.

I mumble out my own name in response, quickly following it up with some clarification. "I'm Owen's aunt." To justify what I'm doing here.

Wanda smiles. "It's nice to meet you. Hope to see you around." She bids her goodbye and moves past me in the direction of the changing rooms.

With a sigh, I resume my original journey to the bar where I promised to wait for Owen. The transition between the cold of the rink and the lobby is stark, but not unwelcome. Owen is already sitting behind one of the tables when I walk in.

"Where were you?" he exclaims loudly as I approach him.

"I met your coach, no need to get worked up." I explain with amusement as he shoots me an irritated glare. "Come on, let's go home," I call over my shoulder, grabbing his stick and walking away.

"Can you take my bag?" he asks, his voice pitched higher into a whine as he trails behind me.

"I'm taking your stick already." I point out matter-of-factly.

"Come on, auntie!" he tries again, running the short distance between us to catch up to me.

"What's wrong kid? Can't handle your own gear?" the same unique voice from before asks from behind us.

Owen and I both turn our heads to look at the coach. Her eyebrow quirks in question and her lips are already pulled into a half-smirk. This time, her skates are thrown over her shoulder with a red duffle bag slung over the same shoulder. She may be smiling, but her eyes are stern as she looks down at my nephew.

One shouldn't look so good lecturing a kid, I think to myself. I exhale through my nose, shaking off the absurd thought.

Owen huffs in response, but doesn’t ask me to carry his things again. He just adjusts the bag's strap to sit over his shoulder better and moves first in the direction of my car.

I flash Coach Maximoff a small, amused smile before turning around to follow Owen, reaching into my pocket for the car keys.

"Have a good one," she calls her goodbye shortly after I move after the boy.

"You too." I reply, although I'm not sure if it reached her ears or not.

We make quick work of putting away the gear and getting into the car before I turn the key to start the engine and pull out of the parking lot.

[moesthoughts]

Having thoughts about toxic, possessive Shauna showing the rest of the girls who f!reader belongs to 🤍

possessive shauna marking you

pairing : toxic shauna shipman x fem reader

warnings : season 3 shauna, marking, blood, rough sex, knife play kind of??, choking

➛ it’s not surprising shauna shipman is so protective of you, it seems that everyone wants to take everything that’s hers away from her.

first jackie, who was taken away from her too quickly, the guilt forever sticking with her. Then her baby, who she felt like was everyone’s but hers.

➛ she does everything to make sure the group knows you’re hers, her nails digging into the skin of your thigh when you sit next to each other, tugging you roughly away from conversation when she doesn’t like it. She wants you all to herself, and the group has noticed.

➛ from the scrapes on your back from being pushed up against the tough bark on trees, the sharp wood cutting into your skin. The bruises and bite marks on your neck and chest from her biting into your sensitive places and licking the blood away, sucking harshly on your neck to suck any noise out of you.

➛ your legs ache from long sessions in your shared hut, how shauna would eat you out, forcing you to be loud so everyone can hear you, no matter how late it was into the night. She wants to remind everyone that shes the only one who can you feel good.

➛ you’re instructed not to hide your marks, no matter how bad your neck looks, no matter how many questions are asked. You wouldn’t hide them either way.

➛ shauna reminds you that you belong with her, that you can’t get with anybody else. She kisses you with hunger, that action alone putting you in a place where you can’t leave.

➛ she insists that you always stay by her, she gets anxious when you leave her side too long. afraid that you’ll stray too far away and get yourself hurt, or die. It doesn’t matter how strong you are, she still has a sense of protectiveness over you.

➛ she will yell in people’s faces if she doesn’t like what they say are do to you, she’ll get physical if she has to. Other girls ask how you deal with her, you can only shrug.

➛ shauna, who fucks you silly with the handle of her knife. Laughing as you whine when she hits that sweet spot. She helps you oh so “sweetly” the next morning, smirking at the others while she helps you wash off in the lake.

➛ you wear shauna’s clothes, she wears yours. You love the sweater she still has from before the crash, her initials sewn in with a pretty blue threading. She loves seeing you in her clothes, loves showing you off.

➛ shauna who refers to you as her girlfriend anytime she gets, talking to melissa about you with a cheeky tone. subtly bringing the conversation towards you any time she can.

“we need someone—“

“My girlfriend can do it, she’s probably more capable than any of you anyway.” her unnerving smirk never is wiped off her face as she drinks in the states of disbelief from the group.

➛ she refuses to let you touch anyone unless you’re giving them a hug, anything else she gets so worked up and jealous. Why are you touching lottie’s hand while speaking to her? why are you caressing akilah’s shoulder?

she’ll push you against a tree, her fingers tight around your throat while whispering harshly into your ear. You’re hers, not anyone else’s.

➛ sometimes you feel isolated from the group, but you didn’t expect anything else from being under the wing of the antler queen. Getting special treatment out in the wilderness causes jealousy.

➛ getting slightly larger portions of food than anyone else, ignoring the daggers glaring into your soul as you ate.

➛ everyone knows you belong to shauna, and that’s all she cares about.

trying a new format.. idk if I like it but i think it’s better than the one i have rn. ALSO THANKU FOR REQING ME ANON

req me!

masterlist

[pinkpurplesunrises]

We were made, unmade and remade in the morning light (and that’s how we knew we were always meant to return)

5000+ words – the long story – Alexia Putellas x Reader – This may be heartbreaking but I promise you it'll be okay - Angst and Fluff - Mentions of child leukemia. Please read with care.

Let me hold your hand while you read this, pure for comfort. Hope that's alright.

It was a Wednesday morning when the tea kettle didn’t whistle.

You’d filled it, set it on the stove like always. Turned the button until the little click-click-click gave way to flame. But then you forgot. You always forget now. About small things.

Milk left out overnight, clothes in the washer, whether you’d taken a shower yesterday or only thought about it.

The sun was coming in too gently through the window, golden and soft. You hated it for that. For being so beautiful when everything else wasn’t.

Alexia was still asleep on the couch. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep there. She never did. But the nights blurred too much now. One minute she was sitting up reading the charts again, on hand in her hair, the next her breathing was heavy and shallow. Legs tucked up like she was trying to disappear into the fabric.

Your daughter was upstairs. Still asleep, probably. Still breathing. You’d checked three times already, even though the monitor beside her bed blinked green and steady. You still checked. Just in case…

Just in case.

You didn’t cry in the mornings anymore. That was something. You’d cried every morning for the first three weeks. Every time her name was said gently by a nurse. Every time her small voice asked, ’Will I feel better tomorrow?’ Every time Alexia had to step into the hallway to take a call because the treatment plan had to shift.

Again... And again... And again.

But not this morning.

This morning you poured two cups of tea and sat down on the floor of the kitchen like you didn’t own chairs.

Lupita trotted over from her bed by the heater, her little legs quick and clumsy on the tile. She let out a soft huff and pressed her warm body against your hip before curling up again. Nose tucked under her paw.

She had been quiet since the hospital stays began. No more barking at the mail. No more zooming in circles when the front door opened. It was like she’d sensed the shift in the house, the sorrow in your voice. The fear you and Alexia didn’t always know how to name out loud.

You ran your hand gently over her back. She sighed.

When Alexia woke up, her voice was rough. ‘’Did I miss the alarm?’’

‘’There wasn’t one,’’ you said softly, pushing the second cup towards her across the tile. ‘’She’s still sleeping.’’

Alexia nodded, slow and heavy, rubbing at her eyes like someone waking from something far too deep. She looked different these days. Tired in the bones. Her face was sharper. Her body more tense, even at rest. But when she looked up at you her eyes softened like they always had. It was still her. Still the same woman who held you through every crash.

‘’She dreamed last night?’’ Alexia asked.

You shook your head. ‘’No. Or if she did, she didn’t say.’’

Silence again. Lupita stirred beside you, resting her chin on your thigh. The warmth of her small body grounded you, just enough.

You sipped your tea. Bitter, a little cold already. Outside, the street was just beginning to hum awake. Somewhere, a child was running late for school. Somewhere, a mother was packing a lunch. Here, you were watching the clock, hoping it didn’t move too fast or too slow. That it just… held you steady.

And then came the soft sound from upstairs.

‘’Mamá?’’

Your head lifted. Alexia’s did too. Both of you froze for a second. Like the silence had been a spell broken too suddenly. Another small voice followed, thinner, raspier.

‘’Mami?’’

You were already moving. The tea forgotten, the ache in your knees ignored as you pushed yourself up and ran for the stairs. Alexia followed close behind, slower, but reaching for the banister like she had to anchor herself to the moment.

The bedroom door was cracked, as always. You pushed it open gently and saw her sitting upright, pale arms wrapped around her stuffed seal, hair a mess of tangles curls and dreams.

‘’There you are,’’ you said, voice soft, bending down beside her.

She blinked at you, sleep still weighing heavy on her lashes, but she smiled. Small. Real.

‘’Hola, mi caballito de mar,’’ Alexia said as she stepped inside, voice catching a little on the nickname.

Little seahorse.

She’d called her that since her first swim lesson together. When she was just a baby.

Before the diagnosis, before the machines, before the fear. Your daughter had always loved the water. Could spend hours in it, floating, quietly, feet kicking gently behind her like she was meant to live below the surface. Small and graceful and strong in her own way.

‘’Mami,’’ she said again, reaching for Alexia now too. Tiny fingers wrapping around hers. ‘’I had a dream again. I could breathe underwater.’’

Alexia crouched beside her, kissed her temple.

‘’You probably could,’’ she whispered. ‘’You’re magic, you know.’’

She shook her head solemnly. ‘’No. Just brave.’’

Your heart cracked open in slow, aching pieces.

And then, with the innocence only a four-year-old can carry, your daughter lifted her small hands. Palms open, towards Alexia.

‘’Mami, can we take a bath together today? Like when I was little?’’

Alexia’s smile faltered, but she softened it with a gentle nod. ‘’Of course, mi amor,’’ she whispered. Leaning down to brush your daughter’s tangled curls away from her face. Her voice trembled but held firm, like an anchor in a storm. ‘’We can. Let’s get you ready.’’

Alexia lifted your daughter carefully into her arms, her small frame still so light and fragile despite everything. You watched them disappear into the bathroom, the door clicking softly behind them.

You stayed still for a moment longer, listening to the sound of that bath running. Alexia’s soft voice coaxing your daughter into the warmth.

But soon, reality began to creep in. The weight of the bag you needed to pack. You moved to the closet, fingers grazing over the fabric on the shelf until you found it. The bag you always used for these days. Small, but practical. You pulled it open, and as you did, your eyes caught something tucked in the corner of the shelf: a tiny FC Barcelona jersey.

You stopped, fingers frozen over the sleeve. It was your daughter’s shirt, too small now, folded neatly. It’s blue and garnet stripes still bold. You’d bought it for her a few months ago. The first one with Alexia’s number on the back.

You remembered the day like it was yesterday. A Wednesday morning, just like this one, but so different. The air was warm with the promise of spring, and you were heading out to the field to pick Alexia up from training.

Your daughter had kicked the ball so proudly with Alexia that day. Small, determined feet pushing it with a giggle that made Alexia smile that familiar smile of hers. The one that crinkled the corners of her eyes. The sun had been high, shining on their faces, and everything felt right. Alexia, laughing, kneeling to help your daughter with her kicks. Her hair a little messier than usual from the wind, but still perfect to you.

And then suddenly, your daughter's laughter slowed. Her hand touched her nose.

‘’Mamá?’’ She’d said, confused more than scared. Lifting her fingers, stained red.

Your heart stilled.

There had been no fall. No hit. Just… blood. A nosebleed, sudden and inexplicable. You had rushed over, Alexia right behind you. Both of you in that panicked blur that only parents understand. You crouched down, pressing a tissue to her small face. While Alexia held her steady, murmuring soft words in Spanish… and in Catalan… anything that might soothe.

‘’Está bien, mi caballito de mar,’’ she’d whispered, that pet name she only used when she wanted to make her smile. ‘’You’re okay, just a little blood that’s all.’’

But you had known, even then. Even though you told yourself it was a one-time thing. That maybe it was the heat or dry air or just a sensitive little body. Some part of you had known. The way Alexia’s hand trembled slightly when she brushed the small curls from her forehead. The way you had both gone quiet after the bleeding stopped. The silence in the car ride home.

It had been a small moment. But it had been the start.

You stood there now, in the present, holding the shirt with the tiniest dot of pink still faint on the collar, like it had absorbed the memory into its fabric. It hadn’t been worn again since.

You folded it gently, placing it in the hospital bag without really knowing why. Maybe to keep her close to something familiar. Maybe because a part of you still believed in tiny talismans. Or maybe just because you didn’t want to leave the memory behind.

You zipped the hospital bag closed and rested your hands on it for a moment, grounding yourself. The house was quiet in that charged way. Where nothing was loud, but everything was happening. The shirt sat at the top of the bag now, that soft reminder of a time before.

Then came Alexia’s voice from upstairs.

‘’Cariño! Can you help us?’’ She called out. There was a soft laugh buried in her tone, but it was tight around the edges. You could hear it. The familiar strain. The quiet panic she never liked you to hear.

You grabbed the bag and climbed the stairs.

The bathroom was warm with steam. Your daughter stood in the center of the room, small feet planted on a fuzzy towel. Curls dripping, arms held up hallway in that I-need-help pose.

Alexia crouched beside her, holding out a clean shirt, her own hair pulled into a rushed bun. She looked up at you when you walked in, not with words, just that glance. That you-know-what-to-do glance.

You dropped the bag outside the door, knelt and picked up the soft blue Barcelona shirt from your wife’s hands.

‘’Come here, mi amor,’’ you whispered, sliding her arms through the sleeves. ‘’Let’s get you warm.’’

She didn’t speak right away, just leaned forward into your chest as you pulled the shirt over her head. Her head rested just under your chin, damp curls brushing your neck. You kissed the crown of her head, breathing her in. Shampoo and something sweeter, something you couldn’t name.

And then, in that quiet voice she used when she was afraid of how it would sound, she whispered:

‘’Mamá, I feel tired again.’’

Alexia stilled besides her.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Just wrapped your arms around her little frame, wishing you could fold her back inside of you somehow. Where things had once be safe.

‘’I know, love,’’ you murmured. ‘’I know.’’

Her little arms wrapped around your neck now, limp but loving. You felt the way her small fingers still gripped, even in exhaustion. Even now, she tried.

Alexia moved behind her, drying her own hands on a towel. Eyes watching. Always watching.

‘’I liked the bath,’’ your daughter said suddenly, her voice a little brighter through the fog. ‘’Mami made me a pirate.’’

You pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing a damp curl off her cheek. ‘’A pirate? What kind of pirate?’’

‘’The best kind,’’ she whispered with a sleepy grin. ‘’She said I stole all the treasure. And then she let me put bubbles on her nose.’’

Alexia laughed softly behind her, and it cracked something in you. Because even in this, she still made space for joy. Still made magic out of nothing.

‘’I wanted to go to the pool again,’’ your daughter added after a beat, quieter now. Her gaze dropped to your shirt, fingers absently playing with the collar. ‘’Like before.’’

Before. The word hung heavy. Not in her mouth, but in yours. Before the first hospital stay. Before the long nights. Before the way her skin started to pale. Before her body started slowing.

Alexia stepped in again, kneeling beside you, pressing a kiss to her temple. ‘’We’ll go again,’’ she promised. ‘’As soon as you’re feeling better, okay? We’ll bring floaties and a whole bag of snacks. Right, cariño?’’

You nodded, though your chest ached with the kind of ache that lived in waiting rooms. ‘’We’ll be the loudest pirates in the pool.’’

Your daughter giggled, a soft flutter of sound, before leaning fully into your shoulder again.

‘’Okay,’’ she said simply.

You didn’t move yet. None of you did. The bathroom was warm and a little wet and smelled faintly of lavender and bubble bath. The kind of moment you wanted to bottle, because you knew the hours ahead wouldn’t be like this. There would be fluorescent lights and antiseptic smells and the rhythmic beeping of machines. You held her a little tighter, grounding yourself in her weight.

Then gently, carefully, you whispered, ‘’Let’s lay down for a little bit. It’s time to go see your doctors soon.’’

She nodded, and didn’t cry. That was the hardest part sometimes. She didn’t cry.

She rested for a little while, curled up on the couch. Her head in Alexia’s lap, the television murmuring something calm and low in the background. You sat nearby, bags ready by the door. Your hands folded together so you wouldn’t pick at your nails.

Lupita was sprawled out like a sentry beside the couch, ears twitching every time your daughter sighed in her sleep.

She had been her shadow since the beginning. Since the days before you knew what her tiredness meant. When she used to toddle behind her like she was a big secret. When she whispered things into her fur like the two of them shared a language only they understood.

Now, as the time to leave neared, she blinked awake slowly. Her lashes sticking together a little.

‘’Mamá,’’ she whispered, reaching out for you. You were there in a second.

Alexia stroked her back lightly. ‘’Hola, mi amor. You okay?’’

‘’I don’t want to go today,’’ she murmured, eyes still heavy. ‘’Can Lupita come too?’’

You smiled softly and kissed her knuckles. ‘’I wish she could. She’d make the best hospital buddy.’’

Lupita whined a little, as if she understood, then placed her paw gently near your daughter’s leg.

She giggled faintly, the sound a little hoarse. ‘’I told her she can sleep on my pillow while I’m gone. But only if she misses me.’’

‘’She always does.’’ Alexia said, her voice catching a little. ‘’Even when you’re just in the bath.’’

Your daughter bend down and wrapped her arms around Lupita’s neck as far as they would go. ‘’I love you Lupita. Be good, okay? Don’t steal socks.’’

Lupita gave a small, huffy bark, and your daughter smiled again. Tired but real.

You helped her into her little shoes, placed the stuffed seal she wouldn’t sleep without under her arm and gathered the bag from the hallway.

You reached the car, your daughter climbing into the backseat. Her little legs swinging as she held onto her seal. Alexia buckled her in, her hands lingering for a second longer than necessary.

‘’Do you want to listen to your favorite song?’’ You asked her, trying to keep your voice steady. Trying to make this feel just a little bit like normal.

She nodded, a small tired smile curling at the corner of her lips. ‘’Can we play the one about the pirates?’’

You grinned, adjusting the radio to the song. The upbeat tune filled the car, the playful rhythm of it almost enough to distract from the weight in the air. But not quite.

Alexia settled into the driver’s seat, her hands tight on the wheel. You reached over and squeezed her hand once before letting it go, needing her to feel the reassurance. Even if you didn’t quite feel it yourself.

‘’I’ll stay with her the whole time,’’ you murmured, as if you were saying it to yourself just as much as to Alexia. ‘’I’ll stay close.’’

‘’I know you will,’’ Alexia replied softly. Glancing at you briefly before focusing back on the road.

You had both said those words so many times, but today they felt heavier. The road stretched out ahead of you and for the first time in a long while, you couldn’t see the end.

The hospital room was quiet.

Sterile white walls, the soft beeping of machines in the background and the scent of antiseptic that seemed to always cling to everything. Your daughter was curled up in the bed, her legs dangling over the sides. Her little feet barely touching the floor. She was trying to make herself small, like she always did when she was tired. But there was no hiding the way her exhaustion had settled into her bones.

Alexia sat beside her, watching her closely. One hand brushing her hair back. Her fingers shook just the slightest bit, but she kept it steady. Kept her focus on your daughter, not on what was coming next.

‘’Are you comfortable?’’ you asked, sitting on the edge of the bed, shifting so you could look at her properly.

She nodded, though her eyes were heavy. ‘’Yeah, mamá. But I miss Lupita.’’

You smiled softly. ‘’She’ll be there when we get home again.’’

Your daughter glanced over at Alexia, her eyes a little brighter for a second. ‘’Mami… are you playing in the match tomorrow?’’

The question came out so casually, like it was just another thing to ask. Another part of their world that hadn’t completely shifted. But the weight of it hung there, and you could see Alexia falter for just a second.

Alexia leaned down, brushing her thumb over her daughter’s cheek, her voice soft and warm. ‘’Should I? I could stay here with you instead.’’

Your daughter shook her head, a faint grin tugging her lips. ‘’No, mami. You need to play! So, I can watch you on the TV!’’

There it was. That small piece of normalcy. So precious in the chaos of the hospital and everything else. She wanted to see Alexia, on that pitch, playing like she always did. Like everything was still okay.

Alexia hesitated. ‘’You’ll be okay while I’m playing?’’

Your daughter nodding quickly, her little hand reaching for Alexia’s. ‘’I’ll cheer for you, mami. From the TV.’’ Her voice was small, but there was something fierce in it. Something that said, I will be okay. It was the first time all day she hadn’t looked like she was carrying the weight of everything.

Alexia smiled softly, pressing her lips to the top of her head. ‘’Okay, mi caballito de mar. I’ll play then, just for you.’’

‘’Promise?’’ your daughter asked, her eyes wide and full of that soft, innocent trust.

‘’Promise,’’ Alexia said, her voice steady this time, a firm promise for both of them.

You watched as Alexia stood, brushing a hand through her hair and reaching for her bag. Still glancing at your daughter every few seconds, as though she was making sure she was still breathing.

‘’Hey,’’ you said, reaching for Alexia’s hand. She paused, turning to you.

‘’You’re doing good,’’ you whispered, giving her a soft squeeze. ‘’We’re doing good.’’

She let out a breath, her shoulders sagging for just a second. Then she nodded, a tight shaky smile forming. ‘’I hope she knows that.’’ Her voice wavered for a split second, but she didn’t let it break.

‘’She does,’’ you said firmly. ‘’She knows you’ll be there. She’ll always know.’’

And for a moment, just for a moment, it felt like you were back in the world where you could believe things might turn out okay. Where things might just go back to normal.

But then the nurse came in, and the world shifted again. As it always did in hospitals. The moment was over, and the weight of the next thing hung on the air.

Your daughter, looking small and tired on the bed, grabbed your hand. Her voice soft and clear: ‘’Mamá, don’t go far okay?’’

You pressed a kiss to her forehead. ‘’I’m not going anywhere.’’

Alexia crouched at the edge of the bed, fingers brushing a strand of damp hair from your daughter’s forehead. ‘’I’ll win for you, mi caballito de mar.’’ She whispered soft and certain. ‘’I’ll score and make a heart with my hands. I’ll be just for you. For you, me and mamá.’’

Your daughter smiled faintly. Lids heavy. ‘’Okay… but you must really try.’’

Alexia let out a quiet laugh, kissed her temple and held on longer than she probably should have. ‘’Always.’’

She stood, then turned to you. Her eyes were glassy, and her jaw was tight in that way you knew all to well. That look before she let herself crack.

‘’I’ll take her down now,’’ the nurse said gently from the doorway.

You nodded, stepping closer to the bed. ‘’I’ll stay with her. You go.’’

Alexia looked at you then, like she didn’t want to leave. Like walking out of this room was the hardest thing she’d done in weeks. You reached for her hand and pulled her close.

‘’I’ll be here,’’ you murmured into her shoulder. ‘’And so will she.’’

Alexia gripped your waist, fiercely, like if she held on tight enough maybe the moment wouldn’t pass. Then she pulled away, just slightly. Her forehead pressed to yours. ‘’I hate leaving.’’

‘’I know,’’ you whispered. ‘’But you’re not really leaving. We’re right here.’’

‘’I don’t want to go to an empty place,’’ she admitted. Voice breaking slightly.

‘’You don’t have to,’’ you said. Brushing your fingers through her hair. ‘’Stay with Irene tonight. Lupita would love to see Mateo. I’ll text her.’’

Alexia nodded, then kissed you once. Quick, desperate and warm. And left the room without looking back again. You knew if she did, she’d crumble.

When the nurse wheeled your daughter away, you followed down the hall until they turned the corner and disappeared toward oncology.

And then you waited.

You waited in the quiet. Sitting in the empty room, your jacket still on. Your hands folded in your lap. You watched the way the sky started to darken outside the window. You didn’t check your phone. You didn’t cry. You just waited, because that’s what love looked like today.

And in the stillness, your mind drifted. Uninvited, unhurried.

You remembered the shape of her beneath your skin. The soft flutter of her kicks late at night, the way your hand would automatically press to your belly like you were keeping her close even then. Alexia would talk to her before bed, whisper silly things in Spanish against your skin. Making both of you laugh. Mi pequeña mariposa, she’d say every night like a promise.

Then the memory shifted. The stadium. The chaos of noise and color. Your newborn bundled against your chest, tiny pink headphones covering her delicate ears. She slept through most of the match, wrapped up in your arms while Alexia searched the stands during warm-up and grinned when she saw you. Later, the first family photo outside your home: Alexia in full kit, her medal still around her neck, crouching down with her hand on your shoulder. Your baby between you. You hadn’t planned it. Someone else took the photo. But it became one of your most precious things.

And then the pool. That first swimming lesson. Your daughter barely a year old, clinging to Alexia in the shallow water. Her giggles echoing against the tiles. You held her afterward, wrapped her in a sunflower-patterned towel while Alexia combed water gently from her curls. It was simple. Beautiful. The kind of memory that didn’t ask for anything loud. Just warmth.

Then the dark memory came.

It slipped in like a shadow under the door, quiet but heavy. You didn’t ask for it, didn’t try to pull it up, but there it was. Undeniable. That day. That Friday morning. That room. That version of you that didn’t know how to breathe after the word leukemia was said out loud.

The walls were too white. The kind of white that made everything feel colder. You remembered sitting across from Alexia, your hands clasped together so tightly they ached, like if you let go, you’d come undone completely.

And then it happened. The fight.

It wasn't loud, not at first. It started with your voice trembling around the words, “I knew something was wrong. I knew it, and we waited too long.”

Alexia’s head snapped up. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” you asked too quickly, voice already too sharp.

“Blame me. Blame us. We brought her in. We’re here now.”

You shook your head, frustrated tears catching at your lashes. “I’m not blaming you. I’m blaming time. I’m blaming how fucking slow everything felt and how fast it turned once they said it. I’m blaming myself too, okay?”

Alexia stood up, arms crossing. Pacing a little like she didn’t know where to put her fear. “We can’t afford to turn on each other,” she said tightly.

“But I’m angry,” you said, standing too. “And terrified. And I don’t know what to do with all of that. So if I lash out, if I say the wrong thing…” You had to stop, because your throat had closed in around the rest of the sentence.

Alexia’s face cracked. Not visibly, but you knew her. You knew the way her eyes dimmed when she was trying not to feel too much at once. “You think I’m not scared?” she said, and her voice was soft, but it carried much. “You think I sleep through the night now? You think I don't replay every time she said, ‘I’m tired’ and we just thought… she’s a three-year-old. Of course she’s tired?”

You stared at her then. Really stared. Because she looked like you. Shattered and trying not to break apart.

And then it changed. As quick as the fight had begun, it dropped away. And she crossed the room, sat down next to you. She reached out without saying anything and pulled you into her.

“I don’t want to do this with anyone else,” you whispered into her shoulder.

“You won’t have to,” she murmured back. “Even if we’re scared, we’ll be scared together. I promise.”

You nodded, and she kissed the side of your head. That was the real beginning of being brave together.

Hours later when they brought her back, she was half sleeping. Her little face pale, her breathing soft. Her favorite stuffed seal clutched in her arms. The treatment always left her that way. Drained but calm. Like her body knew it had to rest.

It was midnight, maybe a little past, and the world felt like it had shrunk so just the two of you and the steady hum of machines.

She had been so quiet after the treatment. Too quiet. You held her through the worst of it. Her tiny body curled against yours, shaking as the nausea came and went in waves. A bucket besides the bed. Cold cloths. Your fingers tracing circles on her back. You whispered stories in her ear to distract her. About seahorses and pirates and treasure hidden in the waves.

But now after hours of silence, her small voice cracked through the silence.

‘’Mami…’’

You looked down. Her eyes were wet, her lashes sticky against her cheeks. She was crying.

‘’I want to call her.’’

‘’It’s late, baby,’’ you said gently, brushing hair back from her clammy forehead.

She turned her face into your chest, her breath shaky. ‘’Just for a little. I want to tell her good luck. Please.’’

You couldn’t say no. Not tonight.

You reached for your phone, already feeling your own throat tighten as you unlocked it. She’d been so strong for so long. Too strong. This was the first time in weeks you’d seen her cry like that.

The call rang once. Twice.

Then Alexia’s tired voice answered, rough from sleep, still familiar and grounding. ‘’Hola?’’

You held the phone closer to your daughter’s ear, and whispered, ‘’It’s mami.’’

‘’Mami?’’ she said, her voice hoarse and broken.

‘’Oh, mi amor,’’ Alexia breathed instantly, no longer groggy. ‘’What’s wrong, mi caballito de mar.’’

‘’I just… I wanted to say good luck,’’ she said, sniffling. ‘’And I love you. And I’ll watch from the TV with mamá. I promise.’’

You could hear Alexia’s breath hitch through the speaker. ‘’Oh, mi amor. I love you too. So much. Thank you. That means the world to me. You’re the bravest girl, you know that?’’

‘’I was sick,’’ your daughter whispered. ‘’But I was thinking of you.’’

‘’I was dreaming of you,’’ Alexia answered softly. ‘’And I’m going to play for you, okay? I’ll kiss the field for you.’’

Your daughter let out a tired, small laugh. ‘’That’s silly.’’

Alexia laughed too, gently. ‘’Only for you.’’

She fell asleep not long after the call. Finally relaxing again in your arms, the phone still warm in your hand.

You sat there in the hospital bed with her, your body stiff and your eyes burning. And you kissed her temple with everything in you.

The next morning felt off-kilter. The usual stillness of the hospital room was quieter than usual, but not in the comforting way. It was that limbo between hope and exhaustion, where you weren’t sure if you should brace yourself for more or believe things could get better. The sickness was slowly lifting, but the toll it took on her body remained.

The room was dim but warm, the soft hum of the machines reminding you of the fragility of this moment. The TV flickered softly in the background, showing the early morning match.

Alexia’s game, of all times, how weird it was to watch it this early but it felt like a sign. Maybe it was. The kind of sign you tried not to overthink, but something about it tugged at you. A glimmer of hope.

Your daughter lay curled up in the hospital bed, the sheets drawn up to her chin, her eyes barely open. But you could see the faintest glimmer of excitement as the match went on, the flashes of color from the Barcelona jerseys, the play on the field. Alexia, your Alexia, out there running in the early morning sun. Her heart still fighting, just like your daughter’s.

And then, just as you felt the tension in the air grow, your daughter’s voice broke the silence.

“Mamá?”

You didn’t want to pull her out of her trance too soon, but you couldn’t help but notice how small she seemed in the bed. So fragile and thin. She looked up at you, eyes wide and searching. “I’m tired. And my stomach hurts. Can you… can you hold me?”

You were there in an instant, sliding into the bed beside her, your arms around her, pulling her close. “Of course, mi amor. I’m here. I’m always here.”

It was a strange thing, the stillness of the moment. As the match played in the background, your mind stayed fixed on her. You tried to reassure her, even though you felt as unsure as she did.

A few minutes later the door clicked open and Eli stepped in, followed by Alba. Both with their usual warmth radiating, even in the midst of everything. They wore matching FC Barcelona gear. Alba with a scarf draped over her shoulders and Eli in a cap that made her look like she was about to cheer in the stands.

Your daughter’s eyes brightened at the sight of them, even though she was so drained. Alexia’s family always knew how to brighten the place, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Eli was the first to come to her side, kneeling beside the bed. “How’s my little fighter today?” she asked, gently stroking her granddaughter’s hair.

“Better,” your daughter murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Good,” Eli smiled. She pressed a small package into your daughter’s hand. Something wrapped in vibrant, warm paper. Your daughter’s eyes flickered between her grandmother and the gift, slowly unwrapping it to reveal a tiny Barcelona shirt with a patch of her favorite number.

Alba stepped forward, grinning mischievously. “And guess what else we have for you?”

Before you could even respond, Alba opened her purse, and there, snuggled inside, was Lupita. Your dog.

Lupita’s little tail wagged furiously when she saw your daughter, and your girl’s face lit up like it had been ages since she’d seen her.

“You sneaked her in?” You chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief.

“She’s a fighter, too,” Alba said, winking. “Lupita knows how to brighten up a room.”

Lupita hopped onto the bed and curled up beside your daughter, who immediately wrapped her small arms around the dog, pulling her in close. She gave the dog a soft kiss on the nose, her laughter light but tired.

“I missed you,” she whispered, burying her face in Lupita’s fur.

Eli sat beside you, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “She’s strong, isn’t she?” she said softly, her gaze lingering on her granddaughter.

You nodded, trying to push down the lump in your throat. “So strong. Just like her mami.”

Alba sat on the edge of the bed, watching your daughter’s eyes slowly close as she drifted into the kind of peaceful rest you hadn’t seen in days.

“We're all so proud of her,” Alba murmured.

“We are,” you whispered back watching the way the room seemed to soften around them. The love palpable even in the quiet moments.

As the match continued in the background, you held your daughter in your arms. Lupita curled at her feet. You felt the weight of everything, but there was a soft lightness too. Like in the simplest of moments, you were still a family.

The match played on, the low murmur of the commentators a background hum to the small world unfolding inside the hospital room.

Your daughter stayed nestled against you, her tiny body draped over your lap like she was trying to find safety in the warmest corners of your love. Lupita rested by her legs, chin perched on your daughter’s knee, tail occasionally thumping in soft bursts.

Eli sat on the side of the bed, one hand on her granddaughter’s back stroking gently. Alba leaned against the windowsill, watching the screen with quiet intensity. Occasionally glancing back to check on all of you.

Your daughter was tired. Her eyes fluttered closer often now, her body clearly still recovering. But she didn’t want to miss this. Not today. Not her mami.

She barely spoke. Just a few murmurs about the scarf Alba tucked around her shoulders, or how soft Lupita felt, or how your arm was just the right amount of 'squishy.' You smiled at that, pressing a kiss to her temple, your hand rubbing slow circles against her side.

Then came the moment.

You saw it before it happened, Alexia, driving up the wing weaving through two defenders like she’d done it a thousand times in her sleep. The stadium roared, the camera zoomed in. She struck the ball clean, sharp, true.

It hit the back of the net.

The noise on the TV spiked, and your breath caught. Not just because of the goal, but what followed.

Alexia didn’t run off. She turned to the camera, her face flushed with emotion, heart pounding in her chest. And then… those hands, raised slowly, forming that familiar heart. Right there, facing the screen. Facing home.

“She did it,” Eli whispered.

Your daughter’s eyes were half-lidded, but she saw it. She saw the heart.

And she smiled. The kind of soft, sleepy smile you hadn’t seen in a while. Like something deep inside of her recognized the message.

“That’s for me,” she whispered.

You nodded, holding her a little tighter. “Always for you.”

Alba was wiping at her eyes without trying to hide it. Eli leaned down and kissed her granddaughter’s hair, her voice thick but gentle: “Your mami’s heart is yours, mi amor. Every time.”

Your daughter snuggled deeper into you, Lupita shifting to curl closer to her. She reached out one small, trembling hand and found yours, holding on.

“I want to tell her it was pretty,” she mumbled.

“We will,” you promised, even though your voice broke a little.

The TV went back to the game. The world outside kept spinning. But in this room, there was only love.

Only the four of you.

And the goal.

And that heart.

It was a week later when the three of you finally came home.

The hospital bag was heavier than when you arrived, even though it held fewer clothes now. It carried quiet things. Dampened towels. A drawing made with trembling hands and too many stickers. A scarf that still smelled faintly like chemo and apple juice. The good kind, the one she always asked for.

The treatments had gone well. Or at least, well enough. Numbers were up, doctors encouraged. You clung to that like it was a thread between you and the world you still wanted so desperately for her.

The last round, though, hit hard. It always did. She’d gone quiet in the car, her body curled under her blanket. But there was something different in her eyes when you pulled up to the house. Something like relief.

You carried her in. She insisted on walking at first, but her legs wobbled after two steps and you didn’t even wait for her to ask.

Alexia opened the front door. She hadn’t gone to training that day. She didn’t want to miss this. Her arms wrapped around both of you at once. The three of you tangled together in the hallway with Lupita barking soft, excited circles around your feet.

Home.

That night, your daughter laid between the two of you on the big bed. Propped up against pillows, flushed but smiling. A bucket nearby just in case. Her voice was small but animated. She talked about Alexia’s match like it was the Champions League final. Like she'd been on the pitch too.

“The goal with the twisty foot,” she whispered. “That was my favorite.”

Alexia smiled, brushing her fingers through her daughter's curls. “The twisty foot one, huh? I practiced that just for you.”

Your daughter blinked up at her. “Really?”

“Mhm. Only because you’re my lucky charm.”

You caught her smiling before it turned into a yawn. A soft one that crinkled her nose and made her look even more like herself.

She was tired, still a little pale, but she was home. And she was talking. Laughing a little. And dreaming out loud again.

That night, after she fell asleep curled into both of you, Lupita pressed against her back. Alexia looked over at you in the soft dark of the bedroom.

“Let’s hold onto this one,” she whispered.

You reached across your daughter’s sleeping form, took Alexia’s hand in yours, and squeezed.

“We already are.”

Months had passed. Slow, dragging at times, but kind. You counted them not in numbers but in colors returning to her cheeks. In full nights of sleep without fevers. In the little things. Her asking for another spoonful of cereal, the way she hummed under her breath again, like she used to.

And then came her fifth birthday.

She wanted the morning at the pool. Just the three of you. No party, no noise. Just water. She’d whispered it to you the week before, her voice small and sleepy in bed, pressed up between you and Alexia. “Just us,” she said. “Like we used to do. Can we be pirates again?”

You promised her you would.

So here you were, standing at the edge of the quiet pool, still barefoot, holding towels and snacks and her favorite sunhat that she refused to wear.

She was already in, yelling for Alexia. “Mami! Come on! You’re late to the ship!”

Alexia laughed, pulling off her sweatshirt and walking into the water like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’m coming, capitana. Don’t sink it before I get there.”

You just stood there for a second. Watching them. The weight in your chest too tender to name.

She was small, still. Thinner than she’d been before everything. Her legs wobbled when she ran, and you could still see the faint bruises on her arms. But her laugh was the same. Loud and wild and full of light. It echoed against the tile walls, wrapped itself around you like a memory.

The water was warm, shallow. Alexia scooped her up like she was made of something precious. Their laughter made something ache and bloom in your chest all at once.

You watched as they played. Pretending the floaties were pirate ships, that Alexia was a sea monster, that the water held treasure only they could find. Your daughter squealed and splashed, her hair clinging to her face, her eyes full of sunlight.

Later, wrapped in a towel and curled up against Alexia on a lounge chair, she looked over at you with that kind of soft honesty kids always have.

“Mamá,” she said. “I don’t have to go back, right?”

You knelt beside her, brushing her hair back, tucking it gently behind her ear. “Not for a whole year, baby. You’re doing so, so well.”

She blinked up at you, and then back at Alexia. “Can we go swimming every birthday? Just us? No more beeping machines.”

Alexia kissed the crown of her head, her arms pulling her in tighter. “We’ll swim every birthday,” she whispered. “And every day you want. Always.”

Your daughter smiled then, sleepy and content, the towel pulled up to her chin. She looked up at the ceiling of the pool, where the sun came through the windows in little lines. “I think this is the best day ever.”

You leaned into Alexia’s side, your hand resting over hers where it held your daughter close. You didn’t say anything. Just stayed there, still and warm and together.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like the world wasn’t holding its breath anymore.

----------------------------------------------------------

Please let me know what you think of it. I would love to hear your thoughts. I'm thinking about maybe writing more of them. What would you think about that?

[daydreamgoddess14]

Breakfast

My first Thunderbolts* fic!

I am so in love with this bunch of losers. I was already all in on Bucky anyway, but the others are magic and I love them all 🥰

Anyway, I bashed this little Tower Tale out this afternoon. It's probably the first of miniseries, so be sure to look out for any follow-ups!

Thunderbolts* (platonic for now) x F!Reader, no warnings, just some domestic sweetness. Bucky x F!Reader if you squint. It's brewing.

Word count: 1.5k

Under the cut in case of ~spoilers~ though there aren't any, really.

There was no food.

What the everloving fuck were they eating?

You opened another cupboard.

Three boxes of Wheaties, two of them ripped open like they'd been mauled by a wild animal.

In the fridge, a bottle of vodka with less than half a measure left, a single egg, leftover chilli fries with mould creeping into the edge of the cardboard and an apple with a bite taken out of it.

You propped the fridge open with your hip and started launching the contents into the open trash can.

With a final yeet, the egg was the last item. You heard it crack as it made contact with the vodka bottle.

“Who're you?” a voice asked from across the room.

“Oh!” You jumped, the fridge knocking against your elbow as you moved.

“Where's all the food?” You asked the dark haired man. He stared, wide eyed, and tugged at the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Umm…” he looked around, as if waiting for someone to turn up and answer on his behalf. “There's Wheaties?”

“Yeah. And literally nothing else.”

“It's Alexei's turn to shop.”

“Hmm. And when was the last time you ate?”

“Breakfast.”

“Today?”

“Yeah… well, like, 2am when everyone got back,” he shrugged. “We had Wheaties a la Bob.”

“Do I want to know?”

“With water not milk. Because there was no milk.”

Your lips pinched together and you sighed.

“That's… that's gross. So I take it you're Bob?”

“Yeah, the others are sleeping I think. Late night.”

“And you're all grown adults?”

“I mean, Bucky's like, 110!”

“And not one of you thought to visit a grocery store? Or get DoorDash?”

“We get DoorDash all the time, Alexei is like the king of DoorDash.”

“Ah,” you think you're starting to see the problem. The reason you've been hired.

“John always takes the leftovers. And Bucky.”

You lift the heavy grocery bag onto the counter and Bob's eyes widen.

“Right, Bob,” you start unpacking. “You want some real breakfast?”

He's cautious about talking too much.

He fidgets on the stool while he watches you chop onions, mushrooms, bell peppers, potatoes. Mel had been underselling the facilities. You'd found a pantry with every gadget under the sun, brand new pots and pans still in their packaging. Your brain went into overdrive.

The kitchen begins to fill with the intoxicating scent of various foods cooking, of freshly brewed coffee and pancake syrup.

As you're frying cubes of potato sprinkled with paprika and garlic powder, he's inching forwards, leaning over the counter to see what you're doing.

“Who the fuck are you?” Another voice spoke up.

“Who's asking?”

“John Walker. You gonna answer me now?”

“Take a seat, John, coffee's just brewed.”

He stayed on his feet, looking between you, Bob, and the magic happening on the stove top.

“Oi, fucking move, Walker. Why are you just standing in the way?”

“Who's she?” He asks Ava who shrugs.

“Who cares, I smell food. And coffee!”

“You gotta talk to him about the limo, Lena,” another voice entered the room.

“I tried! He won't listen to me, you need to try. Like, soldier to soldier.”

“That's… that's not gonna happen and you know it. What's that smell?”

“Food. Real food,” the blonde woman peered around Walker at you. “What's this?”

“This?” You asked, assessing the selection so far. “Well, starting this end, croissants, fruit, yogurt, then I've just finished the fried potatoes - those are gonna be so good with the shakshuka that's just finishing in the oven, then there's eggs benedict, bacon, mushrooms, pancakes and syrup…” you looked up at the five bemused faces.

“Smells like heaven,” a voice bellowed, “What is this? Who is cooking?” Alexei came to a halt and looked over Yelena’s head. “An angel. An angel is cooking. You!” He pushed his way between Ava and Bucky making his way toward you, and then took your hand, shaking it vigorously. “I am Alexei, Daddy Avenger. You can call me daddy,” he winked.

“Oh, god’” Yelena heaved. Ava grimaced.

You smiled gently, “I will not be calling you daddy. But it is good to meet you. All of you. Food is pretty much ready, so… help yourselves I guess?”

Bob went first, to everyone's surprise and confusion, the others were far more cautious. John warily sniffed each dish before settling on the pre packaged croissants.

“I'll make fresh tomorrow, I wasn't sure what time I'd have today,” you explained. He ignored you.

Ava went for the pancakes with bacon, “and these are -?”

“Freshly made. There's still some batter if you want more?”

Unlike John, she smiled. Tiny and uncertain, but you figured a smile is a smile. Yelena went for the eggs benedict.

“Have you got any -”

“Salmon or ham?” You opened the now full fridge, her jaw dropped.

“Ham, please,” she stared in awe. As you passed her a packet of sliced deli ham, the timer went off on your phone.

You slid open the oven and pulled out a tray, setting it on the counter before it started burning you through the oven mitt.

“Is beautiful,” Alexei sighed happily at the tray of tomatoes with shiny egg whites and sunshine yolks.

“Shakshuka,” you told him. “Fresh bread tomorrow, but have it with potato hash for today,” you handed him an empty plate.

They milled around, taking seconds and thirds but not taking their eyes off you for long.

“You gonna tell us who you are?” Bucky asked, still nursing the singular cup of coffee someone else had passed him.

“Are you going to eat?” You asked.

“Bucky, she is angelic person with food!”

“It is really good food,” Bob smiled warmly.

“Great hollandaise,” Yelena agreed.

“We don't know anything about her, she could have poisoned us -”

“You started off with something out of a packet, but you soon made sure you tried everything else, Walker, don't be ridiculous.” Ava rolled her eyes. “And those pancakes were amazing.”

“So I'm the only one who thinks this is weird?”

“Ms. de Fontaine hired me.”

“Great, of course,” he threw his hands up and scoffed. “She micromanages our diets now?”

“If, by micromanage, you mean she considered the fridge contents a health code violation and has had enough of 3am DoorDash notifications, then yes.”

“And you're here to, what? Cook three square meals a day?”

“Pretty much,” you shrugged.

“That's kinda neat,” Bob beamed.

“We do all hate cooking,” John muttered begrudgingly.

“Only because you're shit at it, John.”

“Ava, swear to god I'm gonna -”

“What, what are you going to do?”

“Guys, enough. You're happy with this?” Bucky asked the group. One by one they all nodded.

“C'mon, Bucky. Try some -” Yelena took an empty plate and started loading it with shakshuka, bacon, and potato hash. She put the plate down in front of him and took his coffee away.

You hid your smile behind tidying up, the others filtered away with nods of thanks. By the time you'd finished arranging the dishwasher and turned around, he was the only one left.

You put a fresh cup of coffee next to his plate and for a moment, his knife and fork paused.

“Happy I haven't poisoned you?”

“Hhmph,” he grunted.

You continued the clean up, compiling the (very few) leftovers, wiping the surfaces, and making notes for a full kitchen restock.

With a neat clatter, his cutlery fell silent. You took the plate, added it to the dishwasher and switched it on. Finally, you passed him a paper bag.

“What's this?”

“I like to finish breakfast with something sweet. I made these yesterday so they're still good, I'll make some more for tomorrow.”

He opened the bag to find a chocolate croissant you'd kept warm.

“Thought you told Walker they were from the store?”

“The ones I put out were, this one isn't.”

He looked at the bag, and back at you, “thank you. About earlier, I didn't mean -”

“It's fine, really.” You smiled. “I know it's hard, someone intruding when you were all doing so well on your own.”

His laugh surprised you, warm and rich.

“Yeah, we're uhh… still figuring it out.”

“Well. Now you have some help. You'll have to let me know your favourite foods, I'll see if I can do them justice.”

“Something tells me that won't be too much of a stretch,” he said softly.

“Barnes! We're out, let's go,” Yelena called from the elevator.

“See you later, doll. Thanks for breakfast.” He held up the croissant in salute and disappeared, leaving nothing but crumbs in his wake.

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

even if it's late, I gotta request: Shinichiro as your boyfriend headcanons?? 🥹 any aspects you want, but I'd LOVE to see how his family and friends react and interact <33 have a great night/day!!

Here are some (Shinichiro definitely deserves to be a boyfriend)!

Both his friends and his family actually thinks he's joking or trying to trick them when he announces he's seeing someone. They've teased him about being rejected for so long that they're pretty surprised someone accepted his confession this time. Shinichiro has a hard time trying to convince them this is real (Mikey even suggests you're imaginary at first before meeting you). 

Begs his friends (and Manjiro) to not embarass him before he introduces you to them (of course they all ignore this and tell a bunch of embarrassing stories about him instead).

They're all pretty friendly towards you though they have a tonne of questions. Emma, Izana and Mikey (Mikey asks the most random ones like if you like taiyaki? and can you fight?)  They want to know everything about you (this has never happened before so they're pretty excited) and Shinichiro's friends want to know the details of him asking you out (they're still pretty surprised). 

Shinichiro can't stop saying my girlfriend/ my boyfriend. He just loves saying that he finally has a partner. 

And definitely brags about you to his friends a lot, he just loves talking about you, especially in this early stage. Everyone get's a bit sick of him going on and on about you eventually lmao. 

Shinichiro also get's a lot of random advice about you and how to be a good boyfriend in the early stages. 

Shinichiro makes sure he does basically every romantic gesture he can think of (especially seems to love bringing you flowers). He likes how happy it seems to make you.

He is a bit shy when it comes to getting physical, he badly wants to hold your hand, hug you, kiss you etc but get's a bit nervous to (he overthinks it a lot) ends up nervously laughing while asking you to. And yes this get's him teased by his friends.

He automatically grins everytime he sees you, he doesn't even seem to notice it but he get's so much happier when he spots you. 

His siblings love you and unfortunately for Shinichiro like to have your attention anytime you're altogether. You've been stolen away from Shinichiro a few times by his siblings when he planned to hang out with you.

Shinichiro offers to drive you around everywhere, likes the feeling of you being so close to him and wants you to see how much fun being on a bike is (or how much fun his bike is).

He's a very good listener, you can say you like something just once and he'll remember it.

Whenever you hug him, he always murmurs that being in your embrace is the best place in the world

He's a lot happier overall with you around too, not that he was exactly sad before but he has an extra spring in his step and smiles even more then before.

Also refuses to work late anymore, he used to stay late with the bikes if something needed doing but now wants to get back to you as soon as possible. Shinichiro actually doesn't even realise this though, it's Inui who points out that he's started doing this.

Has so many pet names for you, seems to use a different one every time. (He keeps a sort of draft list of them where he writes down new possible ideas)

Secretly plans to marry you (his friends already know because they were teasing him about it and he started blushing and not meeting their eyes)

He also daydreams a lot about you while away from you and apparently makes a certain face while doing it, the others call it his "boyfriend face".

And finally, even after the hardest days for him, coming home and seeing you and the way you look at him/ treat him always makes him smile.

[ririright]

hi dove 🫶🏼

I'm the anon who requested the hayden x young wife reader pregnancy headcanons

I keep rereading that post and I am absolutely in love with it !

I was hoping you could do a part two of that, as well as an angsty version of it—where hayden actually decided he doesn't want kids at his age, reader is understanding of that but still feels disappointed about sacrificing the chance at being a mother.

Shock and Panic

When you first tell Hayden you’re pregnant, his face goes pale, and he stammers, “Wait… are you sure?”

He doesn’t mean to sound doubtful, but the shock is so strong that his first instinct is denial.

He spends the next few hours pacing around the house, running his hands through his hair, muttering, “I just… I didn’t think—”

The Overwhelming Guilt

He knows you’re excited, and seeing the hopeful look in your eyes makes his heart ache.

But his own fear overpowers his joy, and he can’t pretend to be happy when he’s not.

He hates himself for making you feel disappointed, especially when he sees how carefully you bring up baby topics.

Overthinking Everything

Hayden is much older than you, and all he can think about is being an “old dad” who can’t keep up.

He starts comparing himself to when his daughter was little, thinking, “I barely survived the first time. How can I do it again?”

He’s terrified of letting you down, of being too tired, too busy, or too overwhelmed to be a good dad again.

Quiet Tension

For a while, there’s a quiet, heavy tension between you. He’s distant, lost in his own thoughts.

You try to bring up baby names, and he just nods with a weak smile.

At night, he turns over, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his fear but too ashamed to say it out loud.

His Daughter Notices

His 10-year-old daughter is the first to sense something’s wrong. “Dad, why are you and (y/n) so quiet lately?”

He tries to brush it off, but she’s sharp—“Is it because of the baby?”

It’s a wake-up call for him. He realizes his fear is affecting not just you but her too.

A Confession in the Dark

One night, you finally break down, “I thought you’d be happy. I thought… you’d want this with me.”

His chest tightens, and he finally admits, “I’m scared. I’m terrified. I’m too old. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m not a good dad to this baby?”

You tell him you’re scared too, but that you want this baby—your baby with him.

Reluctantly Going to Appointments

At first, Hayden’s hesitant about the doctor visits. He’ll drive you but stays quiet, watching from the corner.

He’s afraid of getting attached, but the first time he hears the heartbeat, his eyes well up with tears.

He won’t admit it, but he’s starting to feel something—something like hope.

Little Glimmers of Excitement

You catch him standing in the empty spare room, staring at it like he’s imagining something.

Sometimes, he’ll accidentally smile when you mention baby kicks, but he quickly hides it.

He keeps looking at his daughter, feeling guilty but also starting to see how much joy she brought to his life.

Small but Meaningful Changes

He starts texting you from work, “How are you feeling? Need anything?”

If you have a craving, he’ll quietly go out and get it without a word.

Sometimes, you wake up and find him with his hand resting gently on your stomach, even in his sleep.

The Moment He Breaks

One night, he’s watching you sleep, hand resting on your growing belly, and it just hits him.

He breaks down, whispering, “I’m scared, but I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t show it.”

He pulls you close, and you wake up to him softly apologizing, over and over.

Slowly Allowing Himself to Dream

He still has doubts, but he starts asking about baby names and looking up parenting tips.

He starts to think about how his daughter will be as a big sister, and the idea makes him smile.

He’ll sheepishly bring you a tiny baby onesie he saw at the store, mumbling, “I thought it was cute.”

Confessing to His Daughter

He has a quiet talk with his daughter, telling her she’s still his little girl and always will be.

She hugs him, grinning, “I get to be a big sister? That’s so cool!”

Her excitement helps ease his fears—she’s thrilled, so maybe it won’t be so bad.

The Protective Instinct Kicking In

When you’re further along, he’s constantly checking in. “Did you eat enough today? Are you comfortable?”

If you’re feeling sick, he’s immediately by your side, rubbing your back and whispering comfort.

If anyone makes you upset, he’s quick to defend you—“She doesn’t need stress right now, okay?”

Quiet Conversations with the Baby

When he thinks you’re asleep, he’ll gently talk to your belly. “Hey, little one. I… I’m sorry I was scared. I promise I’ll be here.”

His daughter catches him doing this one night and smiles, hugging him, “You’re gonna be a great dad, Dad.”

Finally Letting Go of His Fear

When he feels the baby kick for the first time, he freezes, eyes wide, then breaks into the biggest smile.

He kisses your stomach, whispering, “Hi, little one. I’m your dad.”

From that moment on, he’s still scared, but there’s love there too—a fierce, protective love.

[dreaming-of-epiphanies]

𝓛𝓸𝓬𝓴𝓮𝓭 𝓞𝓾𝓽

Description: Slytherin!Reader and academic rival!Tom get locked out of the common room late one night. Things get tense and... slightly risqué. (Reader x Tom, academic rivals with tension)

A/N: So this kind of took a turn I didn't intend for it to when I started writing it, but I can't say I'm mad about it. This is also longer than I meant for it to be (final word count is 4231 words which isn't super long but longer than I thought it would be) but stick around til the end if you want some pretty good tension!

Warnings: Suggestiveness (nothing terrible but enough to warrant a warning).

--

The library was dead silent as you bent over your parchment, your quill scribbling furiously across the page as you tried to finish the twenty-five inch essay you’d forgotten about until the night before it was due. It really wasn’t your fault; you’d been too preoccupied with studying for your Defence exam to remember about the mammoth of an essay Dumbledore had assigned until your friend had made an offhand comment about it. The next second, you were taking off at full speed for the library. Transfiguration was your first class tomorrow, so you had to finish this essay tonight. 

You had been at the library since classes had finished and you didn’t even know what time it was, but you assumed it was late considering how deserted the desks around you were. Still, you were determined to reach the end of your parchment.

You had written nearly twenty-four inches by now, and the final inch shouldn’t have taken much longer if it weren’t for a sharp sigh interrupting your focus. 

Your eyes immediately cut up to the person standing next to you, who was standing with his arms crossed and looking disapprovingly down at you, his eyes dark and mouth turned down at the corners. 

“You are here exceedingly past curfew,” he remarked, eyes narrowed and stupid prefect badge glistening on his chest. 

“I’m writing an essay, Riddle,” you said dryly, gesturing to the parchment in front of you. He didn’t pull his eyes away from yours. 

“I can see that. However, it is nearly two-thirty in the morning. You were supposed to have returned to your common room three hours ago.” He pointed out and you rolled your eyes, turning back to your work. 

“I’m almost finished. I’ll be back before three-thirty, if it makes you feel better.” You said sardonically and you felt his glare on the back of your head. 

“It does not. What assignment are you even working on, pray tell?” He asked, voice rife with exasperation as he leaned down, reading your work. You quickly tried to shield it, knowing the absolute wrath he was going to give you if he realised you were writing-

“The Transfiguration essay?” He said in disbelief. You threw him an annoyed look. “That is due tomorrow!” 

“Technically today,” you muttered, bending back over your parchment as he let out a frustrated groan. 

“How are you competing with me for top of our class if you wait until the night before assignments are due to complete them?” He muttered to himself with a perplexed shake of his head. 

“Because most times I don’t have annoying prefects hovering around me while I’m trying to finish them,” you shot back, continuing to write. Riddle turned, leaning his back against the table you’re working on. 

“I am simply doing my job. And that job includes giving you detention if you stay out past curfew, which you have.” He pulled out a pad of paper and a quill, beginning to write up a detention slip. You immediately straightened up, eyes darting to the slip in panic. 

“No!” You objected quickly. “If you give me detention you’ll ruin my chances at being Head Girl next year!” Riddle looked at you with a bored expression, as if to say ‘does it look like I care?’ 

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you remained here this late.” He said, continuing to write you up. You let out a groan and leaned back, running your hands through your hair. All you wanted to do was finish your essay, for Merlin’s sake, not deal with Riddle being such a prick as always. But now that you had stopped writing, you felt the exhaustion start to set in and you knew if you didn’t get back to the assignment now, you’d have to finish right before class in the morning and that would significantly lower the quality of your writing. 

“Fine, write me up! Just let me finish my essay.” You grumbled, picking up your quill again, but Riddle snatched it out of your fingers. 

“I had hoped the threat of detention would deter you from staying here, but it appears not,” he snapped, looking irritated. “However, if you come back to the common room now, I will not give you the punishment.” 

You looked up at him in annoyance. “It’s one more inch, Riddle. I’ll be done in thirty minutes if you leave me be.” You bargained, but it was clear he wasn’t budging. 

“Leave now, or I will write you up.” 

You groaned, shutting your book shut with more force than necessary and shoving your parchments in your bag. “Fine.” You grumbled, getting up.

“Come on, let’s go.” He turned on his heel, stalking towards the exit. You rolled your eyes and followed him. 

He walked you briskly back to the Slytherin common room. The halls were completely empty except for a couple ghosts and snoring portraits. The castle seemed a little foreboding at night, what with the shadowy corridors and faint creaks. Normally you returned to your dorm before it got to be this late at night.

Riddle was walking so fast you had to take two steps to keep up with his long legs. “Merlin, Riddle, think you could slow down a bit?” You panted, practically having to jog. He glanced back at you and only slightly slowed down, without a word. 

Once the chill of the dungeons settled across you and the common room door came into view, you pushed past Riddle to give the password. You had to get into your dorm and finish the essay before you fell asleep and had to work on it tomorrow.

“Obscurum,” you said confidently, only for the door to remain closed. You blinked in confusion. “Obscurum,” you repeated. Nothing happened

Riddle stepped forward, a smug smirk on his face. “The password changed at three this morning. Now you see why I encouraged you to leave when I did.” He explained, looking infuriatingly triumphant. 

“Forced to leave is more like it,” you muttered, but stepped back so he could give the password. 

“Aconite,” he drawled loudly. The door didn’t budge. You tilted your head curiously and Riddle threw a glance over his shoulder, clearing his throat almost uncomfortably. “Aconite,” he said again, trying to sound commanding. Still, the door remained closed. 

“Having some trouble, Riddle?” You asked innocently, stepping forward and crossing your arms. He looked down at you through narrowed eyes. 

“Not at all. The new password’s enchantment may have yet to set in. We simply have to wait for a few moments,” he said calmly, though he looked slightly irritated. 

“Mm,” you hummed, nodding and leaning against the wall next to him. He ignored you and waited with his hands clasped behind his back for a couple of minutes. Then, with a confidence that was only comical after what happened next, he lifted his chin and repeated the password. 

The door didn’t move. 

You laughed, shifting off the wall and putting your hands on your hips. “Sounds like I could’ve stayed in the library a bit longer after all, huh?” You grinned, enjoying Riddle’s frustrated glare at the door. 

“I do not know why the password does not seem to work,” he said in a low voice, eyes narrowed on the door in concentration. 

“Are you sure the password’s right?” You asked, and his eyes cut to yours. 

“Of course,” he said sharply, and you shrugged. 

“Doesn’t sound like it to me,” you singsonged, twirling absentmindedly around the corridor behind him. 

Riddle remained at the door for a few more minutes, muttering incantations and flipping through a small notebook from his robe pocket. You continued to wander around the corridor, mentally going through your essay and smirking every time you remembered Riddle’s mystified expression when the password didn’t work. It sucked you were stuck out here for a bit, but Merlin help you if you weren’t just a little bit satisfied he’d been knocked down a peg. 

Eventually, he turned around and cleared his throat. “If you’re quite done spinning around, I believe I have come to a conclusion.” He said unhurriedly, watching you stop pacing with a bored expression. You looked up at him expectantly, and his expression flickered into a slightly annoyed one. You bit back a smirk- you always seemed to have that effect on him. 

“It appears we are locked out,” he said, and your smug smile dropped. 

“Until when?” You exclaimed, and now it was Riddle’s turn to look smug at your visible agitation. 

“Until somebody leaves the common room, of course.” He said, and made a dramatic show of looking at his watch, clicking his tongue with a shake of his head at what he saw. “Which will not be until seven at the earliest.” 

Your jaw dropped and you stared at him and his stupid little smirk. Until seven?! You’d barely have time to get dressed and eat breakfast before class, let alone finish your essay! 

“Sounds like you could have left the library earlier, does it not?” He said, mocking your words from earlier. You scoffed. 

“This isn’t even my fault. You’re the prefect who doesn’t know the next password.” You countered, and Riddle’s eyes flashed with annoyance. 

“They must have changed it again and neglected to notify me,” he snapped.

“Oh yes, I’m sure they waited until you had the password memorised to change it,” you said sarcastically, nodding wisely. “Oh come on, Riddle. You obviously just remembered it wrong.”

“I did not remember it wrong,” he immediately said sharply. “I do not remember things wrong.”

“You’re very humble, aren’t you?”

“The password is right, I guarantee you,” he said again, and you cocked an eyebrow. “I did not mis-remember it.”

“Then how do you explain this?” You asked, waving a hand at the still-closed door. He glared at you, taking a step closer and you felt your breath catch for some reason. 

“I am not wrong.” He repeated, voice low and eyes dark as they bored into yours. You swallowed and took a step back, putting your hands up in a mock ‘surrender’ gesture. 

“Alright, whatever you say,” you said with more nonchalance than you feel. You spun on your heel and dropped down next to your bag, pulling your parchment and quill out as you tried to shrug off the strange racing of your heart. 

“Are you working on your essay again?” You heard Riddle ask after a minute, still standing over you.

“You’re quite observant,” you muttered, dipping your quill into the inkpot balancing precariously on your bag. 

“You could always wait until the morning,” he pointed out and you looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Were you not just on me for procrastinating in the library? Besides, if I wait to write it in the morning it’ll sound horrible.” 

“You are sitting on the corridor floor at three in the morning writing an essay you should have finished a week ago. I believe you are past the point of worrying about the quality of your work.” He drawled.

“I appreciate the concern. I’m still going to write this now, though.” You said dismissively, already beginning to write another sentence. 

“I highly doubt it will turn out the way you want it to.” He warned.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a terrible procrastinator who still manages to beat you in nearly everything you do,” you shrugged, dipping your quill in the ink again, and waving a hand at Riddle. “Go away, I need to concentrate.”

He sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still talking.”

Riddle wandered away from you as you worked to finish your essay. It didn’t take you too long, considering you were almost done in the first place, and by the time you put away your quill and neatly rolled up your parchment, it was still only three forty-five. Three hours and fifteen minutes till we can get inside. 

You sat against the wall for a bit, trying to entertain yourself by mentally reviewing for your upcoming Herbology exam, but after a while you got bored and with nothing better to do, you decided to go annoy Riddle. 

You found him sitting at the bottom of the stairs leading to the dungeons, reading a book. “Don’t you have any more corridors to prowl?” You asked, skipping over and sitting down next to him, leaning up against the cool stone wall. He looked up but didn’t close his book.

“My prefect duty ended at three,” he explained. “Hence why I walked you back.”

“So you would’ve been locked out even if you hadn’t walked me back?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, at least you have company.” 

He eyed you, looking irked. “Unfortunately.” He agreed and you smirked, leaning your head back against the wall. 

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic, Riddle, or I’ll think you don’t actually hate me.” You joked, stretching your legs out with a yawn. He surveyed you with something like exasperation in his gaze before returning to reading his book. 

The two of you sat in silence like that for a while, him reading his book and you staring off into space, feeling yourself get sleepier and sleepier until-

Your head nearly fell onto Riddle’s shoulder and you started awake, blinking your eyes quickly to keep yourself from dozing off again. 

Riddle looked up at you in mild concern. “Are you quite alright?” He asked, eyes narrowed as he looked at you. You realised the two of you were sitting fairly close together- close enough you could see the moonlight reflecting in his eyes and smell the musky vanilla of his cologne.

It actually smells quite nice, you noticed, and then immediately leaned away. 

“Yeah, I’m fine! Just almost fell asleep.” You said cheerfully, drumming your fingers. Riddle nodded and looked back down at his book. You intended to resume your blank stare-off into space before you found yourself watching him, noticing the way he always kept two fingers behind the page he was on, the way his hair fell slightly out of place with his head bent down, and how his eyes appeared more of a light brown than the mahogany you always pictured them to be. 

Since when have I been picturing Riddle’s eyes?! You thought with a start, shaking your head slightly to clear it and instead continuing to study Riddle. His prefect badge was fastened perfectly to his robe (of course), but his tie was slightly wonky and you were possessed by a sudden desire to reach out and straighten it for him, wondering if you’d be able to feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt. 

What?! Now that is not a normal thing to wonder, you looked away, focusing on a snoozing portrait across the hall. Get yourself together, you chided yourself, before finding your eyes wandering back to Riddle’s form. 

I need a distraction. “Put your book down, Riddle, and entertain me.” You said suddenly, getting to your feet and clapping your hands together. 

He didn’t even look up. “No thank you.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Well, I’m not the one who got us locked out, so come on.” You said, grabbing his arm and tugging him up. He let out an audible sigh before setting his book to the side and allowing you to pull him up. 

“How do you suggest I keep us awake?” He drawled, and your mind immediately jumped to a scenario in which you were pressed against a wall and Riddle’s mouth was-

“Figure it out.” You said, turning away from him to lean against the wall. He stood there for another moment before taking a step closer. 

“Perhaps we could review for the Herbology exam next week,” he suggested, and your eyes cut to him in surprise before you could stop them. 

“Together?” You asked abruptly and he nodded. “But you never study with other people. Something about ‘your own skills reigning supreme’?”

Riddle rolled his eyes. “It was a rumour I said that, but yes, I do not make it a habit to study with other students.” He explained. 

“But you will with me?”

“You are different.”

“I’m ‘other students’.” You pointed out, but he shook his head. 

“However much it astounds me, you are top of the year, as am I. That is what makes you different.” He said, and you felt a slight twinge of disappointment it wasn’t because he enjoyed your company or wanted to spend time with you or-

Shut up. 

“Thanks for the almost-compliment,” you said dryly, and he rolled his eyes yet again, shoving his hands in his pockets. “But you know what, I’m not in the mood to study.”

“What did you have in mind, then?” He asked quietly, eyes glinting, and for a second you wondered if he’s thinking about the same less-than appropriate scenario you were earlier. Surely the steps he was taking closer were just by chance and not because he was trying to be near you. There must be a perfectly normal explanation for why his head seemed to be tilting down and why his gaze was dropping to your lips-

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” you blurted out, and he stopped his slow approach, looking slightly surprised. 

“Why?” He asked, leaning back slightly. 

“Uh…” you blinked up at him, at a loss for a good explanation. “Why not?”

“You are very strange.” 

“Go ahead and tell me instead of insulting me, why don’t you?” You said wryly and he sighed, nodding his head in thought. 

“I suppose I could tell you why I am completely sure that was the correct password,” he mused, and you looked up curiously. He looked down at your intrigued expression and smirked slightly. “It was impossible for me to remember it incorrectly,” he explained. “I have a photographic memory.”

Your eyes widened at this. “What?” You said, dumbfounded, and Riddle simply nodded. You stared at him for a second longer before a realisation occured to you. “So you’re not a genius!” You exclaimed, and he looked at you in confusion. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Everyone thinks you’re top of the year because you study a bunch and work really hard. But you just read something once and memorise it- that’s not hard work, that’s just a lucky skill you have!” You explained, and he rolled his eyes. 

“I still study and complete extra research, you know,” he told you and you waved a hand dismissively. “It is still hard work.”

“Yeah, yeah. But if you didn’t have a photographic memory, I’d be top of the year!” 

“That is not true!” Riddle protested and you laughed, crossing your arms and tilting your head back on the wall.

“Sure, Riddle,” you smirked, biting your lip to hold back a laugh. His eyes cut down to the movement for a split second before they came back up to meet yours. 

“What about you?” He asked immediately and you looked up, still revelling in the knowledge he gave you. “Tell me something I do not know about you.”

“Oh,” you said, caught off guard. You cast your mind around before narrowing your eyes slightly. “Hold on. Why?”

“You asked me, did you not?” He answered simply. 

“Yeah, but I was under the impression you hated me. People don’t try to learn new things about the people they hate.”

“I have never hated you,” he said, looking almost offended. “I simply find you infuriating and a nuisance when it comes to academics.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

“Oh, come on,” he sighed and you smirked before he fixed you with an intent look. 

“You said people do not inquire about those they hate, yet you did so for me. Is that to imply you do not hate me?” He said, and you felt your mouth go dry. You didn’t think about this particular complication when you gave him that explanation. In truth, you were trying to ignore the slight fluttering in your stomach when he asked about you. He was your academic rival, for Merlin’s sake, not a boy for you to get a schoolgirl crush on.

“I don’t hate you, I just find you maddening when it comes to academics,” you said, parroting back what he said to you earlier. He smirked, stepping closer. 

“Using my own words against me,” he drawled, eyes narrowing as he moved in such a way he blocked out the moonlight streaming in from the window. Now all you could see was the outline of his body. “And here I thought you were more creative than that, what with your… overactive imagination.” 

“My what?” You said, confused, and his smirk widened. 

“Really, darling?” He said, and your heart jumped into your throat at the nickname and his proximity. He was nearly toe to toe with you now, and you could barely breathe. “I thought you were smarter than that. Could you not feel me probing your mind?”

Your eyes widened at the implication. Legilimency. “I thought it was just a headache from exhaustion,” you breathed, and he tilted his head, shaking it slightly disapprovingly. 

“Mm,” he tsked, backing you completely against the wall. “I heard you. I heard all of your thoughts. Tell me, are my eyes copper and not mahogany as you pictured?” 

Your breath hitched. “I…”

“And what exactly were you doing while you were picturing them, hm?” He leaned down so close you could feel his breath hot against your cheeks. He lightly brushed his nose against one side of your face before moving to the other side, his eyes fixed on yours. 

“I…”

“Use your words, darling,” he murmured, one of his hands coming to rest lightly on your shoulder. It was heavy and warm and you felt every thought leave your brain, your senses taken over by every point of burning contact of his skin on yours. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want…” your voice trailed off as his other hand came up to touch your neck, his fingers pushing into your hair and his thumb brushing the length of your jaw. He tilted your head up slightly. 

“Do you want this?” He dipped his head, mouth hovering over throat and you could feel his words rumbling against you. You imagined him pressing his lips to your neck, moving them on your collarbone and across the slope of your shoulder, his hands sliding down over you and the intoxicating scent of his cologne overwhelming you as-

“I can hear you, but I need you to say it.” He chuckled, pulling his head up to meet your eyes with his. They were looking at you with such darkness you felt frozen against the wall as he towered above you.

“Say what you want,” he repeated, hand tightening slightly on your jaw. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

You finally found your voice. “I want you to kiss-”

But before you could finish your sentence, you heard the telltale creak of the common room door opening. Instantly, Riddle stepped back and his hands fell from your body as he straightened his robes. You forced yourself to turn and look at the door, though you could hardly think straight. 

A fourth year student stepped out, looking nervous but exhilarated at the same time. They were clearly sneaking out, and their face fell as soon as they saw Riddle, standing there looking all angry and imposing. 

“Detention.” He said immediately, pulling out his pad of paper and Summoning a quill. He scratched up a note while the guilty student stood there, looking abashed. They took it as soon as Riddle put the note into their hand, turning on their heel and scurrying back into the common room. Riddle caught the door before it swung closed.

“We can go inside now,” he said, not looking at you. You continued to stand there against the wall, still in shock from what happened earlier. You weren’t not sure if you trusted yourself to move at this point, but Riddle clearly expected you to from the slightly impatient look he gave you when he finally met your eyes. 

You grabbed your bag and hurried into the common room, waiting for him to step in and the door to close before turning to look at him. He stared back at you, not saying a word. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” He asked, and you blinked. Was he going to pretend like nothing had happened? Like he hadn’t just nearly kissed you? Or… almost done whatever he clearly had wanted to do? 

“Uh,” you swallowed, suddenly parched. “No. I’ll just be going to bed.” 

He nodded. “Have a nice rest of your night,” he said, and you stood there for a couple of seconds longer before it became clear he was waiting for you to leave first. 

“Goodnight,” you said, voice slightly strained, before hurrying up the stairs to the dormitories, trying not to take two steps at a time. 

Before you disappeared into your room, you risked a glance down at Riddle and saw him already looking at you. You froze, hand immobilised on the banister of the stairs. Neither of you broke your gaze for a moment, but then he blinked and looked away, breaking the trance, and you raced down the hall to your room. 

What the hell?

--

A/N (again): Sooo I realize it's set up pretty well for a part 2. Let me know if anyone wants one!

Tags (aka my favorite Tom Riddle blogs!): @viperify @sunder-soul @anawritez-posts @tomriddlehyperfixataion @riddleswhcre @cardansriddle

[todayitwillrainblood]

★ kitten from a litter,

☆ masterlist!

⟲ synopsis;

sieun is [name]'s precious, and the latter would do anything to protect him. (this is very loose ended btw, i just wanted sieun to be protected by m!reader and have a make-out sesh(ish?) in the bathroom.)

★ "you(-ooh) and i-i, it's more that like (like)

what's after like?" ☆

— SIEUN HAS ALWAYS seemed fragile to [name]. someone he had to protect.

[name] has also believed that sieun was terribly incapable of holding out tasks, of any sort, really. picking a fight, cooking his meals, and even living by himself. naturally, prone to that feeling of protectiveness, [name] had started to push himself into sieun's life.

"eat more, veggies make you taller, you know!"

"c'mon! you can't just study all day, come outside for a little while."

"that's not healthy—"

"if you do that, you'll di—"

"hey! didn't i tell you to—"

"are you my mom?" sieun finally snapped. this was seriously getting out of hand now.

"that's not right!" [name] gasped, whispering right after, "we sleep toget—"

sieun shushed him with a smack, "idiot!"

he turned around, walking away with an angry huff, "i-i'm sorry!"

[name] chased after him, as one does. they made up that day, of course, i'll simply say that [name] is very good with his hands.

anyway.

today was awful, [name] barely got any sleep last night. And while he was snoozing off on his desk, he was harshly awoken by a nudge.

the uncomfortable silence present in the room told him now was not a good time to yell about it. a glance around him told him all he needed to know.

sieun was getting bullied.

oh, how could he let his love be tainted that way?

he got up and strode over to the guy whose name he didn't bother to learn.

"what are you doing?" he bumped shoulders with jeon yeong-bin while walking over to stand protectively in front of sieun.

[name] looked him up and down, and scoffed, "bullying? what are you, eleven?"

yeong-bin took a step back; pestering sieun was easy...as long as [name] wasn't there. or awake.

[name], put simply, was scary. once, he had broken the hand of a guy, back in middle school, because he had smudged bright paint all over sieun.

he had gotten a two-week suspension for that, but then broke the other hand because he came to school to find that no action had been taken against that kid.

his next month was spent at home and about 12 hours of community service.

if you ask him, he'll say it was worth it.

this was also before yeon sieun was dating him or even acknowledged him. the latter part obviously changed after that.

that was also when [name] had started to actively and directly pursue sieun. all the cheesy things, love notes, roses, even a dinner where he had to kidnap sieun because he refused to go the first five times. (no sieuns were harmed in the making of this.)

all in all, everyone and their momma was scared of [name].

yeong-bin did not want a broken hand, or hands, or any other bodily injury, so he retreated and rightfully so.

[name] sure is a menace, but you know what? in yeong-bin's eyes, sieun was too much of a pest to just let him go, and too easy, too. sieun also never would go and whine to [name], meaning he was safe as long as [name] wasn't there to see.

[name] spared one glance at sieun, then dragged his stoic self to a bathroom.

he locked the door, pulling sieun in front of one of the various sinks set up.

sieun stayed staring at [name] through the mirror, while his boyfriend washed the same hands that touched yeong-bin. admittedly, [name] was too late to wake up by the time filth had touched his precious.

[name]'s arms were around sieun, chest to back, leaning his chin on sieun's shoulder. when he was done, he placed a smooch on seiun's cheek, pulling back just slightly with a scowl.

"what?" sieun questioned him, finally turning to face [name].

"you smell like that jerk's cheap cologne." with that [name] pulled sieun into a rough kiss, biting harshly into his lips and grabbing his face.

"hmph...! slower..."

[name] kissed him feverishly, slipping in his tongue and practically eating him until lewd noises echoed in the quiet bathroom. [name] pushed sieun against a wall, his hands wandering and slipping under sieun's cotton shirt. daringly, he brushed his finger against sieun's sensitive nub, pulling out even sweeter noises.

"ah!...mmh..."

sieun coloured deeply, gazing at [name] with a hooded gaze, feeling vulnerable and melting.

they would have gone further, probably, if sieun allowed it, but the school bell ringing made both of them flinch back in shock, finally finding breath and realising the mess on themselves.

sieun, dishelved and nearly shirtless, and the various red smudges across and around [name]'s lips because of the blood on sieun's lips.

[name] looked away, flushed and embarrassed, "i'll...i'll fix you up," he mumbled, reaching over to begin buttoning up sieun's shirt.

"this is your fault."

[name] willingly nodded his head, "...yes."

sieun continued to stare at him, up, down, and around. he slumped against the wall, leaving himself to [name], like he often has grown to do. trusting him completely and utterly.

there was no reason to blame [name] completely, after all, it takes two to tango, but he enjoyed the look on his face. shy, red, and obviously aroused.

"class will st—"'

"come to my house," he snuck a glance up, "later."

"...okay." red ears and a beating heart.

thump.

a sigh and another kiss.

yours only.

[touchtheinvisiblestars]

The Ones Who Survived

***

Jackson looked like something out of a fairy tale when you arrived — snowy rooftops, warm chimneys, laughter in the streets.

But no one told you how cold it could feel when people didn’t want you there.

Not because of who you were.

But because of where you’d come from.

The Colville camp.

That name carried weight.

People in Jackson knew it. Knew the stories.

A place ruled by fear, violence, cruelty.

A place where decent people didn't survive.

So if you had made it out of there?

People whispered that maybe you weren’t so decent after all.

They didn’t know you were a prisoner. That you’d barely escaped with your life.

They didn’t know how many nights you spent hiding in crawlspaces, how many times you thought you were going to die.

They just saw the mark of that camp on you —

and assumed it meant something dark.

It was Joel who first talked to you like a person.

Not a rumor.

You were restocking shelves in the storage barn, head down, trying not to draw attention.

He came in quiet as anything, picking through boxes.

“You’re the one who came from Colville.”

It wasn’t a question.

You stiffened, bracing for more judgment.

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s me.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then, gently: “That place was hell.”

You blinked at him, surprised.

Joel’s eyes were tired but kind. He didn’t look afraid of you.

Didn’t look like he thought you were dangerous.

“I knew someone who died tryin’ to get outta there,” he said. “He wasn’t the only one.”

You nodded slowly. Your throat felt tight.

“I almost didn’t make it either,” you whispered. “I only got out because—”

You stopped yourself. Too much. Too fast.

Joel didn’t push.

“Don’t gotta tell me,” he said. “But you don’t need to explain yourself to people here. Not to me."

You stared at him.

“Why do you care?”

Joel paused.

“’Cause I know what it’s like to have blood on your hands you didn’t ask for.”

Something unspoken passed between you in that moment.

It wasn’t friendship. Not yet.

It was understanding.

***

Days turned to weeks.

You started going on short patrols. Joel made sure you were paired with him. Said it was because you were new, needed someone experienced.

You knew better. He just didn’t trust the others to treat you right.

You didn’t talk much on the first few rides.

But Joel never made you feel like you had to.

When you did open up — late one evening while setting up camp — you told him a little about Colville.

How they’d forced you to work for them.

How you’d watched them hurt others.

How you’d kept your head down, done what you had to, even when it made you hate yourself.

Joel didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge.

He just nodded slowly, staring into the fire.

“You did what you had to do to stay alive,” he said. “That ain’t weakness. That’s survival.”

You weren’t sure when you started trusting him — but once you did, it was like something in you unlocked.

Joel was quiet. Steady. Brutally honest.

But he was kind, too. In the little ways.

Carrying extra water. Making sure you had gloves. Letting you ride ahead when the stares in Jackson got too heavy.

One night, after a long patrol, you saw it. A man muttering something cruel as you passed.

Joel stopped walking. Turned.

“What’d you just say?” he asked, voice low, dangerous.

The man went pale. Mumbled an apology.

Joel didn’t respond. He just rested a hand on your back and steered you away.

You were shaking.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said quietly.

“Yeah, I did,” Joel replied. “And I’ll do it again."

You didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then, so softly he almost didn’t hear it—

“Thank you.”

Joel looked at you like it physically hurt him to see you carry this weight alone.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “And I’ll make damn sure it stays that way.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

And for the first time since arriving in Jackson, you believed it.

Not because of the town.

Because of him.

***

The snowfall was lighter now. Spring whispered through Jackson’s trees, and for the first time since you arrived, you felt like you were part of something.

Joel helped with that.

You still weren’t one of them. Not exactly. But you weren’t just the girl from Colville anymore.

People nodded at you now. Some even smiled. You’d gone on enough patrols, helped enough with the food stores.

You were building something. A new life.

And then he showed up.

His name was Micah.

You hadn’t seen his face in almost a year, but you remembered it like a brand. Sharp jaw, a scar down his right cheek, eyes cold as ice.

You’d seen him at his worst — ordering executions, smiling while people begged.

He’d been one of the top men in Colville. And now he was standing in Jackson’s main gate like he belonged.

You were in the greenhouse when you saw him.

You froze, your hands trembling above a crate of sprouting carrots.

He caught your eye. Smiled.

Your breath vanished.

Joel found you fifteen minutes later, curled up behind the tool shed, white as a sheet.

“Hey, hey—what is it?” he crouched in front of you, hands steady but voice tight. “You hurt?”

You shook your head. You couldn’t speak.

He sat beside you. Waited. Gave you time.

When you finally forced it out—when you said his name—Joel’s face changed. Hardened into something ruthless.

“He what?” Joel demanded. “He’s here?”

You nodded, staring at your dirt-covered hands. “He saw me. Smiled like—like it was some kind of joke."

Joel stood so fast it startled you. His fists clenched.

“I’m going to talk to Maria.”

“No—Joel—” You grabbed his wrist. “I don’t want trouble. If he doesn’t—”

He turned, sharp and low.

“If he breathes wrong in your direction, it’s already trouble.”

He looked you over like he was checking for bruises.

“You're okay though? Did he touch you?”

“No,” you said quickly. “But Joel—he knows things. Things about me from back then.”

Joel crouched again, calmer now. His hand cupped your cheek.

“There’s not a damn thing that man can say that’s gonna change what I know about you. Not one thing.”

Your chest cracked open at the gentleness in his voice.

That night, Jackson held a council meeting. Joel was there. So was Maria. So was Micah.

Joel stood and said: “This man comes from a camp that tortured people. The woman he tormented lives here now. He’s not staying.”

Micah tried to protest. Said you were the one with secrets.

Said you weren’t as innocent as you looked.

Joel didn’t flinch.

He said, “I’ve fought beside her. Bled beside her. She’s got more strength in one hand than you’ve got in your whole body.”

In the end, Maria made the call.

Micah was denied entry.

He left that same night, but not before finding you one last time. He waited by the edge of the fence, just outside town.

“You always were good at running,” he sneered. “Got someone else to fight your battles now?”

You didn’t answer. You just stared him down, silent and steady.

Behind you, boots crunched snow. Joel appeared at your side like a shadow.

Micah flinched.

“Leave, now.” Joel said, deadly calm, “before I decide you don’t get to.”

Micah took one last look at you, but his confidence was gone. He turned and vanished into the dark.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Just walked you back in silence, his hand firm on your back.

When the gates shut behind you, he finally spoke.

“You’re not running anymore,” he said. “You’ve got a home. You’ve got me.”

You didn’t cry. Not then.

But later, when he wrapped his arms around you in bed, you held onto him like he was the safest thing in the world.

[psformybss]

The Greatest

rafe cameron x sahm!reader

warnings: emotional neglect, hurt/comfort, unrequited love vibes, slow burn realization, long-term marriage issues, angst, emotional vulnerability

now playing: the greatest by billie eilish

The sun was low behind the marsh when she heard the front door close. Not slammed. Just the usual firm shut that said he was home.

Rafe.

Not early, not late. Just on time enough to pretend he hadn’t forgotten about them, but never long enough to really be present. Not in the way she used to hope for. Not in the way she’d stopped hoping for years ago.

She dried her hands on a dish towel and glanced toward the foyer. His dress shoes echoed across the hardwood, followed by the familiar clink of keys dropping into the ceramic bowl she’d bought him for Father’s Day.

The kids were upstairs. She could hear the low thump of Alex’s bass through the ceiling, steady and rhythmic. Marley was probably buried under her blanket, texting in bed like she had been since school ended.

No one came down to greet him anymore. That had faded slowly, after too many missed dinners, too many silent apologies that never came, too many “yeah, yeah” responses that sent the kids looking at her instead, waiting for her to translate what his absence meant.

“Hey,” Rafe said as he stepped into the kitchen. He loosened his tie with one hand, eyes on his phone with the other.

“Hey.” She turned off the burner and gave the pasta one final stir.

He kissed her cheek, distracted. His cologne hit her all at once. Familiar. Clean. Sharp. It used to stop her in her tracks. Now it just felt like something old she hadn’t decided to miss yet.

“How was the office?” she asked, same as always.

“Same stuff. Russ messed up the zoning files again.” He shoved his phone into his blazer pocket and opened the fridge. “Did we run out of that ginger beer I like?”

She blinked. “Marley finished the last one. I’ll grab more tomorrow.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just nodded, grabbed a water, and leaned against the counter like it was his. And it was. He’d designed the house himself, every square inch made to be impressive. Vaulted ceilings, wide open rooms, clean finishes. A showpiece.

But it never felt like home. Not really.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” she offered. It felt like muscle memory more than anything else.

He made a small sound, scrolling again.

She used to wait up for him.

Back when things were still new, when being married felt strange and full of promise, she’d sit on the couch in a silk robe she bought just for him. She’d flip through magazines she didn’t care about, eyes on the clock, waiting to hear the lock turn. Some nights he’d sit beside her. Other nights, he’d head straight upstairs.

She hadn’t asked for much. A look that meant something. A hand on her back. A sign he wanted to come home to her.

Then the kids came. Alex first, then Marley. And her world became a series of needs. Diapers and fevers and school pickups and forms she had to fill out alone. And through it all, Rafe worked. He built Cameron Development into something bigger than his father ever had. Bigger than she ever imagined.

She let him sleep while she stayed up with crying babies. She handled the stomach bugs, the parent-teacher conferences, the midnight feedings. She learned to move through it quietly. Without complaint. That’s what she thought being a good partner meant. Making it easier for him. Carrying the weight so he didn’t have to.

Years went by like that.

And he never once asked how tired she was.

Now their children were nearly grown, and she was starting to feel invisible in her own life. The days blurred together—groceries, laundry, orthodontist appointments, dinners no one sat down for. Everything she did revolved around someone else’s needs.

And lately, she’d been wondering what she had left. Who she even was anymore, outside of being theirs.

She plated dinner and set his bowl on the counter like always. He ate standing up, still scanning emails.

“Alex has a band thing Friday,” she said.

Rafe didn’t look up. “What kind of thing?”

“A showcase. He’s been talking about it all week.”

He nodded slowly. “You’ll go, right?”

She paused. “Of course. But he wants you there too.”

He didn’t answer. Just took another bite.

Something in her cracked. Not loudly. Just enough to feel it.

She set her fork down and turned to him. “Rafe.”

He looked at her, finally. But not really. His eyes landed on her, but they didn’t see her. Just the shape of someone he used to know.

“I’m tired,” she said quietly.

He frowned. “You look tired.”

She almost laughed, but it caught in her throat. “No. I mean I’m tired of this. Of doing everything. Of waiting for you to notice. Of making it easy for you not to show up.”

His expression shifted. Slightly. Like he didn’t expect her to say that out loud.

“I’ve been here,” she said, her voice steady. “Every day. Every night. I let you rest. I let you miss things. I kept telling myself that’s what wives do. That if I held it all together, maybe one day you’d love me the way I needed.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I’ve worked my ass off for this family,” he said, standing straighter.

“I know,” she said simply. “And I appreciated it. I loved you for it, Rafe. I probably still do. But I made it too easy. I made this life look effortless, and you stopped seeing what it cost me.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She stood up, her chair scraping back quietly. Her heart pounded, not with anger, but something heavier. Something final.

“You could’ve been the greatest,” she whispered. Not to hurt him. Just because it was true.

Then she walked out, her shoulders stiff but shaking slightly—like someone holding too much for too long.

And behind her, in the quiet of the house he built, Rafe stood still. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t reach for his phone.

He just stood there. And realized he didn’t know when exactly she stopped waiting for him. Only that she had.